Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Ah, Peter. Just the man I hoped to see.”

Peter looked up sharply from the worn desk and scrap of parchment. He had been writing a letter, and swore inwardly when the sudden movement smeared the ink. He carefully attempted to repair the damage with a square of blotting paper. “What's going on?” He kept his expression outwardly pleasant, despite the damage to his letter.

“I have someone I need you to find. A fugitive.” Simon, the Captain of the City Watch, stood patiently waiting while Peter set his writing utensils to the side and regarded him with his full attention.

“Oh? I hadn't heard there was trouble – or no more than usual,” he amended. Peter's abilities weren't sought out for run of the mill cutthroats and thieves. He was called in to bring down bigger, more difficult prey. Usually if his services were in need, something of note was going on.

Simon made a considering face as he rocked back slightly on his heels in thought. “We-ll, this one is a little different. You've heard of James Light-Foot?”

“Um, hmmm...sounds sort of familiar.” He set aside the ink stained blotting paper and turned his full attention to Simon.

“Or James Nimble? He has a number of colorful appellations.” Simon sighed. “He's a thief, a very successful one.”

“The guard can't take care of this? Not that I mind, it just seems unusual. Did he kill someone?”

“No, he's never been known for bloodshed. Seems to avoid it.... here's the thing, word of his exploits have travelled around, he's becoming a popular figure with the common people.”

Peter rested his chin on his hand, easily reading between the lines. “And the powers that be are worried it will give the populace ideas.” Peter couldn't drum up the same level of concern, coming from a less exalted background himself. Average people liked stories where the upper classes got their noses tweaked. It gave the illusion that the world was a little fairer than it actually was.

Simon shrugged. “Last year was hard what with the floods along the Arn and the raids along the northern border. We don't need people getting riled up over a criminal. Word has it he broke into the Overseer's estate over in Climpt, made him look a fool.”

Peter schooled his expression to look suitably serious, even though he was laughing inside. He knew the Overseer in question, and the man was a horse's ass. “Ok, can you give me any kind of description?”

“That's the problem. Stories spread around, they get exaggerated, and there's no telling what's true or false. That's why I'm coming to you. You have other methods at your disposal. I thought you might be able to make headway. He's making us all look ridiculous, and if people can't take the Guard and the Watch seriously...”

“Point taken. Alright, I'll try my best. I'm not promising anything, but I'll try.” Peter found himself ungrudging in his offer. It had been quiet lately, and he liked the idea of having a problem he could sink his teeth into.

A look of relief crossed Simon's face, having successfully pawned his problem off on someone else. “Thank you, and keep me updated.”

Peter shook his head and turned back to his letter.

While Peter did indeed have various methods at his disposal that Simon and his ilk didn't, it would be helpful to know a little more about his quarry. If this mysterious James Light-Foot, or whatever he was going by, had the people talking, well, you went where the people were. Peter slowly nursed his mug of ale, and mostly kept his ears sharp, looking for a good opening. He had made certain to leave off the hood that marked him as part of the Capitol Guard, and he looked like most other people that frequented the establishment -traders down from the countryside, craftspeople, and laborers, not the city's poorest residents, but not the wealthier merchant class either. They wouldn't see Peter and think 'outsider'. It helped that Peter could have easily been one of them, having been born a blacksmith's son.

“Where are you from, friend?” Peter asked a man in a simple brown tunic and trousers, his skin weathered from sun and wind.

“Ah, from over in Delph – between here and Climpt. Had wool to sell, and it was either here or Climpt. I'll get better prices here.”

“I heard there was trouble in Climpt – the Overseer was robbed?”

The man's face split into a grin. “You heard rightly. Couldn't have happened to a more deserving fool. Man rides around like he's Lord of the Earth, meanwhile he's utterly useless. When half his land flooded, people lost near everything. Supposedly the one who did it is untouchable – been blessed by Jiddia herself.”

“He'd have to be to pull something like that off. And no one even got a look at him?”

The man shrugged. “Not that I know of. I heard he was a great big man with a sword, and I also heard he was small and thin enough to fit through a crack in the door. Some said he was a pale man and some said he was dark like the folk from Gandra.” He looked Peter over with interest. “And what do you do?”

“Clerk,” Peter lied, holding up an ink stained hand.

The information regarding James whatever-his-name-was ended up being as sparse and contradictory as Simon had said. Peter walked home that evening mulling over the problem. “Elizabeth?” He called out, shutting the door to a decent sized, well built dwelling – one of the perks of his profession.

“I was wondering when you were coming home.” His sister flashed him a smile. She had married a sailor on a merchant vessel, and he could be gone for weeks at a time shuttling goods back and forth to Semintal. So with Peter being unmarried, and Elizabeth being alone for stretches of time, the three decided to pool their resources and make a household together.

He ate a late supper and told her about his new assignment. “I'm going to see if the spirits can find him.” It was to Peter the most likely solution.

“Will they be able to not knowing who he is?”

“Normally, I would say no. But he's made enough of an impact here, that they might be able to track him down. It's hard to know sometimes what they are and aren't aware of, and they don't think like humans.” Magic was a wonderful tool, but it wasn't fool proof. It was why he also learned to use a sword and how to talk to different sorts of people, to listen, and to observe.

The best teacher he had told him once, “it's not just about the amount of energy you can raise up, it's how you use it. In fact, it's mostly how you use it. Remember that. If you can use what you have well, you'll go far.” So Peter didn't turn his nose up at mundane skills, and it indeed served him well as he made a name for himself in the Capitol Guard taking down spies, would be assassins, and serious troublemakers – not people like James.

After he ate, he retreated to a small room at the back of the house. A protective circle had been painted on the floor, the paint having been mixed with protective herbs and blessed water from the temple. He lit the candles that stood in the corners of the room, the room having no windows. Just as well, less distraction from prying neighbors. Simple wood shelves stood across the back wall holding a small cast iron bowl, bottles and bunches of dried herbs and other ritual paraphernalia. He took the metal bowl and the necessary assortment of herbs and set them in the center of the circle. Then he paused, breathing deeply to calm his mind and ground himself, feeling the pull of the earth beneath his feet and the faint thrum of magical energy around him.

When he felt ready, he walked the circle, pulling in energy through his left hand and releasing it with his right to empower the circle. Then he lit a coal in the bowl, sprinkling the dried herbs over top to create a fragrant smoke. It was a blend his familiar spirit liked and would draw it like a moth to a flame. He called out the being's name, though his voice was barely above a whisper. It didn't matter. It wasn't about volume, but about the ripple of energy being directed towards the entity, catching its attention.

After a few moments, the hairs on the back of Peter's neck began to stand up, and he was no longer alone. In the dim flickering light, among the curls and wisps of smoke, an amorphous shape formed, serpentine, sometimes blending with the smoke, sometimes its shape becoming clear.

“You called?” It asked, dancing above the bowl.

“Yes, I have a problem, and I'm hoping you can help.” The key to working with spirits was being polite. Peter couldn't let them scare him or push him around, but trying to dominate them never worked well. And Peter had developed a relationship with this particular being.

“Oh, and what is this problem?” It turned its horse like head into the smoke as if inhaling the fumes. Peter added some more of the herbal mixture.

“I've been tasked with finding someone, but I have no good description of him. He's a very successful thief.”

“And is that not a description?”

“Yes, but humans are more visual. People have been talking about him, his exploits. Some call him James Light-Foot or James Nimble, but those aren't his real names.”

The spirit was silent for a moment. “Why shouldn't they be? Do they not describe the nature of the man? Light-foot, Nimble, master thief, these are good descriptions. I will see what I can find.”

“Thank you.”

The spirit writhed in amongst the smoke for a few more minutes before disappearing. Peter didn't exactly know what it got out of the incense other than an energetic exchange had been made. But if it made it happy, Peter was perfectly willing to supply it with what it wanted. He broke the circle and cleaned up.

Elizabeth had readied for bed by the time Peter re-emerged. “Any luck?”

“Maybe. It seemed confident the information I had would be enough. I guess it uses different criteria than we do.”

Peter spent his childhood believing he would follow in his father's footsteps. As he grew older, he helped out in the smithy, and he hadn't minded the idea. Sure it was hard work, but Peter had never shied away from hard work, and blacksmiths were a necessary part of the community – it was a profession that would provide a stable home for himself and future family.

Then the priest came to town. They did so every few years to test the children for magical aptitude, and Peter thought nothing of it. It just never occurred to him that he would be any different than his father or his father's father. As it turned out, Peter had been wrong. At first he felt guilty, because it meant leaving home and helping his family, but his family was thrilled. Peter would have opportunities at education and a life much better than a smithy in a small village could offer, and it only increased his family's reputation. So Peter found himself packing his meager possessions and traveling to the capitol to the Temple of Senta the god of war and wisdom, the patron of the royal house. Peter would have preferred the more familiar Orune, who brought bountiful harvests and looked after the common people. But Senta was a god of power, and knowledge and magic were forms of power. There was also of course, the Lady, but only women were sent to her temple in the mountains. Meanwhile, his younger brother took over Peter's position in the forge, assuring family business would continue.

Over the next few days Peter tried to glean more information regarding James, but had little luck. Eventually, when arriving home, he felt the presence of the spirit. He couldn't see it – it needed help in order to manifest in a way Peter could communicate with it, so he returned to the workroom and repeated the little ritual from a few nights before.

“I have found your light-foot thief,” it said. And though it was hard to tell for sure, it sounded pleased with itself. “It wasn't difficult – nimble though he may be, he made ripples.”

“Can you tell me what he looks like, where he is?” Peter asked, excitement growing.

“I can take you to him. You cannot speak to me outside of the circle, but if you bring a dowsing rod, I can direct you.” Dowsing rods were usually looked down on as an instrument of low magic, but Peter thought the distinction silly. If a thing worked, it worked. “However, I must ask you something first.” Its sibilant voice hissed out.

“Certainly.”

“I take it you have been tasked with finding this light-foot thief, because he is wanted. Before he is punished, speak to him.”

Peter regarded the spirit, puzzled. “Sure, is there something I'm supposed to ask him about?”

“You will understand, if you take the time to speak to him.” The spirit gave Peter what he felt was a pointed look.

Peter sighed inwardly, wishing the spirit would just come out and say whatever it was. He supposed it had its reasons, they always did, they just weren't always clear. “Alright, I'll speak with him before anything else happens. Is there anything else I should know?”

