The figures that had slipped through the doors of the castle clattered down to the last step, almost comically in their rush, and pulled up short right in front of Torran. The figure in the back held a torch, its light revealing that they were a pair of old men, their beards trimmed in the fashionable style but snow white and very thin. The man holding the torch bowed his head low, and from his humble brown cloak, Idelle got the impression that he was a servant. The man in front, however, barely dipped his head in acknowledgement of Torran, and his robes swirled around him in brilliant purple. Gold rings glinted on his fidgeting fingers.

"Oh, Your Grace!" he said, his voice high and almost whining. "You've finally arrived! We thought perhaps you had been injured or killed on the way..." He seemed to pause, as if waiting to hear if this might have been at least a possibility, but when Torran ignored him and tried to push passed him onto the steps, he jumped forward with his arms outstretched.

"Please! You cannot go in right now!" he whispered frantically.

Torran turned and glared at him. "My cousin asked for my presence. I'm here now and I'm sure she'd want to see me."

The old man rubbed his hands together in front of him, the knuckles creaking as they moved. Idelle wouldn't be surprised if he was at least two centuries old, as he seemed to be made of ancient dust and the smell of dry sky. She wondered how his bones were still holding him upright. "True, true, she's been anxious for your arrival for over two weeks now. However, she is now sleeping and that is something we have not been able to make her do for the past five days." The old man attempted a smile but it looked more like a grimace. "If you would only kindly refine from waking her, she might be able to finally sleep through the night. She needs it so. It is so taxing for such a young and fragile girl to be burdened with a crown..."

Torran's jaw jumped and his hand floated toward the hilt of his sword.

Idelle jumped in before anything happened, stepping forward and snatching Torran's arm. Her grip around his forearm seemed to recall him back to his senses, and the charge in his eyes dulled. He tossed his head, a strange veneer of guardedness covering his features. He had been so open the whole journey, and she had thought she knew him. Yet, now at the castle he seemed to be cool and calm, like a young heathen god carved out of marble and untouched by mortal concerns.

His hand, still on his hilt, now rested lazily as he shifted his weight to his good leg. "Well, Reynard, you win this round," he said, a hardness to his voice that went beyond what he actually said. "If you won't let me see Aelga, then I'll see Aengus. Where is he?"

The old man's mouth gulped at the air like a fish out of water, his eyes growing large. "D-Duke, did no one-"

Torran sighed. "Of course I know of his death. I'm asking where you buried him." Something about his words were harsh and pointed. There was a battle waging between them that was silent and invisible, but nonetheless heated and dangerous. Idelle knew nothing of what was going on, but she still pressed close to Torran, her own hand now sneaking its way to her sword and resting along the edge of her sheath.

Reynard's eyes narrowed, and for the first time Idelle saw a cunningness behind his clumsy and weak outward appearance. He folded his hands gently in front of his purple robe, and when he spoke his voice was almost an entirely different one. It was now deeper and more sure, and Idelle felt her skin crawl that he was standing one step above them and looking down at them like a bat from its perch.

"He's in the sanctuary. Where else would our good king be?"

Torran spun on his heel, apparently not interested in talking with the man any longer, and marched across the courtyard. Idelle glanced at the purple robed man once before jogging to catch up with Torran. He seemed to ignore her as well, so she fell back a few steps and let him lead her to one of the four towers. This one was facing the north, built halfway down the hill and a bit shorter than the others. Nothing else marked it as any different from its copies, yet Torran pushed open the oak door and stepped through its arch inside. Idelle followed him closely, ducking her head to avoid hitting it on the low lintel.

Inside, she looked up to see that they had entered a chapel of some sort. It spanned the entire base of the tower, and was as plain as a sick man's porridge. Rows of wooden pews filled the floor, facing toward an altar where candles burned and a monk whispered his prayers. The smell of incense clung to the air, like spices and amber, mixing with the orange glow of the candles to create a sleepy atmosphere that invited the mind to fall into deep thoughts of rest and eternity.

The monk looked up at the sound of footsteps and rose when he saw who it was. While he crossed himself and kissed the icon in his hand, Torran waited patiently by the first row of pews. He no longer looked cocky and arrogant, and now bore an expression that was tight and almost desperate.

The monk took his time coming to their side, walking with the slow grace of one who did not worry about simple things. His rough spun habit and hood swished in the air, bringing a stronger whiff of the incense, and he reached out to take Torran's hand.

"You've come to see King Aengus," he said, though it was not a question. He was bald, as all monks were, but his bushy eyebrows stood over brown eyes that filled with sadness and compassion.

Torran merely nodded in response to the monk's words.

"He's in the sanctuary, with his father and grandfather and the kings of old," the monk said, his voice like a whisper though he did not change its volume. He flipped Torran's hand over, pressing a small iron key into the palm. "Call me if you need me. I will be here, as always."

Idelle followed Torran as he walked to the edge of the room where an iron gate stood from the altar to the wall. It looked strange to see a gate and fence inside, but Torran merely inserted the key and unlocked it, as if this was normal. He then walked through to the other side of the altar, where a pair of stairs led one level down. Their footsteps echoed in the darkness, bouncing along with the light of the torches set in the walls.

Below, they entered a large room filled with what looked like large boxes of stone. It wasn't until they approached the nearest one that Idelle realized they were in a tomb and these were the burial places of the kings and queens of Wynherst.

On each raised coffin, a statue of the occupants rested as if sleeping on a bed. Perfectly carved gauzy blankets of marble lay across their stately clothes, and each face was almost lifelike. The one they stood by now, a man and a woman with large crowns and hair far too long to be fashionable now, lay with hands twined between them. The woman's eyelashes were carved individually, and the veins on the man's hands almost looked like they could pulse blood. The hairs on the back of Idelle's neck stood on end as she looked at them, and then turned to look over the entire room filled with the graves, in neat rows and columns like a city or a town. This was the history of Wynherst, preserved in stone and buried in silence. The magicless kings and queens who stood and fell, and now found their rest below the praying monk and his flickering candles.