The Triads: Book Two of the Triads of Tir na n'Og

By Darragh Metzger

In Tir na n'Og, the Greater Fey rule over Man and Fey alike, their will enforced by teams of hand-picked human champions called Triads...
Three Triads, each serving a different faction of the quarrelsome Fey, are called to investigate three seemingly unrelated mysteries. But the clues lead down a dark and bitter path as they are drawn into battle against one another—for the foe they unearth is more subtle and fearsome than any mere monster, and the peace of Tir na n'Og is at stake.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Darragh Metzger
• Release date: Sep 23, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310644702

Darragh Metzger

I make my living in the world's two lowest-paying professions: acting and writing. While my resume includes stage and screen credits, I've spent the last several years wearing armor, riding horses, and swinging swords with The Seattle Knights, a stage combat and jousting theatrical troupe. My publishing credits include plays, non-fiction articles, and short stories, one of which made The StorySouth Millions Writers Award Notable Stories of 2005. I've written two short story collections and ten novels to date, sold three of them in 2002, and have now re-released them under my own imprint, TFA Press. My first non-fiction project, Alaska Over Israel: Operation Magic Carpet, the Men and Women Who Made it Fly, and the Little Airline That Could, came out in 2018. I also sing and write songs for A Little Knight Music and The Badb. If I had free time (which I don't), I'd spend it with horses. I'm married to artist/fight director Dameon Willich.

Book preview

The Triads

Book Two of the Triads of Tir na n'Og

Copyright 1999, 2020 Darragh Metzger

A TFA Press Original

Lynnwood, Washington

Cover art by

Dameon Willich

Copyright © 2011

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Table of Contents

Title/Copyright Page

Dedication

Prologue: Opa

Chapter 1: The Red Triad: John

Chapter 2: The Green Triad: Rowan

Chapter 3: The Blue Triad: DeVasa

Chapter 4: The Red Triad: John

Chapter 5: The Green Triad: Rowan

Chapter 6: The Blue Triad: Yaqut

Chapter 7: The Blue Triad: Angharad

Chapter 8: The Green Triad: Jade

Chapter 9: The Red Triad: Bae Twan

Chapter 10: The Blue Triad: Yaqut

Chapter 11: The Red Triad: Shee-An-Natay

Chapter 12: The Green Triad: Groushko

Chapter 13: The Green Triad: Jade

Chapter 14: The Red and the Green

Chapter 15: The Blue, the Red, and the Green

Chapter 16: The Blue and the Red

Chapter 17: The Blue, the Red, and the Green

Chapter 18: The Green Triad: Rowan

Chapter 19: The Red and the Blue

Epilogue: Opa

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Author's Notes

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Dedication

To the one who brought Magic back into my life. I hope this repays you in some small way.

Prologue

The wind was wild. It lashed against the house in cold, wet fury, rattling the windows and occasionally surprising the fire into darting out onto the hearth in a startled attempt to escape the sudden gusts whistling down the stone chimney.

On such a day no one ventured out of doors. With full bellies and a warm fire, there was no need. The walls were sturdy, the roof snug, the larder well stocked, and those gathered within cheered by one another's company.

The first tantalizing whiffs of what would eventually simmer into dinner drifted into the room now and again, undercut by the sweet, doughy smell of rising bread that would soon be baked up hot and fresh. The women talked in low tones as they carded wool by the fire. The men mended tack or idly carved pieces of wood into whatever took their fancy and required little effort. No one wanted to stray from the room, for Opa was about to tell a story, and no one risked missing one of Opa's stories.

In the place of honor, in the most comfortable chair closest to the fireplace, sat the old storyteller, Opa, drawn to the house by chance and held there by the storm. Even sitting, he was tall, stretched thin and gaunt like some ancient, sacred oak, crowned with snow but unbowed by winter. The wealth of scars that criss-crossed his weathered skin and the flash of something hard and bright behind the summer blue of his eyes made him seem like something blown there by the storm, half-wild and just a little dangerous.

