Half in shadow, Esprл sat in a rough wooden chair at the shabby dining table in the dimly lit main room. The light poking in through the glassless windows was as pale as her porcelain skin, but her wavy, golden hair sparkled. Like torchlight on gold, Kandler thought. She was weeping, her face buried in her arms piled on the table’s worn top.
As Kandler shut the door, Esprл looked up, her face puffy and red and her blue eyes shining with grief. She waited for him to step within arms’ reach and then launched herself into his embrace. She wrapped herself around his chest, and he reached down to hold her and stroke her hair.
“Was it really Shawda?” she asked.
“Yes,” Kandler whispered, and Esprл began sobbing once more. Kandler looked over at Burch, who sat silent and still in the darkest corner of the room, and nodded his thanks.
The shifter unfolded himself and padded forward to pat Esprл on the back. “She’s seen a lot of death. Too much.”
“We all have,” said Kandler. “It’ll be all right,” he whispered, although he didn’t know how. He found tears welling in his own eyes, and he clamped down on them, willing them away. His stepdaughter needed him to be strong now, and he’d sworn long ago never to disappoint her in that way. He kissed her on the top of her head.
“No bad dreams last night?” Kandler asked Esprл. The girl shook her head against his chest. “Do you always remember them?”
Esprл nodded, then the tears overwhelmed her again, and she pressed her face against Kandler’s shirt to weep.
Three sharp knocks rattled the front door.
Esprл jumped as if she’d been pinched.
“Open, Justicar!” boomed a deep voice. It was not a voice Kandler recognized. “Open I say! We must speak with you.”
“Esprл,” Kandler said. “Leth! Leth!”
The girl remembered her training, the hours of drills Kandler had forced her through over her protestations. Living so near the Mournland, one’s life was always in peril, and surviving meant constant vigilance. Pushing away from Kandler, Esprл scrambled into the pantry, a shallow closet just off the main room, never uttering a word. She shut the thin door behind her on its oiled hinges, leaving it open only a crack, just enough for her to be able to see the front door.
Burch slinked back over into the dark corner near the fireplace. He unslung the crossbow from his back, cranked back its silent lever, and slipped a bolt into its temporary home. He signaled that he was ready, and Kandler opened the door.
Five people stood on Kandler’s porch, each in finely polished chainmail. Long, crimson tabards covered them from shoulders to knees. A raging fire, stitched wholly in silver thread, shimmered on each chest, and a longsword in a gleaming, silver scabbard hung from each waist. They wore piety like robes of righteousness.
The man who knocked on the door stepped aside as Kandler opened it, exposing the eldest of the visitors, who stood in the center of the porch. He stood an inch or two shorter than Kandler, but he was the tallest in the group. His years had not bowed his back, which was straight as a longsword’s blade, but they had added depth to his clean-shaven face and grayed the receding hair that fell to his shoulders. He leaned on an arrow-straight staff of pale, polished birch, topped with a small magical flame that burned silver and cold.
“Hail and well met, my son,” the silver-maned man said with a forced half-smile. “I am Sir Deothen and these are my traveling companions. We are servants of-”
“The Silver Flame,” Kandler finished. As he did, he realized his hand was on the hilt of his sword. He left it there. “I’ve dealt with your people before.”
The man’s smile warmed at the recognition. “Then you already know of our holy calling to protect the good people of Eberron from the forces of evil.”
Kandler said nothing but gazed out past the knights. At the edge of his ash-covered yard, five white horses stood tied to a hitching post. Each magnificent, snow-coated beast was fitted with a riding saddle and saddlebags that didn’t seem as full as they must once have been. A crimson blanket edged with running embroidery of silver flames rested under each saddle.
“My friend,” Deothen said, concern etched in his piercing blue eyes, “as one who lives in this desolate land, you must understand the desperate need for those such as we.”
Kandler kept his other hand on the door as he spoke. “I understand what I need to. You’re from Thrane.”
Deothen frowned. “The deeds of the Last War are behind us, my son.”
“Here we live with it every day.”
Two of Deothen’s fellow Knights glanced over their shoulders at the wall of mist that towered over the eastern horizon.
Kandler moved half a step back and considered slamming the door shut. He had more important things to do than coddle a bunch of knights.
“My son-” Deothen began.
“I’m not your son,” Kandler said. “My father died in the war. Killed by Thranes.”
The four other knights on the porch gasped that anyone would speak to their leader this way.
Deothen let his face soften. “You have my deepest sympathies, my… friend, if I might be so bold.”
“That’s bolder than I care for, but since you’re knocking on my door, I already knew that about you.”
“How do you prefer to be called?”
“I’m the law in Mardakine. The justicar.”
“Justicar, then. We have come to petition for your assistance.”
Kandler raised an eyebrow and moved half a step forward. “What do you want?” As he waited for the reply, he scanned the faces behind Deothen. They were all younger than their leader-some by many years. One youth was barely more than a boy, a thin lad with lanky blond hair and an upturned nose. His enthusiasm shone brightly against that of his more seasoned companions. He looked as if his sword would be too heavy for his arms.
The two other men seemed cut from the same mold, though slightly older. Although one was dark and the other blond, they wore their hair short and even, and they carried the seriousness of their position in their faces. Neither looked like they smiled much.
The last, the one hanging furthest in the back, was a beautiful young woman with sharp features. She had her long red hair tied back in a warrior’s braid. Her wide mouth showed a determined set that matched the glint in her deep green eyes. Her gaze met Kandler’s squarely before he turned back to listen to what Deothen was saying.
“Our Lady Tira Miron, the Voice of the Silver Flame, received a vision that a lost dragonmark has appeared in the Mournland. It is urgent that we find the person who bears this mark.”
“Why?”
“If our foes-”
“Foes? Which foes?”
“The world is full of darkness, my s-er, Justicar. Should Karrnath gain control over this person, our fragile peace will be shattered. All of Khorvaire will could-”
“And if Thrane gets it instead, everything will be fine,” Kandler said with a mirthless laugh. “You’re standing in a crater left behind from the Last War. Left by Thrane.”
“We did what had to be done!” the youngest knight shouted.
Deothen raised his hand with quiet authority, and the boy fell silent, his face burning red.
After a moment, Deothen spoke again. “Levritt is too young to remember much of the war. We cannot undo the past, but we can work to repair the damage done, whether purposefully or not. We ask you now to help us prevent a horror from transpiring. Is that not the greater good?”
“Good and evil are your domain. Mine’s taking care of the people of this town.”
“All we require is a guide into the Mournland. We were told you were the best in all of Mardakine.”
Kandler shook his head. “I don’t know who told you that, and I don’t care. I knew Cyre once, but I’m not that familiar with her corpse. I can’t help you.”
“I can.”
