Morning after a Vigil never arrived gently.
Darion woke to the sound of an argument about a shovel. For several minutes he lay still beneath his blanket listening to two grown men accuse each other of theft with increasing conviction. The argument gathered spectators. By the time the missing shovel was discovered exactly where its owner had left it, at least six people had become emotionally invested in the outcome. Humanity, Darion reflected, remained remarkably consistent.
He sat up. Cold air immediately found its way beneath his cloak. The eastern horizon had begun to pale, turning the clouds above Varecross silver and grey. Smoke rose from hundreds of cookfires. Wagons creaked. Horses stamped frost from the ground. Somewhere nearby, someone was already hammering metal. The camp had changed overnight. Yesterday people had waited. Today they were moving.
The falls had come.
Now everyone wanted to be first. Darion rolled his blanket, secured his pack, and tried not to think about the feeling that had followed him since the stars crossed the sky.
North.
The pull remained.
Darion hated it, and hated it even more because he could no longer pretend it wasn't there.
"You look terrible."
Darion closed his eyes. Some things, at least, remained reliable.
"Good morning, Vale."
Maeron appeared carrying two steaming cups. He handed one over. Darion examined the contents suspiciously.
"What is it?"
"Tea."
"That's not tea."
"It's mostly tea."
Darion peered into the cup.
"Something moved."
"It'll be dead by now."
The drink tasted like bark, old boots, and poor decisions.
"Still terrible."
Maeron smiled.
"I know."
They walked through the waking camp, Moss following at Darion’s shoulder. Varecross had become a different place in the space of a single night. Maps covered wagon beds. Charcoal sketches of rivers, forests, ridges, and imagined fortunes changed hands faster than coins. Merchants argued with prospectors. Priests argued with merchants. Prospectors argued with everyone.
No one agreed about where the largest falls had landed.
Everyone was certain they were correct. Darion watched three men nearly come to blows over a mountain range. One claimed it could be crossed in three days. Another insisted on four. The third appeared prepared to settle the matter with a knife. Darion kept walking.
"You're smiling."
"I am not."
"You almost were."
"You're imagining things."
Maeron sipped his tea.
"I once saw two men spend an entire Vigil arguing over where a fall landed."
Darion groaned.
"You joined in, didn't you?"
"For three days."
"Why?"
"We were all wrong."
Darion shook his head.
"That somehow makes it worse."
"It did at the time."
Maeron laughed loudly enough to attract attention.
Darion briefly considered abandoning him somewhere north of the Markers.
Unfortunately, Maeron would probably find his way back. Ahead, a cluster of tents marked with painted stars stood apart from the rest of the camp. Starreckoners. Even among Vigil camps they had a habit of gathering together, as if proximity to one another somehow improved their chances of being correct.
Men and women moved between tables covered in charts and instruments. Some peered through brass tubes despite the fact that daylight had already arrived. Others argued over calculations.
One of the Starreckoners looked up as they passed. The man wore spectacles thick enough to stop an arrow. He regarded Darion with immediate suspicion. Darion found that oddly reassuring. By then a thin rain had begun to fall. Then something farther ahead caught his attention. Not a tent. Not a wagon. Order. In Varecross, that alone was unusual enough to warrant investigation.
A section of camp had been organized with military precision. Wagons stood in straight lines. Supplies had been inventoried. Their wagons bore travel seals, not noble colors: wax, ink, inventory marks, and the small bridge-stamp used by charter houses that expected roads to answer them. Pack animals were tethered properly. Nobody appeared to be arguing.
Moss noticed that too. Her ears moved forward.
That was unnatural.
"What's that?" he asked.
Maeron followed his gaze. A smile appeared beneath his beard.
"There they are."
"Who?"
"The Vosses."
Darion had heard the name before. Not often. Which usually meant the stories were true. Even before he knew which was which, one thing was obvious.
They moved differently.
Not like hired hands.
Not like a company assembled for a single expedition.