The Thieves Guild Friday Binge - Chapters 87-91

The Thieves Guild written by Jacob, chapter eighty seven, The Board and the Blade. Carch paced the length of his office, his boots wearing a path into the expensive carpet he had inherited from Larsen. The room was dark, its window boarded over, and candles taking the place of torches. It's a delicate moment, Vesper, do you understand. Carch stopped his hands, gripping the back of a chair until his knuckles turned white. We have the vote, we have the tie. But a tie is just an opportunity. It is not a victory. Vesper sat in the corner, cleaning a speck of dirt from beneath a fingernail with the point of a dagger. He didn't look up. He had been listening to Karch spiral for the better part of an hour. The Merchant guild Master was acting less like a ruler and more like a man trying to hold back a tide with a spoon. Polo is organizing. He will use this time to turn the craft captains against us. He will appeal to their tradition, their history. He will paint you as an outsider, an assassin. I am an assassin. His voice was low, bored. He said the words to annoy Kach, and he apparently succeeded. You are a guild Master designate. You need to act like one. We need a strategy. We need to identify the captains who can be bought. I have a list. He scrambled to his desk, shuffling through the chaos of papers. Vesper watched him with a cold detachment. He had seen true power now, he had walked the streets of the Old Quarter, seen the silent, absolute authority of the Thieves Tower. Compared to Allard's quiet command, Karch looked like a child playing with toy soldiers. Bertram is the key. He holds the tower. He was a Ryan's dog, loyal to a fault. If he declares for a harvest candidate, the rest of the guild will follow. We need to approach him, perhaps offer him a position in the new order or a stipend. Vesper stood up. The sudden movement made Carch flinch. I told you he's a drunk. It matters not he is a voice that matters. I want to secure the guild. Karch slammed his hand on the desk. We cannot fight a war on two fronts if we provoke the craft Guild while Polo is breathing down our necks. We lose. We need finesse, Vesper, we need, you need silence. He walked toward the desk. Karch held his ground, but Vesper saw the flicker of fear in his eyes. Good, you count coin's cart, you weigh risks. That is why you are here, and that is why you survived, Larsen. Vesper looked down at the map of the city Krch had spread out. But you do not understand the craft Guild. You do not buy loyal from men like Bertram, You do not negotiate with habits formed over decades. Then what do you propose? If you're right, we can't just bribe the drunken fool, and we cannot just wait for the council. No, we cannot. He turned away from the desk. Carch was trying to play a game of politics with pieces that refused to move. Vesper knew the only way to win was to clear the board. He walked to the door. Where are you going, Karch called out, rushing around the desk, his composure cracking. We aren't finished. We need a plan for the captains. If Bertram rallies them tomorrow. Vesper spun around, his hand rested casually on the hilt of his knife. Stop talking, cart The command was absolute. Carch mouth snapped shut. You handle the politics. You smile at Quinto and write letters to Polo. Keep them looking at you. Vesper opened the door. The hallway outside was quiet, the guards trying hard to look busy and deaf. Wait where are you going. Carcher's voice dropped to a whisper. Vesper stepped into the hall. He didn't look back to kill someone. A podcast Alchemy production, The Thieves Guild, written by Jake Kerr, Chapter eighty eight, an obstacle removed. The craft Gild Complex was not a place of beauty. It was a testament to the raw, unpolished bones of the city, a sprawl of gray stone and slate roofs that smelled of wet mortar, hot iron, and the sharp, acrid tang of flux. Unlike the soaring, arrogant needle of the Merchant Tower or the manicured organic fortress of Harvest House, this was a machine that built the city, and right now the machine was seized up in a state of paranoid lockdown. Vesper moved through the outer workshops. He did not skulk in the shadows. He walked down the center of the main thoroughfare, the bright yellow of his tunic flashing like a beacon. It was a simple statement, I am one of you. Nerves were still raw after a rampage of Carche's forces. He drew stairs from the smiths and masons, standing guard at every choke point. They gripped their heavy hammers and cold chisels, not as tools but as weapons, their knuckles white. But as vesper passed, they