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Dearest Readers, when the wheel comes full circle, may it be at a place of happiness and wonder for you.

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THE HIDDEN SWORD

Book One: From the Earth | Chapter 40: Widows and Daughterless Fathers

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"Dinnae know why I even bother payin' ye to fix these when soon I be short of bodies to be puttin' in them," Kagain rumbled, grudgingly pushing the small purse of coins across the table, payment on armor repairs, at least for those which made it back from the last trip without crumbling to dust.

For once, Irse bit back a retort as she took the pouch. No need to rub salt on the same wound afflicting everyone.

Rifling through the pages of a logbook, Kagain groused over the tally of names growing in length, whether lost to the bandits and their blades, or gone over to his competitor with their deeper coffers.

The Blacktalons. Of late, only convoys under their protection managed to escape the attacks only somewhat scathed. Where others lost everything even down to the horseshoes, theirs boasted of the lowest casualties – a single caravan burned or given up, a merchant or two wounded, a man or two supposedly missing in action and presumed dead. All in all, faring leagues better than the other mercenary companies.

What uncommon luck, almost as if the bandits were even being nice to them, Irse had wondered aloud. Or perhaps because they were better-armed or the famed Tenhammer's reputation served as shield and warning to any bandit who would dare.

No, because the soddin' Benthammer be smoshin' his damned lips all over Beshaba's unholy arse, Kagain had grumbled as he counted his losses in men and business.

Transaction concluded, Irse stepped out of Kagain's office and tossed a quick farewell to Squard who stood behind the counter, but her words were drowned by a woman's tirade and the wailing of the child in her arms.

"Why couldn't you bring back my husband with you? Not even a token that I might remember him?"

"We'll be giving you his last wages," Squard said.

To his credit, the droll clerk's voice sported none of his trademark disdain for once, perhaps out of decency or weariness. Hopefully, from the former.

"I care not for your money," the woman spat. "I want to see your employer. Let him say to my face why my husband will never return to us."

"I'm certain Mister Kagain had his body properly disposed, I mean, buried along the way."

Unlikely. If the attack was as swift and ruthless as often reported, then any survivors only lived because they had the mind to flee, abandon the caravan, not return for the dead. With awkward pity the elf averted her eyes from the woman who finally lost her voice to tears, hugging her now fatherless child as she made her way to Kagain's door. She paused and turned her head, noticing the girl for the first time, eyes traveling down to the purse in her hand.

"Who was it?" she asked bitterly.

Irse opened her mouth, hesitant. Who did she lose in the bandit raid? The elf looked away, unable to meet the woman's gaze.

"Well, I hope that coin was worth your loss."

Across the emptier than usual building, the slam of the door echoed accusingly but no mercenary nor customer milled about in the lobby to hear, nor in the courtyard, nor the barracks. Lately, more widows and orphans than customers have been calling on the company.

Irse wagged her head and left without lingering. A favor needed to be completed before she could return to Dearg, hopefully before sundown for to let supper wait and grow cold were the most grievous of sins. Kerda had asked the elf to buy for her a few yards of linen, a small thing easily acquired in the Open Market before taking the homebound wagon. Less than a tenday since the wedding and the pair moved in with Thadd's family, Kerda fussing like a hectic hen with making their nest as habitable as possible.

Certainly, Irse had agreed then jested that Kerda's skill with needle and beating carpets were not enough to better Thadd's old room, while the other girl retaliated with a hard smack at the elf's shoulder.

What color, Irse had asked.

Red, Kerda had confirmed.

Red? Or did you mean Bread? Brown it is then - Irse had echoed back with a snicker and was promptly chased off with a rolling pin. Are all new wives this touchy?

At the border of the Docks, she hailed an open carriage, seating herself across a trio of bedraggled travelers, rather, extra-chatty fellows who droned on and on of the iron plague and the bandit attacks along the Coast and the Uldoon. Irse shifted in her seat to turn away and look over the side instead, gazing askance at the crowds and tallhouses along the route. Nothing fresh and novel in their news, nothing she hadn't heard before.

A few months have passed since most ironworks made with Nashkel ore began succumbing to the still unexplained corruption. As if the uncertainty in the quality of the iron hadn't been enough for their troubles, bandit attacks have surged in frequency to target caravans along the Coast Way and the Uldoon Trail with surprising brutality.

