The boy’s name was Edvin Coineagan, and little else is known about him. That is, little else is known by the mortal men and women who tell the tale. More is known by the wise and learned Scriveners, for it is their tale as well, and their methods of telling tales are mysterious and inscrutable. There are countless things we do not know of the boy; such as what brought him to the misty moor that dark morning, what caused his breath to come in ragged sobs, and perhaps why he chose to run towards the woman when she looked at him, and not flee.

“Name?” Raiselig didn’t bother to look at the guardsman, instead pulling a thin scrip out of their pocket and flashing it at him. “Ah. Scrivener, eh?” Now Raiselig looked. “I am Scrivener, Keeper of the Law and follower of Ritual. Bringer of order and Hand of the Seven Manifold Prayer. The Willow Scribe herself wrote my name in the Book of the Rite, and thereby granted me the rights and duties therein.

I can step out of the taxi. Feels good. Flashes and sparks starting to fade into the deep darkness of the skull. Dry air rushing against my face feels good. Hard dry concrete under my shoes. Shoes under my feet. Feet under my head.

Take a deep breath. Smells good. Damn I’m thirsty. Need a sip.

The taxi provides support as Darla climbs out, her eyes tight, looking unhappy at me. Everything’s fine. I timed it. What’s her problem? Everything be fine when I get a drink of water. Coffee. Something. Called ahead, right? I’m sure I did. Feel the drop as the sizzle simmers. A little sizzle still, but dropping. I’m fine. I timed it.

For hours they traveled; Duke Rensburg on his horse, Raiselig walking behind him. They wandered through the small forests and along the winding brooks, until at last they reached the foot of a mighty hill. Here, the Duke turned to Raiselig and smiled. “My ancestor performed a survey, a study of the lines that cross our land, and she found the perfect place, atop the tallest hill. In her diary, she describes it quite perfectly.

Ad Adwazi, city of lights. Called Neverdark by the beings once indigenous, now foreign to the cobblestoned streets and tight corners. Graveyard to thousands who dreamed of romance and riches beyond the reach of their humble birth-villages, and home to thousands more. Here, the golden gates of Ahnkarad, where the gilded general himself rode on his black horse through the applauding throngs to pay respects to the new-crowned king. Here, the arch of Razazal, where ten thousand plus ten demons toiled for but four seconds — the holy number — to craft an entryway to the east quarter of the city befitting a magician of Razazal’s renown.

Raiselig stood at the forest edge for an hour, running through every contract they could think of in their head. Every gesture, every token, every aspect of the meeting had to go according to plan.

When at last they were prepared, they reached out and selected a small twig from the forest floor. Holding it tightly in their fist, they set out into the darkened forest.

The journey was long, but easy. Raiselig knew the myriad contracts addressing safe travels through claimed woods. They probably didn’t need to obey each one — there were few spirits both powerful enough to harm a Scrivener and yet foolish enough to attempt to do so — but it was a sign of respect to follow the obligations in any case, and Raiselig was as bound by their duties as any spirit. They could not force any signatory to do anything they did not wish, unless expressly detailed in a forfeit clause.

I didn’t betray Leon. I swear. After Cindy’s chant, what he said, did he think he was recruiting me? Like making me part of his team? What did he think was going to happen? How he think it was going to go? Binny step down and everything work for him?

Cindy asked one day. Binny didn’t say anything except ‘dark magic.’ That was that. Leon was gone. He wasn’t ever coming back.

Cindy didn’t like that. She pouted about power-plays and how no one should ever get kicked out, that wasn’t what the chant was about, was it? That was the point of a circle.

It took less than an hour after Padarom left the dais for the headman to return, followed by two women.

The first was Mala, her eyes filled with an uncertain peace. The second woman wore glasses and carried a thick leather book and kept her head bowed.

“Who is this?” Raiselig asked before the headman could stammer out his obsequities.

“This is my secretary,” the headman gestured. “She will answer any questions about our town that you have, and remain at your service for anything you require. She is your servant as long as you remain in town.”

When the seasons began to change once more from the cold season to the planting, the fair maiden Mala at last consented to be Padarom’s wife.

This was an event of great portent, for Mala’s family had lived in Souran Village for many centuries, while Padarom had arrived only two years ago, with nothing more than a cart full of wood and a tired old horse. The old women of the village were not warm to him, and they wasted no time in whispering among themselves at what would bring such a young man to such a small village that lay half-way between civilization and nowhere.

The End The Macabre Tale of Edmund Moulde took me more than a decade to write, and I still can’t honestly say “I’m done.” Art is never finished, only abandoned, and I could continue to tinker with this and that for decades more. I certainly can’t say it’s polished. Only the first book really reached that level of “completeness” for me, I’d still call the last three “second drafts” at best.