Those eyes, with that hint of lightning in their depths, rested briefly on each adult in turn as he sipped warm cider from a large wooden mug. He did not enter into any of the conversations, and none would have dreamed of disturbing him before he was ready, though furtive glances thrown his way told him that his hosts were eager to become his audience.

But Opa waited, so they waited with him.

For a moment, Opa closed his eyes and let his other senses quest outward. Beneath the smells of warm yeast, damp wool, and the aged alder logs smoldering in the fireplace, the air tingled like spice on the tongue, tasting of anticipation and the politely concealed excitement of his hosts. They were eager, these folk. All the better. Storytelling was a welcome way to fill dull, grey days when adults and children alike had nothing to do but wait for Nature to wear herself out.

But Opa waited to be asked. The invitation was more than mere ritual, more than a sign of respect; it was necessary. His audience must be willing in order for him to work his magic.

Now that the midday meal was done, he knew he would not have to wait long.

Accompanied by the patter of slipper-shod feet and a confusion of high-pitched giggles, a flock of children returned from the washroom, hair still damp around shining, eager faces. Shepparded by Jason, his apprentice, they settled on rugs at Opa's feet, squirming for the best spots like pups for the teat. Jason took up a discreet post in the corner, half-hidden in shadow, dark eyes watchful, waiting. He learned quickly, did Jason.

Tell us a story, Opa, said the eldest, a boy just teetering at the far edge of childhood. The others, three boys and two girls, nodded and beamed encouragement.

Opa looked at each of them and did not smile. I am filled with stories. Stories sing and tumble through me like leaves in a whirlwind, to swirl into shape at need. I cannot pluck one forth without form, a jumble of words and noises without meaning. What shape would you have me give it?

The boy had obviously given the matter serious consideration. We want a Triad story, please. With Cavaliers and duels. And the Fey. And the Code.

The Code of Ohma, added a boy with more freckles than comfortably fit on so small a face.

A girl with serious eyes and a mouth that looked unaccustomed to smiles held up her hand. Are there any tales about Ohma? The first boy turned toward her, frowning, but stopped and threw a wary glance at Opa.

Good. The right story had been invoked; the place of all beginnings. He was not often asked for it. After all, it should already be well known to all within hearing.

Opa tilted his head, and his eyes looked beyond them, as if he saw through the walls of the house and into the storm beyond. His voice shivered through the sudden stillness.

"In the beginning, humans who found their way to Tir na n'Og were unlikely to find their way out again, for the Sidhe—the Greater Fey—never forgot that they had been driven from the earth by Man.

"For thousands of years, the refuge of faerie was a place of death for mankind. In their own land, the Folk were ruled by nothing but their own whim, and men were blown like leaves in the wind of their passing. The Wild Hunt rode each night beneath the eternally full moon, and Man was their prey, dying on the fangs of their beasts and the points of their spears.

"It was Ohma, daughter of Lugh the Golden, Lugh of the Long Hand, who changed all that. It was Ohma who threw her protection over men. It was Ohma who bade the Fey treat their lesser cousins in accordance with their own teachings. It was Ohma who taught mankind the Code, and set our feet upon the path we would forevermore tread in Tir na n'Og.

And it was Ohma who enlisted the aid and support of the three Powers, firstborn and greatest of the Greater Fey, so that they forbade the Wild Hunt, and made between Man and Fey the covenant we honor to this day.

If the children thought to interrupt—for surely they had heard this part of the tale many times before—none were so bold as to do so. Opa let his words spin out into the room, filling the shadowy corners and curling around his listeners to draw them to him.

"In gratitude, men honored Ohma, and took her wisdom for their own. Man and Fey alike took up her Code and followed the way it led. Mankind learned of honor and courage; the Fey, to whom such things had once been sacred, looked at men and saw themselves mirrored, and so rediscovered their own greatness of spirit. The thirteen Factions agreed to let mankind become the bridge between them, and laid down their swords.

And so, out of the greatest among the humans, the leaders of the Fey Factions chose the first Triads, to carry out deeds of honor in their names. And in time some of these, the merest handful, became the first Triumphants, who were given stewardship of the cities given to men, and the first Ironlords, who were given the Law and sworn to uphold the welfare of the land. We honor their names with tales of their deeds, and the deeds of those who have followed.