Not only were the victims thoroughly robbed and the wagons looted, everything of steel and iron taken, but the brigands were also keen on leaving in their wake only burning carriages and nearly none else breathing. Rumors returned of some being taken alive, but only because their bodies weren't among the dead, though most speculated of these unfortunates being dragged back to the woods to be executed. Excessive and pointless, this brand of cruelty shocked and baffled all, ruminated and discussed endlessly, now and often at the common room of Denwy's tiny inn where most gathered in the evenings after work in the fields.

Bandits flouting their power in the face of Fist impotence, everyone said sure.

Or maybe they didn't want any living witnesses who might pinpoint their ringleaders to authorities, Irse had speculated.

To that conjecture, folks either dismissed the idea – the bandits being nothing more than ragtag desperate nobodies merely taking advantage of the situation; or at the other end, people fanned the flames even more – now they have Amnish agents posing as common brigands seeking to stir up troubles for the Gate and eventually seize control of the flow of trade through the Coast.

Hopefully not, but if true, the thought of such politics and machinations left a bitter taste in her mouth, irritation at the resulting inconvenience everyone was being forced into now, indignation at the callous disregard for people's lives.

Why couldn't just folks be left in peace, let to make their days the best they could, why the need to destroy just for what, gold and influence?

Though disturbed, Irse pushed away those thoughts as she alighted from the carriage at the Open Market, the place and most of its folk ever known to her, walking past the stalls absently until she spotted a familiar face - one of the couriers working at the post, resting in a squat outside a store.

He likewise recognized her, waving his acknowledgment. Irse pointed at herself with a questioning and hopeful expression, but he shook his head and held up his palms. Emptyhanded. Disappointment pulled down at her shoulders, the elf nodded and went her way.

A year it has been since Irse dispatched a letter to Gorion but received no reply, no correspondence ever sent from Candlekeep bearing her name. After having posted the message, the first few months were spent like the condemned awaiting their dreaded sentence, for her the pronouncement of denunciation, disownment, doors barred forever.

The Father you described would not do so harshly to the child he raised as his own, Okami had said as he tried to reassure her out of sympathy for his apprentice and the hapless messengers dropping by at the village and subjected to the relentless pestering by the elf.

Or the old sage was too busy, too preoccupied to sit down and compose a proper reply? Sure. Gorion easily spent hours undisturbed, reading and writing correspondences to seemingly everyone in every corner of the realms.

Or what if he'd fallen deathly ill - the worst of all possibilities, and the one she shooed most violently out of her mind. Though already wrinkled and hoary headed since memory and sight came upon her, Gorion had always seemed hale and healthy, no excesses other than to labor diligently at his desk or in the Great Library until the wee hours of night, forgetting to take his meals that they had to be brought to him. And if so, couldn't he have imposed on anyone to write on his behalf and send word for his foster child to speedily come home?

If somehow Gorion couldn't pen a reply, Imoen or Brother Karan should've done it, they who were dearest to her heart in Candlekeep. Irse had made sure to add an express permission to let them read the letter, hoping the younger girl might forgive her oldest friend for not writing a separate message just for her.

Darned posts charging by the page as if an extra slip of parchment would break the horse's back.

But what if he never showed the letter to anyone else? Irse furrowed her brows at the idea, by reflex deftly skipping over a barrier of horse poop accidentally smeared across the cobbles by another unfortunate passerby before her.

Why wouldn't he? Nothing scandalous scribbled in there. No need to mention running into slavers, threatened to be chopped up into a morbid smorgasbord of spell components and the hole it all poked through her gut, the interrogation by the Harpers, the pack of dwarfettes nearly taking out her head in a tavern brawl, almost getting involved in some messy merchant business on her first day in Iriaebor, and the occasional weirdness over the years.

Nope, no sir, no. Just a very pleasant and uneventful and educational journey and living in the most peaceful and quiet nook of the realms.

Or what if her message never found its way to Candlekeep, or Gorion indeed sent word but the runner never reached Iriaebor?

Blasted bandits maybe even robbing couriers for paper to wipe their scummy butts in the wilderness.

She arrived at the shop of fabrics, peering inside. A lone old man worked at the counter, bent and silent, wizened hands sorting through a messy pile.