“There are ripples.” And with that, the spirit vanished.

“There are ripples. It would be nice, if you were more specific,” Peter grumbled. As annoying as the cryptic language could be, the spirit wouldn't have said what it had, if it hadn't deemed it important. He wondered what about a human thief would interest a spirit.

Grey blue shadows draped the narrow streets, sometimes cobbled, sometimes dirt, always a hive of human activity from children playing, to laborers returning home, to a young woman chasing several errant chickens. Neal moved through the familiar hubbub feeling at ease in his surroundings. He didn't stand stand out from any other young man, though some might have noted his attractive features and confident gait.

“That's one to look out for, there,” one older woman said to her companion. They exchanged knowing looks. If Neal had heard them, he would have been amused. They weren't wrong, just not in the way they thought.

Several rings set with valuable stones nestled in a pouch under his tunic. Soon, they would be melted down, the metal sold, the stones repurposed, and Neal that much richer. It wasn't difficult to obtain the items. The difficulty lay in transforming them into coin without causing suspicion, so he brought a few pieces at a time to his trusted associate. His ultimate goal being to save enough back for them to overwinter in comfort, and he was well on his way.

The sun began sinking lower leaving a light haze of pink smudged across the horizon. Neal shivered, feeling something brush against him. Something that was not a person, not of the material reality. His skin prickled. Neal had always been able to sense spirits, and if he took the time, he could stare right into the Borderland itself – though he preferred not to as a general rule, finding it a little unnerving. He kept walking, not wanting to seem out of the ordinary.

Besides, the presence of a spirit wasn't out of the ordinary. The energy and activity from so many human lives in one place had undoubtedly attracted it. Neal could just see them better than the average person. Deciding this was the most likely explanation, he shook off his momentary unease, thoughts turning to the task at hand.

The spirit, however, seemed content to follow him down the street. “Little one,” it said, its voice a sibilant hiss he was certain no one else could hear. “Do not run.”

Neal's heart sped up at that – in part because the entire interaction was unexpected, and partly because he knew he was being watched. He could tell by the crawly feeling between his shoulder blades and the back of his neck. “Who are you?” Neal asked it, mostly directing his thoughts at it, barely murmuring the words. He could feel the spirit twine itself about him like a floating cat like snake.

“A friend,” it soothed.

Whatever was going on, Neal didn't like it. Spirits sometimes interacted with him of their own accord, but not like this. This was purposeful rather than the usual curiosity. So Neal did the opposite of what the spirit instructed, he ran. The street had cleared out a good deal as the sun dipped towards evening, allowing him to make his way with little trouble, his feet pounding the cobble stones, then dirt as he turned a corner towards a seedier part of the city, needing somewhere he could lose himself.

Neal could hear footsteps behind him, also running. Damn it! he swore to himself. Worse, the spirit had returned. He could see it's ghostly form keeping pace with him, could feel it watching him.

He took a sharp turn, hoping to throw off whoever was chasing him. “Little one, stop,” the spirit said again, twining itself around his torso. It couldn't physically stop him, it didn't have the power on the material plane, but the sensation was distracting and uncomfortable.

“Jiddia, Queen of Darkness, Mother of Thieves, hear your child,” he prayed as his feet continued to fly. “May I pass unseen...”

He turned again, and found himself on a street he didn't know. He paused for a moment in the shadow of a doorway, listening, and after a moment footsteps could be heard, two sets. The spirt hovered near his shoulder. Neal took off again, knowing he needed to lose his pursuers. The street turned into a a dead end with an alley extending both to the left an right, he hesitated, not being sure which way to turn. He was positive the canal lay on the other side of the wall.

Right, he decided after a fraction of a second, his mind quickly orienting itself by way of the canal.

“Stop!” a very human voice called out, male and authoritative.

Neal ignored him and started to turn, only suddenly he couldn't. He couldn't turn, run, move, do anything. He stood trapped, held slightly off the ground with his toes just brushing the dirt. A mage, of course. A mage using the spirit to track me. And a good mage at that to be able to hold him, but this show of force took effort, effort he wouldn't be able to keep up for long. Neal just needed to be ready.

The spirit stopped in front of him so they were face to face. Neal had the feeling it was studying him. Neal continued to try and struggle, knowing the force holding him would weaken, and he could feel it starting to give. The spirit let out a sigh. Unfortunately, it wasn't giving fast enough, and Neal started to worry, to really worry. He had always avoided getting too close to mages, to the people who could see him for what he was.

Hands gripped him roughly by the shoulders, and the force holding him disappeared with a snap. He attempted to wriggle his way out of his captor's grasp, but a foul smelling cloth was pressed over his mouth and nose, the world went grey, and he knew no more.

“Is this really necessary?” the guardsman asked. “You realize they're just going to hang him, anyway.”

“Look, I need to talk to him when he comes to.” Peter made sure the bindings were tight, and then hefted the young man up.

The guard seemed nonplussed. “You like to pass the time with all the thieves they bring in?”

“No. We have him now, because my familiar spirit brought me to him. It also advised me to speak to him, and since it was helpful so far, I thought I might take the rest of its advice.”

The guard looked uncomfortable. “Is it still here?” He looked around cautiously as Peter struggled under the weight of James the thief.

“Yes. It won't hurt you, though I wouldn't go trying to execute our friend here. Help me with him?”

The guard, being suitably cowed by the prospect of a spirit hanging around, did as asked with no further objections. Peter breathed a sigh of relief. Trapping James had left him spent – he wouldn't have been able to hold him for that long, if the spirit hadn't lent him some of it's strength. Why is it so interested in him? he wondered again.

“Where are we taking him?”

“To the temporary cells at the City Guard. Simon will be happy at least.”

It was with relief Peter saw James dumped unceremoniously in a holding cell. As a precaution he left him tied up and double checked the locks. James had a reputation, though what was fact and what was fantasy remained unclear. The spirit remained, Peter could feel its presence, occasionally catch a glimpse out of the corner of his eye.

Peter took a moment to study the man that had the Guard and the Watch up in arms. James himself was a few inches shorter than Peter with a slighter build. He wore decent clothes – clean, well kept, a little worn, mended in a few places. The kind of outfit that wouldn't look suspicious – not wealthy, but not destitute, either. He would have fit in well with the Tavern goers from a few days before.

A few people drifted by to goggle at the legendary thief, and Peter wondered what the hell the guardsman had drugged him with, when finally he stirred, blue eyes opening. He seemed out of it for a moment then his eyes widened in alarm, and he struggled to a sitting position, made difficult with his hands tied behind his back.

“You alright, there?” Peter asked him.

James turned his attention to the sound of Peter's voice. “What? Why am I here?”

Peter gave him a look, leaning against the bars of the cell. “Why do you think?” He held up the pouch with the rings and shook it gently. There was no way someone dressed the way James was and frequenting that section of the city had possession of the rings legally. Peter had garnered a professional reputation that allowed for a comfortable life, and he wouldn't have been able to touch them.

“I was just delivering those – running an errand.”

He lied well, but Peter had inside information. He couldn't see the spirit, but he was aware of it in the cell with James. Interestingly, Peter could almost swear James could tell it was there too, the way he kept trying to focus both on Peter and a little to the left of him.

“OK, James Light-Foot, or whatever your name actually is, I was told to speak to you.”

James looked puzzled at that. “What do you mean, by who?”

Peter made an educated guess, and pointed at where he knew the spirit was hovering near the other man. James turned his head slightly and actually flinched. “You know it's there, don't you.” He studied James carefully. “How do you know it's there, is the question.” This last was said mostly under his breath.

“I don't know what you mean,” James said, smoothing away the disquiet as if it had never been there.

“Yes you do.” His eyes flicked over the prisoner, considering. He was bound at the wrists and ankles, it was doubtful he'd be going anywhere, even if he did try and pull something. So Peter unlocked the door, and slid into the small space next to him, being watchful of feet and sharp knees.

He took his hands and gently cradled James' head. He felt the spirit's energy sharpen and a look of fear crossed James' expression. He let his focus settle on the young man, what he felt like energetically speaking. Peter felt the moment of connection, where something of his spirit touched James' – energy thrummed under Peter's hands, strong, practically glowing through the young man's skin. Peter stared at him in shock, finally understanding what it was the spirit wanted him to see.

Chapter Text

Neal sat with his back against the wall, watching the small knot of men standing across the room obviously discussing him. The spirit drifted back and forth for a little while, before settling beside Neal again. Neal wriggled his wrists experimentally. It wasn't that he had never been caught before, he just had a knack for wriggling out of ropes, picking locks, and climbing walls. If given enough time, he felt confident he could free his hands. He hadn't had the opportunity to investigate the lock properly, but then he wasn't exactly alone.

If the men left, and he tried to escape, would the spirit alert its master? Neal glanced at it. It too was watching the three people confer. Bits of their conversation drifted over, though he couldn't catch all of it. There was the mage – tall and wearing a dusty blue hood that marked him as one of the Capitol Guard, but his was lined in a golden yellow that denoted a higher rank than the other guardsman with the grey lined hood and tabard. The third man wore a tunic dyed a deep green made of a higher quality wool – Neal had an eye for those things. His clothes were well fitted and finely made. There was something about him, some quality that made Neal suspect another mage.

“Just throw him in the city cell – look, whatever he is, he's trouble,” the guardsman said, exasperated. “After his trial he won't be trouble anymore, and none of this will matter.”

“You can't kill him!” The two mages insisted in near shocked unison.

“You have no idea how valuable he is,” the man in fine clothes insisted. “He's probably run away from somewhere.”

“I know how much trouble he's caused,” the guardsman snapped.

“No, he's right,” the tall mage said, glancing at Neal. “This changes things, I'm sorry. But look at it this way, the problem will be off your hands now either way.”

The guardsman grumbled something Neal couldn't catch, but seemed resigned. He turned his head to regard the spirit hovering next to him. Its long serpentine body moved slowly back and forth in the air as if it were swimming. “Why are you still here?” Neal asked it quietly, so as not to draw attention to himself.

“I am interested in the outcome,” the spirit replied.