Opa paused. When he spoke again, his voice was almost brisk. Many Triads have answered the call to serve since men first entered the land of the Fey. As one Triad is Broken, another rises to take its place. He leaned back, lifting eyebrows like the tufted wings of white birds. Is there a particular Triad you had in mind?

The adults, caught off-guard, leaned back in their chairs and shivered as if coming awake. The children stirred, remembering to blink, and sat up. One of the other boys waved a hand in the air, speaking as soon as Opa glanced in his direction. I thought there were only seven Factions. That's what the Cavalier's challenge says.

Opa smiled, nodding approval. You are right, in part. The challenge invokes the seven main Factions and the three Powers. The remaining six Factions rarely meddle in human affairs, so they do not often call upon Triads to fight their battles for them. The oldest boy flushed, eyes bright. I don't care about the others, he said. I want to hear about the Red Triad.

Beside him, the freckled boy opened his mouth in protest. Uh-uh. Green Triad. Can you tell us a story about one of the Green Triads?

Blue is best, lisped a very little girl with a very little kitten and a doll that had seen better days. Sir Charles.

Uh-uh, the freckled boy insisted. Rowan and Jade and—no, before that—Rowan and Jax and Ankh.

Red, said the oldest boy firmly. A quest story.

There have been many quests, said Opa. As many as there have been Triads.

The boy grinned impatiently. The greatest one of all.

Opa chuckled, shaking his head. Alas, you ask for the one story I cannot give you, for that tale is not yet finished.

The boy's face fell, but curiosity won over disappointment. But...wasn't it in the olden days?

Opa spread his hands in a theatrical shrug. What is time in the land of the Fey, who live outside of its currents and have never understood it?

Then, how does it begin?

Opa chuckled and took a sip of his cider while he gathered his energy and prepared to weave magic.

The stories he told were outwardly simple: tales of heroes and monsters, villains and miracles, magic and terror, good and evil, playing out parts like dolls on a cut-out stage. And so most people heard them.

But behind the tales were all the parts that lay locked away in his memory, honored in the silence of his heart. He must choose his words as he would arrange a song, building sweet harmonies with that which was left unspoken, a symphony of detail, meaning, moral, depth, and color he would slip into his listeners' hearts, while their ears heard only his carefully plucked-out melody.

Some would hear the true story within the outward tale, the parts spoken, and not spoken. Some would understand. Those were the ones that mattered.

He leaned over and prodded the fire with a stick, producing a shower of sparks and smoke that dissolved to diamonds, stars, and mist.

Imagine a place where it is always summer, he began, "or so it seems; the seasons drift across the land in a lazy circle, from spring, to summer, to fall, and on to spring again. Each lasts as long as the others, as if Nature has chosen to show only her fairest face, and somewhere it is always summer, lazily following spring and trailing autumn in its wake as the seasons flow from one to the next.

This place has been known by many names, but to the natives, it is called Tir na n'Og, and it is the land to which the Fey fled to escape mankind's smoke and steel.

The magic rode in his words, painting pictures in the minds of his audience, while they stared into the dancing flames...

* * *

It is springtime in this part of the Summer Country. The sky arches above the ever-green land in stained-glass blue, birds dancing through the brilliance in aerial celebration of the day, or perhaps of nothing at all. Fruit trees flourish their blossoms in the breeze, new growth sprouting at their feet. Everywhere, the land displays its beauty, enticing the eye from one glorious vista to the next.

The forests, especially, are deceptively lovely, the air beneath green boughs rich and fragrant, alive with the song of birds, the hum of insects, and the soft, sibilant melodies that, in the land sometimes known as Tir na n'Og, are not always caused by wind in the leaves.

In a clearing, in one particular part of a forest far from the habitats of men, four men pay no attention to the beauty surrounding them. Two of them stand beside a wide circle drawn in the dirt, their faces set in varying degrees of disgust, annoyance, and wariness.

Within the circle, the other two men are trying to kill each other.

