Ryder was dreaming again. He knew he’d had this dream before, but couldn’t shake it. Every night since the farm raid and the rape of the fat woman, he dreamed this dream, and every day it plagued his mind. He dreamt of a golden scepter – one he had never seen in real life but could, for some reason, see minutely in his dream.

The length of a woman’s arm, it was thick as a broom handle, golden, with inscrutable runes inscribed all around. There was a small patch – a place where it had been soldered at one point, which lacked the uniform symbols and mysterious spells. The tip of the rod was crowned with a golden crown, peaked with rubies and emeralds. A shadowy figure always cradled the scepter – it was a female, that much Ryder could ascertain.

That wasn’t so bad, Ryder thought. A woman with treasure – what could be better? But the terrifying thing was that that scepter was pulling him. It was dragging his thoughts away from everything and focusing them on the dream. On that beautiful, beckoning scepter. I must have it.

Ryder’s men, a group of thirty-two hardened bandits and sellswords, had also been strangely quiet lately. No more were they joking over the fat farmer’s wife, and though they still drained their nightly mugs of ale, they sat downcast, brooding into their tankards while the trees overhead cast dark shadows on them all.

And every day as a man, when they mounted their horses with jangle of mail and squeak of leather, they faced their steeds south – never speaking, never stopping. Never turning aside to the farms which dotted the countryside, which watched with wary eyes and sighed low sounds of relief as the group of armed bandits rode steadily past.

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Dala sat in the grand library of Veros, attended by her maid and the assistant librarian. The Senior Keeper of the Books, Lord Martendale, had insisted on waiting upon the queen himself, but Dala had sent him away.

“You have more important things to do than to play run-and-fetch with books for me all day,” she’d said. “Young Derlick here will do just fine.” And so the Keeper of Books had gone away, leaving Dala to her searches, and just so, Derlick did do just fine.

The queen sighed, pushing away the last book. It was such a pain to find anything in these old books, she thought. She should have the librarian arrange them all by subject, then by date on the shelves – maybe so much time would not then be wasted.

She wasn’t really looking for anything in particular – anything about the old history of Tulern would work for her. She also was searching the annals to see if anything was recorded about these troubling rumors of the magic-folk disappearing. Maybe so, and maybe not. Maybe this was an entirely new thing, Dala thought. And maybe it’s entirely a rumor and all of this research is unjustified.

In council last night, her advisors had sat with her. As usual, she paid all of the rumors and questions close attention. The one about the band of raiders was intriguing, but…

“That is the business of Queen Rachelle, not mine,” she’d told the councilors. “Should they venture here to Veros, then will I bother my head with it.”

But this rumor of the magic-folk… that was a strange one, she had to admit. Of course, she’d heard the stories before, usually from visiting ladies who were deep in their cups around the feast table. She had given them no more attention than the bawdy ballads sung by the minstrel in the corner. But now, coming up around the council table… that was a different matter.

Dala knew each of the men who were on the council. They were all highly trusted, intelligent men. They would not bring a worthless subject to the table. And so she worried, and had ordered all of the old magical artifacts which were still in Veros to be locked up and stored deep within the castle, each door to the chamber guarded day and night by a pair of seasoned soldiers.

There might be something to it, she thought, drumming her fingernails on the table.