Pasel stopped talking,

  lost in thought. The dark female dog was waiting. As the memories came

  back to him, rich in detail, he had of course restrained himself from

  sharing everything with this stranger. She didn't need to know how close

  he and Tamo were. After all, what interested her was the causes of the

  exile. Nor did she need to know that he had the stone with him.

  He spoke again but, suddenly aware of the passage of time, became more laconic in his account.

  "The

  situation suddenly became more desperate when the first refugees

  arrived from the east. Hundreds of people, carrying wounded and most of

  their belongings. We were ready to take them in, telling them we'd fight

  with them, but after a few days they left. They told us that the only

  solution was to flee to the mountains. It's impossible to win against

  the invaders, they said. They told us their weapons were magic."

  "What do you mean, magical?" Mazeran asked, suddenly more attentive.

  "

  We discovered it just a few days later. First we saw smoke. They were

  burning the plains to hide in the wisps of plumes. Then rains of swollen

  arrows that... and that's when we realized what the refugees from the

  eastern clans meant. It was as if the arrows were... alive. They didn't

  follow a normal path and they never missed. It was as if they were

  following us. It was terrifying. Then they appeared, soldiers on

  horses."

  "What did they look like?"

  "Dogs

  and wolves in leather armor with iron helmets and long weapons. We

  managed to shoot some down, set up ambushes, but there were always more.

  These weren't just brigands or barbarians, they were a real army.

  Organized, coordinated... they used whistling arrows to communicate. No

  emissaries were sent, no flags, no banners. They were merely advancing,

  burning and killing."

  Pastel

  frowned, showing his fangs. "We could see them... disturbing our dead.

  The ones we couldn't bring back with us. One of them, a dog... I saw it

  with my own eyes, standing back. A dog with a red armband passing over

  each of our dead to observe them carefully... perhaps to make sure they

  were dead. They seemed to be looking for something..."

  "Or someone." Murmured the dog, stealing Pastel's end of the sentence.

  "Yes."

  "And then what?"

  "We

  kept retreating, further and further toward the mountains, but, even

  with the help of other clans, our warriors were dropping like flies

  and..."

  Pastel

  remembered. A cloudy morning. They had just decided on an offensive that

  would provide a diversion to allow the majority of the clans to flee

  over the mountains to the south. As he prepared for the attack, his aunt

  and father pulled him aside.

  "You can't take part in this battle, Pastel. It's not like the others."

  "But the survival of the steppes depends on it!"

  "The

  survival of the steppes depends on your survival. The stone said so

  clearly." These words had resounded in Pastel's chest like thunder. No

  one had spoken of Mamalou's last words. Pastel was troubled that no one

  had deigned to tell him earlier. His father spoke again.

  "You're

  going to carry the stone and come with me, Clatoudo and a few others to

  go west to find help from the Guidians. No one must know, do you

  understand?"

  Sitting on the ground, in this inn in the middle of the jungle, Pastel answered simply.

  "...

  And we split into three. That was the strategy. One contingent of

  warriors would act as a diversion, allowing most of the foxes to flee to

  the mountains to the south, while another small group would head west

  to seek help from the Guidians. I was with my father among the latter.

  The crossing of the mountains went well and, despite our haste, we found

  some time to rest. But my father insisted that we sail along the coast

  to the city of Guidea, to talk to their chiefs. He said it would be

  faster and safer than on foot. We had the help of the Guideans with us,

  but... it's so absurd. All it took was a small storm and a few reefs

  to... kill them all. Me and a Guider are the only survivors of the

  wreck." Pastel's words had become more and more tenuous, whispered in

  the air like a small insect stirs a blade of grass.

  "I

  went to talk to the Guidians, I shared with them everything I've just

  shared with you, but they didn't want to engage in a conflict without

  knowing more. The only solution open to me was to go in search of the

  last exiles from the cloud cradle and find, with them, a way to convince

  the Guideans to help us take back the steppes. And now here I am."

  Pastel concluded, choosing his words carefully.

  After

  a moment's reflection, the dog repositioned herself on the ground,

  taking a long breath. "From the stories that have made their way to my

  ears, the Guidians rarely meddle with what goes on beyond their

  mountains and waters. Who can blame them? It has protected them from

  conflict for centuries."

  "Our peoples have always been allies." Pastel interrupted.

  "I'm

  not saying they haven't." Says the woman with an inflection in her

  voice, playing with her goblet. "But even if they agreed to fight with

  you... I doubt it would be of much use." As she spoke, Pastel could see

  in her eyes that intense thought was taking place. She spoke more

  slowly, concentrated. Pastel was growing impatient.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  "What on earth for?"

  "Those

  magic arrows, what you described... what I'm about to say is dangerous.

  Be careful who you repeat it to, but there are very few people who are

  capable of assembling armies with wizard units. It sounds like the

  work..." she hesitated, calculating what she could say. She gave him

  another look. She was different, Pastel noticed. Her mask of exaggerated

  seduction had fallen slightly. "It sounds like the work of the

  Brotherhood of Astharthé. They're thaumaturge lords."

  Pastel squinted, confused. "Of the what? Thauma lords...".

  "Thaumaturges.

  Wonder workers. They're wizards. They have great power in Siranopolis.