didn't attack. They lowered their eyes, they stepped back. He scanned the grounds, ignoring the few nervous apprentices hurrying between buildings. He wasn't looking for a tavern. He described Bertram that way solely to calm carch down. Bertram was worse than a drunk. He was a man loyal to a fault and forged in the discipline of the old regime. He would be securing his perimeter. He would be preparing for the next wave from wherever it came. There. Near the south gate, bordering the charred, smoking ruins of the flats, a group of guards in the dirty yellow of the Craft Guild were re enforcing a barricade. They moved with purpose, hauling heavy timbers and bags of sand. In the set. Center of them stood Bertram, pointing at a structural weakness in the wall, barking orders with the sharp, percussive rhythm of a man used to being obeyed. He looked tired, his face gray with the fatigue of a long siege, but his eyes were clear, hard, and focused. To Vesper, the entire project seemed pointless and absurd. Orion was dead. The real danger to the guild was from someone wielding influence, not an army. Those days were pasted. Vesper adjusted his cuffs, checking the slide of the stiletto in his sleeve. This would be harder than a tavern brawl. He needed to isolate a man surrounded by loyalists who looked ready to die for him. Vesper stepped into the open, keeping his hands visible, palms open. He walked straight toward the barricade. Halt, that's close enough. A guard raised a heavy crossbow, the bolt leveled at Vesper's chest. Bertram turned. He narrowed his eyes, recognizing the face Blades were a secretive group. But Bertram knew Vesper, as they were both part of Orion's inner circle. A flicker of relief crossed his face, quickly replaced by suspicion. Vesper, I heard you were dead or turned. I am neither. I have been securing our future. Vesper stopped ten paces out. His voice was calm, pitched to carry over the sounds of the heavy labor. Our future. Orion is dead, murdered by that dog of Carches. And now Kirch sits in his tower and dictates terms. Where were you when the guildmaster fell? Bertram spat on the cobblestones. I was doing what a Ryan commanded. I was removing the pieces that Catch and his merchant lackeys could use against us. He took a step closer. The crossbow wavered. I bring word, Captain about a guild council and our dangerous future. Vesper dropped his voice to an intimate register. Bertram stiffened. He knew Vesper's skill at navigating both secret passageways and secret knowledge. He also knew that Vesper had been one of Orion's most effective weapons. Speak it, then, Bertram stepped away from his men. Not here. Orion's last order was for his ears only. But it appears you'll have to do it, concerns removing a certain obstacle. Vesper glanced meaningfully at the nervous guards. He saw the doubt war with hope in Bertram's eyes. The captain was smart, but he was also desperate. He needed a lifeline. He needed to believe that Orion, the man he had served faithfully for years, had a final plan to save them all. Bertram hesitated, then turned to his men. Hold the line. I'll be a moment. He stepped over the barricade, walking toward Vesper with a heavy, measured gait. He didn't draw his sword, but his hand hovered near the hilt, a reflex born of long years of service. A group of Merchant Guild members approached. They weren't a threat, they were simply managing their own business, but they were close enough that Vesper was delighted to see Bertram point to an alley. We will talk there where we won't be disturbed or heard. He led Vesper to a narrow passage between a tannery and a storehouse. Understood, they walked into the alley. The noise of the street faded, replaced by the dripping of a leaking gutter and the heavy cloying scent of urine and old leather. It was tight, shadowy and private. Perfect. Bertram put his back to the brick wall, crossing his arms over his yellow tunic. Talk what is this obstacle? Vesper smiled, I fear the obstacle is you. Vesper stepped inside Bertram's guard as the captain tried to draw his blade. Vesper's left hand clamped over Bertram's mouth, stifling the shout, while his right hand drove a thin needle points to letto up under the captain's ribs, seeking the heart. It was the same strike he had used on the guards at the bridge. Efficient quiet final. Bertram jerked, his eyes, going wide with shock. He tried to struggle to pull his sword free, but Vesper's weight pinned him against the tannery wall. Vesper leaned in close, his lips, brushing the dying man's ear like a lover. Fear not. The guild will thrive without you. Bertram slumped, the