"Mister Colin," Irse cheerily hailed the aged vendor as she stepped through the door.

"Oh, hullo there, Irse," Colin stammered, looking up from folding his wares.

"Why are you by yourself today? I was hoping Cellie could help me with choosing. It's for a friend, and you know I'll always pick whatever color's most like bread."

Odd, for the elderly widower never manned the store by himself, always assisted by his daughter while her husband plied the Uldoon between Berdusk and Nashkel from whence he acquired silks and lace brought in from Athkatla.

"Cellie?" Red-rimmed and puffy, the old man's eyes misted at the mention of his daughter's name. "She… she went with Teron this time and… I was told... they never even reached Beregost."

Horrified by the news, Irse quickly circled the counter to clasp his shoulder and mumble her apologies as the widower broke down in tears.

Colin wept in that heartbreaking way old men cry – frail shoulders bowed by the heaviness in their heart, trembling hands wiping at tears, lips tightly pursed, quiet and without words for they no longer have the strength to wail and speak their grief.

Irse had seen it before, that night when Gorion thought his foster child already slept and he thought no one was watching.

Young and without understanding then, Irse continued to feign sleep and see through half-lidded eyes, wanting nothing more than to jump out from beneath the covers and hug her father, yet too scared, held back by guilt if his tears were for some naughty thing she had done.

Irse let him cry a good long while until he collected himself, gratefully patting her hand and moving to gather what cloth he could sell and talked of the days before his daughter and son-in-law departed for south.

He had warned them to reconsider, but Cellie couldn't be dissuaded, insistent on replenishing their dwindling stocks and accompanying Teron in the hopes of buying more than their usual to save on future trips.

"I told them to take the caravan with the Blacktalons," he continued. "But they're charging far more than other companies now. Coster leaders used to pay most of the escorts' fee, but with these times, they're clawing greater than the usual share from peddlers and smaller traders in the caravan."

Now only the wealthiest of the merchants could afford their protection, common folk like them could only cough up so much coin and take their chances.

"Maybe if I had emptied the till of everything to pay the Blacktalons, they'd still be here," Colin sobbed.

Irse murmured her condolences, awkwardly pointing to the hue which Kerda requested. Teary-eyed, striving to compose himself, the old man unrolled the linen and gauged the length of the fabric against a measuring stick before he cut through the cloth. Seeing his rigid grip on the shears and the tremor in his gnarled hands, Irse almost volunteered for the task but held back. Let the man grieve and attempt some normalcy. Done with the cutting, Colin unfurled the fabric and stretched it across the table, his face dim with the grief of a man spreading a funeral shroud upon a death bed.

Later in the wagon on the way home, the elf unrolled the bolt of cloth on her lap to check for snags, lest the old man's trembling hands and scissors had marred the fabric in some way, but shame pinched at her throat, remembering that dot of hesitation and wish to inspect the goods before leaving the store. Mister Colin himself often checked his wares for defects before letting them go, yet it didn't feel appropriate to do so at the time. Indeed, the cut at the edge strayed wide from the seller's standard straight line, but Kerda certainly wouldn't mind forgoing a few inches for once.

Eyeing the linen as fingers ran through its length, Irse thought of the times when she last saw the seller with his remaining family at the store. To her mind came the faces of Cellie and Teron who she remembered were a happy couple, not at all unlike Irse's friends now starting their own lives together.

Imagining them leaning against each other at the steps of a wagon, enjoying the balmy summer evening as the convoy stopped for the night. Imagining them excitedly talking of their plans and the fabrics they'll buy – then the shouts of alarm ringing across the camp, of the screams and the fires and the eventual stillness. Imagining them, not warriors armed and ready, but simple folk terrified and desperately clinging to each other until they breathed their last.

And beside them lying broken on the ground, Ilphas and Tannyl – of those brief days with the elven couple, years ago, alive, that evening clearly relieved to be returning to their home to the City of Splendors with a young elf whom they treated as their own in such a short span of time. And then by night's end, dead and burning in the pyre with the others.

Absently her hand felt at the ear, tracing the edge once touched by a blade. A dark scowl clouded her face, and Irse gathered the red cloth into a tight roll and cast her eyes at the deepening gold of the sunset sky.

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