Shadowguard

The last time Everna passed through the north gates, she was glad to be home.

Three months into her studies, the novelty of the capital waned, and she found she missed the simplicity of Pendel, where mornings were quiet and the evenings lazy. She missed waking to the birds singing from their roosts and the smell of fresh bread from the bakery across the street. The evenings brought with them a sense of closure as the town wound down for the night, people shuffling home or to the tavern after a long day's work. By nightfall, the streets were nearly barren, leaving only the drunkards and the Guard patrols wandering beneath the starlight.

Inversa never slept. The day saw throngs of people choking the winding maze of streets. It took well over two hours to walk from the academy, perched high in the Golden Spires, to the market district in the Old City. That was on a good day, when wagons and carts weren't stuck in the narrow side streets many used to bypass the main roads.

Come night, the city shifted from a bustling center of trade and commerce to a haven for the dregs of society. The capital was dangerous no matter the time of day, especially in the Old City and the deepest parts of Low Town, but once night arrived, the city fell under the purview of the Ferrier of Souls. Thieves and predators hid among the back-alleys and side streets, waiting for easy mark. Drunkards staggered about, hounding after young men and women. Everna learned, quickly, that her sword was better strapped to her side than in her dorm.

Yet, as the palisade walls surrounding the town proper came into view, unease pitted in her stomach, and she found she missed its weight at her side.

When she returned for the first time, she did so as a miffed academy dropout, morose and defeated. One more year and she could've come home with an Apprentice's Mark and a brighter future ahead of her. Perhaps she wouldn't be in her current predicament if she had.

The sight of home now filled her with dread. She felt the invisible noose tighten around her neck as she passed through the gate, an unwilling agent of the Courts. The Inquisitor left her with nothing but a vague goal and a cryptic warning. Her escorts were unaware of the circumstances. Only she, Sir Swiftbrook, and the Courts were to know of the arrangement.

She pulled the edges of her cloak closer. It was a comfortable thing, double lined with fur, that one of the younger guards gave her before they departed. Her hands shook as her fingers dug into the brushed wolf pelt, not with cold, but with nerves.

She had two months to unravel the mystery. Two measly months to find leads, gather evidence, and somehow convince the Courts not to hang her for the sake of appearances. It was a daunting prospect, and she had no more confidence in herself than the Courts did her innocence.

Once, the thought of handling her first case after graduation brought with it an abundance of excitement. Now, it only left her frazzled and anxious. Her life hung by a thread, one so frayed it might snap at any moment. The smallest obstacle could quickly become an insurmountable roadblock. One mistake could be the difference between life or death.

Gods leave her. It was hopeless.

As the cart pulled further into the town, she swallowed the lump in her throat and turned to watch the buildings as they passed. Those nearest the wall were small, barely more than a story tall, and composed of wood and bark shingle roofs. There was no organization to speak of, the buildings crammed into the meager space between the wall and the town proper in whichever manner they fit. Some sat at odd angles, butted up against another set of houses. Others were elevated, with a set of stone stairs leading to another dwelling half-buried beneath the earth. There was less than a foot of space between each; some were so close that they appeared connected.

They were the remnants of the old town, relics from the days before Mayor Ashburn arrived and seized Pendel by its crumbling roots and molded it into the thriving settlement she'd always known. The change was as drastic as the sudden shift in the architecture.

All at once, the haphazard mess gave way to a scene most would find only in storybooks. Buildings of stone foundations and timber framing lined the cobbled streets. Planters hung from every eave, the vibrant flowers within buried beneath the snow. Ivy meandered along the walls, branching from building to building and coiling around the clothes-lines that hung across the alleys. Gardens and planters adorned with thick bushes and small ornamental trees lined the medians of the larger roads.

