For anyone with half the sense to recognize the value of the Traveling Men, there were effective spells to be had at a reasonable price. Often dismissed as mere showmen and charlatans, their abilities weren't given the respect that the Witling Woman and the Hermit of Innsbad Cave received, but they were strong in number, and their power was not to be underestimated.

Defying the edicts of the Protector, the Traveling Men had brought magic to the corners of the Cimbran Isle in a time when doing so meant courting death. Magic transcended their fears; it was the breath that sustained them.

'The Witling Woman is said to have found the witch. The real witch. And brought him back from the land of Grunterbad.'

Ursa's tidings rang out across the Madning Isle, to every faction of the Traveling Men, and echoing back before listeners were left to the silent contemplation of its meaning. The witch? The witch had been found? Such news would not be carelessly spread. A lie of such magnitude would only have incited the Warlock to fierce and bloody action. It had to be true.

Some distance from its source, the Warlock and Elion were riding in file with not another word spoken between them. Until the message reached their ears. Elion could come to only one conclusion; this had to be a part of Ramun and Lyre's plan. While he'd intended the Warlock to hunt the witch's child, clearly his compatriots had determined it was better he hunt the witch himself.

Knowing the truth of things, he wondered how best to spin their tales together, that the Warlock would find himself further tangled in the knot that he tied.

"Master! Did you hear that?!"

The Warlock's glower turned full beam on the fool behind. Who wouldn't have heard it?

"Should we go directly to the Witling Woman's home in the forest?" he asked, "That you might collect your bride?"

It would be unwise for the Warlock to tell the cloying stranger that the witch was dead, but he couldn't dismiss the rumor entirely. It was fortunate he had plans to interrogate the Witling Woman as it was.

"We continue west as planned," he said.

Not content to let an opportunity to stir things up go by, Elion made another suggestion; intended to further cloud the Warlock's addled mind.

"You don't suppose, the princeward has come here directly to snatch the Divine out from under you, do you?" he asked, "Perhaps he plans to capture him as his father attempted to do. There were rumors at the time you may not have been privy to; that the Protector wanted him for more than fulfilling his supposed sense of justice."

The Warlock continued down the road in silence.

"Had his son found the witch instead, don't you wonder what he might have had a mind to do with him..?"

Elion's eyes began to water, streams of snot poured from his nose, sweat seeped through his pores, and a confluence of secretions were wetting his breeches.

"What are you doing?!" he cried, frantically wiping at his weeping body with the hem of his coat.

"A reminder to be quiet," said the Warlock, a wave of his hand abating the deluge on Elion's skin, "The more mistruths you speak, the more you'll have to answer for."

The group suspected of starting the rumor were just as surprised as Elion had been upon hearing it. Ramun stopped the horses immediately, the carriage jerking to a halt as Cuttle and Hen exchanged a look.

"What was that supposed to mean?!" asked Ramun; turning in his seat to question Hen, "Is that what you've been hiding? That the Witling Woman has found the witch? So, what? The Warlock had a tantrum then, that he wasn't the one to do it? And you took that to mean we were done for?!"

Hen furrowed her brow, her lips parting before she could find the words to explain herself.

"What's gotten up your nose?" cried Lyre, "You're sniffing around for a stink that isn't there! Mistress Hen is a reputable source of information; far better than some anonymous gossip whispered on the wind!"

Ramun turned his searing blue eyes on Lyre.

"We're traveling far across the country to find Delphin Strahl, all for a reason that remains unclear, mind you. And all because some palace maid says our leader intends to destroy the world."

That part was news to Cuttle.

"Who's to say she's even credible?" Ramun continued, "Lyre, you put too much faith in her report."

"You forget," replied Lyre, "That the Innate believed her! That... we believed her," she corrected, "Enough that Master Brecke sent us along to support her."

Ramun sneered at Lyre's widening eyes as they desperately pleaded for him to maintain their ruse.

Hen felt that the cat was not only out of the bag, but was crying loudly in their faces and demanding to be fed. The witch had apparently been found, and there was every chance that it wasn't Delph at all that they should have been looking for. The Maddening Witch was to the west? Well, so was the Witling Woman. 

"Are we not heading in the right direction then?" asked Hen, "Whether things have changed since we left the palace I could not tell you, but if both the witch and Master Strahl are in our path then shouldn't we continue on instead of wasting time? Be thankful at least that we are out ahead of the Warlock."

Lyre couldn't help but marvel at Hen's grace and composure when faced with such an obstacle. Even Ramun could do nothing but assent to her directive and speak the horses onwards.On the back seat, however, Cuttle felt a cold and shaking hand find his.

"Is Delph the witch or isn't he?" Cuttle hissed beneath his breath, "And why does the Warlock wish to take us to our graves..?"

"Long story short," Hen whispered back, her fingers finding warmth in Cuttle's reluctant grasp, "Whether Delphin Strahl or not; if the witch is alive then the Warlock will have no reason to end us."

Cuttle gave an anxious nod.

The only problem left that Hen could perceive, was how the Innate would react if the witch had truly returned. Whether Lyre and Ramun would dispatch him before the Warlock had chance to intervene. With the answers lying far beyond her reach, there was nothing else to do but wait.

When the strange tidings rang out in Fiepet's ears, he almost suspected a man had jumped into the saddle behind him. So close and resounding, and yet the voice was not attached to any person he could see. If not for the Counsel's explanation, he might have believed the Happenstance were calling to him.

"The work of the Traveling Men," he deduced.

"But did you hear what he said?!" cried Fiepet, "He spoke of Grunterbad! Of my home! My goodness, this Witling Woman, do you think she could send us back there? Once we pick up Delph, could you take us to see her?"

