The Witling Woman was gone, but the Warlock's investigation on the matter was far from over. Maybe it was Elion's constant witterings that wormed their way inside his mind, but he'd begun to suspect there was something to the rumor. He had read the journals, and knew his beloved was dead; but his trust in the Witling Woman was crumbling.

"Tell me what you know of the Protector's son," the Warlock finally demanded of Elion.

"There's not much I can tell you on that front," Elion recited from the lie he'd concocted, "But even as the city of Velmund was falling, the Protector was adamant that his line would continue. Speculation grew, that there was an unknown child he had banished to the safety of another world. I'm not suggesting that the witch willingly joined him there-"

"I asked what you knew of the Protector's son," the Warlock warned, "Not to hear the aspersions you may throw at the feet of my bride."

The events of the witch's second journal still played on his mind. 'The velvet water came once more to Grunterbad'.

"Forgive me Master," continued Elion, snapping the Warlock from his racing thoughts. "The child in question disappeared, and last night at Master Pie's Sirrup House, there were those that suspected his return. He talked strangely of a land that none had heard of, and how he'd traveled here through the water. My acquaintance found it odd, that he wished to be taken in secret directly to the palace. From there you will have heard reports of him, no doubt."

"So you know nothing," the Warlock summarized. 

"What more should I know of a conspiracy so far above me?" asked Elion, "I have done my duty to the Madning Isle in reporting all I know. And now it falls to our leader to seek the truth of it."

The Warlock continued along the forest path, only pausing to put a halt to Elion's irritating whistling. The itch of curiosity was already beneath his skin. When they reached a waterway that ran through the Slipshod Cut, the Warlock stopped his horse.

"Going for a swim?" asked Elion.

Crafting the portal to Grunterbad had taken much of the Warlock's energy, but it was slowly returning. At the risk of draining his resources again, he planned to visit the palace, and take the witch's final journal from its place upon his desk. His patience had worn thin, and without the Witling Woman to question, only the words of his bride could suffice to satisfy him.

"Continue on," he ordered Elion, "Return here with the Counsel. He will come at my command."

"And the man he's with?" asked Elion, "Am I supposed to bring him too? What if he proves to be too powerful an opponent?"

"I thought you were a soldier once," the Warlock needl.

Elion patted his sword. "But it cannot defeat magic," he replied, "As the Protectorate learned firsthand."

"There is the Counsel for anything your sword cannot handle," the Warlock pointed out, "So you will bring them here. Both of them."

Before Elion could preempt another excuse for failure, the Warlock compelled the water to rise to a little beyond his own enviable height. Tearing a seam in the shimmering liquid sheet, he stepped through the velvet water to the welcoming lights of the palace. 

No maids were in sight, and no footmen standing to their usual attention in the halls. The staff were either preparing for the witch's imminent arrival, or celebrating the fact, three bottles deep in the servant's quarters. The Warlock, unaware of the lie Lyre's doll had told him, assumed they'd be searching for the witch's ring.

Only the day before, he found him. Too late. This should have been their wedding night. 

The opulent palace was a testament to the splendor his bride deserved; the large stone bath, the carved wooden bed, the rooftop gardens. He'd built a gilded cage for his little wife, yet was denied the chance to show him all the trinkets and baubles gathered to impress him. The Warlock had no need for such ornate beauty, and would have just as soon slept in the stables.

The marble-top desk in his chambers was where he'd pictured the witch, poring over every expensive book he could find to amuse him. And where he planned to test how much weight it could withstand as he pored over his wife.

Taking the second of the witch's journals from his inside pocket, he brushed it free of travel's dust and laid a kiss upon its cover. Despite the lurid picture it painted of the man he once loved, it was all that was left of him. Beneath the witch's first, lay the eel-skin bound final journal. He hadn't the strength to maintain the portal much longer. Slipping the book inside his coat, he picked up a lamp from the desk, and returned through the water to the darkening forest.

