Chapter 538: Saturn Opens Its Mouth

A flake of frost rustled down from its antlers.

"Not charging costs more than charging. Name your price—I know the rules."

"Then owe me for now."

The lord of the hunt's hand paused on the ruler. A debt accrued interest, and interest never cared about friendship.

"...I'd rather pay right now."

"You can't afford it." The woman slipped the Quill back into its stand and turned around.

"In 1683, I was nineteen, holding the lantern for my teacher."

The lord of the hunt said nothing.

"Back then, he already held two tradition fragments. That night, he was going to advance, and we found the door."

"He had me stand outside the door, holding the lantern to light his back."

"Half an hour later, my teacher came out and said his advancement had failed. That night, he copied the Star Catalog as usual, and I helped at his side."

"That was when I realized he was copying it with his left hand."

"Yet my teacher had written with his right hand for forty years."

The flame of the Whale-Oil Lamp did not even flicker, showing that the master of this place was completely calm inside.

The lord of the hunt sneered inwardly. 'Avenging her teacher is just a pretext—collecting Tradition of Change fragments to seek advancement is what she's really after.'

"The one that came back lived for another thirty-one years, with works stacked as tall as the author and students in droves, before finally dying in his own bed."

"I was the one who read the eulogy at his funeral."

The faceless woman let out a faint sigh. "As for the Black Earth River Master, it holds the fragment of 'Substitution.' Our interests align."

"If you can make it bleed, consider this debt paid."

The lord of the hunt let out a murmur of understanding and swept the Whalebone Ruler back into its saddlebag. Nothing suited it better than not having to pay.

The faceless woman did not mind. "Go ahead and ask. My Astrolabe can only answer one question."

"Will the next question cost money?"

"Yes."

The lord of the hunt opened its mouth, then swallowed back a long string of words.

"I want to ask about St. Gotthard Pass on the winter solstice."

"That is a place, not a question."

Another flake of frost fell from its antlers.

"...On the night of the winter solstice, how can my troop best handle the pass?"

She nodded, walked over to the wall, and gripped a brass crank.

As the crank turned a full circle, the entire dome rotated along with it.

The lord of the hunt looked down and saw that the floor beneath its feet had turned into an Astrolabe.

The floor was the mother plate, the dome was the star net, and the telescope tube was the Alidade. Standing at the center of the plate, the woman was the pin holding everything together.

The lord of the hunt had just lifted a foot.

"Put it down," the faceless woman warned coldly.

"If you shift a single step, I'll have to recalculate this degree of declination."

The lord of the hunt hurriedly set its foot back down, terrified of crushing something.

"My divination is actually very simple. I look at where the wandering stars have traveled, and whether their mouths are open."

"That's all?"

"That's all. Everything else is just window dressing for laymen."

The wandering stars were the planets; the ancient Greeks called them "planetes," meaning "wanderers."

All the other stars across the sky stayed dutifully nailed in place; only these few were restless, wandering back and forth across the heavens all year round.

Hundreds of years ago, during the Age of Discovery, the Deep Realm had already accumulated a great many chaos-corrupted Virtuosos.

Across the floor of the Deep Realm lay the rotted breath, the bones, or the mangled faces of Virtuosos—out-of-control high-Rank beings wreaking havoc everywhere. Back then, Major Adepts did not dare descend into the Deep Realm at all; if their luck was bad and they ran into a chaos-corrupted Virtuoso, their end was often worse than death.

The lord of the hunt had encountered them back then too. When it hacked at them with an axe, they felt no pain.

When it tried to recite their names, there were no names to recite at all.

Those were the rare occasions when the lord of the hunt had to call back its pack empty-handed.

Later on, the very first Virtuoso of the newly split Star Map Tradition came up with a solution:

If the Deep Realm could no longer hold them, then launch them all up into the sky.

Wielding that power, the Virtuoso tethered those monstrosities one by one to the wandering stars. Because the wandering stars never stopped moving, the creatures tethered to them were dragged along forever.

Dragged along without pause, the monstrosities could never take root, and without roots, they could never grow.

In November 1572, a new star brighter than Venus blazed to life on the chair of Cassiopeia. It was visible even in broad daylight for two full weeks and took a year and a half to fade out.

