The northlander fashioned a torch from a rag tied about a chair leg and set off to explore the building on his own, proving deaf to Pilgrim’s advice that his time would be better spent at slumber. He left him to roam the empty floors and sat tossing sticks into the fire to keep it lit. He knew sleep would not claim him tonight. It had often been the way, even in the days before the sword and the voice, the aftermath of battle left him restless.

Not restless, the voice corrected. Just wanting more, like a drunkard who can’t sleep for thinking of the one more goblet of wine he could have had. Except one was never enough, was it, my liege?

“Thank you for banishing any doubts I may have had about this enterprise,” Pilgrim replied, drawing a soft chuckle in response.

You really think the Mad God will answer your prayer? You, amongst these others? I doubt Book and Player offer much competition, but a dying woman with a devoted husband? A mother in search of a stolen child?

“He will or he won’t. If he doesn’t, rest assured I’ll find another way.”

A muffled shout came from above, accompanied by a flicker of light from Book’s torch that silhouetted a rotted rail before moving swiftly on.

Perhaps he’s found something to eat him, the voice suggested. If so, why disturb its meal?

Pilgrim rose and retrieved Maisha’s glowing jar which she had left close to the fire. Its luminescence had diminished to a faint gleam but, once shaken, provided enough light to guide his way. Luckily, the builders of this place had chosen to craft their stairs from stone rather than wood, allowing for an easy ascent. He climbed several floors before once again catching the flicker of Book’s torch. This level differed from the others in lacking a triangular hole in its centre. Instead it was formed of connected chambers of various dimensions, each one featuring a long rotted cot and desk. They were arranged in a circle around the large central chamber where he found Book on his knees amidst what Pilgrim soon identified as a substantial pile of human bones.

Book started at the sound of Pilgrim’s footfalls, rising and hefting his staff. He faced Pilgrim with an expression of determined, if fearful resolution, his stance that of a man defending a treasure hoard rather than a cluster of old bones.

“This doesn’t concern you,” he said, forcing the words from a dry throat. “These are mine.”

Pilgrim ignored him and moved towards the bones. He saw Book tense as if preparing to bar his way, but wisely thought better of it. “I have silver,” he said instead, fumbling for his purse. “Leave me be and I’ll…”