Neal had other things he wished to ask, but as he was about to have the company of both mages, he kept his mouth shut and plastered a look of unconcern across his face. The man in the fine clothes regarded Neal as if he were an interesting and potentially valuable horse or hound. However, the other one, the one who had called the spirit looked at him more kindly. “What's your real name?”

“You can call me James,” Neal replied, not eager to give away any more information than he had to.

“OK, but that isn't what I asked.”

“It hardly matters,” cut in Fine Clothes. “There are so few hoarorai running around, he'll be easy enough to identify.”

Neal inwardly winced, though he showed no outward discomfort at the word. The taller man just gave him a look and returned his attention to Neal himself. “I'm Peter.”

“Don't bother. It doesn't matter,” Fine Clothes cut in again. “I'll find out where he's from. In the meantime he needs to be held somewhere more secure than this.” He eyed the cell disapprovingly. “It will never hold someone with that kind of magical ability. He needs to be taken to the Temple of Senta. Can I trust he'll make it there without running off again?”

“I'll see to it myself,” annoyance crept into Peter's voice.

Fine Clothes looked at both he and Neal with a sigh before turning and striding out in a purposeful manner. “Well, it matters to me,” Peter said. “As much as I hate to admit it, he's right about one thing. I can't leave you here.”

Neal watched him carefully, considering his options. If it had just been the mundane guardsmen handling his arrest, Neal would have had a decent chance of escape. Unfortunately, Peter had more sense. There was a certain amount of irony at play...Neal never would have leaned on his power to escape, but Peter didn't know that. His best chance now was to slip away while he was being moved. His mind worked furiously, and when he glanced over he caught the spirit looking at him, its mouth opened in what appeared to be a grin.

Can that thing hear me? That was an unsettling thought. Spirits could have all manner of abilities and varied widely. Neal knew nothing about this one. If worse came to worst, he could step over into the Borderlands, but the Borderlands were definitely not predictable and not safe. It also meant using magic, which he was loath to do. Then there was the matter of the spirit who undoubtedly resided there. In the place of its power, it wouldn't be an ephemeral ghost of a being. Besides, I'm trussed up – I would only be a target, if I can't get these ropes off.

Peter scribbled down a note and handed it off to a boy in a messenger's uniform, and Neal went back to attempting to wriggle his hands free. He had to admit, Peter, he assumed it had been Peter, had taken care of the knots. They weren't cruelly tight, but they seemed determined to stay put.

“He means you no harm,” the spirit said, aware of what Neal was attempting to do.

“It's not just Peter I'm concerned about,” Neal replied under his breath.

“You do not see all the variables.”

Neal slumped back against the wall. “No, I'm just a simple human.”

“You are not, but you limit your sight.” This was said with the equivalence of a verbal shrug. The spirit swam back to circle around Peter before drifting out of the building. Neal had no doubt it would be back. Somewhere out there was a friend who would soon realize Neal was missing, but as long as Peter and his spirit helper were hanging around, there were limited options. It will have to be during the move.

“Jones, thanks for coming so fast,” Peter greeted his friend with some relief. The longer they kept James or whatever-his-name-was locked up in a normal run of the mill cell, the greater the likelihood the man would find a way to weasel out of it.

“I need to get a prisoner over to Temple Hill, and I'd rather have someone I know I can trust.”

Jones glanced over at the cell where James sat trying not to look like he was attempting to slip his bonds. “Just him? What's his story?”

“Well, I thought I was doing Simon a simple favor by helping catch a thief, and it turns out the thief isn't so simple. He's hoarorai.”

Jones raised his eyebrows at that. “That – that was not what I expected. Why not call in the priesthood? They're better at dealing with that kind of thing than I am.”

Peter hesitated a moment, considering his words carefully. He dropped his voice. “Because I want to know what happens to him. I turn him over just like that, I loose all control over the situation. You know the familiar spirit I call?” Jones nodded his assent. “It helped me find him and has an interest in the kid. I want to know why... it feels like there's more to this, and I'm not seeing what it is.”

Jones considered this. “How likely is he to cause trouble?”

“Moderately – though from what I've been told he isn't violent.”

“But he could use magic and poof,” Jones wiggled his fingers for emphasis.

“Something like that, maybe, or just get loose in a completely conventional way. I don't know. He has a reputation for being something of an escape artist.” When Jones didn't immediately reply, he continued. “If he gets loose, I can track him down again – we know what he looks like now, and the spirit can always find him. But I'd rather not have to go through all that.”

“How did you get him here in the first place?”

“Guardsman drugged him. I'd rather not do that either – too much can go wrong.”

Jones nodded again. “Alright. Sure, I'll help. He's just one man, and as you said, it's not like he can really hide from you if he takes off.”

Peter scooped up the heavy iron key, and they trooped over to the cell where James sat looking up at them, his expression unconcerned. Peter was certain his ankles were still bound, and as he leaned to the side and peered in, it didn't appear that James had managed to free his wrists either. He unlocked the door, letting it swing to the side. With a sigh, Jones grabbed him under the arms and unceremoniously drug James to his feet. Not that he could really stand, bound as he was. From there, he was thrown over one shoulder and carried to Jones' waiting horse. James was shoved over the saddle.

“I'm not carrying him that far,” Jones said. “Just make sure he doesn't fall off.”

Peter walked beside with one hand fisted in James' tunic while Jones led the patient bay gelding.

“Where are we going?” James asked, trying to look around despite hanging half upside down.

“You are going to Temple Hill, where it's more secure,” Peter said, not seeing how it mattered. Besides, he wanted to get the kid talking, learn something more about him. He felt it was important, though he didn't quite know how or why.

Peter was still calling him James, so no one had figured out who he was yet. This also meant they didn't know where he came from. All to the good. But it didn't change the fact he needed to get away and fast. He was under no illusion as to why he was being brought to the largest temple in the city – the mages and priests there would know how to keep him from using magic. Not that he wanted to use it, but it was becoming increasingly apparent he had little choice.

If he struggled now, he'd just land on the cobblestones and likely hit his head. He took a deep breath, inhale, exhale, allowing the worst of the tension to be released with the air from his lungs. He focused on his senses, the other senses, and the coiled ball of power that sat inside, or that's how he visualized it at least. He relaxed his stare, turning his head to the side despite the awkward angle, so he could see the street with its crowded buildings huddled up against one another – he was being led through the district that contained craftspeople and small shops, now shuttered for the night.

Soon, he began so see another image overlaying the city. One that looked out onto a strange wild landscape. The nape of Neal's neck prickled, and his heart sped up. He had been hoping to not have to do this. It was a risk, but also his best bet at escape. Once free of his captors, he felt confident he could make quick work of his bindings. But he could never be exactly certain what was on the other side of the veil. Just because he didn't see anything obvious, didn't mean there was nothing there.

He took another deep breath to calm himself and moved his body to slide backwards off the horse. He heard Peter's exclamation and felt his grip tighten on his shirt, then he was falling, but he didn't land on cobble stone. Neal lay on an expanse of ground sparsely covered in grass and brambles. He counted himself lucky that he didn't actually fall in the thorn bushes. The strange purplish sky that stretched overhead reminded him of nothing more than a giant bruise.. Stars spattered across the dark expanse, but didn't look anything like the constellations Neal was familiar with. The air thrummed with magical energy.

Neal, with a little effort, got himself righted and worked to get his hands free with the help of a sharp rock. A doable feat thanks to his flexibility and dexterity – two traits that had always served him well. Next, he concentrated on undoing the knots around his ankles. Soon he had his legs free, but almost fell trying to get to his feet. He had been sitting tied up for too long, and his cramped muscles complained loudly.

Not one to waste time, and being rightfully cautious about his surroundings, he rubbed at his sore and abraded forearms and worked to slap some feeling back into his legs. He took a closer look around – hills rose up some way off, black, their distance difficult to judge. That was one of several problems with the Borderlands. The piece of reality it occupied technically abutted Neal's own, but it wasn't easy to orient oneself, and what seemed close in one place could be far away in the other and vice versa.

I only need to get far enough, he reminded himself. Judging himself capable of forward movement, he stood on shaky legs and began walking in the direction he believed was north east. Neal forced himself to relax his shoulders, unable to shake the feeling someone or something was watching him. He walked with as much confident swagger as he could muster, knowing the worst thing he could do was make himself appear small and frightened.

The feeling intensified. “Little one, where are you going?” A familiar and unwelcome voice asked.

Neal tensed. The number two problem with the Borderlands had just shown up. “Taking a shortcut,” he replied.

“Sometimes shortcuts make for longer travel,” the voice hissed out, closer now. If Neal turned his head to the left, he would see it there. He debated on whether or not he wanted to. Sometimes things looked different this side of the veil. Finally his curiosity got the better of him, and he glanced over.

The spirit didn't look too dissimilar to how it appeared on the material plane. It was bigger, maybe twice the size, but that didn't make it a behemoth by any means, and solid. Its scaly body and horse like head swam through the air much like it had in spirit. It was colored in mottled greens and yellows, except for its dark purple head, and eyes the black of the void.

A fan like purple fin graced its back and again at the tip of it's tail. It seemed well suited to oceanic travel. A snake-horse-fish Neal thought irreverently. He continued walking as if it were a perfectly normal occurrence to have a snake-horse-fish accompany you.

“I don't have to travel here far,” Neal said to it, since it didn't seem likely to go away. He paused for a moment, attempting to look through the veil, but the image was difficult to make out – the sense of buildings superimposed. But the street was dark, and he couldn't tell which one it was, or worse, how high up off the ground he might be if he crossed back over.

The spirit circled to the front of Neal, its body swishing gently back and forth in the still air. “Child, you do not want to go this way.” It sounded serious and that did give Neal some pause.

“What's here?”

“Many things, and you stand out. Come,” it nudged him gently with its snout.

Neal had to force himself not to jump at the contact. It might have been working with Peter, but he didn't think it wanted to harm him. “I have a friend in the city. Can you help me find him?” A long shot, perhaps.

The spirit gazed at him. “The small man? I could find him, but it would not help you.”

“Ok, how about getting outside the city gates?”

It continued to regard him, its eyes alien and unreadable. “It would only put off the inevitable. Come, this way.” It nudged at him again.

“You just want me to go back to Peter,” Neal accused. “You're working for him.”

It seemed amused, though how Neal knew that he couldn't say. “I do not work for Peter. It is a matter of mutual assistance. However, you would do well to go to him. He won't harm you.”