The two who stand and watch are unalike; one is of medium height, broad-shouldered and brown haired, while the other is slight, fair-haired, and whippet-thin. But each bears on his brow a mark, a small triangle the shade of fresh-spilled blood. They are two members of the Red Triad, and they have been together for a long time, or at least long in terms of Triad service.

The taller of the watchers wears worn leather garb that might have been night-black once, but has faded to the color of shadows. It blends easily into the forest around him, so that he is somehow unclear to the sight.

His crossbow, however, is banded in red, the same color as the fletching of the bolts in the box slung at his belt. Only that and the red triangle on his forehead mark him for what he is.

The smaller man, beside him, displays his colors more boldly in the scarlet stitching along the hem of his dark, travel-stained robe, matching kid gloves, and the silk scarf he uses to tie back his pale blond hair. His staff has red leather grips wrapped around it. The blood-hued triangle on his brow is scrunched out of shape by the frown on his thin, wind-scoured face.

The two men within the ring are both tall. One has the powerful build of an axe fighter, though at the moment he wields a red-hilted longsword with rare skill. His gothic plate armor is pitted and scored with the scars of many battles, but it is the work of a master, easily deflecting the blows that ring against its metal surface. Well-patched holes mar his faded scarlet tabard, and one of the wings of the black gryphon spread across his breast is freshly torn, drooping down to expose the still-vivid fabric beneath.

He has lost his helmet and blood trickles down his cheek, but the grin that splits his broad, handsome face is that of one whose true love is battle, and despite the sweat dripping into them, the brilliance of his eyes betrays his fierce joy.

If an observer were to look closely, he might see a red glint within them that could be a reflection of the mark on his sweat-streaked brow, or something else entirely.

The man he battles is as tall, but leaner, and blade-quick. Clad in black, studded leather over a mixture of plate and chain armor, he darts in and out of reach, careful to avoid the return strokes of his foe's blade, beating aside or blocking what he cannot avoid. He wields a long sword with brass quillions and a beaten brass pommel that glitter like gold in the sunlight. His rounded, blackened helmet is topped with a spike and edged with a circle of wolf fur. A flat, fixed visor conceals his face.

The slanted eye slits reveal nothing; there might almost be no one inside the armor.

Beside the circle, the taller man—the Red Ranger—leans over and speaks to the Red Mystic from the side of his mouth. 'For Honor and Glory, for Honor and Glory'—we've no time for this. We're never going to pick up our quarry's trail if Rutger insists on dueling everyone with a sword we run into.

The Red Mystic simply shrugs, his pale eyes never leaving the two men dueling in the circle before him. He is as accustomed to his Cavalier's zealous interpretation of the Code of Ohma where it concerns the honor of dueling as he is to his Ranger's impatience with it. He has learned that it is rarely something over which he need worry, but he watches each move of the fight as if somehow his observance can protect his embattled Cavalier. It is the way..., he says at last. Besides, we need the fellow's horse. After a moment, he adds, Don't worry. You know Rutger never loses.

For all the confidence of his words, he speaks a bit too quickly.

The Ranger snorts. He shouldn't have lamed his own horse in the first place. And I know he will take the fellow. Still... He shrugs, shifting his weight uneasily from one leg to the other. Like the Mystic, he has observed many such battles, but it is clear from his posture that he has never become accustomed to it.

Or perhaps this time he perceives a difference.

Within the circle, the Cavalier laughs as he swings his longsword around his head in a blur of silver, striking at his opponent's head.

But the other man is already out of range, darting back to attack the Cavalier's open side. The Cavalier blocks the blow, the two blades ringing like bells as they meet.

The dark man slips out of reach again, silent, watchful.

The Mystic frowns. I don't like this. This one is carrying steel also. And he's good.

The Ranger nods, his scowl uneasy. Maybe too good. Who is he?

The Red Cavalier drives the dark man across the ring with a series of sweeping blows that flow one from the other, leaving no room for a counter-attack. His opponent backs away, turning from the direct force of the blows so that his retreating steps follow the edge of the circle but never quite cross it.

Feeling his victory near, the Red Cavalier redoubles his efforts, roaring like a madman.

