The Brettonian, I hesitate to call him a knight, led us into a plush sitting room. While the architecture was Tilean, it had been hung with elaborate tapestries depicting scenes of hunting and battle. A fire burned cheerfully in a vast stone fireplace above which a battered shield emblazoned with the head of an elk hung in pride of place. Servants arrived with wine which they poured into jeweled goblets for us to drink before withdrawing respectfully beyond the threshold.
 
“The restless dead stalk the land,” Fernald breathed when I concluded my candid recounting of events, “by the Lady, that is ill news.” I wondered if a Tilean would have taken my words at face value, but Brettonian’s even a few generations removed from their homeland, seemed more willing to lend credence to such a tale.
 
“Gaston!” Fernald snapped and a tough looking man-at-arms in a burgundy coat appeared. He had a line face that looked well beaten by the weather. He had clearly been awake and about, even at this early hour.
 
“M’lord?” he inquired perfunctorily.
 
“There is strangeness afoot, I’d like you to double the guard on the estate,” the Knight instructed. Gaston nodded, then waited a beat.

 “Shall I also alert the hamlet my lord?” he suggested in a weary tone.

 “Ah, yes of course I meant for you to do that as well,” Fernald agreed. Gaston bowed.

 “Very good m’lord,” he agreed and hurried out to do his masters bidding.
 
“A good man Gaston… for a commoner,” Fernald observed. I decided not to point out that both Kian and I were orphans. I suspected that Gaston was an old retainer who had probably done more fighting than Fernald had ever daydreamed about.
 
“Now you must be my guests, I am sure you are both exhausted from the night adventure wot!”