“That's not what I'm worried about,” Neal said again. “There are other people besides Peter that I'd rather not see again.”

“And I say again you do not know all the variables. You limit your seeing. I would not have you harmed either,” it added, moving to swim beside him again, though it gave him a firmer shove in the direction it wanted him to go. “Believe me when I say this place is not safe for you. You need to leave, now.”

Neal dithered a moment, considering popping back over from where he stood – sure it was taking a chance, but he wouldn't be landing right on top of Peter, either.

“Not here. If the guard finds you first, they will not be as gentle as Peter,” the spirit warned.

Neal walked forward in roughly the direction he had came from. However, he had no intention of being led right back to his captors. He hadn't gone through all this trouble just to be taken back into custody, so when he caught sight of the remains of the rope he darted forward and to the side before crossing the veil, the spirit whooshing after him. He skidded on the landing, sliding to land on his rump on the cobbled street. He quickly shook off his disorientation and scrambled to his feet. He soon recognized his surroundings as Market Street, the permanent stalls empty and dark, the street quiet save the sound of two squabbling cats. He estimated himself to be a few streets over from where he started out.

If he hadn't been so disoriented from the quick jump back to the material realm, Neal might have taken more note of the absence of the spirit and what that might mean. Instead he turned and moved carefully through the street, trying not to draw attention to himself.

He paused, hardly daring to breathe, a small sound that could have been anything catching his attention. Could have been anything, but could also be something. He drew deeper into the shadows of the nearest shopfront, before carefully inching forward, aiming for the cross street ahead. A figure loomed up in front of him, and Neal quickly turned. Unfortunately, he ran smack into Peter who seized him around the torso and pushed him to the ground under his heavier weight.

The spirit hovered near the ground, its face a few inches from Neal's own. He could have sworn it was laughing.

Chapter Text

“If it wasn't for the spirit, I'm not sure I would have been able to catch him,” Peter admitted. “It's impossible to know what part of reality he might pop back into.”

His old teacher regarded him with interest. Dragging James into the Temple and securing him in a workroom now prison cell had been the most excitement anyone had seen lately. “Well, considering that room is inlayed with a powerful circle – the strongest in the building, I don't see him doing any more reality hopping.”

“The question is, who is he really, and where did he come from?”

“Both will be answered before too long, I'm sure. There are so few like him. His information will be recorded at one of the larger temples. Since he's not from here, it almost has to be Dunhallow or Misk.”

“What will happen to him?” Peter asked, a touch of concern coloring his voice. Wherever he might have come from, it was obvious James did not want to go back. That brought up some pertinent questions. Maybe he'd be able to get the kid to be honest with him.

“I imagine whoever has charge of him will come back and collect him,” his teacher shrugged. “Can't have hoarorai running around on their own. Too powerful. I have no idea how this one managed to slip his leash. He's either very good, or someone got sloppy, or both.”

“I'd like to try and talk to him again,” Peter said.

His teacher raised his eyebrows at that. “You've developed an interest in this boy? Why? Not that he isn't interesting in his own way, I suppose.”

Peter thought through his words carefully. “This whole thing has been a little strange. He's not violent, he's apparently a master thief, but doesn't use magic. He left wherever he was from on his own accord and probably with some effort. Why? The spirit that helped find him is interested in him too for some reason.”

“Well, now spirits... how much do you trust this one?”

“It's never proven itself untrustworthy, but it's not human and doesn't think like one, so its motives aren't always clear.”

“If you want to try talking to him, go right ahead. I don't see how it could hurt anything.”

Neal carefully investigated the space he had been locked up in. That it was a magician's workroom went without saying. Temples that taught gifted children would have to have them to prevent any accidents. This one had a permanent circle set into the flagstone floor in metal – and not just any metal, iron. That struck Neal as a little odd. Iron was an excellent protective substance, since most other entities were sensitive to it. But if one wanted to communicate with spirits, surely you wouldn't want iron in your circle.

So this serves some other purpose, then. There were sigils painted in the four corners. Neal didn't know what they meant off hand. He could recognize what they were, but like most magical accouterments, he didn't need them. He didn't need a circle to help raise and contain energy. He didn't need a specially prepared space to communicate directly with spirits. He had all the power he could ever want and then some coiled within him. Unfortunately, it also came with strings attached. Strings Neal didn't want to deal with. Already he could feel the power pricking at him. Crossing the veil had woken it up.

There were no windows, though illumination emanated from a globe of mage light in the corner of the ceiling. He couldn't quite tell how it was affixed, other than it was unlikely to make a good weapon. The door was heavy, the hinges in good repair. Neal let out a puff of breath. He was well and truly screwed.

If he had enough time to build up trust with the brothers here, he might have been able to catch one off guard – all he needed was to be out of the circle long enough to cross over, but he was unlikely to be held here long. Neal had no doubt they were searching for the place he came from.

He absently brushed the smears of dirt from his breeches and tunic sleeves. At this point, his clothing was a little the worse for wear. He made one more turn about his prison and sat down on the pile of clean rushes and blankets he had been given. The brothers weren't going to treat him badly, oh no. Neal was too valuable to harm in any way. He supposed one benefit of the iron ring was the absence of Peter's spirit, as he thought of it. Though maybe he could have gotten some information out of it.

Footsteps came from the hallway outside, a shadow passing under the door. Neal didn't bother getting up, weariness starting to nag at him along with the unsettled feeling of his power moving within him.

The door opened, and Peter slipped inside. He eyed Neal a moment before sitting down across from him. “Not afraid I'm going to attack you?” Neal asked.

“You wouldn't gain anything from it. You'd still be trapped here. I have nothing on me that can help you,” he pointed out. “It doesn't seem to be in your nature, anyway.”

Neal shrugged. “I'm not a murderer.”

“Since you are now here with nothing to lose, why not tell me who you are?” Peter invited.

Neal studied him for a moment, not certain what to make of the man. He was right, of course, there was little harm in talking to him. He couldn't really dig his hole any deeper. But the sooner they had a name, knew his origin, the sooner he was back to square one. Only worse, because now they'd know he had the will and the means to escape.

“I'm not interested in going back any sooner than I have to,” he admitted by way of explanation.

“Why?”

“That's getting a little personal, Peter, for just having met. I mean, I know there was a chase and arrest involved, but still.”

“Do you have family somewhere?”

Neal bit back a cynical laugh. “Who do you think sold me to begin with?” He was suddenly very aware of Peter's gaze on him, brown eyes soft. He realized then he might have said too much.

“That's not usually how that works,” Peter replied, concern touching his voice.

“Isn't it, though?” Neal rested his chin on his hand, regarding the other man, trying to ignore the tendrils of power that made his insides squirm. “Our families have to get something out of it.” Besides being rid of a problem. Granted Neal didn't know anyone else like himself. Supposedly they existed, scattered around the country.

“Come on, at least give me your name,” Peter coaxed. “They're going to find where you're from with or without it. I'd like to know who I'm talking to.”

For a moment, Neal wavered. He wanted to give the man his name, maybe spill out some of the sordid tangles of his sorry life. What is wrong with me? Maybe it was the power pushing him towards another person, seeking someone with the ability to sooth and mend the damage using it invariably caused. He swore inwardly.

“James is just fine. Your spirit friend seemed to find Light-Foot an acceptable name.”

Peter let out a sigh. “It's a spirit – they have their own way of thinking.” He fell silent for a long moment. “Look, kid, if you need help, tell me.”

Neal smoothed over his look of surprise, uncertain as to why Peter should care. “I'll keep that in mind, but I don't think there's much you can do under the circumstances. As you said, they'll find where I'm from, and they're going to want me back.”

Peter hauled himself to his feet. “When you feel like talking, I'll be here.”

Neal watched him leave, somewhat nonplussed.

The problem of James Light-Foot continued to niggle and nag at Peter.

Who do you think sold me?

That wasn't how things were supposed to work, but how well did he know that system? He had been educated at the very same temple James was being held in, and they had never had a hoarorai in residence. He only knew so much about them, and of course there was much conjecture and rumor.

The main school of thought believed that their blood wasn't pure – they carried some strain from something else, though what nobody really knew. Peter supposed it would have to be some Borderland entity from long ago, since the Shadowlands beyond were too remote to access in physical form. It was as possible an explanation as any other, though it made some people uneasy, didn't really help with popular perception. Beyond that their power took a toll, pushed them this way and that, made them lustful, unpredictable.

He wasn't certain how much of that fit James, though it appeared James wasn't comfortable with the magic he held inside either.

“I appreciate your help over the last few days,” Peter said to the spirit, making its preferred offering.

“It coincided with my own interests, and it is not so hard to follow one wayward child.” To the spirit any human below middle age was a child. Peter pegged James to be somewhere around his mid twenties, about ten years younger than himself.

“If you don't mind my asking, what is your interest in this?”

The spirit slowed its circling, facing Peter. “He makes ripples that can be felt across the veil. It is the nature of what he is.”

Peter considered the spirit shrewdly. It wasn't that it was lying, but it was leaving things out – possibly not realizing it would be of importance more so than by intentional omission. “There's more to it than that.”

“I see more than you do, potentialities, variables. If you had not caught him, the guard would have killed him. If he had escaped outside the city, the same would have happened, just not quite so soon.”

“And if he is reclaimed by the temple he came from?”

The spirit writhed in the smoke, seeming to think, or maybe tap into something Peter couldn't. “Uncertain, the threads begin to tangle and break down.”

“This is all very interesting, but you didn't fully answer my question. Why care if one human child is killed or arrested? People die everyday.” Peter didn't believe the spirit was acting purely from philanthropic impulse.

“Like recognizes like.” And with that, the spirit vanished.

Peter bit back his frustration. Motivations aside, the spirit had been invaluable, but the feeling of unfinished business continued to plague him. He needed to get to the bottom of James Light-Foot for his own peace of mind, if nothing else.

“It's the strangest thing,” Brother Andrew said. “I sent out a familiar spirit to deliver a message to Dunhallow and another to Misk, and neither have had a hoarorai go missing. The three biggest temples in the country! Who else would such a person be given custody to? Misk does have one, but that fellow is present and accounted for.”

“Could a hoarorai be taken to a lesser temple?”

