When Heroes Die

“—For the spider would learn;

In the lands it now strode

That the fox was the king;

And this was its abode—”

— Extract from The Spider that Swallowed the Sun, 28th stanza. Author unknown.

The scorching heat radiated down upon the rooftops and rendered the interior of the scriptorium stifling. The day was only dawning, and already it bore down upon him like the press of a quill against parchment.

Percival the master scribe continued his labour. He leaned over the desk carefully and gazed through a magnifying glass. The work was delicate. Percival was most fortunate, for his calling paid him generously. He was rewarded both in material and spiritual coin.

His current labour was one that demanded his undivided attention. One of the richer lords had tasked him with transcribing the intricate engravings off of an older manuscript into a new book.

Percival took a break from his task for a moment. Climbing off the rickety stool that he sat upon, he stepped back and stretched. The day was truly sweltering. Absently, Percival reached up and wiped the sweat off his brow with a wrinkled hand. His gaze wandered out the open doorway. On most days it would be closed to the elements. He made an exception when the golden tyrant above ruled supreme. His efforts had been rewarded with a breeze today. The streets beyond the interstice were deserted. This was not an unexpected state of affairs. It was doubtful that anyone desired to be up and around in these quarters in the heat. This was twice true due to the feuding lords.

Percival turned around and opened the door behind him. He took a moment to glance over the shoulders of his many apprentices as he proceeded towards the far exit. The room was absent of any noise save the echoing of his sandals on the floor and the rise and the trailing of quills on parchment. Once outside, he made his way towards a well, where he took a moment to wash his hands and face.

Relieved, he padded his way back to the front of the shop.

A dainty woman was peeking through the open doorway.

Her appearance was so unusual that Percival was unable to hide his immediate reaction to it. He stared at her.

The woman was caring a satchel under her right arm and was leaning that way as if she could barely manage the weight. Despite that, she vibrated like ink in the well during an earth tremor. The loud clanking of metal came from within the bag as she moved.

“Ah!” she exclaimed. “S’pose you’re not closed after all.”

“Do you require my assistance?” he asked her. The reaction had been engrained over the years and by now was almost automatic.

“That’d be great. Y’see, I need lotsa copies of something made fast. By the end of the day, preferably.”

Percival inspected her appearance once more. She wore an ill-fitting leather jerkin and leggings. A red ponytail jutted out to one side, partially concealed by a wide brimmed floppy hat. The girl did not look well off. He doubted she could afford his rates.

“Are you certain you are at the correct establishment, miss…”

“Songbird,” she replied glibly. “S’pose I don’t look like I belong here. S’fine.”

The name disturbed the dust on the back shelves of his mind. He could not place a finger on why.

She sauntered inside. For a moment, Percival was concerned that she would unbalance and knock over one of the many important documents. His worries were clearly misplaced. Songbird was far more careful than her initial appearance suggested. She made her way past valuable books and manuscripts without even disturbing the dust. Even so, it was evident to Percival that she was struggling under the load she bore. Groaning with effort, she heaved the bag onto the counter top. He could almost hear the wood creak under the strain as she did so. Her right hand reached inside the satchel and withdrew an object. She set the object down beside the bag.

Percival could feel his eyebrows climb as he took in what he saw.

An entire gold bar sat and glimmered beside his transcription.

“Have care for an old man. Revealing such a vast sum with no warning was nearly enough to sever the thread of my years.”

A glimmer of mischief sparkled in her eyes briefly before it winked out.

“Now, y’see, this shit here’s heavy. I don’t want to be carrying it back to my mistress. If I could’ve trusted someone else to carry it, I would’ve sent them here myself. Think y’can take her commission?”

“Perhaps I misjudged,” Percival informed her diplomatically. It was hard to maintain a measured cadence. It was evident to him that there was a fortune of gold stowed away in the bag. That could be determined by the strain she was under while lifting it. “Would you care to inform me as to the identity of your mistress and what it is she wishes to have transcribed.”

“Invitations,” Songbird replied. She spread her arms theatrically and grinned at him.

“Invitations.” Percival repeated woodenly. “Invitations for what?”

What manner of eccentric lord spends such a fortune on invitations?

“She’s hosting a fancy event in three days,” Songbird stated animatedly. “Needs letters sent to all the lords and ladies in Aisne. Not just the big shitters like Quentin and Verrill, also the small shitters. ‘Specially the small shitters.”