The rigid uniformity of the streets — a deliberate cross-hatch pattern which remained consistent throughout the town — was a breath of fresh air compared to the chaotic disarray of Inversa. Her father often complained it left the town vulnerable t0 an assault, as winding streets and dead-ends confused invading forces, but it made navigation for both the townspeople and travelers fairly easy. It was difficult to lose your way in a town where all roads eventually led to the central square. The caravans, which carried the wheat grown in the outlying fields from the town and eventually to Inversa, moved more quickly through the streets as well, preventing the sort of turmoil she often witnessed in the capital.

She'd expected a turmoil of a different kind when she returned, one comparable to the night Windmore arrested her. Yet, as the cart trundled through the town with her perched on the driver's bench, the townspeople hardly spared her a glance. There were some who scowled at her, and others who whispered amongst themselves, but the majority went about their lives as if nothing had changed.

As if she hadn't left in chains, accused of murdering Mayor Ashburn a week prior.

She worried at her lip. Had something happened while she was gone? Or had they deferred to the Courts' judgment on the matter?

While most people saw the Courts as a formality and often a nuisance, they were second only to the Crown. If they truly wanted her to investigate the matter, they would have to declare her innocent. She'd get nowhere with the townspeople trying to lynch her at every turn.

Though a reasonable assumption, she still couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't quite right.

Before she could consider it further, the cart reached its destination.

The Guard post stood on the north side of town, less than a quarter mile from the town hall. It towered above the surrounding buildings, arrow slits set into the walls on every floor. At the top of the tower, positioned on every corner of the parapets, sat massive ballistas manned by loitering guards. Two more guards stood idly at the entrance on the ground level, Sir Swiftbrook, the town's only knight and the head of the post, between them.

There was no sign of Windmore.

She breathed a sigh of relief. She couldn't decide if he was involved or not. Was he responsible, or was he a convenient tool for the culprit? With his attitude towards her and her family, either was possible. He was too quick to pin the blame on her and too pleased with his success. Be it the monetary incentives the Guard received for every arrest or personal satisfaction, he had means, motive, and opportunity as far as her framing went.

When the cart came to a stop in front of the main entrance, the guard to Sir Swiftbrook's right, to her surprise, offered a hand to help her down.

"I can't say I was expecting you to return so soon," Sir Swiftbrook said as she disembarked. "Or at all, if I'm honest."

Where her father was large and imposing — a brute of a man, some would call him — Sir Swiftbrook was larger still. At nearly six and a half feet tall, built of nothing but pure muscle, and swathed in heavy armor, he was a daunting sight. The greatsword strapped to his back only furthered the sentiment.

He was one of the longest-serving knights in the kingdom. Most retired around their fiftieth winter, when their physical capabilities waned and the aging pains set in. Sir Swiftbrook was nearing his seventieth winter and had yet to show any signs of significant aging. He didn't look a day over fifty.

There were some who believed he might not be human, at least not entirely. It wouldn't surprise her. Mixed heritages weren't as uncommon as many believed, but most people were so removed from their non-human ancestors, it showed only in subtle ways. Her father once told her red hair originated many centuries ago from elven ancestry.

"There wasn't enough evidence," she said, reciting the excuse the Inquisitor instructed her to use. Sir Swiftbrook knew the truth, but she suspected his company did not. "The Inquisitor believes it was an obvious framing and there was no use in pursuing my involvement further."

"I'm not surprised," Sir Swiftbrook said. "Anyone with a lick of sense could see that."

Everna frowned. "Then why was I sent to the capital?"

She had assumed it was Sir Swiftbrook's doing. As a Captain, the highest rank of the Low Guard, Windmore didn't have the authority to rule her case as treason. Those accusations were permanent, regardless of the accused's guilt or lack thereof, and therefore subject to a much stricter verification process. As a Knight, Sir Swiftbrook was the only person in town with that authority.

If he hadn't informed the Courts that it was a matter of treason, then who did?

Sir Swiftbrook released a sharp breath through his nose. "Because I wasn't informed of the charges until the day after you left."