The clatter of teacups and china saucers filled the air of the Café Couronne des Prés. A perfumed bouquet of infusions from across the world tantalized the nose. Travelers and locals laughed and spoke of many things across tables of ivory and bronze. Cakes as soft as pillows and breads as tough as leather provided suitable accent to the marvelous tastes that sweetened every gullet in that marvelous Café. It was the one place in perhaps all the land that two Scriveners could meet in public without attracting undue attention.

It feels like you’re alone. Like really alone for the first time in your life.

Even when there is no one else around, there’s a part of you that’s still there. It’s looking over your shoulder and critiquing everything you do. It shows you every facet of your life, and makes you watch. It rubs your nose in every failing, and laughs at every foible. That part of you that hates you is always there. That part of you that draws the lines and puts up walls. The part of you that warns you about what might happen, or what could happen. The part that is always looking ahead of you for stray banana peels and sharp rocks. All the neurosis and psychosis that life lays over the real you are there, even when there’s no one else around. Especially when there’s no one else to drown out the voices in your head. When there’s no telephone ringing. When there’s no car rushing you somewhere else.

The House of the Horned Serpent was bustling that night, loud cheers for more wine and women flowed through the air as freely as the liquor. To call it mirth would be a disservice. Raiselig was not taking part in the gaiety; or rather, they were not taking part in the noise. They were celebrating as loudly and as energetically as they ever did, which is to say they had a fresh and young bottle — young by their standards, at any rate — of a rich red Carménère, which they had been working through for most of the evening.

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.