The dark man side-slips the Red Cavalier's charge and moves to the center of the circle. The long, tapered blade of his sword twitches like the tail of a cat, as though he is thinking, considering attacks, defenses. Then it stills.

This time when the Red Cavalier charges, the dark man lunges to meet him, a guttural snarl echoing weirdly from inside the faceless helm.

The blades meet, turn, quillions catch and hold—and suddenly a hot, bright light ignites both blades, dancing up the Red Cavalier's sword and shooting over his body like a bolt of lightning.

The Red Cavalier cries out, his eyes wide and white-rimmed as he jerks and leaps like a fish on a hook.

He staggers back, dropping his sword, and the dark man grabs the Cavalier's arm, yanks it up, and rams his weapon into the exposed armpit until the bloodied point bursts from Rutger's neck.

The Red Ranger cries out, jerking his crossbow from his shoulder even as the Mystic throws out his hands with a wordless scream of anguish. The dark man's hand moves, a mere flick of the wrist, and the Red Mystic's cry is cut short as he crumples bonelessly to the ground, a slim knife quivering in his throat. The dark man is not quick enough to avoid the Ranger's bolt, and he staggers as red fletching sprouts from his side.

The Red Ranger yanks out a long knife and leaps, teeth bared. As he reaches his enemy, however, the dark man rips the bolt from his flesh, blocks the descending knife with one arm, and drives the bloodied missile into the Ranger's chest with the other.

The dying Ranger slumps to the ground, casting a final glance at his dead comrades. Looking up, his glazing eyes widen as he sees the dark man press one hand to the streaming wound in his side and stop the bleeding. A moment later, the hand falls away and no trace of a wound remains.

The Red Ranger looks up at the steel mask. You're an Ironlord, he says, his voice as much accusation as plea.

The dark man says nothing.

The Red Ranger turns his eyes upward, toward the sky. Masters, how have we failed you?

But the sky is no more forthcoming than the dark man, and a moment later, the Red Ranger stops waiting for an answer.

Chapter 1

John von Ravensburg—Johann to his friends—bumped his leather jack against Hans's in a muffled toast. To honor and glory, and to everything the world sends against us.

Hans Gartener grinned. Here's wishing the world luck. The two young men threw back their heads and emptied their jacks in one long draught. As usual, Hans finished a split second before John. Ha! he crowed. You owe me another!

John threw a half-hearted buffet at his friend's head and signaled the barkeep, then turned to lean back against the bar. Beside him, Hans did the same, beaming around the room with bleary good cheer.

Do you know what, Johann? he said, waving vaguely at the room. When I die, I hope that Heaven is like this.

Heaven? John paid for the fresh pitcher and looked around, trying to picture his surroundings in the light of eternity.

It was a tavern, like dozens of others they'd visited. A rectangular room, a long wooden bar against one wall, big fireplace halfway down the opposite wall; huge, heavy doors at either end, the front door propped half open, the back door closed and bolted despite the heat.

Tables, benches, and stools were set in no particular order, and dogs fought over scraps in the straw-covered floor beneath the tables. The smells of beer, sweat, and food rode the smoky air. People talking, laughing, and—in one corner of the room—singing, drowned out any individual conversation, filling the room with a general haze of noise as thick as the smoke from the fireplace.

There were differences, of course. The clothes were more colorful than one usually saw in these places, the tangled threads of conversation a strange singsong in the ear—as far as he could tell, he and Hans were the only two speaking a civilized tongue in the entire room—the food oddly spiced, and the ale worse than usual. The surrounding faces ranged in hue from sun-kissed to mahogany; the eyes, whether round, set aslant, or heavy-lidded, were all dark, and heads not hidden beneath scarves or turbans sported black hair.

Yet what was oddest in this lonely way station somewhere between Magdan and Sahyun was that there was far less of the strange and exotic than of the commonplace.

John let his eyes skim the sea of strange faces. Legend had it that the Greater Fey had directed the early human settlers in Tir na n'Og to the territories that became the thirteen city-states so that each of the many pugnacious branches of humanity could live with its own kind.