Well, there's also the Temple of the Lady, but that's where the oracles go. The temples of Oruna don't usually have anything to do with magic beyond healers. It's just not their focus. There are of course smaller temples dotted around to the state deities, and the lesser divine as well. But they don't normally teach, and having a hoarorai requires people who understand and can use magic.”

“Sure, but magicians can be attached to smaller temples. I'm not in service to this temple, or any other for that matter. I work for the State,” Peter pointed out.

Brother Andrew considered for a moment. “True, true. Yes, it is indeed possible, very probable that some lesser temples have magicians in service there. But a hoarorai still wouldn't be taken there. They're too valuable.”

He's not a horse. Peter thought to himself. “Just because something should happen a certain way, doesn't mean it always does. What if a family who wanted to be rid of the responsibility of such a child sold them to a lesser temple?”

“I suppose it's possible... but why think such a thing?”

“Something he let slip makes me think it's a possibility. If something like that happened, would the temple in question admit to ever having him in their custody?”

“Peter, look – at whatever temple he's from, he had a magician in charge of him. He has to go back to that magician. And likely there was no wrong doing. Maybe his family wanted him somewhere close, or knew people at that temple they trusted. I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation. It's just a little...irregular.”

“Uh-huh.”

Brother Andrew looked resigned. “You don't look convinced.”

“Because I'm not. I don't automatically trust what comes out of James' mouth, but there's a few too many irregularities for my taste. And for whatever reason, he does not want to go back.”

“Well, I don't know what to say. He can't live life as a free citizen, and remember, he'd be sentenced to hanging if he wasn't hoarorai.”

“Ok ok,” Peter soothed, realizing he might have pushed the priest a little too far. “I'm just trying to get to the bottom of all this.”

“Understood, you always were thorough. Just don't worry yourself over it too badly. I'm sure it will be fine, and we'll get James, or whoever he is, back home.”

Neal, having no intention what so ever of going back, went over his make shift prison again, looking for anything he might have missed. Normally a circle, even a permanent one, had to be empowered to work – it was the material causing the issue. Iron just had a way of interfering with things that other substances didn't. It took up almost the entirety of the room, minus the corners as the room itself was square. Neal assumed that's where the sigils came in. He wished he had paid more attention to the magicians back at his home temple, but as he didn't strictly need to, didn't like them, and didn't want to be there, he hadn't. Now it might actually matter.

He placed his hands over the sigil in the far left corner from the door. It left a buzzy feeling against his palm. He considered marring it in someway – scraping part of it off. He didn't think he'd have to remove the entire thing. Naturally they'd taken his knife and coin pouch, and they had been giving him food and water in wooden implements that were too lightweight to be effective weapons and couldn't be shattered to create sharp edges.

He sat down and pulled off one well worn leather shoe. It had been holding up well – Neal knew where to put his money. He felt around inside its depths and pulled out a copper piece. It was for emergencies, emergencies where he needed something hard with an edge and might not have his knife. He set to work scraping away the paint. It was worth a try, and it at least gave him something to do besides wait for the inevitable.

Neal found himself making progress when he heard a key jiggle in the lock. He quickly scooted over so he was sitting on top of his handwork. He was unsurprised to see his that his visitor was none other than Peter. Peter walked a few steps into the room and stopped, a puzzled look on his face. He then moved to stand in front of Neal.

“What are you up to?” he asked. He didn't seem upset, his expression and tone being a mix of amusement, resignation, and curiosity.

Of course, he can sense any change in the energy. He plastered on an innocent expression and looked up at Peter, noting he was a good looking man. Shut up, he told the unsettled power within him, quickly shaking off the errant thought. “Just sitting here awaiting my fate.”

Peter gave him a look that said he didn't believe Neal. “This room,” he gestured around him, “Is designed to damp down energy. It feels less damped now.”

Neal just shrugged. “Ok. Not sure what that has to do with me. I can't do anything about that big ring in the floor.” He pointed to the circle of iron.

Peter continued to look at him, thinking, before slowly turning and walking the circumference of the room. Neal carefully kept the tension out of his body language, deciding Peter was far too observant for Neal's good. Finally Peter returned to where he started – in front of Neal.

“James, up,” he said.

“Huh?”

“Stand up.”

When Neal hesitated, Peter seized him firmly, but not roughly, under the arms and hauled him to his feet. He looked down at Neal's handiwork. “Ah. Clever. Granted this was never meant to be a cell.” He still had hold of Neal, and the power within him practically purred, wanting someway to balance and settle itself. Neal ignored it.

“What makes you think that was me? They took my knife,” Neal reminded him.

“Because it wasn't like this before.” Peter sighed and released him. “Why, why all this? Who are you?”

Neal let out a soft huff of breath. “I would rather not be here when they come to take me back,” he admitted, mostly because his motive was obvious.

“Clearly. My question to you is why?” He was standing close enough to Neal to be in his bubble of personal space, warm brown eyes intent on him.

“Why do you care? Most people don't,” Neal replied, taking refuge in a question of his own. The use of his power meant Neal was still in a twist, and he found himself very aware of Peter's close proximity. “You've done your job – you caught me, brought me here.”

“Caught you twice,” Peter said. “I have a strong feeling there's more going on than I'm aware of. I don't like that feeling.”

“I suppose not,” Neal murmured, half turning away, partly to distract the annoying hum under his skin, partly because he didn't entirely trust his own response. He was very good at showing the world what he wanted them to see, but Peter's seemingly genuine interest in his well being had Neal thrown.

“Why not just talk to me – what's your story. What can it hurt?”

Neal turned and leaned against the wall. “I lived in a temple, didn't like it, and left.” He shrugged. Again, a rebellious little part of him wanted to talk to Peter, but he couldn't see how it would help.

Peter made an exasperated sound, but didn't otherwise reply, his attention being caught by something glinting on the ground. He bent and picked up the copper piece, inspecting it closely. “So this is how you did it.” He pocketed the coin. “I don't think you've done enough damage to open up a means to escape, sorry. But I'll give you credit for the attempt. Smart.”

Neal sighed. Not smart enough, since I'm still stuck in here.

Peter walked over to a window left open to welcome in the spring air, and pulled the coin from his pocket. He studied it closely, noting it didn't look like the currency usually in circulation around the city and nearest towns and villages. He turned it over, holding it so that it caught the light. A flower had been stamped on the back, but not the rose that graced the local coinage. “What is this?” A clue to James' origins, or did he just pick it up somewhere along the way? Was it old and worn because he had kept it in his possession, or did he swipe someone's purse, and there it was? He turned and went to find his teacher.

“It's a rock lily. They grow up north near the border, a symbol of determination and resilience, or so I've been told. I suppose it's apt considering the terrain up there. Don't usually see them down here – I don't think it's been in use for some time. Almost everyone uses the rosies now days,” he said, using the colloquial term for the local money. “Where did it come from?”

“James had it. He was using it as an improvised tool to do away with one of the sigils. He's a smart kid.”

His teacher gave him a look. “Peter, don't go getting attached. He's not like you and me, and he needs to go back where he came from.”

The seriousness of the old man's tone caught him off guard. “I hardly know him,” he replied. “I just...ever have the feeling that's something's been left unfinished?”

“Doesn't matter – this is really outside of your sphere at this point. You took an oath to serve and protect the crown and populace, a different path. The hoarorai are the concern of the temples. They're best equipped – we're the best equipped to deal with them.” He turned over the copper. “However, you may have done us all another service, depending on how long he's had this coin.”

Peter's amorphous concerns continued to nag at him. There were undercurrents he didn't understand and didn't like. In his experience, when people started getting hush-hush, that's when you had to look sharpest and keep asking questions. James of course had the answers, but he wasn't talking, and Peter felt more and more like the temple brotherhood and the attached magicians were shutting him out. They had been polite about it so far, but he had the feeling if he kept pushing, they were going to start pushing back harder.

Chapter Text

“The problem is,” he told Elizabeth that evening over supper. “Is that I don't actually know that much about hoarorai. They aren't really talked about, and it's not like the average person is likely to run into one.”

“I've only heard stories – the ones children try to frighten each other with. That they aren't really human. They're spirits wearing human skins, and if they catch you, they'll drag you into the Borderlands. I wouldn't put too much stock in it,” she smiled, good humored as usual.

“Yeah, I remember them. I can also say this James is definitely a person, and if there's anything else in his makeup, and I suppose there could be, he's mostly human. Spirits can't physically manifest on this plane without assistance, and even then, they can't do so for long and are limited.” Peter thought back to his assistant spirit that he couldn't communicate directly with outside of a circle.

“The question is what other people believe. You said it before, the study of magic is a lot of guesswork and experimentation. That leaves a lot of room open opinion and belief.”

“I'd like to think my brethren in the temples would have enough sense not to put stock in children's stories.”

She set down her knife and sat forward a little. “But do you trust them to?”

“No. I know them better than that. I was educated in that system. They're just as fallible as anyone else – better educated to be sure, but also less flexible in their thinking. Comes from believing they're always right.” He rubbed a hand over his eyes. “I don't like being shut out like this. They're not being blatant about it, but it's becoming obvious. They don't want me asking questions about James. That implies there's something going on they're either embarrassed about or think I won't like.”

“Which means it's probably worth looking into,” Elizabeth said.

Peter knew he would have to work around the temple priesthood, and being seen too often talking to James or asking too many direct questions would only make certain they would eventually bar his access. But that didn't mean he couldn't do some poking around on his own, or that he didn't have a trick or two up his sleeve. He set his familiar spirit to keep an eye on things. It couldn't enter the room with James anymore than James could leave it, but it could let him know if anything of interest happened. Provided it didn't make itself obtrusive or try to enter the temple sanctuary, even if it was noticed, the brothers would be unlikely to worry about it. Spirits happened, and they were often attracted to places of spiritual or magical power.

The difficulty was, no one he spoke to knew much of anything about hoarorai. “Ah, they seduce men and women, bring them under their sway,” one man said. He gave enough sordid details that Peter decided he was bored and wanted a salacious story to tell.

Jones had just shrugged. “Bunch of kids' stories. They have demon blood, they aren't human, they grab children and drag them to the Borderlands, they seduce youths and maidens and drag them to the Borderlands. There's a lot of dragging people off to the Borderlands.”

“Were you worried that James was going to drag us off to the Borderlands?”

