Jorfindr stopped in his tracks and fixed the squire with a crooked stare. Then he burst into laughter. “Okay kid, how did you get yourself into such a situation?”
The squire shrugged. “Maggie’s only been here for a couple years. She came down from a manor to the north where she grew up. What with our training, it’s hard to find time to spend with her that doesn’t include silence and meditation…” he trailed off with a shrug.
“Then why are you marrying her? Aren’t there plenty of farmer’s daughters around the manor who might be easier to court?”
“She’s the Sigil’s novitiate. I’m the Sword’s squire.”
Jorfindr stared at him blankly.
“When our training is complete, we will give our sacred oaths to Sol and be wed.”
The traveler nodded slowly as understanding dawned upon him. “There is no Sword without the Sigil, nor Sigil without the Sword,” he recited.
“You’ve heard a piece of Sol’s liturgy, then.”
“I always thought that was being poetical.”
“Sol is many things, but I do not believe ‘poet’ is one of them. Here’s your room,” Felton gestured to the door of a small bedchamber, third in a line of seven that lined the south wall of the manor. It was sparsely furnished, with only a cot bed, a short table, and a small bucket in the far corner.
Jorfindr peeked inside and nodded in satisfaction. “Thank you, good Felton. But now I’m curious—what happens when one of them dies? Say, if a Sword falls in battle, what happens to the Sigil?”
“You’d have to ask my master—”
“Ohh! Or,” the traveler cocked his head and smiled into the middle-distance, “what about when, say, the Sword would prefer to spend his evenings crossing swords, if you know what I mean?”
A bell tolled from within the chapel tower, low and rich and melodious.
“I’m sorry, but I really mustn’t be late to meditations,” Felton said hastily, glancing up at the tower. “Welcome to the sanctuary, I’ll see you at dinner bell this evening.” With that, he took off at a trot toward the chapel.
The warm sunshine held out a little longer against the massing army of storm clouds, but within the first hour of meditations, a great flash and peal of thunder had split the sky and let forth its onslaught of rain. But the linens had all been plucked off their lines, the children shooed back indoors, and the shutters drawn and latched against the buffeting winds. The village folk gathered before their bright hearths, darning and mending and resting their feet. Maribelle nuzzled her newborn foal on a bed of dry hay in the manor stables, and within the great hall, the manor staff, their masters and the guest settled in for their evening meal.
“Tell me, Master Jorfindr, what has brought you to our humble corner of the world?”
Lady Wymrea, Sigil of the manor, watched her guest over the rim of her wine goblet. She sat at the head of the long dining table—a table which, like the rest of the manor’s furnishings, was skillfully crafted, yet simple and free of decoration—with her novitiate at her right hand. Felton sat to the right of Sword Hendall, halfway across the grand room at the opposite table end. He looked up from his bowl of stew, eager for the traveler’s response. A man of his ilk must surely have a story to tell—even if not a good one. Any story was better than none.
“An unplanned relocation, my lady,” Jorfindr replied. “I was, until recently, employed by the Earl of Valhost. Due to recent, er, political upheavals, I found myself unwelcome there any further. So I’m on my way west now, to offer my services among the cities of the Lavender Coast.”
“What services are those?” Willem the stable master asked. He sat next to Jorfindr in the middle of the table. The rest of the household staff and a number of townsfolk who frequently joined them for their evening meal filled in the rest of the seats to either side.
“I am a Carver, of modest enough skill.”
Felton sensed his master’s posture stiffen. An uneasy silence settled over the table, though Jorfindr didn’t appear to notice. Willem glanced down the table at Hendall, then back at Jorfindr.
“A Carver, eh? You may be the first ever to visit in all my time here. Don’t you folks usually travel in fancy caravans and the like?”
“I suppose we do,” Jorfindr smiled broadly. “We tend to be rather pompous and arrogant folks as a general rule. I must say though, I am quite enjoying my long romp through the country at large. The air is much fresher than that within a carriage, trailing a horse’s rump as it does.”
Willem gave a short laugh that he stifled quickly. He cast a sheepish glance at the head of the table. “Apologies, my lady.”
“It’s quite all right,” the Sigil replied. “You know I prefer riding the horse rather than taking a carriage. Why ever so, if not to keep the rump behind me?” She gave a sly smile as Magretta turned to her aghast.
Jorfindr laughed merrily. It was a pure and joyous sound, and it rang like sweet, melodic bells in Felton’s ears. He could not recall the last time he had heard such a sound at the dinner table.