If the Fair Folk had hoped, thereby, to keep peace, the experiment was less than entirely successful. The borders between the city-states were more a temptation than a barrier to most, and trade too great a lure to keep the races of humankind apart for long.

As often as not, of course, bandits followed traders, and commerce was as often made by the sword as by coin; familiarity did not necessarily spark friendship. John and Hans had had to fight their way out of places like this one before.

He had grown up hearing songs and stories from the Outside, the world of his ancestors. He doubted many of them; the distances seemed impossibly vast, the laws of time strange and static.

But he was fairly certain that he and Hans had traveled widely among peoples who were perhaps only rumor to their ancestors, and...well, when one came right down to it, there was no getting away from the realization that people everywhere were more alike than different.

It was an uncomfortable thought.

He turned to Hans, shaking his head. You are mad. I always knew it.

No, I mean it. Hans straightened and gestured again to indicate the entire room. Think of all the places we've seen like this. Tell me, in any one of them—any of them, mind you—have you ever been truly unhappy? I tell you, there is a magic in it.

John looked at his friend, at the eyes that were as blue as his, the hair as blond—though Hans's was straight where his own was a mass of girlish curls he utterly despised—and wondered how two men who had so much in common could be so different in some ways. The magic is in the free ale. Free because, as usual, I am paying for it.

Hans grinned at him, having to look up to do so, partly because John was taller, but also because his crossed feet had slid away from the bar. He did not seem worried about it. As a proper Cavalier should. See what I mean? Only in Heaven would things like that happen.

He punched John on the shoulder, caught himself with his usual effortlessness as his feet slid again, then turned back to the bar to refill his own jack from another customer's unwatched pitcher, ignoring John's disapproving frown. We have made it, Johann, he said, enunciating carefully. We are almost all the way back to Tir again. What are the odds that we would survive this long? It has been...well, how long since our Pilgrimage?

John replaced the missing ale in the stranger's pitcher with some of his own as he tried to count the seasons he and Hans had marched through, side by side, then gave up with a shrug. From our point of view, or from back home?

Hans waved impatiently. For them, who knows? You remember when we went back? He turned back around and propped himself against the bar with his elbows. My brother, my own brother, barely a year older than me, for God's sake, and there he was with four children and going bald. And little Frieda is as old as I am. Was. Whatever. I have never understood it, myself.

John remembered, and his hand tightened involuntarily around his drink. He wished he could simply be amazed, as Hans was, but what he remembered most was his shock at how thin and grey his father's hair had gone, the lines and wrinkles in his mother's face. An old woman's face. I'm glad we saw them again, that they know we're both alive and still together. The next time, your sister might be an old woman, our parents long dead...

Hans scowled and punched his shoulder rather harder than usual. Why must you always look at the dark side of things? We saw them again, think of that. How many ever go back at all? Not many, my friend, not too many. We're the lucky ones, like I keep telling you. So.

He sucked down the next few inches of ale, smacked his lips, and straightened. How long would you say? Since we left?

John made an effort to shake off the sudden image of his family fading away in seemingly the blink of an eye.

It had taken only a year or two for Hans and him to make the journey to Tir and back to their childhood home in Drachenfel, or so it had seemed to them.

It had been otherwise to their respective families.

Time had a way of playing tricks, rushing past in one place while it stood still in another. The rhymes and reasons for Fey magic were a mystery, but the effects were a fact of life. One knew that, of course, and yet...

We were gone such a short time. How did my parents get so old?

Since then, he and Hans had meant to go back, talked about it, but something always seemed to come up, to drive them elsewhere. They postponed the homecoming again and again...

He washed away the sudden tightness in his throat with cheap ale. Three or four years, I think. Since our Pilgrimage. More if you count the time we spent outside Anagni and Killaloe trying to find the way back.

And how many try what we did and fail, my friend? Hans insisted. Yet here we are, halfway around the world from home and halfway to having seen it all, and we've lived to tell the tale. We're heroes, Johann. Honest-to-God heroes, and make no mistake. Even if no one else knows it yet.

He leaned over to give his friend a level stare. It was good to go home, but it is better to see the world while we're young, prepare ourselves. We've made our mark, Johann. When we are Chosen, remember that I said that.