“No. I was afraid I'd get stuck carrying him all the way to Temple Hill. Why do you ask? Can't the priests tell you anything? This sounds like it's their area of expertise.”

“I don't think they're really experts. They think they are, but no.” He shook his head. “Something's going on, though. They don't want me asking questions, and they're starting to get touchy about my talking to him. I don't like the feeling I'm being lied to.”

“Well, good luck. You may have magic, you may have the respect of the Guard, but the brotherhood? They have power you and me don't – and I don't mean the magic kind.” He gave Peter a meaningful look.

“Hello, Peter,” Neal sighed when the door opened.

“I'm not Peter,” his visitor said dismissively. Neal looked up to see one of the brothers – this one wearing the green and purple colors of a temple magician. After a moment, he realized it was the same man from the night Peter had caught him, the one in the expensive clothes. He stood with this back to the door, looking down at him. “Neal.”

Neal tensed at the use of his name, it could only mean one thing. They had figured out who he was and where he came from. Dread started to form in the pit of his stomach. He tried to erase it from his face, but he didn't think he had been fully successful. The priest just looked smug.

“Yes, we know who you are. We were always going to find out – you could have saved us all a lot of trouble, but then you are what you are. You'll be happy to know your Custodian is in rout to come and collect you.”

Neal was not the slightest bit happy. “Wait – I -”

“You should consider yourself lucky, Neal. You've been dealt with very gently, more so than you deserve considering your recent antics. That will soon come to an end. Good night.” He left, closing the door after him, the sound of the key in the lock holding a distressing sense of finality.

In a wave of grief and frustration, Neal threw the empty wooden bowl at the door, followed by the blankets, and then kicked around the rushes he had been sleeping on for good measure. He pressed his mouth to his forearm and screamed soundlessly, and then spent, crumpled up on the floor next to the damaged sigil. His mind continued to whir, searching for a way out. He had a little time. It was spring, and the Arn would be high with good, strong current. They'd probably travel by boat once they reached the ferry south of Grey Hill. It would be considerably faster than overland travel the entire way down, but Neal still gave it the better part of a week, if they hurried.

He rubbed at the sigil, feeling the disruption where he had scraped part of it away. He didn't know the spirit's name, and to be fair, spirits didn't just give their names out to people. Names held power. But that didn't mean he couldn't make a connection the same way the spirit had found him through his aliases. He pictured the spirit in his head as it had looked in the Borderlands with its long serpent like body, fins, horse like head, shining scales. He thought about the way it moved through the air as if it were water.

“Snake bodied air swimmer,” his voice was a whisper, but there was force behind it. He willed it to hear him, to come.

A surprisingly short time later the scrape in the sigil began to softly glow, and as if it were a crack in a door, an eye appeared. “Yes, child?”

Neal breathed a sigh of relief. “I need help. The temple I came from have sent people down to bring me back. I need to speak to Peter.”

The eye continued to regard him. “Yes, I am aware. He sent me here to watch. He was starting to become unwelcome to the priests,” the voice hissed out.

“It's really important I speak to him – I have a plan, something I can offer him.”

The eye blinked slowly. “Yes, you do. I will tell him.” The eye vanished and the glow faded.

Neal gathered up his bedding and remade a place to sleep. There was nothing he could do now but wait.

The spirit wafted its way back to Peter, less concerned than Neal as it could see the lines of fate and chance spread out before it, ever changing. Events had been set in motion, but this part of the weave was not yet complete.The future as it pertained to the light-foot child was still mutable. It found Peter walking through the streets near the market. It circled around him, knowing the man could sense its presence and would know to contact so they might speak. It then swam on to the human dwelling to wait.

“Did something happen?” Peter asked.

“The custodians come for the child called Light-Foot. He wishes to speak to you, has an offer for you. You should do so. Time in this is of limited quantity.” It didn't occur to the spirit to use Neal's proper name, as Light-Foot better described the being in question.

Peter thought for a moment, not sure what Neal could possibly offer him, unless it was the return of his ill gotten gains. “Do you know what this offer is?”

The spirit opened its mouth in what Peter supposed was an approximation of a grin. “Power.”

He considered trying to pull more information from the spirit, which was usually a matter of finding the right questions to ask. It wasn't intentionally obtuse or dishonest, but it didn't think like a human, and what was important to Peter wasn't necessarily important to it. He shook his head, no, better to talk the man himself.

“OK, I'll do so. Let me know if anything else happens.”

The spirit circled around Peter once, then vanished. Peter had the sense it had been enjoying itself. He would visit the Temple in the morning before his rounds, and he readied an excuse the brothers would find acceptable.

When he showed up the next morning, Brother Andrew was noticeably less welcoming. “Look,” he began. “We found the boy's custodians. They'll be here in a week, the gods will it. There's no need for you to be involved anymore, and it's better not to get him worked up.”

“Well, all the more reason for me to speak to him now. I was hoping he might tell me where he had stashed the goods he stole. If it's a done deal that he's leaving, he has nothing to lose by telling me.” Peter was particularly proud of that cover story. Perfectly reasonable, completely in the confines of his job.

Brother Andrew mulled that over for a moment, then shrugged. “I see. Well, it can't hurt to try, I suppose.”

As Peter unlocked the door to the repurposed workroom, he felt the spirit hovering next to him. He entered, closing the door after him. James, as he knew him, sat on the floor on top of his makeshift bed. Peter looked at him with no little concern. Gone were schooled expressions, the apparent unconcern. He looked tired and pale, his hair disheveled.

He looked up at Peter and made some effort to pull himself together. “The spirit told you?”

With a glance at the door, Peter nodded and went to sit next to the young man – he didn't want to chance being overheard. “Yes,” he replied, keeping his voice low. “It said they found out who you are and will be sending you back.”

Neal nodded. “Yeah, I'm from up north west of Grey Hill. Neal,” he added.

“So that's your name. That's a ways up.”

“That gives me a little time,” Neal said. “How much do you know about hoarorai – about how our power works?” He sat forward, intent.

“Ah, not a lot. I've been trying to find out more, but most people either don't know anything or they're intentionally keeping me in the dark.”

“We're powerful, right? But all this,” he tapped his sternum with a closed fist, “comes with a price. It doesn't work quite right. In theory I can do all kinds of things with it, but it leaves me...out of balance, sick even, if I use it too often on my own. It's like I have all this energy, but this...body isn't really meant to hold or manipulate this much.”

Peter listened carefully, feeling that fit with the theory hoarorai were only mostly human. There was something else that wasn't quite compatible. “OK, I'm following so far.”

“If I work in tandem with another magician it works better – they can siphon off some of it, blunt the affects. The Custodian is the person assigned to that role by the temple. I'm offering that to you. My power to you.”

Peter looked at him, trying to digest what James, no Neal, had just said. “So, you have a...Custodian at your home temple up north?”

“I would have, but I ran away. I was eighteen – I had lived there before that, but they won't bind a child.”

“That sounds like you didn't want to be tied to? Bound to? That person? But you're offering me? I feel like I'm missing something here.”

“Look, I can enter that kind of energy exchange with a person willingly. If I'm not willing, it can be forced. The priests have implements to do that. They'll forcibly bind me anyway, because they don't trust us...we're not people to them. We're something else.”

“You're obviously a person,” Peter couldn't help but feel a little disgusted at that. He had enough experience with various entities to know that whatever Neal was, he wasn't that far removed from Peter or any other human.

“Yeah, I agree with you, but they don't, because they don't know where the power comes from or why it works the way it does.” His speech sped up as he tried to get to the point before they were interrupted. “But what I have, what a magician can do with it, that's what makes us valuable. It's why they keep as around. I'm offering this to you,” he reiterated.

“OK, but if what you say is true, the brothers aren't going to just decide to hand you over to me, and the priesthoods carry weight.”

“Yes, but everyone wants access to power. You have powerful masters too – just...I just ask that I not be asked to kill anyone, please.” A look of distress briefly returned to his face. “And remember that I'm a person.”

Peter studied his face, trying to glean what he might be holding back. Neal looked earnest, and worried, concern etched into his attractive features. The kid's genuinely scared. Peter thought. Scared enough to put his future in the hands of a virtual stranger. He didn't exactly know what to make of Neal's offer. Just as Neal was offering himself to Peter, it meant Peter's life would include Neal who had already been making a name for himself as a thief, who had maybe too many smarts and talents for his own good.

But the feeling of something locking into place hit him, as if he should have expected this from the beginning, even though he had no way of knowing what would happen. “How did you end up at a little temple up north? I thought hoarorai were only taken to the three main ones.”

“I told you. I'm the last thing my father wanted, so he took me to a temple and was rewarded for doing so. He wanted to be rid of me. I don't think he cared where I went.”

“OK, let me see what I can do. Now I have to go, before the brothers start getting suspicious.”

“Of course you should take him up on his offer!” Elizabeth exclaimed. “The temple is obviously in the wrong, and he might really be able to help you.”

“Yeah, from the sounds of it he could. But there's a lot I don't know, and that's assuming Neal's being honest with me...and whether or not I can get backing to take him away from the priests.”

“I doubt that will be a problem. Never underestimate human greed.”

“Well, since there was some impropriety involved in the way he ended up where he did, maybe I can use that to my advantage. I do know people who would be interested – who would see Neal as a way to bolster security. I'll be persona non grata at Temple Hill. I don't know how much I care about that. This whole thing leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I'll ask some questions tomorrow.”

Sleeping on the problem of Neal didn't illuminate anything further. He felt that on some level he was supposed to do this, that this should be a thing that happened. He sometimes got those kinds of hunches – they came with being sensitive to energies, not the way the spirit could see various potentialities, but a sense sometimes of how things might be or were supposed to go. But that didn't change the fact that he didn't have enough information to make that kind of decision. It not only affected Neal, but himself, and his household.

He tracked down Simon. Partly because Simon tended to know the right people, partly because he had just done Simon a favor, and in part because he could trust the man to keep his mouth shut. He laid out the problem, watching Simon's expression grow increasingly surprised. “Seriously? You could actually?”

“Maybe. But I don't know that much about all of this. Trust me when I say this was not a part of my education.”

Simon rested his elbow on his desk and his chin on his hand. “I don't know too much either, to be honest. Just that they're powerful and the temples snap them up. Could he be lying to you? He was almost hung for thieving.”