The city is consumed by feuding and the nobles hold balls.

“I require both the identity of your mistress and an example of her regalia.”

“S’fine,” her right hand descended into the bag once more. Songbird rustled around for a moment. Percival knew that surely naked avarice must grace his visage as he heard the clinking of metal from within. Finally, Songbird withdrew a metallic badge and gently held it out towards him. Percival’s wrinkled fingers reached out and he seized the object. Despite being small enough to fit within the palm of his hands, it was heavy. He brought it up to eye level and examined it critically.

The outside of the crest had been traced in pure silver. The interior contained the embossed image of a golden staircase with a silver handrail on the right. The path ascended towards the heavens. The lower portion of the staircase was steeped in darker imagery. A battlefield of carnage. He assessed the image critically. It was overly symbolic. The type of pretentious ornamentation that he had come to expect from the church.

“Would you care to shed light on the nature of this livery?”

Songbird looked towards the floor and muttered a few words under her breath. They were inaudible to him. Raising her head once more, she looked up and met his gaze.

“My boss is a hero. She’s not a noble, but she wants to gab with them.”

Creation must surely be suffering a curse when even the chosen indulge in this madness.

Percival’s eyebrows rose.

“I do not recall any of those chosen by above possessing such extreme material wealth.”

Songbird snorted. “She’s a bit of an exception. Anyhow, can you do it?”

“That depends on the exact nature of your inquiry. For now, I am satisfied that you can afford my services.”

“Invites distributed to every royal fuck and important functionary currently in Aisne. I know not all of them are here. Sent out by the end of the day.”

“It is within my ability to arrange,” he admitted. His workers would likely break their quills under the strain of it. “The fee for arranging the production and distribution of missives addressed to every present lord without sufficient notice will not come cheaply. I take it this is not beyond your mistress’s means?”

“Definitely not.”

He was uncertain how the woman had learned about him, but there was no use pretending he was unable to meet her demands. It was unlikely she had darkened his door by chance. Even more so given the nature of her mistress.

“Would you care to provide me with the relevant details?”

“Fated Connections,” Songbird replied glibly.

His eyebrows rose. That was not a noble’s estate. It was an expensive establishment, but still one that would be looked down on.

“Are you certain that your mistress is spending her coins wisely? This does not seem like the most prudent course of action. It is unlikely that any of the nobility will make the effort to attend.”

“Oh they will,” she said, smiling. “M’sure of that. The letters are from the Aspirant.”

Hearing that Name explained her sense of certainty. There were rumours whispered in dark corners concerning the Aspirant. It was alleged that she was coveted among the nobility. She would be courted, he was sure of it. If only for her ability to aid with construction work.

“Does your mistress wish to have appropriate gifts attached to each missive?”

“Prob’ly.”

“Are there any other particulars you would like included in this commission?”

“Here,” Songbird reached into the bag one last time and withdrew a crumpled sheet. She extended it towards him. He seized the parchment gingerly and smoothed out the wrinkles before examining the surface. It only took a glance for him to determine that he held a rough draft of the invitation’s contents. The draft provided many pertinent details. Both the time of the event and the location, as well as the intention to discuss a peaceful resolution to the ongoing conflict in the Aisne. A note was made that letters to any officials who ruled directly over farmers should be granted special consideration.

Percival performed the mental calculations. It would be necessary to obtain a list of the present lords in the city. Determining appropriate gifts for each noble lord would be the harder task. Neither were beyond his means. The true challenge would be completing the commission before the last light of the sun faded away. His apprentices would be hard at work transcribing copies of the invitation and acquiring the correct gifts.

“This task will not be cheap,” he warned.

“Course it won’t. Taylor can afford it. It’s time and people she needs. S’why she’s paying you and not trying to arrange this herself. She could prob’ly make the invites if she cared to. It’s getting them to people that's the problem.”

Percival found himself doubting the chosen was capable of fulfilling his role, but chose not to offend the eccentric servant. Silence was often wiser.

“If you are certain that you wish for this task to be undertaken.”

“Definitely.”

“Then let us ink out the finer details before we finalize our agreement.”

The rhythmic sound of hooves against the cobbled path ceased. Lord Mallory felt the carriage draw to a halt. The lids of his eyes opened. The dying light of the waning sun warmed his old bones from his right. He winced as the rays pierced his eyes. He turned his gaze to the left in order to escape the light. His carriage had at last arrived beside the entrance to his summer estate.