“If I am the first Carver who has visited,” he spoke when he had finished his laugh, “then there surely must be something I could craft for you to express my gratitude for this fine meal and my comfortable bed?”
“That will not be necessary,” Hendall said stiffly.
“Oh, but I would be happy to,” Jorfindr pressed on. “Why, there are all manner of enchantments, large or small, to improve one’s daily lives. Does your smith have tools that he would like to be impervious to rust? Or your wonderful cook,” he nodded across the table to Erma, who had joined the table once everyone had been served, “how would you like a pot that stirs its own contents? Ah, I know—the winter months are coming. In the cities, all the barrels and silos for food and grain are inscribed with Preservation runes. I could carve a few of those for—”
“Let me rephrase,” Hendall spoke loudly to cut through the rapid stream of words spilling from the Carver’s mouth, “so that I make myself clearly understood. You are welcome as a guest in my home, Carver, as are all travelers who seek sanctuary from the road. The blasphemy you practice is not.”
“Oh, ‘blasphemy’ is perhaps just a shade extreme, my lord. After all, the gods themselves are the source of all power in runic enchantment.”
“Your gods, perhaps. My God does not condone such behavior.”
Jorfindr lifted his glass in concession. “A fair point. I believe the Guild Masters still lament the day Sol withdrew the power of his rune from the Pantheon, thousands of years though it may have been before their lifetimes.”
“Sol is neither ‘He,’ nor ‘She,’” Wymrea corrected him gently. “Sol simply is.”
“A second fair point indeed! I confess you must be onto something; I rather doubt that any of the gods are truly men or women, at least in any way that we would recognize.”
The Sword of the manor leaned back into his chair, and the hint of a sideways smile touched his lips. “So you’re a blasphemer among your own people, too?”
“My father always told me, ‘never trust anything from the mouth of a priest.’ Of course, he was a docent of the Architect, so I’m still trying to figure out whether to believe him.” Jorfindr drained his goblet, and then continued in a surprisingly somber tone. “Please accept my sincere apologies, my lord. I meant no offense in the offer.”
The Sword nodded graciously.
“More wine?” Willem offered Jorfindr the carafe.
“Oh, yes please.”
From out in the courtyard arose a jangling cacophony from the gateway bell, piercing and loud even above the pounding of the rain upon the rooftop above. Willem flinched in surprise, sloshing a spot of wine onto the tablecloth like a bloody stain before the Carver.
“It is rather late of hour for travelers to be arriving,” Wymrea said with a frown. “They must have gotten away quite late, or traveled quite slow.”
The bell rang out again, loud and harsh, and then again. It crowded in through the windows of the great hall, jarring continuously in the ears of the diners. Hendall’s eyes narrowed. He folded his napkin and set it precisely beside his bowl.
“Come Felton; let us go greet our new guests.”
The squire rose and followed his Sword from the great hall. He broke into a trot to keep up as Hendall plucked a torch from its sconce and crossed the sodden courtyard at a brisk clip.
“You have my attention!” the Sword bellowed as they approached the gate, and the ringing finally came to a halt. The reverberations in the courtyard died out quickly, but their lingering ghost clung to existence in Felton’s head for some time after.
Five silhouettes stood beyond the gate, crowding in under the meager shelter provided by the archway above it. As the torchlight fell upon them, Felton’s eyes were drawn to the man beside the bell, who stood several inches taller than Hendall and was armed with a sword and heavy axe. He wore a mail vest, and his lips were drawn to a permanent sneer by a scar on his left cheek.
“I am Hendall, Sword of Sol.” Felton’s master lifted the latch and pulled open the gate. “You are quite late upon the road. What brings you to my sanctuary?”
Felton eyed the second armed man, standing at the far flank of the party. He wore a bow slung across his shoulder, as well as a sword at his hip. The squire fidgeted in his soggy shoes, acutely aware of the blood pounding through his arteries with the force of a hammer. If Hendall was concerned, however, there was not a shred of evidence to show it.
The middle figure in the party stepped forward and pushed back the dripping hood of her traveling cloak to reveal sharp features and bright eyes beneath a wrinkled exterior of aging skin. Her hair shone steel gray in the waning moonlight. Felton guessed her perhaps ten years the senior of his mistress and master.
“I am Master Thorn of the Guild of Carvers,” she said. Her voice carried the comfortable assumption of practiced authority. She gestured to the two men flanking her, who were likewise unarmed. “These are my associates, Carill,” a large, muscular man whose dark features were difficult to make out against the dusky backdrop, “and Gunter,” a pale, slight man possessing a sickly pallor and dark, sunken eyes.
