"R-Regmayon?"Brother Cyril's breath hung on the chilled air for a moment before it was borne away by the wind.
"In Ellest's Name, Regmayon!"
Again the old cleric's call elicited no response from the silent forest. A pipbird rustled somewhere in the brush.
The path became steeper as Brother Cyril again moved slowly forward, his aurignas incantamas fluxuating rapidly between cobalt blue and a fervid violet, streaked with black. His cloak floated out behind him, undulating slowly in the colored cloud.
The Captain's Post stood to the right of the path with its heavy front door ajar. Brother Cyril could see a table and a few rough chairs, one of which leaned against the far wall, as though it contained some invisible person reclining after a heavy meal. And on the gritty floor, placed in front of the stone hearth like a cooking stool, was Captain Regmayon's crimson hat.
"Justificatus abatem," Cyril rasped, and the swirling color vanished instantly. Beads of sweat developed on his clammy forehead as he strode quickly toward the open door. Captains of the Orchard Guard never remove their hats before sunset; it is a part of their rigid disciplinary code to observe the strictest dressing schedule. Routine and procedure are the Guardsmen's best defense against the beckoning, and never in Brother Cyril's memory had even the smallest detail in their meticulous regimen altered. A Captain's hat on the floor at three-quarter bells was revolutionary.
"Regmayon? Are you in here, Captain?" But no one was in the post. No fire burned on the hearth, and no plate was set on the table for twilight's repast. The Captain's bed was undisturbed, and his patrol saber hung from its peg, the silver filigree on its handle depicting traditional scenes from the contruction of the Orchard Wall. Cyril stood looking down at the Captain's hat, so incongruous with its harsh, minimalist surroundings. Made of double-pressed crimson velvet, the hat tapered down from the crown toward the brim, giving it a slightly funnel-shaped silhouette, and silver wings encircled its base in a band. Its brim was wide, and embroidered branches outlined in purple thread twisted in byzantine patterns across its front. And crowning the whole opulent affair was a straight silver plume mounted on the crest, its whispy featherettes fluttering in the frigid breeze from the open door.
"Where on terras...?" Cyril began, but his question was interrupted by a quick, intrusive thought that seemed to come from outside his conscious will. The invader expressed its message in a melodious whisper, like the private confession of a lover.
"The Captain belongs to us," said the beautiful voice, "And so do you."
"INTERCEDIAM MAXIMA--!" But Cyril's protection prayer broke off in mid-utterance.
There was silence again in the forest. Only a light rustling from beyond the massive orchard wall disturbed the stillness that settled over the place like a blanket.
In the Captain's Post, Regmayon's hat sat in front of the hearth as before, and Brother Cyril's silver stole lay neatly folded beside it.
Futurus Persevero