Peter hesitated, thinking back over his conversation with Neal. “About this, I don't think he told any lies. Could he be omitting something? Sure. But I can't exactly go to the brotherhood and ask them, either.”

Simon thought for a moment. “You want to speak to Lord Adley. He oversees the Capitol Guard, the City Watch, the Royal Guard – any group related to defense or keeping law and order. He mostly concerns himself with financially running things, but rumor has it he knows pretty much everything that goes on – he's the spider at the web's center.”

“How difficult is it to get an audience? This is time sensitive.”

“Well, seeing as how you'll be getting an introduction from me, not hard. Anything security related he's going to want to hear about. When the Captain of the City Watch, says 'I think you need to hear about this,' he'll listen.” Simon sat up and jotted down a note, dripping some wax on the paper and impressing the seal of the Watch into it. “You'll find him in the palace complex – go to the trade gate, and show this to the guard. They'll get you where you need to go.”

Peter made his way down the main thoroughfare, busy with morning traffic – wagons from the countryside bringing goods to market, workmen going to and fro, and citizens going about their usual business. Peter dodged an ox cart carrying cages of chickens, and followed the winding street in the direction of the palace complex. He knew where he was going – he sometimes had errands that brought him there, though he had never met Adley in person.

After walking what seemed an interminable amount of time and up hill to boot, he found himself in line with people selling goods and services to the palace. After a few minutes he wondered if he should cut in line, but decided patience was likelier to win the day. Eventually he came to the guard and presented Simon's letter.

The guard looked him over. “Alright, this way. You'll never find it on your own – it's like a maze back here.” Peter obediently followed as the paved path twisted and turned through medicinal and culinary gardens, to purely ornamental spaces and the occasional out building. The guard brought him to a long stone building several stories high. It stood austere and imposing.

Peter made his way inside and hailed the first servant he saw, once again showing the letter. The boy took it, disappeared only to reappear some five minutes later. “This way, sir.” He was led to a room taken up by a heavy desk and shelves of books and scrolls, which were themselves impressive when one considered the expense involved in their collection. A man sat behind the desk. Average height, average looking, except for his well tailored clothing dyed in deep colors and lined with fur. He might not have looked like much, but he was an important man.

Adley looked up. “So Simon sent you, did he? Normally I make people wait, but Simon was never a time waster. What can I do for you?”

“My lord, I receive an unexpected opportunity that might be of interest to the security of the capitol.”

“So Simon said, go on,” he made a gesture to continue.

“A hoarorai was brought to Temple Hill almost a week ago, now – I brought him there, actually. He had been arrested for thievery. No one knew what he was at the time.” Peter noted that Adley became much more alert after he heard 'hoarorai.' “It turns out he's from a small temple up north near the border and does not wish to go back. He offered his services to me.”

Adley's eyebrows went up. “When you say 'his services?'”

“Access to his power, I guess in the same way the priesthood would, only this is voluntary.”

“He really doesn't want to go home then, does he. How well do you know this person? Why you?”

“I don't know him well – I caught him twice, I've spoken to him several times since he was brought to the temple. I suppose my being a magician without being connected to the brotherhood appealed to him. There were also some irregularities with the way he ended up there.”

“I should say so. He should have been entrusted to one of the three state temples of Senta. We keep records and watch on people like him. Can't do that, if they're ending up in out of the way places.”

Peter didn't know what to make of that, and for a moment he was afraid Adley would order him to stay with the brothers at Temple Hill. But instead, he sat back in his chair and gestured for Peter to take a seat across from him.

“This is most unexpected and interesting,” Adley said. “I do not believe irregular even begins to cover it. I suppose since you brought this to me, you're looking for backing. No temple is going to want to give a hoarorai up.”

“Yes, my lord, and to feel the situation out further.”

“Well, the situation is this. Your hoarorai friend is in possession of very powerful magics. In the care of an educated and trusted mage, such a pair would be invaluable. You can only raise so much energy, he can only control so much.” He paused, studying Peter over steepled fingers.

“I do know who you are, of course. I make it a point to know who all my higher ups are. People like to believe I just count coins and hold the purse strings, but I'm more than that. You've done good work for the state. We need more people like you here, not just at the temples. If I could augment what you have...well, of course I would be in favor. It would save me having to run to priests to ask favors. I don't like doing that.”

“So I have your backing to take Neal into my custody?”

Adley was silent a moment. “Yes, but...there is a but. He must be bound to you. I can't just trust a verbal agreement form a hoarorai.”

“I'm sorry, I don't know how that works.”

“The brothers do. They will have the necessities.”

“And if they don't want to cooperate? I don't see them backing down on this.”

A ghost of a smile passed over Adley's face. “They need to be reminded that they aren't a law unto themselves. Here,” much like Simon earlier that morning, he scribbled out a missive. “Take this, it has the seal of my office, and I suggest bringing backup. I don't want to hear about bloodshed, for gods' sake, but they'll be less brave if you aren't there alone. Now I have other work to do. I'm interested to know how this turns out. Please keep me appraised.”

Peter couldn't shake the feeling events were moving faster than were comfortable, and that he was also walking into the situation half blind. He didn't know enough, and other people didn't either or weren't interested in sharing information. He had the go ahead from Adley, but Adley was leaving it up to him to figure out. He mentally ticked through the people he trusted enough to help extract Neal.

Chapter Text

Neal didn't hear from Peter over the next two days, and it started to make him nervous. He supposed it would take time on his end, if he agreed...if. He glanced over at the marred sigil. He caught an eye watching him through it several times. He supposed Peter continued to have the spirit on guard duty, which had to mean something, right?

He still didn't expect his would be captors for another four or five days at the soonest, and he tried to force himself to relax.

“Little one,” a familiar voice said. Neal scooted over to the sigil, so the spirit could see him. “They come.”

“Who? Peter?”

“No, the ones from the north.”

“How is that possible,” Neal hissed. “Even by water, it takes longer than that.”

“They are magicians. They have means, I'm sure. But I do not know the specifics of their mode of travel.” The spirit sounded strangely calm.

“It's too late.” Neal cast about the room, trying to formulate a plan that didn't just involve rushing the door as soon as it opened.

“It is not,” the spirit said smoothly. “The weave is not as tight as you believe. We must only delay them a short while. When you get out of the iron ring, lend me the energy to manifest. I cannot do so fully on my own.”

Neal took a deep breath. “OK, they won't be expecting that.”

A short while later footsteps could be heard in the corridor outside and muffled voices. Neal got to his feet. The key rattled in the lock, and the door swung open. He found himself face to face with five other people. Two brothers from Temple Hill and three from his home temple. He recognized two of them. One carried a plain wooden box. Suddenly the room became much smaller.

“Well, Neal. It's been a while. Ready to come home?” Brother Prentice said.

“Not at all,” Neal replied and attempted to dive through the small crowd of people in an attempt to clear the edge of the circle.

Someone swore, and hands grabbed at him. He wriggled and writhed, using his elbows and knees to try and fight his way clear. But though desperation fueled his limbs, he was no match for that many people, who soon had him pinned to the floor.

Prentice tsked at him. “Six years later, and your behavior's no better. That's what happens when you're allowed to run loose. You've had your taste of freedom. It will be your last.” He looked up at the man with the box. “Aiden, would you do the honors, before he gets any more ideas.”

Neal knew what was coming, and attempted to wriggle forward, but only found himself pressed more firmly against the hard flagstone floor. He could see the spirit now just outside the room, but he couldn't make it to the door. Aiden set the box down, and Neal couldn't see what they were doing, or move his head, considering Brother Andrew had his cheek pressed against the ground. But he felt his ankle being seized, then cool metal even through his breeches, then a the sound of something snapping into place.

Neal's heart sank. “Here,” he heard Aiden say to Prentice, and Neal had the odd sensation of the other man's presence pressing against his awareness.

“Well, it's done now. Come on, up.”

Neal was hauled to his feet and drug from the room, from the iron ring. The spirit floated right beside him now. He didn't know how much good it would do at this point, but he wasn't about to go down that easily. He lifted his hand to touch the spirit, feeling a ripple of its energy, and drawing from what was inside, pushed it into the ephemeral body.

Prentice realized what he was doing at about the same moment the spirit took physical form, looking far more impressive than its usual ghostly self. It lashed its tail, fanned its fins, and made some truly horrifying noises. Being priests, they would have dealt with spirits regularly. However, they had not expected one to physically materialize right in their midst, especially when they weren't supposed to do any such thing. Neal grinned, and taking advantage of the distraction, started running. Only he didn't make it far.

A lance of pain shot up his leg and soon his body was suffused with it. His muscles and joints screamed with it, and he managed to only stagger for a few steps, before falling and curling into the fetal position. He did not, however, cut off the supply of energy to the spirit who was keeping the startled and confused priests back. More pain, and he whimpered.

“Leave this child alone. He is not for you,” the spirit commanded in its eery sibilant voice.

“Begone, oh spirit!” One of the brothers launched into a banishing ritual, and Neal could feel the crackle of magical energy building.

He dimly heard the sounds of running feet, but between the pain of the shackle and the drain on his power, he was losing the ability to focus.

A familiar voice cried, “What the hell!”

Peter expected trouble. There was no way trouble wasn't going to happen, but he expected it in the form of recalcitrant and argumentative brothers wielding the power of bureaucracy, not the scene that met his eyes. Jones and three other men he brought as backup all pulled up in shock.

Five brothers, three Peter didn't recognize were squaring off against his spirit made flesh. It was larger than it usually looked and impressive in its anger. On the floor lay Neal.

Having no reason to fear his own familiar spirit, Peter strode forward. “What is going on here? Stop now!”

“Unless you can banish the spirit, you're of no help here,” Brother Andrew said. Peter was starting to dislike Brother Andrew.

Peter walked over to the spirit who's movements had calmed as it watched Peter through midnight black eyes. “Ok, we can take it from here,” he told it. He swore it looked amused. It shimmered like air above a hot rock in summer, and became a creature of spirit once more. He crouched down next to Neal.

“What did you do to him?” he demanded, knowing very well it wasn't the spirit's doing.

“How I handle this hoarorai is none of your business,” one of the priests Peter didn't recognize said. “He had to be brought to heel, obviously.” His mouth was set in a thin line.