A Dane wrote a book titled On the New Star.

The world thought it was a work of astronomy, when in fact it was a register.

Aristotle had said that the heavens were unchanging, and from that day onward, his claim was null and void. Relying on that unprecedented, mad undertaking, the first Virtuoso of the split Star Map Tradition advanced to Master.

A massive chunk of the Deep Realm had been cleared out, at the cost of opening a skylight above everyone's heads.

Starlight began leaking ether downward, astrology turned from utter nonsense into half-truths, and the Old Continent entered the Little Ice Age.

The old-timers back then often said that when too many things hung in the sky, the earth below grew cold.

From that point on, the entire mystical side surged into unstoppable activity and stepped into a new era. Many of the Virtuosos still alive today were born during that time.

Yet the heavens were never peaceful again.

In November 1833, during the "Great Leonid Meteor Storm," stars rained down across the sky of the New Continent like a cloudburst. Several dead men in the New Continent knelt in the snow waiting for the Last Judgment—only for the Wild Hunt to arrive instead.

In the autumn of 1859 came the "Carrington Event," when the sun whipped up a storm that collapsed electrical circuits across the globe. Riding past a railway line, the lord of the hunt watched telegraph wires throwing off sparks all by themselves.

Then, in the summer of 1908, came the terrifying "Tunguska Explosion." After returning from that region, the Old Scholar often complained that midnight had been bright enough to stand in the street and read a newspaper.

The lord of the hunt knew that every one of those events was the fallout of disturbances among the wandering stars above.

The little hound's head spun in a circle following the stars overhead until it grew dizzy and plopped its rear onto the floor.

The woman turned the crank another circle, and the sun settled onto the lowest step.

"It is the winter solstice, after all," the Star Map Virtuoso said, releasing the crank.

"When the sun is at its lowest, the night is longest. And when the night is long, the stars up there shine down all the longer."

She raised both hands to the eastern side of the star net, spread her fingers, and pinched a star down from the zenith.

Trailing behind the star was a thread of light so thin it was nearly invisible.

Looping the thread once around her little finger, she reached up to pinch a second star, then a third.

Once she had enough, she spread all ten fingers and began weaving a cat's cradle.

Threads of light crossed and hooked between her fingers, forming a constellation with every turn.

She pulled her hands outward, stretching Orion taut between her fingers.

"This is you."

The lord of the hunt narrowed its eyes and studied it for a long moment.

"I'm not that skinny. The waist looks like someone strangled it."

Ignoring the remark, she pinched down two more stars and hung them on as a pair of antlers. The lord of the hunt fell silent; now it really did look the part.

With a hook of her left middle finger, a thread dropped beside the figure's feet, weighted with Sirius in Canis Major.

"This is your big dog, and it also represents the people under your command."

A flick of her right little finger brought out Canis Minor beside it—two stars in all.

"This is it."

The little hound stared at those two stars for a long while.

The hunter was there, and the big dog was there, yet the laziest constellation in the entire sky just had to be its own. Feeling wronged, it let out a whimper.

The faceless woman pinched down another, dimmer star and added it beneath the two stars where a hind leg would be.

"One extra star for your lame leg."

The little hound stopped whimpering and swept its tail twice across the floor.

With the main constellations assembled, she spoke no further.

With a flip of the string cradle, Orion and the two dogs were shifted to one side. From the east, she pinched down Gemini and hung the twins shoulder to shoulder along the threads.

Ash-pale Saturn slid down the threads right between them and settled in place.

She slackened both middle fingers, and several strands in the center sagged into a massive pocket.

Beneath the pocket, the threads twisted into a knot before splitting into four strands that flowed away—one to the north, one to the west, one to the south, and one to the northeast.

The lord of the hunt stared at pale gray Saturn for a moment.

Over the past two years, Saturn's rings had opened particularly wide, and now it was squatting squarely between the Twins.

An old thing sitting between two children, opening its mouth wide?

It also recognized the four strands beneath the pocket: north to the Rhine, west to the Rhone, south to the Ticino, and northeast to the Reuss.