light fading from his eyes, the fight draining out of him with his blood. Vesper held him until the body went heavy, then gently lowered him to the cobblestones, arranging him to look like he was sitting perhaps resting against the wall. Tired from the long watch, Vesper wiped the stiletto on the hem of Bertram's cloak and sheathed it. He checked his own yellow tunic, no blood. He walked back out to the street, blinking in the light. Where is the Captain? He is reviewing the documents I gave him, He said he was not to be disturbed. Vesper did not break stride as he headed away from the complex, his voice bored and dismissive. He turned the corner, vanishing into the labyrinth of the city before they could check the path was clear. His only barrier to being named the Guildmaster Craft was lying in his own blood in an alley. A podcast Alchemy production. The Thieves Guild written by Jacore Chatter eighty nine, A Lord's Homecoming. The Dark Thieves Tower that forever lived in the shadows of the Dragon's Teeth did not welcome people. It swallowed them. It was a massive, silent throat of black stone that drank the light and held the cold, But to allad it was the only warmth he knew. He walked through the main hall, his steps heavy but steady. The limp was gone, or at least he had decided it was gone. Pain was information, nothing more, and right now the information and told him he was alive, He was home, and there was work to do. Deputy. Word of his arrival preceded him, and his way was slowed by the many people who came and greeted him outside. But as he entered the tower, a single shout came from the upper landing Maeler. She didn't take the stairs. She vaulted the railing, dropping ten feet to land silently in a crouch, before springing up to meet him. You're back, she whispered, grabbing his forearms before pulling him in for an unexpected but welcome, tight but quick hug. Smiling. A lad looked down on her as they parted. I am I couldn't believe it when they said you just walked here. Tears welled in Mahler's eyes. Well, rumor has it that us old thieves have a few tricks up our sleeves. Plus I had plenty of help. Did you attend the council vote? I'm curious how Polo took it. When Raylan entered with cart and vesper. What's this Allard listened as Maeler filled in the gaps, carches, desert, the alliance, the plan to put Vesper on the craft throne, the path to the ultimate revenge against Polo, his humiliation Vesper. This was an interesting twist Allard had not seen coming. Come let us sit. Allard walked toward the stairs to head to the guildmaster's receiving area. Mahler fell into step beside him, a load trusted Vesper. The man had found a strange, almost religious calling in the service of the tower. He had saved a Lad's life when it would have been easier to let him die. But a guild master, he is a knife. A lad thought. You use a knife to cut a knot, not to tie a new one. Vesper lacked the patience for governance. He lacked the love for the people that made a leader. He could rule through fear and perhaps learn to rule through wisdom. But learning these things with Polo in the picture did not seem wise. Raylan will see it. He will see that Rogers is the stabilizing force we need. He will vote for Rogers. Rogers, what is his role? Maeler looked up at Allard. It was her turn to be surprised. A Lard outline that Polo advanced him as guildmaster craft designate, as the hero of ness. A nod was her only reply. Raylan will see the wisdom of him filling that role. I am sure it does make sense, and Vesper will understand. He is a cold man, but there is a ruthless pragmatism about him. Indeed, A Lard again glanced at Maeler, and you you seem at home. She hesitated, glancing toward the upper floors. That is a good way to put it. I have found something. Here someone Allard immediately understood. The guard from the mines Dahla. Yes. Maela looked down at her hands. She makes this place feel less like a barren tower and more like a home. I didn't think I wanted that. I didn't think I could have that. A Lard saw the wistfulness in her expression, a vulnerability that was atypical for her. She always used sarcasm as her defense. Vulnerable, she was not. He placed a hand on her shoulder. A warrior fights for peace, Mailer. There is no shame in finding it for yourself, she smiled, A small, genuine thing. Come you should meet them. That sounds delightful. They turned and walked to the small common room off the third floor landing. A dark haired woman with the bearing of a soldier, was mending a tunic by the window. Beside her, sitting on the floor and staring at a pattern of dust motes in a