Peter handed him the letter from Adley. “According to Lord Adley Chief of Capitol Defense and Security, it is my business. He's not yours anymore.”

The priest made a face and read over the missive. “This is ridiculous,” he snarled. “This is a matter for the priesthood.”

“Well, you had your chance and couldn't keep him, you get him back and what happens?” Peter gave him a look. He was aware of his own men moving closer, not threatening imminent violence, but looming appropriately.

“You know nothing of hoarorai. They aren't human, aren't people, not really. But we keep them out of trouble, put them to work for the greater good.”

Peter gave him a level look. “I've dealt with spirits for years, know just as much about magic as most of the brothers here. Enough to know how foolish this is. And I don't care what you believe about him, it doesn't matter. You don't get to have him.”

The priest suddenly smiled in a way Peter didn't like. At this point more people had shown up, drawn by the commotion along with several temple guards. Peter stood, snatched the paper from the priest, and shoved it at a guard. They might have been guarding the temple, but they were still answerable to the city.

“It's too late. I've already bound him.”

Beside him, Jones gave Peter a puzzled look. Peter recognized the terminology, but didn't know what it meant exactly or how it was game over. Could it be undone?

A nervous looking priest spoke up hesitantly. “The silver ring on his ankle is attuned to the ring Brother Prentice is wearing. It means he has control over the hoarorai.”

Peter glanced at Neal's legs, and sure enough a slender silver band encircled one ankle. Neal was attempting to weakly sit up. “Take it off, then.”

“I can't. It doesn't come off,” Prentice smiled.

Suddenly Peter understood exactly why Neal had run. He also wrestled with the desire to punch Prentice in the face. His hand twitched. “Alright, then remove the ring. Or does that not come off either? Is this like marriage, till death do you part? Or do I have to cut it off your damned finger.”

Prentice and the surrounding brothers looked shocked at that. They were used to a certain level of respect, always. Several looked towards the guards.

“I don't think it needs to come to that, but he does have the right to take the boy. At least for now. I suppose you could argue your case before the Assembly.”

“This is inexcusable!” Several brothers sputtered in agreement, shocked and horrified that someone sought to usurp their authority.

Peter held out his hand. “The ring. Now.” Jones stepped closer, hand on the pommel of his sword.

“You heard him. This doesn't have to get any worse.”

With a shaky hand, Prentice pulled off the ring and tossed it at Peter's feet. He stooped, picked it up and put it on. Not because he needed to control Neal – at the moment Neal didn't look like he was capable of going far, but to make a point. Neal was leaving with him.

He crouched down beside him. “Can you walk?”

“Ah, yeah. I think so. Good timing.” Peter helped pull Neal to his feet and grabbed him around the arm to help steady him as they walked out.

“You will be barred from every temple of Senta! He will aid you no longer.” Someone was saying to him. Peter didn't particularly care. He had always preferred Oruna anyway. He noticed with the ring on, he could sense Neal clearly. He wanted to know more about it, but wasn't about to ask the angry brothers. Three of the men he brought with him had taken on the duty of keeping them back.

Once outside, Peter and Jones hefted Neal onto a horse and led him towards Peter's house. The normalcy of the spring afternoon felt surreal after the confrontation and confusion in the temple. Peter glanced up at Neal who sat slouched in the saddle, eyes half closed, and arms wrapped around his middle. He wasn't certain yet what he had gotten himself into, but he had crossed the threshold, there was no going back, not know.

“I'm impressed,” Jones said, calmly leading his horse. “You've managed to piss off an entire religious order.”

“Ah, that's not as hard as you would think. Though, I don't know that most people manage it this spectacularly. It will be even worse, if they figure out where the spirit came from. They were not expecting that.”

“I wasn't either.” He glanced up at Neal. “He going to be OK?”

“I expect so. Thanks for the help. If I didn't have men with swords with me, I don't think they would have backed down. This forces them to wait till they can get an audience at the Assembly.”

“Think they're going to fight this?”

“I have no doubt.”

Neal had been mostly unaware after he had been shoved onto the back of a horse – the same animal he had been slung over on his way to the temple originally. At that point, in Peter's care and out of the temple, Neal stopped trying to hold onto consciousness and let himself drift in and out. His awareness returned briefly when the horse stopped, and he was pulled out of the saddle. He felt awful, weak, sick. He managed a few steps before his legs buckled and he slid to the floor.

“Is he alright?” Elizabeth asked, kneeling beside him. “Should I get someone one?”

Peter pressed his fingers against the pulse point in Neal's throat. His heart beat strong and sure. Peter shook his head. “I think he just overdid it.” He considered for a moment. “I'm not dragging him up to the loft – we'll put him in my bed for now.”

“Need help?” Jones offered.

“You've done enough, more than enough. I hope this doesn't blow back on you.”

Jones made a dismissive gesture. “I'll be fine either way. Good to see you, Elizabeth.”

Once Jones had made his exit Peter looked down at his newest problem. “Ok, we've got to get you up.” He managed to manhandle Neal into an upright position and drag him to the bedroom and onto the bed. Peter stripped him to his small clothes, and Elizabeth gathered up his tunic, vest, and breeches.

“I can give these a wash,” she offered. “What's that on his ankle?”

Peter sighed. “That is the Temple's way of controlling hoarorai. It goes with this,” he held up his hand to show her the ring. “One of the priests slapped it on him, before we got there. I don't know all that it does, but it stopped Neal in his tracks.”

“Is that why he's like this?”

“Well, he also fed a lot of energy to my familiar spirit, allowing it to take an earthly form and give the brothers a scare. I can't begin to imagine how much that took.” He pulled a blanket over Neal and followed Elizabeth out. “I don't know what I'm doing here, El,” he admitted. “But now that it's done, there's no undoing it.”

“Sometimes things happen for a reason,” she pointed out. “So that's it then, with the temple?”

Peter shook his head. “Unlikely. They'll bring a complaint to the Assembly as soon as they get the chance. They're too used to getting their way. I don't know what the outcome will be. I have backing from someone who pulls some weight, but the relationship between the royal family and the Temple of Senta has always been strong.” Peter shrugged. “Now it's just a waiting game.”

Neal woke with a moment of panic when he didn't recognize his surroundings. He tried to jump out of bed, but only succeeded in sitting up and sinking back down again. The pain and sickness did do one thing, remind him of what had happened, and that he was likely in Peter's house. With that realization, he looked around with more interest. It was a modest room with a bed, a large heavy chest against one wall that he assumed held clothing, maybe an extra blanket. A washbasin stood in the corner, and a window, shuttered against the cool spring nights, let in thin streaks of early morning light around its edges.

He relaxed back down into a well stuffed mattress, and far more comfortable than anything he had experienced lately. He didn't feel exactly well – the unsettled power left a crawly feeling in his belly and chest, his skin felt tight and uncomfortable. Though still tired from the day before, it drove him out of bed as there was nothing to distract him.

Though still weak and shaky, he didn't feel in danger of imminent collapse, so he happily made use of the washbasin to clean up. He found his tunic and breeches draped over the top of the chest. The tunic was still a little damp, but he pulled his breeches on, fighting briefly with the placement of the anklet. It was a shackle, really. It might have looked innocent and sort of pretty, but he might as well have been in chains. His life was no longer his own. The best he could hope for was Peter being a better master than Prentice.

He could feel Peter through the silver band – his presence clear, residing in a corner of his mind. Neal could tell he was close by in the house. He pulled the tunic over his head, not really caring that it was damp in places since at least it was clean, and slipped quietly out the door. Straight ahead was another door, open, a bedroom. The rest of the house opened out onto his left. He paused in the doorway for a moment, taking in his surroundings. The room was decent sized with the hearth against the right far wall. A padded bench ran along another wall under the window, open to let in the fresh morning air. A small, sturdy wooden table sat across the room from the bench and various cooking implements hung from hooks above it. To his left stood a cabinet with crockery and various odds and ends.

Peter sat on the bench, taking advantage of the growing morning light to examine the ring. He looked up, whether because he sensed another person, or because he could feel Neal through the ring. Neal walked over and sat down next to him, but not too close.

“How are you feeling?” He asked.

“Better.” Though awake and ambulatory, his current condition was more complicated than he wanted to discuss at that moment.

“So the anklet stays put, but the ring can be passed from person to person,” Peter said.

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“What happens if the ring is lost?”

“It won't get lost. It can't be removed unless you will it, and I can't touch it, if it's off your hand. Believe me – that's one of the first things I tried, steal the ring. I picked it up and almost passed out.”

“When was this?”

“Not long before I ran. I knew what was going to happen, they made no secret of it. So I decided to be proactive. Unfortunately, it backfired.” He tried to ignore the uncomfortable sensations the power kept foisting on him.

Peter slipped the ring back on his finger and turned to face Neal, expression serious. “This can hurt you,” he held up the hand with the ring.

“If you will it to.”

Peter sighed. “I don't want to hurt you, Neal. I don't really know how all of this is going to work. If you can make it up to the loft, you can sleep up there.” He pointed upwards to the half loft reachable by a ladder. “There's a pallet up there. The other bedroom is Elizabeth and her husband – she's married, so don't go getting ideas.”

“I'm sure she's a lovely woman, but I doubt she's my type,” Neal said with a straight face. “So there's already three of you here?”

“More like two and a half. My brother-in-law is gone a lot – he's a sailor on a merchant vessel. I would rather Elizabeth have someone with her when he's gone.”

“No wife?”

“Not yet.”

Neal studied him for a moment, thinking that a little odd considering he was attractive, held a respectable position, and could easily support a family. “So what happens now, besides sleeping in the loft?”

“Well, I'm not a gambling man, but I would bet all my worldly possessions that the good brothers will seek an audience with the Assembly and argue they should have you back. But as the Assembly isn't convening yet for oh, three, four weeks, and it will take a little time to get an audience, I'd say we have a few months. In that time I need you to be on good behavior – don't give them any reason to give you back.” Peter's voice had grown stern. “If you can prove your use to the city, it will go a long way in our favor.”

Peter absently studied the ring again. “Considering their feelings about you, I'm surprised they didn't bind you sooner. Do you know why they didn't?”

Neal shrugged. “I don't know, I guess it's just the way things have been done,” he lied.

Peter looked at him for a moment and then nodded. “Well, the brothers aren't going to be any help, so we're going to have to figure this out on our own.”