On the night of the winter solstice, a bottomless pocket would gape open beneath St. Gotthard Pass.

The faceless woman raised her hand again, pinched a star from the severed head in Perseus's grasp, and hung it on the edge of the pocket.

The star pulsed between bright and dim, and the little hound bared its teeth at it.

The lord of the hunt recognized that star. What Perseus held in his hand was the head of Medusa, and that star was the eye on the Gorgon's head, blinking once every few days.

Back in myth, Perseus had not dared look directly at the head, striking at its reflection in his polished shield instead.

This foretold that an eye inside a Mirror would hang outside the pocket; every blink was a count, tallying whom it would try to save first.

The lord of the hunt had clashed with the Black Earth River Master plenty of times already and had smashed hundreds of the creature's Mirrors with its own hands; it knew those tricks inside and out.

The woman tilted her right wrist inward, and the threads drew Orion's upraised arm down into the pocket.

The eye at the rim of the pocket blinked once, lighting up a string of small objects:

A Gold Signet Ring, an iron ring, a Bronze Seal, a bronze ring, an Antler Tip Token... The hand the lord of the hunt had been resting at its waist whipped back inside its cloak.

The warning was clear: the moment it reached in to pull anyone out, the Mirror would shine right back up along its arm.

Neither the treasures locked inside its cabinets nor anything outside bearing its name would escape.

The Star Map Virtuoso brought her hands together toward the center, and all the threads went slack.

The three stars of Orion's belt slid down the slackened threads into the pocket, with Sirius rolling down right behind them.

"Hey," the lord of the hunt said, growing anxious.

The faceless woman ignored it.

The lord of the hunt shut its mouth. It understood now: even if it did not reach out a hand, its people, its dogs, and its collection would still tumble into the pocket one after another.

Reaching in wouldn't work, and not reaching in wouldn't work either.

A snowflake drifted in through the crack of the skylight; by the time it floated down, it had become a tiny star, white tinged with a hint of pale blue, resting on the topmost intersection of the string cradle.

She reached out her little finger to hook it into a knot, but it slipped right outside the loop.

She tried hooking it a second time, and again it slid free, so she simply left it alone.

The three stars of Canis Minor climbed up the slack threads toward the newcomer star, and Sirius along with the other stars followed behind, crawling back out.

On the floor, the little hound wagged its tail faster and faster until half its body was wiggling along with it.

This time, the lord of the hunt watched the longest.

No knot could catch this new star, which meant it was not recorded in any Star Catalog.

That meant someone would appear when the time came and teach its subordinates how to climb back up on their own.

Better yet, the moment the little hound saw this person, it would drop right at his feet. The string cradle flipped again, and four faint stars formed a square frame.

A crimson star slid down from elsewhere and stamped itself into the bottom-right corner of the frame.

The lord of the hunt recognized that shape. More than ten days ago, in the sky above Jutland, the Hunting Register had flipped through its pages all by itself—the Master of the Classical Records Tradition had stepped out.

That meant a library card would take effect that night.

The woman relaxed all ten fingers, and the stars flew back out through the skylight, vanishing behind the snow clouds.

Pale gray Saturn moved the slowest, its rings still gaping wide.

Meanwhile, the star absent from every Star Catalog strangely shattered in part on its own—only to blaze back to light once it finished shattering.

Standing in place, the lord of the hunt silently summed it all up:

On the night of the winter solstice, at the St. Gotthard watershed, there would be a bottomless pocket;

Outside the pocket, a Mirror would be counting whom it tried to save first;

If it reached out a hand, all of its possessions would be exposed;

If it did not reach out, everything belonging to it would still fall inside—unless someone could teach them to climb out by themselves;

That night, a library card would also take effect;

And a star not found in any Star Catalog would shatter at one corner, then shine on just the same.

It turned the matter over in its mind. Even before coming to Turin, it had already been preparing to stage a joint hunt.

The notice for descending into the Deep Realm had been written by the Old Scholar on the orders of the lord of the hunt.

The antler mark stamped on the notice, and Loki using that notice to peddle information—all of it had been tacitly approved by the lord of the hunt.

Through its own channels, the lord of the hunt also knew full well that the Black Earth River Master had invited the mouth of the Abyss Virtuoso.