sunbeam, was a man in a simple black tunic. Darla stood immediately, her movement sharp and disciplined. She sized Arlard up in a single heart beat, the scar, the size, the way he carried his weight, and then she nodded a soldier, recognizing a commander. Deputy Allard, Maela. Speaks of you often, and she speaks of you with a fondness I have rarely seen. He liked her. She was solid. She was the earth that grounded Maeler's fire. He turned his attention to the man on the floor, Prosper, the wizard Maeler described as the one who had lost his mind to save his wife, and this is the magician. Prosper didn't look up. He was tracing a line on the stone floor with his finger. He suddenly looked up, alarm on his face. I've been waiting for you, Allard smiled. The man's damaged mind was playing tricks on him, and Allard kindly wanted to provide him as little conflict as possible. I'm glad and here I am. Prosper stood up. He was clearly agitated. He walked over to Allard and grabbed his arms. His grip was desperate, tight. I have a message. A lad didn't flinch. Go on, I'm listening. They know, they know the ageless One is dead. They had been waiting, and now they know. Prosper let go and stumbled back, his face suddenly stricken. They are coming. A chill traced its way down Allard's spine. It sounded like the ramblings of a broken mind, nonsense born of trauma. And yet Alard had lived in this tower for decades. He had felt the hum in the walls when the wind blew from the north. He had seen Pietro have moments of clarity or insanity that felt eerily similar. Before Allard could ask more, a commotion erupted from the main hall below, the heavy thud of the main doors opening, followed by shouts. A Lard turned the spell broken, stay here. He moved to the stairs, descending with as much speed as he could muster. Miela followed. Alard's wounds still hurt, and Alard was unsure he would ever be able to move quickly again. Maela didn't seem to notice, however, He reached the landing just as the doors swung wide. Pelos walked in first, looking like he had c through shit and decided a bath was optional, his face smeared with soot, and behind him Raylan. The young man looked exhausted. His face was pale, drawn tight with stress, but he was alive. When Raylan looked up and saw Allard standing on the stairs, he stopped, his face transformed. The stoic mask of command slipped, revealing a buoyant young man filled with joy Allard Raylan ran. He didn't walk with dignity. He sprinted across the hall and threw his arms around Alard, burying his face in the rough wool of Alard's tunic. I thought you were dead, Vesper, said. Allard held him, feeling the tremors in the boy's frame. He looked over Raylan's head at Felos. How did it go? Felos shrugged, unbuckling his sword belt. Raylan isn't dead, so let's call it a success. A Lard pulled back, gripping Raylan by the shoulders. He looked him in the eye. The vote, Tell me it is done. Tell me Rogers is the guildmaster craft. Raylan took a step back. He wiped his face, the mask of the guildmaster sliding back into place, though it fit a little less securely. Now. I voted for Vesper. A Lad stared at him. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. Vesper, Raylan, Vesper is a weapon. He is not a builder. Rogers was the bridge. Rogers was the piece. When Raylan didn't reply, a Lard added, perhaps frustration, entering his voice. He was the guild's guarantee. It is about more than the guild a lad. A Lad closed his eyes. It was a mistake, but it was a tie, not a loss. There was still time to fix things. He clapped his hand on Raylan's shoulder. I'm just glad you're safe. A loud cough came from the landing above. Alard glanced up to see a woman descending the stairs. She walked in as if she owned the stones beneath her feet, her dress a flowing, vibrant red that seemed to burn in the gloom of the tower. Her black hair fell like water over her shoulders. She was stunning, She was regal, She was dangerous. Alard crossed his arms. I do not know you. The woman stopped. She looked at Allard, her dark eyes sweeping over his scar, his sighs, his stance. A slow, knowing smile touched her lips. Ah, but I know you. You are Allard, You were Pietro's deputy. Who are you? I am Rebecca? Allard shook his head. Who is this woman? Why was she here? Why was she wearing red in a city that feared the color? He glanced at Raylan, and he stopped. Raylan was staring at her. The exhaustion was gone from his face. The fear, the stress of the vote, the weight of being a guild master, it had all vanished. He was beaming. It was a look of pure, unadulterated happiness. Rebecca Raylan stepped around Allard. Allard looked from the dangerous woman in red to the infatuated boy who held the fate of the city in his hands. This, Allard thought, a new and different kind of worries settling in his gut has gotten very interesting. A podcast Alchemy production. The Thieves Guild, written by Jake Kerr, Chapter. Ninety the rock and the webb. 