The Rock and the Wind

The Thieves Guild, written by Jake Kerr, Chapter ninety, The Rock and the Webbed. The library was quiet. It was the heavy, insulated silence of a room buried beneath tons of stone, a silence that made the scratching of a quill or the shifting of a chair sound like a shout. Raylan sat at the head of the long table. He wasn't reading. He was staring at the empty chairs along the table, the chairs full of captains. When he had hosted his first council meeting, terrified and defiant. Now he sat in Pietro's seat. It felt too big, The wood was hard against his back, and the arm seemed to swallow him. He was exhausted. Adrenaline of the council vote and the sleepless rush back to the tower had drained away, leaving behind a hollow weariness. He wanted to be upstairs sleeping. No, he wanted to be on the second floor, planning a journey with Rebecca to finally discover the secrets Pietro held. But he couldn't. Not yet his mentor and friend was alive, and he was here. Vesper Ballard stood by the fireplace. He didn't pace Allard never paced. He stood like a statue carved from the mountain itself, his presence filling the room even when he was motionless. Raylan looked up. It was for the best. Allard nodded his head, but not in agreement, more like whether he wanted to lecture Raylan, or if it was too late. Rogers was stable and admired and intensely loyal to our guild. It was Raylan's turn to nod. Indeed, but he is not a craft guild member. I put the power of their future in his hands, Allard. That is the long and the short of it. I simply put the choice of who will be the guild master into the hands of the guild members themselves. Allard turned the firelight, catching the deep scar that bisected his face. His eyes were sharp, probing. I understand. I may not agree, but I understand your faith in people. However, we are talking captains, not weavers or brick layers, Raylan. They will have their own motivations. But as I said, I understand your perhaps overly optimistic faith in the guild in rallying behind their own choice. Alad's face softened. You have been busy, I take it. Allard smiled, but it wasn't mocking. It was a smile of sincere happiness. Tell me about the young woman. Raylan felt the heat rise in his cheeks. He looked down at his hands, suddenly finding the grain of the table fascinating. He was the guild master, thief, the man who had stared down Wilhelm and outmaneuvered Larsen, Yet the mere mention of her made him feel like a boy caught stealing apples. Rebecca Allard stated it wasn't an accusation, but it was a fact, adding a bit of gravitas to Allard's amused smile. She is an outlander, Raylan looked up, meeting his deputy's gaze. He needed to be honest. A lad deserved the truth, even if the truth sounded insane. She is not just an outlander, a lard. She is Pietro's granddaughter. Allard went still. The fire crackled a loud pop in the silence. Granddaughter. I served Pietro for thirty years. I was his shadow. He never mentioned her, not once. He had secrets, Allard more than we knew. Raylan stood up, walking to the shelves where Rafe had stacked the ancient dusty tomes recovered from the Merchant tower. He ran a hand over the cracked leather spines. Raife has been reading. He has been peering at drawings, at hand rids, notes, and even warehouse ledgers. Raylan turned back to the room. Pietro wasn't just a clever thief who lived a long time. He was old, a lad, centuries old. Allard frowned, his heavy brow, furrowing. That is impossible. No man lives that long. A man doesn't, but a magician may. The word hung in the air magic. They had both heard Maeler's report. They had both seen prosper They had both felt the magic in the tower itself, even if they didn't give it a name. He was a wizard, a lad, the last of the Magic Guild, the man who oversaw the transition from the Magic Guild to the thieves Guild. Raylan gestured toward the door. And Rebecca, she has the key. She believes the journals in Goutland, locked in Pietro's old cell hold the truth of who we are, of who he was. A Lad looked at the fire. He seemed to be reevaluating his entire life. Every conversation he had ever had with the the old man who wore the black robes, a magician. He looked up, his eyes clearing. I met the man downstairs, prosper the one Mailer brought back. One would think he's a madman. But Maela says, the magic stole his memories. Allard shook his head, a slow, heavy movement. I wonder. Allard peered at Raylan. I would have called you mad yesterday, Raylan, but today there is much uncertainty ahead for us. Indeed, the world is bigger than we thought, and stranger. He walked back to the table, leaning against it. The weight of the revelation settled between them, but it didn't crush them. It was just another truth, another secret in a guild built on them. But you are here, you are alive, and you are your same old self. Tell me about your mission, Tell me how you survived, Polo. Allard laughed. I am certainly not my same old self. But you speak as if I was at Polo's mercy. Allard peered hard at Raylan. I was never at his mercy. A rise smile touched his lips. I was an adviser. Polo is a man who needs to feel he is the smartest person in the room. I simply asked him the questions that led him to the answers I wanted him to find. He recounted his time in the cell beneath Harvest House, the comfortable imprisonment, the books, the wine. He spoke of his subtle manipulation of Polo to elevate Rogers, to position the thief captain as the hero the city needed. And Vesper, he risked his life to free you. He has a code twisted, perhaps, but there is honor there. He came for me. He had the acts of the executioner and the keys to my chains. We were at the gate Raylan. Freedom was a step away. Allerd's face darkened, but we. Were intercepted, guards, too many of them. Vesper could have run, He could have left me to the swords. I was stabbed in the back, a lost cause, a casualty in the field. But he stayed. He fought until I commanded him to leave. A lad looked down at his right arm. He flexed his hand, the movement stiff, the fingers curling slowly into a fist. The harvest surgeon was excellent. He stitched muscle and sinnew that I thought were lost forever. My legs are strong. I can walk slowly, but I can walk. He paused. He took a breath, and then lifted his arm, stopping at the shoulder. Allard's whole body shook with the effort. He lowered his arm, the limb falling heavily to his side. He looked at the floor, the shame of a man whose identity was forged in steel. I cannot raise my sword arm above my head anymore. I fear I am no longer a warrior. Raylan looked at him. He saw the scars, the weight of thirty years of service. He saw the man who had faced down knights and mobs, who had stood between Raeln and death more times than he could count. He saw the man who had held a council of war from a wheelchair and won. Allard. Ballard looked up. You led a revolution without drawing a blade. You save this guild with a whisper. You face down a guild master with nothing but your wits. Raylan stepped closer, gripping Allard's good shoulder. You will always be a warrior. Allard held his gaze. Slowly, The darkness in his eyes receded he nodded. The guild runs well. Raylan gestured to the window to the bustling courtyard below, where harvest, refugees and thieves worked side by side. It is amazing what operating in the open can do. They are freeing themselves to be who they were meant to be. Things are doing well. Order is returning, The panic is subsiding exactly. Raylan stood up straight, the decision crystallizing in his chest. You are well. Vesper loves you in his own strange way. Rogers respect you, even if he is angry with me. The Guild believes in you. Hell, even Polo believes in your wisdom. Raylan smiled. I feel confident in my decision. Allard frowned, the scar on his forehead crinkling. What decision is that? Raylan looked at the door. He thought of the map in Rafe's hands, little more than a dream. He thought of the road through the mountain, the secrets locked in Goutland, the magic that hummed in the stones of the tower. He thought of the woman in the red dress waiting in a child's room on the second floor. Ness was safe, Ness was stable, A lad was the rock. But Raylan, Raylan was the Wind. I am leaving a podcast Alchemy production