Its plan was actually a very simple feint of weakness: since the Black Earth River Master wanted a pocketful of people, the lord of the hunt would start by handing it a pocketful of people.

The forty-odd newcomers Loki had brought along had already paid their admission fee, so even if they fell in, the lord of the hunt wouldn't take a loss.

Once the Black Earth River Master extended its Mirror to count them, the lord of the hunt would trace the Mirror back to its source and blow a blast on its Horn.

The moment the Horn sounded, the Virtuosos it had recruited for a gang fight would all enter the fray.

At the end of April in Flanders, the crimson mark that should have landed on the Gale Adept's Bone Flute had been intercepted when the lord of the hunt yanked its reins and made the Black Earth River Master's mirror curtain take the hit instead, leaving the Gale Adept owing it a favor. On the night of the winter solstice, the Gale Adept would be responsible for blowing away the hunger pouring out of the Abyss Virtuoso's mouth.

Then it would invite the City-Forging Virtuoso from the plowed furrows of Apennine to plow a trench all the way around St. Gotthard Pass, so the Black Earth River Master couldn't flee even if it tried.

There was also the Maelstrom Virtuoso of Stroma Island to twist the four rivers pouring into the pocket back the way they came, which would naturally make the pocket leak.

Added to that, the Star Map Virtuoso would be watching from the sky, reporting the situation to them in real time.

Five against two should by all rights have been a sure win.

Yet the Gale Adept's favor would be spent once used.

The City-Forging Virtuoso, the Maelstrom Virtuoso, and the Star Map Virtuoso all charged steep prices for taking action, and after winning, it would have to split the spoils with them.

If it called in no one, the people in the troop would be taught by the Honored Envoy to climb out by themselves.

The Black Earth River Master and the Abyss Virtuoso would come up empty-handed, leaving them nowhere to vent their fury except on the Honored Envoy.

And what the lord of the hunt wanted was precisely for the Black Earth River Master and the Abyss Virtuoso to strike at the Honored Envoy.

The Wild Hunt had a rule older than the Hunting Register itself: blood must be paid with blood.

The line "Blood Has Sealed the Saddle" in the lord of the hunt's honorific name referred to that very blood debt. The more important the slain member was within the troop, the greater the boost the lord of the hunt received when collecting the debt.

The Honored Envoy rode a horse the lord of the hunt itself had ridden, and in the Hunting Register, the Honored Envoy's place stood ahead of every other rider.

Across the entire Wild Hunt, only the lord of the hunt itself ranked above the Honored Envoy.

If the Black Earth River Master and the Abyss Virtuoso tore the Honored Envoy to pieces with their own hands, the blood sealed inside the saddle would blaze up all at once.

When that happened, on the strength of the blood debt alone, the lord of the hunt could take on both of them by itself.

The price the Honored Envoy would have to pay wouldn't be heavy either, with a Master backing him up.

Besides, if the Black Earth River Master and the Abyss Virtuoso went too far—tearing apart the Shadow and then trying to follow the link back to tear at the Honored Envoy himself—it would be no different from tearing up the Master's library card.

If something happened to the borrower before the book was returned to the shelf, the Master of the Classical Records Tradition might very well step out in person.

Of course, it would be best if the Master came, and it didn't matter if not—with the blood-debt boost, the lord of the hunt was confident it could severely wound its foes.

Standing nearby, the faceless woman guessed at a glance what the lord of the hunt was thinking.

Most likely, it was planning to rally the Virtuosos it knew for an all-out brawl in the Deep Realm, everyone piling in to split the spoils once they won.

Yet the Star Map Virtuoso knew that letting the battle escalate would only work against their side. The Black Earth River Master and the Abyss Virtuoso were no fools, and both of their mysteries thrived on chaos—the messier the scene, the greater their advantage.

If it turned into another chaotic melee, it would only repeat the same old cycle.

Besides, there was a crucial matter she had to warn the lord of the hunt about.

She drew the Quill from its stand and tapped a blank space in the Star Catalog.

"Are you doing the math?"

The lord of the hunt said nothing.