With Elion dispatched to retrieve the Counsel, the western woods were quiet. On the day of Rel's murder, when fate intervened to keep the Warlock from his bride; he and Min had escaped to the Witling Forest. They knew the enforcers were no match for the preternatural powers at work there, and it was only by Jophis's grace that they themselves were spared from the likes of the Knurren or the Happenstance. Grace and stupidity; the latter being their own humble contribution.

Had they not lost their way, they might have made it home; only to have met with the Protectorate's blades on the day of the Hofingrad slaughter. The forest became their shelter and their burden. Winters were cold, and in summer, clouds of insects made the air almost unbreathable. The tall and mighty trees had once resembled prison bars, but now the entirety of the Madning Isle had become their playground.

Hanging his lamp from a branch, the Warlock fetched out the final journal. Opening the cover, he expected to see the upward strokes of an elegantly written number three. It was not there. He thought his mind was playing tricks on him, but he distinctly remembered those large Cimbrian numerals pointing out the order in which to read them. This was the third of them. It was definitely the third.

Panic crept through his veins as he turned the empty pages. What magic was this? The words were gone. Regaining enough sense to determine he'd been had, he tried in vain to reopen the portal. He lacked the strength to tear a space large enough to travel through; he barely had the energy to share his voice across the void.

Nefarious hands in the palace. The Warlock had wondered why a thief would strike at the witch's ring; but it was all a distraction. There was something in the journal that could not be seen. But who would have known? Who knew that the witch's words had traveled with him from Grunterbad? Only Min... Min and the man he met at the witch's house. Once again the Warlock raced to conclusions.

Elion would be returning with them soon to the meeting place; but circumstances had changed. The Warlock had no journal, and no patience left to him. Expending the last of his magic, he called to his agent at the far edge of the western woods.

"Tell me at once, have you eyes on the Counsel? Has he begun his approach to the forest?"

"The Counsel has yet to appear," the agent replied, "Two men passed south of the clearing in an open carriage, and a smaller vehicle was spotted eastbound in the western woods. But no riders have been seen to enter."

"The carriage that came, what of it?"

"Ah... A man was riding,"  the agent admitted, "But riding postillion. It was unlikely to have been the Counsel, Master; there were a man and woman with him, and they seemed to be heading for the northern wilds."

The Warlock's interest was piqued, and the feint lines of fortune were written at once in bold. Call it intuition, but he was unwilling to let the carriage pass peacefully into the forest. Finding Min could wait, but discovering the identities of the carriage riders could not. Under cover of darkness; two men, one woman... it was impossible to conceive and yet the Warlock had convinced himself.

It had to be the Witling Woman. Of that much he was sure. But what of the two men she was with? The Counsel? The thief? Or... dear Jophis, he knew it was insanity. It couldn't be the witch, the rumor was nothing more than that. But the Warlock's heart cried one final, desperate wail. Please. Please let it be him.

Mounting his horse, he rode like a furious wind as it hurtled through the trees.

"Thank you!" cried Vix to their savior, as he helped her down from the carriage.

"Please," Fiepet told her with a bow, "I fear I have not done enough. This meager service is the most I can offer. I am loathe to leave you here, but I cannot delay."

"We are grateful for your time," said Ten, "Infintitely grateful."

True to their word, and gossiping as they left about the handsome hero, the pair demanded nothing more than transport to the forest. They'd deemed the northernmost path to be the safest, furthest as it was from the Catary, and left the carriage in Fiepet's care.

"You are going to find your brother? Then take it," Vix had offered him graciously, "that you may bring him home in comfort. It really is the least we can do to repay you for your kindness."

They had no further need of it themselves, and failed to mention it had been 'borrowed' in the first place from an unsuspecting guest. Being far too polite to refuse them, Fiepet had accepted.

So it was, that Fiepet Strahl was discovered, pulling an empty carriage, and making his way back to the clearing alone. The dirt of the forest path flew into the air as the Warlock came to a sudden stop. Wiping the dust from his eyes, Fiepet tried to make out the figure up ahead.

