17 #4

“Then start with four.”

The archer sat on a barrel. The witnesses passed before him.

The baker saw a tall woman with red hair.

Neira’s mother remembered a short, shaven-headed fighter.

The tanner said the woman limped on her right leg.

Lio swore she used both hands.

Jesa described an old woman with a silver tooth and took offense when the archer doubted her.

Cori added that Iria had entered the office alone while an identical accomplice blocked the square.

Ovel spoke from Kaoran’s table. According to her, the incendiary carried no weapons and held a blacksmith’s tube.

Kaoran stated he had seen a hammer.

Ancia insisted on a longsword.

Isolde waited until last.

“What did you see?” the archer asked.

“People protecting their neighbors.”

“I need a description of Iria.”

“I arrived when the rope was already cut.”

“The prefect says a woman with a short blade threatened him.”

“Belor can describe her.”

The archer looked at the prefect. One eye was swollen, flour covered his coat, and a rope mark circled his waist. His authority was less precise than his uniform.

“He says she was six feet tall and had golden eyes.”

Isolde held back a smile.

“Write that.”

The report ended with seventeen versions.

They agreed on three facts: seven people had been freed, a punishment order exposed, and fire had appeared at different points without reaching occupied homes.

The name varied. Four witnesses used Iria.

Six spoke of a miner. Three mentioned the woman in the cloak. The others left the space empty.

The archer copied the pages twice. One would accompany Belor. Another stayed with the villagers. Cori took a third for Aelyn’s route.

“Varek will learn of the contradiction,” Kaoran said.

“He’ll also know we caused it,” Isolde replied.

“He’ll look for the pattern.”

“Let him find shared decisions, copies, and villages able to organize themselves. A face would serve him better.”

The last column left before dawn.

Rheskan flew far to the west. He had followed the blue-plate patrol to a mountain station. From there, he saw messengers leave for Caleryon, Luzmer, and Cendral. The dragon chose to mark the route from a distance, then returned to the clouds.

Isolde sent him an image of the eight gray cloaks.

Rheskan answered with a flock of birds changing direction above the sea. None led the others. The movement belonged to the whole.

“He understands,” Isolde said.

Kaoran adjusted Bruma’s load.

“He got there before we did.”

“I’ll give him that point.”

“I’m keeping count.”

They left Bren through the channel. Neira closed the sluice gate behind them. Ancia would travel with the charcoal burners’ column to the next shelter. Jesa led her group toward the coast to rejoin those repairing The Stubborn One. Cori would take Esvan’s books to a contact in Caleryon.

Isolde and Kaoran took the eastern route.

The depot documents contained thirty-seven names transferred from the capital’s outer districts. The orders came from warehouses converted into sorting posts. Aelyn could recognize the addresses and open routes for the families.

“Entering Caleryon brings us closer to the palace,” Kaoran said.

“And to the kitchens, the landing stages, and the censuses.”

“Your father is there.”

Isolde looked at the road.

“First we find the people who disappeared from those records.”

“And if you see an open door to Ardan?”

The question followed her to the river.

“I’ll assess it when it exists.”

Kaoran waited while she adjusted Bruma’s load.

“It’ll be hard to walk past,” Isolde admitted. “Right now, I can barely think of that door without wanting to run.”

“We’ll account for that when we enter.”

She finished the knot and let him check it. The road descended toward the capital; for a while, they walked together without looking for another answer.

Over the following weeks, the versions of Bren traveled faster than they did.

In an inn, Isolde heard that three sisters had defeated a garrison.

At a mill, a carter spoke of an old woman who could set stones alight.

At Ordan pass, two guards searched for a tall woman, a short one, and a man in a gray cloak. Their posters offered separate rewards.

A group of children acted out the liberation with sticks. Whenever the soldier asked the heroine’s name, they all changed roles.

“Who are you now?” one asked.

The girl carrying a stick lit with red wool shrugged.

“The one who came.”

The adults began using a simpler expression.

The nameless fire warrior.

Isolde first heard those words at a market two days from Caleryon. The vendor who spoke them had heard them from an Arkhe sailor. She claimed the woman passed through ports, mines, and villages without accepting a reward.

Kaoran waited for a reaction.

Isolde paid for the bread.

“The story is wrong,” she said as they left.

“Which part?”

“I still owe Jesa half my passage.”

Kaoran smiled.

Behind them, the vendor told the story again. She changed the cloak’s color and added a dragon who chose his own roads.

Iria’s name stayed on the old posters.

The legend went on without it.