The Star Map Virtuoso casually pointed at an etching on the wall—Goya's Saturn Devouring His Son.

"Every chaos-corrupted Virtuoso is as deaf as the man who painted that picture."

"When you recite an honorific name, a chaos-corrupted Virtuoso cannot hear it."

"When I compile the Star Catalog, a chaos-corrupted Virtuoso has no number. No one can summon a chaos-corrupted Virtuoso."

The Star Map Virtuoso's fingertip came to rest on the crazed face of the old man in the painting.

"There is only one exception. Chaos-corrupted Virtuosos cannot hear names, but they can hear hunger. The Abyss Virtuoso can summon them directly."

"That is the trump card it has been keeping hidden, and that ace is the very reason the Black Earth River Master invited it into the fray."

"So if you want this operation to succeed, you had best end the fight quickly."

The lord of the hunt bent down, picked up the lame little hound by the scruff, and tucked it back behind its saddlebag.

"Does the next question cost money?"

"Of course."

The lord of the hunt asked nothing further, turning with the dog to walk out the door.

...

On December 22, darkness fell over the Imperial Capital by three-fifty in the afternoon.

A fire crackled in the hearth of the study at 13 Chelsea Road. Grandfather leaned back in a high-backed chair reading the paper, the pages rustling as he turned them.

Richard leaned over the back of the chair, reading alongside him. Sometimes news from the mundane side was actually the prelude to events on the mystical side.

In the Imperial Capital Morning News, he found three fairly important pieces of news. First was Sir Haig's appointment as commander-in-chief of the expeditionary force.

Then there was a report taking up more than half a page: the positions at Suvla and Anzac Cove had been evacuated overnight without the loss of a single man.

The reporter wrote in glowing terms, describing how soldiers had wrapped their boot soles in burlap sacks and walked across the sand to the beach without making a sound.

Several "Self-Firing Rifles" had also been left behind in the trenches: two tin cans hung one above the other, with the upper can dripping water into the lower one until it filled, dropped from the weight, and pulled the trigger.

More than an hour after the men were gone, the rifles were still firing.

At the last gathering, Dionysus had mentioned selling his bitter brew to the military supply system specifically for a coastal evacuation somewhere.

A third piece of news was squeezed into a corner: at dawn on the nineteenth, enemy forces had released a new type of poison gas north of Ypres, against which the army's protective hoods had proven highly effective.

Grandfather folded the newspaper and rested it on his knee.

"Sir Haig is a rather patient man."

"Isn't patience a good thing?" Richard asked.

"For a patient man to be a soldier is a good thing, of course."

"But when a man like that becomes commander-in-chief, he won't easily let the soldiers in his hands retreat."

Grandfather picked up his pipe as if to smoke, then set it back down. "And if they don't retreat, even more people will die."

As the two of them spoke and the mood grew heavy, light, hurried footsteps suddenly pattered down the hallway.

"Brother!" Evelyn poked her head in through the doorway, a smudge of flour on the tip of her nose.

"There's caroling over by the cathedral tonight. They set off from the square at eight, loop around to Chelsea Bridge, and come back."

"I want to go to bed early tonight."

Evelyn's brows knitted together at once.

"Last time you said you were going to bed early, I went to wake you for breakfast the next morning and you were out like a salted fish pickled in a crock. I couldn't wake you no matter how hard I tried."

"I really was tired that day."

"And you're not tired today?"

"I'm tired today too."

Evelyn narrowed her eyes at him, slapping the ball of dough between her hands.

"Fine, I'll go by myself."

She turned to head back to the kitchen, then popped her head back in.

"One mince pie for you, one for Grandfather, two for me, and one each for Auntie and Mom. The rest are all getting mailed back to Dad."

"Suet was hard to buy this year, so if you bite into any grit, you're not allowed to say I made them."

"Then who should I say made them?"

"Say Sister Grey made them."

She burst out laughing at her own words, then spun around and vanished down the hall.

From behind his newspaper, Grandfather lifted his eyelids briefly, saying nothing.

Margaret sat by the window, knitting a pair of gray wool gloves.

She had arrived in the Imperial Capital the day before yesterday on a Christmas train ticket; Rogers had said there was still work at the factory and he wouldn't be able to make it until the twenty-fourth.