John paused in mid-sip. Coming from Hans, this was something new. What had inspired this particular train of thought? Mein Gott, was Hans finally growing up? Surely not. He had heard no tales of snow in Hell. I thought you were in no hurry. You said you wanted to have fun first, before we had to settle down and get serious about the heroing business.

Hans nodded. I am not in a hurry, but I am thinking with an eye to our future. Once we are Chosen, it'll be nothing but blood and fighting and defying death at every turn, and Honor and Duty and all that, and while that's all good fun, we'll be too busy to notice.

Sometimes, Hans's constant levity was annoying. The chance to serve in a Triad was a dream most young men and women shared, but few achieved. John knew that he and Hans would be among the few. He refused to believe otherwise.

Fun? It will be glorious! He scowled at his friend. Think of it, Hans. They will choose us. Us! Imagine wearing their mark, carrying their authority. Standing shoulder-to-shoulder with legends like Hawksblood, Torgul, the Ironwolfe—

Ironlords? Hans's eyebrows shot up. I did not think you aimed so high, my friend. But I drink to your optimism.

Well then, Rutger Ausmann, Markos Lazarevik—

Lazarevik is a great tournament champion, but he has never served in a Triad.

Only because he captains the Yasenovan city guard, so seldom leaves the city proper. His opportunities to risk death are fewer than for those who travel.

Or perhaps he is too good for the risk to be great.

John shrugged aside the caveat. Have it your own way. Yaqut ibn Munqidh, then, or Charles le Chevalier. His hand tightened around his jack as the familiar yearning filled him, as hot and eager as always. We'll have the chance to make a difference in the world, achieve all we've ever dreamed, to be more than ordinary men; to stretch ourselves to fill the boots of giants!

A glance at Hans's face brought him up. He laughed self-consciously and threw a playful jab that Hans easily avoided. Think how proud our families will be.

Hans finished a long draught, wiping foam from his mouth with his sleeve. Spoken like a true Cavalier. Living in eternal honor and glory is a fine thing, and I'm not saying I won't welcome the Folk's other gifts. I'd quite enjoy being stronger, for one. Or healing faster. But as your future Ranger, I concern myself with more practical matters.

His eyes took on a faraway look as he gazed across the room. What's that song where the Gold Triad finds all the ancient treasure—remember?

I remember. I also remember they gave it to the town for a University.

Hans shuddered. Oh, well, I wouldn't want to serve the Gold anyway. Only their Mystics get any respect. The Gold are scholars, not fighters. We're fighters, you and I.

John took a long drink. As if one ever got a choice as to which Faction of the Greater Fey wanted you for their Triad. Still, imagining such a choice had been a favorite game since childhood, and John had to admit he still enjoyed it. Not that Hans had ever taken it as seriously as he did, but one always hoped. Well, then, if we were called tonight, what Triad would you like to be in?

Hans thought for a minute. His answer was different every time, and John half-believed that each new allegiance was equally sincere. The Blue, Hans announced. Now, there's a great Faction. Lots of money to spread around. Mighty Defenders of Trade, Peace and Prosperity, that sort of thing. We'd be able to afford steel armor and weapons instead of alloy.

Well, it was a step up, anyway. The last time, he had chosen Black so he would seem Dangerously Mysterious, and therefore more attractive to the ladies.

John snorted. Blue! Merchants and sailors. Is that what you want for us? Why not wish for Green while you're at it?

Hans's eyes widened. We could do worse. At least Green Rangers are the best and everyone knows it. He cocked his head. What about you? What color do you think we'll be?

John grinned. He always made the same choice, but Hans never remembered. Or maybe he thought John would one day surprise him. Red, of course. The proper color for warriors. A Cavalier should serve where honor and glory are highest.

Hans opened his mouth to argue and John hurried to forestall him. Although Blue is not so bad. Even Green would do, I suppose. As long as it is one of the big three, anyway.

Not White? Hans asked innocently.

Despite himself, John's eyes flickered toward the far corner, where a middle-aged man in a pale cloak sat mumbling over his drink. He wore woodsman's garb, and three white dots, forming a small triangle, marked his forehead, visible even at this distance.