  They put pressure on the King to create a kingdom, conquer

  city-states... in some respects, they have already informally begun

  their work of conquest, but by political, economic means... Some wonder

  if it's still the King who's in power in Siranopolis. I've heard that

  many of them would like to turn Siranopolis into a thaumatocracy, where

  only sorcerers, of pure bloodlines can rule."

  "Isn't Siranopolis already a kingdom?"

  "Ha!

  That's what they're trying to make everyone believe, but it's still

  just an alliance of city-states... but why attack the northern plains?

  It makes no sense..."

  "What about my people? Do you know if they're in Ternoulie?"

  "Yes.

  On the outskirts of Ternoulie, anyway. The lord of the city didn't want

  to welcome them within the walls, so they found refuge with the monkey

  tribes that live in the giant trees of the region."

  Pastel brightened. "How many are there? Do you know?"

  "Hundreds,

  from what I've heard. But I've also heard that there are still more in

  the mountains and even further beyond Ternoulie, they're not exactly

  welcome in most communities..."

  Pastel clenched his teeth in worry and pain.

  "If

  you want to find your own, you'd better start in the jungle north of

  Ternoulie. Look for the monkeys and... you might want to avoid spending

  too much time in the city itself. Trust me."

  "Why? Is it dangerous?"

  "For

  you it is. When you've found your kind, never travel alone again. The

  paths are full of bandits, mercenaries and people with all sorts of

  agendas. The jungle's not like the steppes, kiddo."

  Mazeran

  almost had a look of pity. "... If you want to know more about those

  who attacked you... try to find out more details from your own people

  and look for Daltatie. He's a merchant from Ternoulie, a friend of mine.

  A wolf. Tell him I sent you. He might be able to tell you more."

  "Daltatie," Pastel repeated. "Thank you very much, madam."

  "Thank

  you, little one. What you've given me is very precious. If you get the

  chance, don't be shy about coming back this way. You'll know where to

  find me. Tell me, how do you plan to get to Ternoulie? The easiest way

  would be to take a pirogue."

  "I know, I'm traveling with... someone."

  "Who is it, a local?."

  "Yeen, he's a mercenary. He helped me get here."

  The

  dog burst out laughing! "Impossible! Hahaha! I'd love to see you both.

  The fox and the gnoll! How excellent! Well, my dear, all I can tell you

  is that you're safe with him, but only as long as it doesn't get in the

  way of his customers' interests."

  "That's the hunch I had... but he told me he was going home."

  Mazeran

  smiled at him, "It's better to trust this gnoll's actions than his

  words... but if he agrees to take you to Ternoulie, then he must have

  something for you."

  Pastel blushed, "And where do you know him from?"

  Mazeran

  stood up, signaling the end of the conversation. "He's a regular. He

  comes hunting for information too. Besides, I'm surprised I haven't seen

  him, if he's around."

  "Thank you, Madame."

  "My pleasure. Sincerely. And call me Mazeran. Save your madames for the aristocrats. Take care, kid."

  Pastel

  was about to leave when the hostess said, "Oh, and I don't suppose

  you're traveling with a magic item, but... there's a rumor going around

  that there are some very powerful buyers who give a lot of gold in

  exchange for the smallest bit of magic. Brigands and mercenaries have

  turned into dealers. I say that and I say nothing. Just in case." She

  winked at him, which he felt like an icy shiver, his breath suddenly

  short.

  "Thanks." He said, faking indifference.

  Pastel went back out into the street. Stunned by the dazzling light and dazed by the bustle of the street.

  "I

  can't trust anyone anymore." Pastel thought, walking down the street.

  "How do I know she was telling me the truth? How could she know about

  the stone? Do... do people know that steppe clans use stones?" And that

  fox he'd seen. He regretted having momentarily forgotten her. His

  footsteps led him down to the river, lined with docks bustling with a

  lively dance of supplies and creatures, climbing in and out of pirogues.

  Pastel sat back.

  He

  thought back to Mazeran's looks. Sometimes charming, sometimes

  sympathetic, sometimes calculating or intrigued. What could he read in

  those gazes? Where was the boundary between the mirages of pretence and

  sincerity? In a way, she was quite sincere in what she was hiding,

  Pastel thought.

  He

  wanted, more than ever, to look at his stone, but he was too afraid of

  being noticed. He squeezed his arm, to feel it. He concentrated on that

  hard presence under his arm, his gaze directed to the waves and the

  comings and goings of boats.

  "Talk

  to me." Pastel murmured. He waited, still not knowing what to listen

  for. No intuition came to him. His only hunch was that he was completely

  lost in a strange world.

  He

  turned his head towards the docks. Some cubs were talking to a fruit

  vendor on a pirogue so loaded that its sides were almost completely

  submerged. The vendor handed them some melons. They left, laughing.

  Nearby, two parots, fishermen, were unloading bags of fish, chatting

  animatedly. A flock of birds flew across the sky. At the end of the

  alley, behind a hut, a russet reflection behind a giant fern and a crowd

  of people crossing Pastel's field of vision.

  Pastel stood up, ears

  pricked, expressing strong attention. The reflection materialized. The

  fox. She was talking to a large stag that Pastel immediately recognized.

  The fox handed something to the tall figure with the bandaged neck.

  "Pastel!" He turned, hand on his sword. It was Yeen, behind a pile of bags. Pastel leapt toward him "I just saw..."

  "I know, the goon that you tried to eat. We have to leave tonight. I'll find a boat and we'll go."