Navigation, at least, was simple. There was the one street and it ran direct to the south gate. The one she was supposed to have passed through yesterday, when all had been so different.

As she galloped toward it she saw it being swung closed by a Beedle, who then shoved a massive iron bolt into position to hold it closed. Seeing this, the mount had the good sense to slacken its pace, and came to a stop in the courtyard just on the near side of the gatehouse.

It was there that a squad of four Autochthons caught up with her. They spread out as they entered the yard, surrounding her but maintaining a respectful distance.

“Princess Prim,” said the one who was evidently their leader. He certainly looked it. Yet his aquiline good looks were a little discomposed by the strangeness of addressing a barbarian princess who had, somehow, impossibly and unaccountably, stolen the cloak, sword, and mount of the high lord delegate of Secondel. “Dismount, please, and place those weapons on the ground.”

“No,” she said. “Listen. I have just now become aware of certain peculiarities as to who I am that place you all in grave danger. Get away.”

“That’s enough of that kind of talk!” exclaimed the Autochthon on her right. His mount moved toward her until it noticed that it was suddenly riderless.

She heard the creak of a bow from atop the gatehouse and looked up to see a Beedle archer pulling an arrow to half draw, still aimed at the ground, gazing at the head Autochthon for orders. Then he ceased to exist. The arrow flew wild and stuck in the ground. The bow clattered down the wall and bounced in the dust of the courtyard.

Prim wheeled her mount and made it walk toward the Beedle who had, a minute ago, shot the bolt. He was still standing there, watching her come on.

She didn’t really know the speech of Beedles and so she made it as simple as she could:

“I am Death,” she said. “Now, which one of us is going to open the gate?”

Part 11

Part 11

Chapter 50

Chapter 50

While we have this all-too-rare opportunity for a private chat,” said Primula—or, in the language of these parts, Daisy—to the giant talking raven perched above her on Firkin’s boom, “I thought I might make a few remarks about your management of the Quest thus far.”

Corvus shook himself all over. “Have at it,” he said, with an affected carelessness. “Just don’t get so worked up that you wish me dead.”