He was impossible to ignore, though both respect and common sense dictated that one make the effort.

Hans lowered his voice as though the man could hear them. Looks like there are a couple of vacancies there, anyway. I wonder how recent? He paused. You don't suppose that's Eric the Fair, do you?

John turned back to the bar and leaned on it, so he wouldn't have to look at the huddled figure in the corner. A Triad member's life was usually short. And sometimes those who survived were as good as dead, broken when their Triad was Broken. It was the price one paid for the gifts of the Fey, the glory, for earning a name for oneself that lived on.

Did the White Ranger remember that?

Not me, John vowed silently, as he always did when faced with the price so many paid. It will never happen to me. Aloud, he said gruffly, Do you want to ask him? Without waiting for Hans's reply—Hans might be rash enough to do just that—he continued. It could have happened long ago. The White Faction does not often have a Triad.

Hans stared openly at the White Ranger, careless of any rudeness. No, but when a White Triad comes along, it must be a sign that great things are in the wind. He paused. It must be him. It looks like him, anyway.

To John's relief, he turned back to the bar to pour himself another drink. John pushed their own pitcher toward him to prevent another theft, and Hans accepted it without acknowledging the hint. "Well, the Whites may not always have a Triad, but the big three always do. As soon as one dies, another is Chosen. It might as well be our turn, ja?" He thumped his refilled jack against John's, sloshing ale over the rim.

Shut up, little harlot! It was the tone, a savage snarl, rather than the words spoken in accented English that snapped their heads around. John's gaze settled on a man in a dirty turban, battered leather armor just visible beneath the rags of his travel garb, as the fellow half rose from his chair, jerking on a chain attached to a collar around the neck of a dark-haired girl—Khmer or Chine; her features were too delicate for Mongol—who knelt at his side.

She clutched at the chain with bound hands, face twisting with the effort of resisting the pull, and her voice, high and shrill with emotion, rose above the din. Tir, I go Tir, go Tir!

You go where we take you, the man shouted, shaking the chain and the attached girl for emphasis. Shut up now or I will make you shut up.

Slavers, muttered Hans in disgust. Filthy sand rats.

John looked around and noticed that few, if any, of the patrons gave more than a passing glance to the little drama playing out in their midst. He himself had merely glanced briefly at the pathetic little group when he and Hans had first come in, and ignored them since; such sights were all too common, and he had become, if not inured, at least accustomed to them.

Now, as he took a more careful look, his conscience stirred. She is just a child. She cannot even be old enough for her Pilgrimage yet. This is not lawful.

He started to straighten away from the bar, but Hans laid a restraining hand on his arm. Leave it be, Johann, he muttered. We are not in Drachenfel or even Killaloe. Slavery is legal in these parts.

The turbaned man shoved the girl away, then turned back to his drink and the companionship of his fellows, all equally rough looking. The girl stared at him for a moment, her hands, bound just below her neck, clenching and uncurling. Then she backed up and sat on a nearby bench with half a dozen other young girls of various races, all chained together and equally miserable looking.

John ran his eye down the line. It was hard to tell what any of them looked like through the dust that coated their faces and hair and the exhaustion that slumped their bodies, but he thought that they might be presentable looking. None were fair-skinned, fortunately.

Most had probably been caught while making their Pilgrimage to Tir, a profitable business for many slavers and other brigands. The Khmer girl might not be as young as she looked.

But all of them looked like they'd reached the limit of their endurance.

He forced himself to turn back to the bar, teeth clenched against the urge to go over and beat the slavers to death with their own chains. The least they could do is take care of their precious merchandise, he growled. They sit swilling liquor like pigs, and those girls have not so much as a cup of water between them.

Leave it alone, Johann, Hans murmured again, casting an eye over his shoulder. We are very much the outsiders here. There is nothing we can do. After a moment he shrugged, rather unconvincingly. It is the way among these people. Sahyun, Magdan, Nilka, Delhi, Angkor—all the un-Christian folk.

Such as Kalmar?

"You are being