Carrying a cup of tea, Richard walked over and sat down beside her.

His mother looped the yarn around her finger again.

"Something going on again tonight?"

"Yes."

"Does your grandfather know?"

"He knows."

Setting the glove on her lap, she reached out and covered the hand holding his teacup.

Her hand was warm—warmer even than the teacup—and the few residual circuits beneath her fingertips slowly cycled once.

"Go on, then."

"I'll make breakfast at daybreak. Don't let your grandfather sit in a chair all night—his back is bad."

"He insisted on sitting there himself."

"And you believe everything he tells you?"

His mother drew her hand back and resumed knitting the glove.

"Last winter he claimed his back didn't hurt, and then he stood on the stairs for half a minute before he could even move his legs."

"I'll keep it in mind."

"One more thing." His mother did not look up at him.

"When you get back, warm your hands up before touching your sister. She can't stand the cold."

Richard looked down at his hands. "Alright."

At ten-thirty that night, Richard returned to the third floor.

Evelyn's plate of mince pies sat on the nightstand beneath a square of fine linen. He picked one up and took a bite; it was sweet and tart.

The door opened without a knock.

Gerard walked in carrying a chair, a wool blanket draped over its back and the crescent-shaped Silver Blade tucked under his arm.

He set the chair by the window, facing the glass with its back to the door, and laid the Silver Blade across his knees.

"Grandfather, you should be asleep."

"Old men don't need much sleep." Gerard spread the blanket over his legs.

Richard didn't press him further; he knew there was no talking him out of it.

"Where is it this time?" Gerard asked.

"Up in the mountains of Switzerland."

The old man glanced out the window. There was only fog in the winter night of the Imperial Capital, blurring the streetlamps into a dim haze.

"Mountains in winter don't listen to reason. When I was young, I chased a stag beneath the Wetterhorn for three days."

"In the end, it collapsed and died of exhaustion in a snow pit. When I climbed down to claim it, my foot slipped, and I lay in that pit right beside it for half the night."

"And then?"

"Then day broke... Day always breaks eventually."

Richard murmured an acknowledgment, lay down on the bed fully dressed, and closed his fingers around the lord of the hunt's token.

When the clock in the downstairs hall struck eleven, he closed his eyes and feigned sleep.

From the darkness beneath the bed, his Shadow rose and put on its mask.

High above, the procession of the Wild Hunt had already assembled.

When the Shadow dropped into the formation, the Old Scholar was already waiting there, holding the reins of that same horse—half a head taller than the mounts around it, fitted with nothing but a single old rein.

Catching sight of the Shadow, the horse gave a snort and lowered its neck.

The Shadow activated the "Mask of the Inverse Envoy." Tonight there was no Hermes; astride the horse sat only the Honored Envoy of the Wild Hunt.

In front of Loki and his crowd, Richard could not have the Shadow raise the Caduceus either.

With the writ from last time reading "By this token, acting for the lord of the hunt," the troop would recognize him all the same.

Richard looked toward the far end of the column. It was lively over there, crowded with new faces, all of them steaming with the breath of the living.

For this run, Loki had brought along more than forty newcomers, recruited from docks, mine pits, and tavern back doors all across the north.

Bundled in a motley assortment of fur coats and astride freshly assigned horses, they sat stiffly in their saddles.

Every man clutched a receipt with rules printed densely across the back:

1. Do not state your name.

2. Do not answer questions.

3. Do not name anything. 4. No refunds; no backing out after joining.

5. Final interpretation of the above terms rests solely with the First Seat.

A lobsterback in a red coat rode past the newcomers, looked them over, and casually asked one of them, "Which battalion are you from?"

The man immediately stiffened his back and rattled off a whole string of words by reflex: "Reporting, sir! I am Olaf Eriksson, son of Erik Olafsson, from Steine Farm north of Bergen, and my family has three cows..."

At those words, half the column buried their faces in their hands at once, and Loki slapped himself squarely on the forehead.

Even the lobsterback hadn't expected to get that much out of him. "...I only asked for your battalion number."