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. The 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 Allard 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 out maneuver 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. Ballard 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 written 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 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 murm. 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 sinew 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 Raylan and death more times than he could count. He saw the man who had held a contul of war from a wheelchair and one 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's 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. The Thieves Guild written by Ja Kerr, Chapter ninety one, The Road Worst. Raylan stood outside the door to the guest quarters. He raised his hand to knock, then hesitated. His knuckles hovered an inch from the wood. He wasn't afraid of the council anymore. He wasn't afraid of sacks or catch, but this, this terrified him. He knocked. Come in. Her voice wasn't sharp or commanding. It was soft, expectant. Raylan opened the door. Rebecca wasn't packing, She wasn't sharpening a knife or studying a map. She was sitting by the window, watching the last of the twilight fade over the ashfields. She wore the red dress, but she had thrown a simple shawl over her shoulders, softening the edges of the dangerous color. She turned as he entered. Her face lit up, not with a smirk, but with a genuine, relieved smile that reached her eyes. You're alive for now, Raylan closed the door behind him. The room felt warm, a sanctuary from the cold stone of the rest of the tower. He noticed that he no longer asked for permission to enter, and as always, Rebecca was comfortable enough with him not to care. The vote is done and a tie. Allard was advising Polo and put forth one of our captains who had infiltrated the guild. Raylan walked over and sat on the edge of the bed. I didn't vote for him. Ah, now this is interesting. I must know your thought process. Because it is a tie. The guild will choose their own guild master, or I should say, the captains will choose. Rebecca grinned that. Result could not be any more Raylan than if I had scripted it. She stood up and walked over to the bed to sit next to him. I'm proud of you. You have once again chosen the path no one with any hint of political understanding would choose. She laughed, and it was the best thing Raylan had heard since he had found out that Allard was alive. I am leaving with you. A lad will hold the guild together. He is stronger than any of us. That is not true, but once again I appreciate your humility. Maddening as it may. Be, Rebecca nudged Raylan with her shoulder. So you chose me over ruling ness. It was true, but Raylan didn't necessarily want Rebecca to know. That I'm choosing knowledge over ignorance. Something is happening, and operating in the dark is dangerous. I want to know why the road was blocked. I want to know why a city would choose to forget its own magic. There are so many things I want to know, and so many things we all need to know. Raylan took Rebecca's hand, an overt gesture that he wasn't even sure meant anything. It just seemed like the right thing to do. You told me the wand was the key. You told me the answers were in Pietro's study. I believe you. I believe in you too. The air was thick with something that Raylan wasn't sure he was ready for. He let go of Rebecca's hand and stood pacing as he talked. I used to dream of Callisto, the Glittering Prize. I thought it was just a story, a place where the streets were gold and no one told you what to do. But ray found it on a map. How many of my other dreams are real, My. Dear Raylan, All of your dreams are real, but they often come with a price. Callisto is real, but it sits across a desert, a single brutal road, enticing many to take a journey that few survive. Raylan stopped and looked Rebeccah in the eyes. I guess my whole life has been chasing my dreams and ignoring the price. This will just be one more example of that. Raylan nodded at Rebecca. You will need to change into your riding clothes. It is time to head west. 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