One of his servants helped him descend from his carriage. He dismissed the man, who proceeded to draw the carriage away. Mallory’s frequent discussions with Verrill had proven successful. While Quintin had seized the guard in an iron grip and Garson had his grubby hands buried within the treasury, Verrill had taken the reins of the peasantry.

They merely needed to position the Shatranj pieces correctly and all would fall into place. It would not take much effort to shepherd the attention of the peasant rebellion towards their opponents. The scheme had already borne fruit.

Mallory had organized the bribery of the more zealous guards under Quintin’s command. It had been as simple as taking taxes from the peasants to convince the guards to attack the peasantry. They were directed towards parts of the peasantry who he knew harboured deep resentment from those above. It was to his advantage that he understood the people that he ruled. Verrill would allow the resentment to build before he spoke out against Quintin. It would be hard for the man to deny that the supposed actions of his guardsmen were unchivalrous.

Stoke the fires of anger in the peasantry far enough, and they would see his purpose fulfilled. The end of Quintin’s yarn would slowly become unravelled. It would be easy to cultivate the right image in the aftermath. He would merely need to offer some meagre concessions in conciliation. Once the anger of the peasants was sated, Verill would be crowned as Prince of Aisne.

As the fortunes of one man rose, Lord Mallory would rise with him.

Cane in hand, he hobbled down the paved path past neatly trimmed rose bushes and slowly approached the doorway to his residence. His joints creaked with every step. The red-brick three-storey building pierced the sky above him triumphantly. A glorious testament to the achievements of his family in years past.

A feeling of unease pulled at the edge of his mind as he approached. He was unable to determine the shape of it. Lord Mallory seized the doorknob, opened the door, and hobbled his way inside. The wooden floors creaked underfoot. Thump, thump, thump. He strode on three legs down the hallway, past the tapestries heralding his family’s proud history. He ignored the library and his personal study on the right and left, respectively. The events of such a fruitful day called for a celebratory drink. Mallory made his way into the parlour as a result.

Fury seized him when his eyes settled upon what waited within.

A dagger had been plunged through the surface of his over a century old dining table. It was irreplaceable. Straining his eyes, he examined the scene closer. The dagger was not the only oddity. The blade passed through several parchments, pinning them to the table’s surface.

An epiphany came to him then. The source of his unease.

He had seen neither hide nor hair of his family. His servants were likewise indisposed.

The grasping claws of the peasantry climbed their way up his spine.

Mallory made his way closer towards the table. He moved almost as if under a spell. His back creaked as he bent over to examine the contents of the parchment. It was detailed documentation providing proof of his attempt to manipulate the rebellion. It explained the part he played in Verrill’s schemes and proved his guilt without a doubt.

He felt the edge of a blade press against his throat.

“Good evening, Lord Mallory,” a woman’s voice said from behind him. The tone was measured, calculated. “You and I are going to have a talk.”

He started to crane his neck in order to catch sight of his assailant. The dagger dug in deeper. His heart clenched in fear.

“None of that,” the voice commanded sharply.

A hand pressed itself against the base of Mallory’s back. It began to guide him firmly towards one of the chairs.

“Sit down,” the voice said neutrally.

Mallory did as ordered. The situation could be salvaged. His assailant had yet to cut the thread of his life loose. It was evident that there was room for him to bargain. He sunk into the velvet upholstered seating. The fireplace flickered ominously across from him.

The woman walked around him languidly. His eyes were downcast and all they saw was the dress of black and white servant’s livery. The knife remained pressed to his neck at all times as she moved. She sat on the table before him. Seizing his head, she tilted it to face her brown eyes. He knew who she was.

“You know who I am.”

“Songbird,” he stated, keeping his voice measured.

The woman was known to be one of Princess Mathilda’s senior ambassadors. Curiously, she was not often observed involving herself in politics. Unlike the others, she was rumoured to have a darker past. The woman had a reputation for being a tier of loose ends. Whether it was true was left as a matter of debate. There was little evidence one way or the other.

Songbird had been stationed in Aisne not even a year past. That was before the rebellion had truly gained momentum. He was surprised that she was present once more, considering that she had been recalled.

“That’s right.”

“What do you want?”