The Counsel remembered very well their meeting with the Witling Woman. She had no talent for shifting the velvet water, but was adept in many other ways. Most impressive of all, she had a knack for finding spells. In the days of King Vireo, when magic was plentiful, she would fashion charms for sale, helping foragers to find the plants and angry wives to find their errant husbands.

Hidden away in the depths of the Witling Forest under the rule of the Protectorate; she honed her skills in seclusion, and began to reach across the void in search of other worlds. A place where she might once again practice her arts, and be free from the tyranny of the Protector. Her efforts never yielded the escape she hoped for, but the energy she could sense beyond this realm attracted the Warlock's interest.

After years of passing through portals across the Cimbran Isle, the traitor known was Pike had yet to touch another world besides his own. When at last he came to power, and heard tale of the Witling Woman's magic, he was determined to seek her out and learn her secrets.

The compass drawn on the path had been a test. A sample she had shown them, that the Warlock might verify her expertise. The finding tonic she gave them was said to be distilled from a rare flower grown only in the heart of the forest. But these alone would not be enough, there was more that was needed if the Warlock hoped to find his bride.

The carriage that conveyed the witch on his fateful journey to the capital had been hard to track down; but it was the only remaining piece of the Maddening Witch left to the Warlock on the whole damned isle. The charm the Witling Woman crafted from its energy, could pierce into another realm; and provided that the Warlock had the power required to cross the void through the velvet water, it would lead him straight to his bride.

Hadn't he done just that..? It seemed unlikely that the Witling Woman would have stolen the glory for herself. It was likely a fabrication, and that the witch lay dead in Grunterbad, just as he'd been told.

The Counsel extended an appeasing smile, or as close to one as he was able to feign. "Once we find your brother," he offered, "We'll see about sending you back. I'm sure there is much she can do to assist you. But first, let us not forget what has brought us here... and what duty must be done."

Fiepet nodded with enthusiasm, and trotted off with greater hope and excitement than the reality of things should have allowed.

Everybody lies, the Counsel told himself, even the wind...

The deceit in Ursa's tidings was not discerned by the citizens of Relmund. They took the words as law, and the wave of euphoria it elicited crashed into the Velvet Palace, sweeping up every member of the Warlock's household with it.

"Praise Jophis!" cried Batt, "I knew it! I knew it was coming! I could sense that the Warlock's bride was on his way; didn't I tell you? I knew there was a reason the master left so soon after returning."

"But, wasn't he supposed to find the Divine himself?" asked the cooklet.

"Oh, as if that matters!" said Batt, throwing a celebratory arm around Gris, "Have you the rooms readied and the clothes laid out?"

"I have," Gris replied, "But I wish that Hen were up to lending me a hand. She's been quite confined with this sickness, and there are any number of things I might well have forgot!"

Batt put a reassuring hand to Gris's chin. "Nothing else will matter now the witch has been found. Mark my words; for all the preparation we've done, the only thing Master will care about is that there's an empty bed to be had for the wedding night!"

The peal of laughter rang out through the palace, as the news made its way to those who'd yet to hear it. The witch had returned, and soon the Madning Isle would overflow with happiness.

All but those inhabiting a small section of Relmund, where the presence of death had failed to temper their fear of it. In the Black Charnel, Master Brecke pawed at his ears as if to scrape away the sound of magic that had soiled them.

"Master!" cried Must, rushing into the charnel house, "Can it really be true? Has the witch come back without warning?"

"Filth!" screamed Master Brecke, "This filthy magic and its putrid tidings! We cannot rest any longer in darkness... the time to action is upon us! Hurry boy and give me the book, we need to learn how it can be destroyed now it threatens our plans!"

Must froze, all but his slackened jaw, falling open in confusion.

"I had just gone out to the palace, Master, when the news was spoken. Knowing what it may mean... I could only turn around and come back to better serve you."

"Finding the book will better serve me!" cried Master Brecke, "Bringing me Mistress Hen will better serve me! But your returning empty handed will only stoke my ire!"

Must's head dropped to his chest, frantically nodding and backing from the room with a vow to complete his master's bidding. The boy was useless. An idiot! But only when the smoke settled and the echo of the Traveling Men's words had faded into heavy silence, did Master Brecke realize their weight. Everyone on the Madning Isle had heard those words; and soon he'd be called to answer to them.

Far and wide, the words resounded to rage and raptures. And in a little cottage not too far from the Sirrup House, they happened to interrupt a conversation between two sisters. Since Aves had yet to replace the latchet shoes his wife had generously given away, he'd been forced to stay home and listen to them. 

While Fringrilla kneaded dough, Carduella watched over Aves' shoulder as he shelled peas beside her.

"I'm not sure he's well suited to the kitchen," Carduella determined with a glance in his bowl. "Honestly sister, over the centuries I've yet to see improvement in his skills."

"You'll eat it all the same," Fringilla told her, "Pods and all. Don't pretend you're fussy over food! We know too well, there's little you wouldn't shove down your gullet should your stomach start rumbling."

Carduella smirked. "Yeah, alright then," she admitted, "I wouldn't disagree on that front. But he still can't shell for shit."

Fringilla ignored her husband's glare.

"I wonder what they're making at the palace today," she sighed, "And if our dear princewards are being well fed... Two such handsome youths need taking care of."

"One for each of us," Carduella winked, before taking a seat.

Just as Aves was ready to object; the tidings reached them. There wasn't an immediate reaction to the news of the Witling Woman finding the witch, but there were certainly a lot of questions raised by it.

"Did I hear that right?" asked Fringilla.

"I believe so," answered her nonplussed sister from the comfort of the sofa, "Apparently I've just returned from the land of Grunterbad. And apparently I've brought the real witch with me..."