She did not introduce the two well-armed guards.
“As for our purpose, we are in pursuit of a criminal on behalf of the Guild.”
“In ten years passed, there has not been a single Carver who has visited this manor,” Hendall mused casually. “And now, in a single day, four have arrived at my doorstep.”
Thorn’s eyes widened subtly, reflecting the light of the Sword’s torch.
“Then our quarry is here?”
“There is another Carver here, who arrived this afternoon,” Hendall corrected. “Whether he is a criminal, I cannot say. He claims his name is Jorfindr.”
“A criminal he is indeed, I assure you—and a vile one at that. Hand him over to us before he causes you trouble, and we shall be on our way.”
Felton’s jaw dropped open unbidden. Never in his life had he heard anyone address the Sword in such a tone. He realized his hands were clenched tight in fists, and forcibly relaxed them.
Hendall smiled.
“It would be quite unwise of Master Jorfindr to cause any trouble under the roof of a Sword and his Sigil, especially after he has been offered sanctuary from the road for this night. Now, it grows late, and the road is treacherous in the dark. If you will abide by Sol’s laws within these gates, you are welcome to join us at the table. There is plenty of stew left to feed five more.”
The master Carver folded her arms across her narrow chest and tapped her foot impatiently. “A kind gesture, yet I really must demand that you deliver this man into our custody immediately.”
“None make demands of me save Sol.” The Sword’s words were cold and hard as iron.
Felton eyed the newcomers with uncertainty. The two guards inched fingers closer to weapon handles, but their eyes were fixed on the torch in Hendall’s hands, which burned bright and unwavering—not so much as a sputter came from the open flame despite the torrential rain pounding to earth around it. Though he wore no armor and carried no blade, it appeared they were learned enough to understand the danger of a torch in the hands of one of the Lightbringer’s knights. Carill tensely watched his leader for guidance, while Gunter, the pale one, looked as though he was going to be sick.
Hours may as well have passed in the standoff, though Felton was sure it was really only a handful of heartbeats before Thorn shot a warning glance at her armsmen.
“My apologies, Master Hendall,” she gave a short bow. “We have been long on the road, a trying journey of many weeks. I seem to have forgotten my manners. We would be delighted to accept your kind hospitality this evening.”
Hendall stepped away from the portal, gesturing for them to enter. Felton’s blood receded as the tension drained from the air, but he reflected that not once had his Sword appeared in the slightest bit concerned about the situation, or the seasoned warriors facing him. The thought gave Felton a surge of admiration for his master, alongside a healthy dose of respect and fear.
The Sword waved his hand as the seven figures crossed the cobbled courtyard, and the torch he carried burned ever so slightly brighter. Great, billowing clouds of steam burst forth from their clothes, until they stepped under the shelter of the manor’s entranceway, dry and warm. Master Thorn offered him a curt nod in thanks. He fit his torch back into its wall sconce, and led the party of Carvers into the great hall where the rest awaited them with curiosity.
“Ah, Vera,” Jorfindr said as they filed into the hall, “I wondered if that might be you.” The man smiled as usual, but for the first time it looked forced.
Thorn glared at him as she eyed the room, as though searching for traps or ambush.
“Jorfindr,” the dark-skinned Carver growled. “You should have found the good grace to crawl under a rock somewhere and die.”
“But then I would never again have enjoyed the exquisite pleasure of your company, Carill. How could I possibly have died without that?”
“Well, I’m here now,” the imposing man cracked his knuckles and stepped toward Jorfindr.
The Sigil cleared her throat. She gestured to the opposite side of the table, where the staff had rearranged their seating. “I believe there is space for you and your friends over here, Carill, was it?” Wymrea said.
“My lady,” Carill replied with a nod. He backed away from Jorfindr and joined Master Thorn and Carver Gunter at the table.
“Oh, the weapons can stay in the entryway, if you please,” Wymrea continued, aiming a smile at the two guards. “I run a civilized table, no blades larger than a serving knife.”
They waited for a nod from Thorn, and retreated to the door. Rather than removing their weapons, they simply stayed there. Lurking. It made Felton uneasy.
The cook and her apprentice returned from the kitchen with stew for the Carvers. Thorn and Carill tucked into theirs, but Gunter only seemed to push his around in the bowl with his spoon.