“In three days time, my new boss will be hosting an event,” she said in a hard tone. “Do you know who she is?”

“I don’t,” he kept his voice measured as he replied. He started to lean back in an attempt to make some room between himself and the dagger’s edge.

Songbird’s face remained flat. The blade dug deeper into his throat. He winced.

“Let me weave a story for you,” she began conversationally. The cadence of her voice was completely at odds with the expression on her face. It was uncanny to watch. “Some time in the recent past, I found myself out in the swamp near Brus. It was an entirely unpleasant affair. One day, I was sharing a meal with some of my compatriots when this girl who looked like she carried the weight of the world wandered over to the fire. Benevolent soul that I am, I made the attempt to cheer her up. With just a few words, I started to learn more about her. What I learned inspired me to ask a few questions. That was when I discovered she was a hero. Can you guess who she was?”

“You had encountered the Aspirant,” Lord Mallory replied.

“Well, it seems you can be right about something at least. Now, can you guess what happened next?”

“She brought Prince Amaury’s army to a halt.”

“So the news did reach down this far south then,” she mused. “That makes this discussion easier. Right. She stopped an army. Now, here’s the part you’re missing.”

Songbird paused for a moment. The only sound in the building was the crackling from the logs in the fire.

“The look on her face when she came back to the rest of us? Irritation and disappointment.” Songbird explained. “She was not tired or exhausted. It was like a mother who had looked at a baby doing something she disapproved of and had gently reached out to stop it. Now, do you know what’s scary about that?”

“Why don’t you tell me?” Mallory replied irritably. Could the woman not come to her point instead of narrating? It was evident to him that she did not mean to sever his thread. Once accord had been reached, he could settle in and enjoy a drink by the fire.

The blade against his throat dug in deeper. He felt blood start to run. Mallory paled.

“It’s scary because something happened to the girl in the past. She doesn’t talk about what that event is. Whatever it was, was so utterly terrifying that it scared her into trying to be a hero. Because I’m certain that she thinks that she was a villain before. Every now and again, I like to remind her to be a saint. Just in case she forgets. See, I don’t know what it takes to scare a girl who can dismiss an army at a thought into being good. What I do know is that I don’t want to see what happens when she stops trying.”

“Why are you bringing all of this to my attention?” Lord Mallory croaked.

“I realized then that somebody has to support her. She needs someone in her corner no matter what, making sure that she doesn’t snap. Whether that's a friend, or a lover or simply a shoulder to cry on, I decided I would be that person. It’s taken a while of poking and prodding to work out her sore points. I don’t know her perfectly yet, but I’m making progress. You know what I decided she requires?” Songbird’s voice hardened for a moment.

“It is evident from your narration that she requires a bard,” Mallory stated drily.

“That too,” Songbird agreed. “But it wasn’t what I decided on. She requires a friend willing to get their hands dirty for her. A person prepared to threaten to burn your life to the ground if you don’t behave, and then follow that through to the end.”

She tapped the documents on the table meaningfully.

“See, if she finds out you did this, she’ll kill you herself,” Songbird hissed. “Then she will hate herself for it. She will tell herself that maybe if she searched, there was a better answer to be found. It’s kind of a consequence of who she is. Imagine what it’s like when you can do almost anything. She feels she holds all the answers, and it's on her if she’s not smart enough to determine the correct one.”

Songbird leaned in close. Mallory could feel her breath tickle against his moustache.

“I’m not about to see the best hope we have against the threats in the north fall tumbling into the hells because a few ambitious Alamans lords decide to push her too far. This is how this is going to work. You’re going to attend her little party and listen to everything she says. If you don’t do that, your entire family is going to die.”

Songbird paused speaking for a moment.

A stillness fell over the room.

Mallory dared not speak.

“The only reason I’m letting you live is that Taylor needs people who can prevent the principality from burning to the ground. Unfortunately for her, you’re one of them. So you’re going to listen to everything she says. Don’t even think about being creative in your interpretation of her words. Then you’re going to attempt to solve all the problems she raises, in a manner she would approve of. And if you think to talk about this, well… Remember. What she doesn’t know doesn’t hurt her, but what she does know definitely hurts you. Do you understand what I mean?”

“Your message has been received.”

“I’m glad that we could resolve this amicably. Now I only have a few more individuals like you to converse with before the day draws to a close.”