The Old Scholar shook his head too. "Thankfully, we haven't gone inside yet."

The newcomer's face went dead white. He looked down at his receipt, then up at the lobsterback, his lips trembling for a long moment before he forced out, "Can... can I still quit right now?"

"No backing out," Loki said through gritted teeth. "It's written right there on the receipt."

At the tail end of the column, a dark-coated horse lingered at the very rear. The girl in the saddle wore a cloak trimmed with white fox fur at the collar, the divine name of winter and hunting hanging faint above her head.

All around her, the newcomers exhaled clouds of white mist that scattered in the cold wind, yet around her there was nothing at all.

She was breathing too, her chest rising and falling, but the breath leaving her lips was colder than the mountain wind—too cold even to condense into mist.

The horse beneath her was restless, craning its neck every so often to look toward the Honored Envoy.

Richard badly wanted to ask her: what exactly had Holloway sent her into the Spirit Realm to bring back?

Naturally, the Shadow did not say a word. Tonight's Honored Envoy did not know Skadi.

The lord of the hunt blew a short blast on its Horn.

The procession rose into the air, flying south along Lake Uri before crossing the pass and wheeling east into the sky above Gotthard Mountain.

This region was the roof ridge of the Alps. On this side of the veil, the four rivers were no longer flowing down the mountain tonight.

All four waterways had turned back, seeping beneath the snow toward the very center of the summit.

The water poured in without a sound, leaving not a single echo.

The surrounding snow slopes tilted slightly inward like the fabric of an empty sack. Below the pass lay several alpine lakes, frozen solid for the winter.

Swept smooth by the wind, the ice gleamed under the moonlight like a series of Mirrors.

The column of the Wild Hunt was reflected across the ice. The lord of the hunt looked down.

Within the ice, the riders in the front row lit up one by one.

Click, click... Unhurried and steady, counting backward from the very front row.

The lord of the hunt's grip tightened on the reins.

Slowly, it turned its head to look toward the flank of the column.

The Honored Envoy sat in silence, giving no sign of what he was thinking.

The Old Scholar rode up beside it. "Lord of the hunt, it is time."

The lord of the hunt tilted its antlers slightly.

On the bed on the third floor in the Imperial Capital, the Antler Tip in Richard's palm suddenly turned ice-cold.

A voice echoed from the depths of the Wild Hunt's Horn: "Honored Envoy, I would like to discuss something with you regarding a trap we may face ahead—one involving the Black Earth River Master and the Abyss Virtuoso."

Silence held within the depths of the Horn for a moment, shutting out the wind and the drumming of hooves.

Richard was genuinely caught off guard.

"If there's a trap like that waiting down below, why are you only telling me at the very last moment?"

"Telling you even a day earlier would have made it much easier for their divination to intercept the news."

The lord of the hunt laid out everything it knew, leaving the decision to Richard.

"Down below lies the Abyss Virtuoso's pocket, and outside the pocket, the Black Earth River Master is counting whom I will save first."

"When the time comes, I will not save anyone. You must find a way to make them climb out by themselves."

"How they climb out is entirely up to you."

"Once they climb out, those two Virtuosos will vent their fury on you, but at most they will destroy your Shadow and the wisp of spirit inside it."

"The Master's library card in your pocket will cover the worst of it, and I will make them pay their blood debt in full. For at least five years, they will pose no threat to you whatsoever."

Richard gave a low murmur. "Is there payment? For an operation this dangerous, you wouldn't expect me to work for nothing, would you?"

By the rules of the Wild Hunt, spoils that were earned were meant to be claimed.

The lord of the hunt knew that since he had brought up the spoils on his own, he had already agreed.

"Of course. If you are willing to help, I will use the mystery fragments torn from their bodies to craft a Spirit Realm Messenger for you, just as I promised."

"And from the spoils of this hunt, you may take your pick of one... no, two items."

The voice inside the Horn forced the words out with obvious difficulty; making a miser like the lord of the hunt part with an extra share was clearly agonizing.

"If you are unwilling, I will cast you out of the column right now. I respect the Envoy, and I respect the Master of the Classical Records Tradition."

Then the lord of the hunt fell silent, quietly awaiting Richard's answer.