“So,” Wymrea said after the first minute of tense and awkward silence, “Do I divine a history of acquaintance among our guests?”
“Aye, they’ve come to murder me,” Jorfindr replied with false cheer.
Thorn scoffed. “You always had a flair for the dramatic. And you’re wrong besides—we are not executioners. So long as you do not resist, you will accompany us back to the Guild Hall in Valhost to face justice.”
“Where,” Jorfindr gestured with his spoon as though explaining to a child, “I will be murdered.”
“Carrying out a lawful sentence of death is hardly murder.”
“I fear we will have to maintain a difference of opinions on that account, Vera.”
“My lady?” the Sigil’s novitiate said quietly to her mistress. Wymrea nodded. “Might I ask, Master Carver, what crime does he stand accused of?”
“The list is long, dear girl,” Thorn turned to Magretta and frowned. “In Valhost, Sedition against the late Earl—”
“Patently false,” Jorfindr interjected—
“Inciting rebellion—”
“Exaggerated!”
“Theft and unlawful distribution of Guild property!”
“Oh, that one is true,” Jorfindr winked at Felton across the table. “To be fair, the Guild wasn’t doing much with those runewords to begin with.”
“This is not one of your ridiculous games, Jorfindr!” Thorn snapped and pounded her fist on the table. “You have betrayed the trust of your Guild brethren, and you will face the consequences of your actions.”
“And you have no idea of the darkness that has saturated the hallowed halls of this Guild you hold so dear,” he hissed back at her, anger in his tone for the first time that night. “The corruption and pestilence that has taken hold—oh, how you would weep if only you were willing to see!”
“I’ve half a mind to drag you from this table and flog you back to Valhost at once!”
“And yet, you will not,” Wymrea cut into their bickering, speaking softly but with certainty.
“You would use your witchcraft to protect this criminal?”
It was the first that Gunter had spoken. His voice was reedy and thin as the man himself.
Felton bristled at the slight, but beside him Hendall smirked, and subtly shook his head.
“I would use my witchcraft to protect any who have been extended Sol’s invitation to sanctuary in my home, as this man has.” Wymrea turned her piercing eyes on the frail Carver. “I would also use it in aid of those in need of Sol’s blessings—poor creatures such as yourself, for example. Tell me, how long do you have left before this wasting disease that grips your body is through with you? A month? Perhaps two? Surely your hard travel will only speed the inevitable for you.”
“Gunter?” Thorn turned to her associate with concern in her hard eyes. “But you said—”
“I’m fine,” he snapped, glaring balefully at the Sigil.
“My witchcraft could help you, if you asked,” Wymrea continued. There was a darkness to her voice, yet as she spoke the hall grew gradually brighter around them, as though daylight was dawning from the very air itself. “Sol can ease your pain—or even, were you to open yourself completely to the Bringer of Light, perhaps make you whole again. There are no limits to Sol’s blessings.”
“I will continue on my own path, witch,” Gunter squinted and shied away from the brightness of the room.
The Sigil smiled, and it was a terrible smile to behold. She seemed to grow with the light, looming over the head of the table with a presence far larger than her physically petite frame.
“Then be mindful, Carver, that likewise limitless is Sol’s wrath. The pains and aches that ail you are mere scratches upon the surface of the misery I might visit upon you. You sit in Sol’s house, before Sol’s table. Take care that you do not invite this wrath to your door.”
As it had come, the brightness faded away, leaving Felton with the strange feeling that it all may have been a dream. Across the table, Wymrea took a sip of her wine.
“I apologize for my associate’s behavior,” Thorn spoke up diplomatically, offering Gunter a scathing rebuke with her eyes. “Clearly our travels have taken as much a toll on his manners as they had upon mine. Respectfully though, I do hope that you do not intend to prevent us from bringing this man to face the justice he deserves.”
“Jorfindr may petition us for extended sanctuary,” Sword Hendall replied from his far end of the table, “and we will pray for Sol’s guidance should this be the case. But it is exceedingly rare that Sol should see fit to take concern or issue with the justice demanded by man.”
The Sigil held up her hand as Thorn opened her mouth to speak again. “We will discuss this further in the morning.” There was finality in her tone that brooked no argument.
“Well this has been thoroughly entertaining, but I believe I will be headed to bed.” Jorfindr drained his wine and rose, bowing to the Sigil and Sword in turn. “I should like to be well refreshed for the forced march to my execution tomorrow.”
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The Literary Diversions of K.T. Lazarus 
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