The figure was doing the same. In unison, they seemed to recognize one another.

"You are the famous Warlock!" announced Fiepet Strahl.

"And you!" he cried in return to the man from Grunterbad, dressed in the livery of The Velvet Palace, "Where are the others?!"

The Warlock's fierce eyes flashed at the empty seat of the carriage.

Ah, thought Fiepet. So you were the cause of their fear.

"Dismount and face me," the Warlock demanded, "You will answer for their absence!"

Not one to back down when honor was at stake, and with the memory of Vix's tear-stained cheeks still fresh in his mind, Fiepet got down from the horse and stood his ground. While failing to measure up to the Warlock's impressive height, he refused to be intimidated.

"The two from the carriage, who were they, and what have you done with them?" growled the Warlock, "You who followed me here through the water! What are you planning? Why did you come? Speak!"

"You ask too many questions at once," Fiepet replied, "How am I to remember them all?"

"Then I'll start simply. Who are you?"

"Fiepet Strahl."

"Fiepet Strahl cannot speak. So try again."

"Before the accident in the lake... so I was told..." How the Warlock would know such a thing amazed him, that in the time he could not remember, he had lived in silence.

"The accident?" 

"The day my brother was injured... we fell into the lake and our father saved us. How did you know him?" asked Fiepet, "How did you know my father?"

Standing before the Warlock was a fountain of knowledge he had yet to tap. But one thing remained to be clarified.

"Who was your father?"

"You came to our house to see him and yet you ask me such a question?! Hekse Strahl. Of Strahl's Printworks. The man who raised me was Hekse Strahl."

"And what of the one that sired you?"

"I... that much I do not know." Again, Fiepet struggled to understand how the Warlock knew so much.

"Are you his?" asked the Warlock, "Were you biding your time to return and avenge him? Is that why my bride is dead? Is that why you followed me here?!"

"What? Who?! You make no sense, sir!"

The Warlock's anger and confusion could find no outlet with his magic spent, bursting out instead with a violent strike to Fiepet's chin.

"Answer me!" bellowed the Warlock, "Are you the son of the Protector?"

Fiepet tested his jaw. "Look," he said, "I think we should try and find a way of working things out between us, but this is-"

The second punch didn't land so easily.

"Right!" shouted Fiepet, the limits of his courtesy having been met, "Let's not fuck around then!"

The Warlock was taken off guard by the strangest sensation of déjà vu, and Fiepet successfully delivered a blow to his cheekbone. He couldn't remember where he'd learned to fight, but there must have been a time in his youth where he'd needed to defend himself. The two were evenly matched in their abilities, scuffling together in the dirt as punches flew and kicks were swiftly countered.

Only the sudden rearing of their horses broke the fight.

"The Knurren!" cried the Warlock, the two men racing too late to collect their reins.

Stranded alone on the road, Fiepet and the Warlock watched as their horses bolted into the distance, Vix and Ten's carriage rattling into the night behind them.

The Warlock unleashed an errant kick in Fiepet's direction.

"This is the great Warlock is it?" asked Fiepet, "Standing like a demijohn as our horses flee? Even the Counsel could call them to a stop."

"So it was you," remarked the Warlock, "That removed him from the palace. And you, no doubt, responsible for stealing my book!"

Fiepet's head was close to exploding from the barrage of questions that continued from his sparring partner. He hadn't the strength to deny any more of his accusations, just as the Warlock had no magical energy left to torture him to honesty.

"Can we clear this up later?" asked Fiepet with a sigh, "I am yet to find my brother, and the road is longer now I have no choice but to walk it."

"You think you can leave so easily?" asked the Warlock, "Have you not the sense to fear me?!"

"Why must everyone demand to be feared?" questioned Fiepet, "Is it so wrong to think the best of people unless they prove themselves to be otherwise?"

The words struck the Warlock like a lightning bolt. As Fiepet walked ahead, he had no thought to stop him.