The weeks around Michaelmas, 1198

The letter was delivered by a lad from Liege. An Imperial messenger on his way to Bruges had left the letter with a merchant headed for Arbois, and he in turn had had his boy deliver it to Bois de Haillot when visiting the nearby manor. It was a large parchment, its wax seal as heavy as it was ornate.

Daria was uninterested, simply waving it off at Gaspard and Madeleine. “Frederick Hohenstaufen Rex Regis Sicily,” Madeleine read. “Imperator Nomine tenus Romanorum. Emperor Nominee of the Romans. It is a letter from the Frederick, the man who will be Holy Roman Emperor!” The letter, signed in his very hand, summoned Daria to Swabisch-Hall, the seat of the Hohenstaufens and the site of many of Frederick Barbarossa’s courts. “To discuss your position and that of your order in my court,” Madeleine translated.

Daria could not be convinced to make the trip, so Gaspard and Madeleine set out within the week, taking Stephan, Michi, and Celestine, along with Cyril, Gigot, and Wart. The journey to Swabia would take several weeks.

The harvest was in its latter days as they left Bois de Haillot and entered Luxembourg. The weather favoured them but the luck of the road did not, and they passed Michaelmas in a German town many days behind their intended schedule. It was just a day or two beyond that when they met the magus.

“Well met!” he greeted them when he recognized one of his own. His name was Blaise and he had come from his covenant of Hölhe Glänzend south of Munich on his way to Ghent to purchase lab supplies. He travelled alone, with just three armsmen in trail.

They shared lunch and Gaspard and the magus discussed the news of their order. Blaise had heard about Etien’s assault on the covenant and cheered them on, but warned of another visit from the Quaesitori. Blaise’s armsmen sat sullenly apart. “If he is from Germany,” Wart whispered to Gigot, “why do his men mutter to each other in Italian?”

The lunch ended and Blaise rose to continue his journey. But as he returned to his men Gigot suddenly cried out and charged, drawing his sword. The foreign armsmen had weapons at hand, and Blaise was calling up a spell as he turned on Gaspard. But they had lost their surprise, and the combined force of Gigot, Stephan, and Michi quickly forced them into a defensive knot around their magus. Blaise produced a small block of wood, ornately decorated, and cast it on the ground before him where it burst into flame. Seeing an opportunity, Wart thrust one of the armsmen into the fire. But rather than burst into flame, the man disappeared in a green flash when the fire enveloped him. “The magus seeks escape!” Michi cried, leaping forward and striking the mage before Blaise could step into the fire. The blow cleft the magus’s skull clean in two, and the treachor fell to the ground. Their master defeated, the remaining armsmen were quickly overcome.

“A black gem!” Madeleine said, “Just like the magus who attacked us at the Robber Baron’s keep.” The irregular black rock, like a small lump of coal, hung on an ornate chain around the corpse’s neck. Gaspard took it from the body and placed it in a purse. “What did he want?” Michi asked. “I’ll ask,” Gaspard answered, calling to his magic. “Spirit of this slain man, I call you across the black gate. What is your name?” “Callidus,” came the whispered answer. The spirit was evasive, but when pressed confessed the nature of the black gem. “In the East was kept the head of Saint John. This is a fraction of it, but it carries great power.”

Three days later the party reached the town of Bad Füssen, nestled tight against the wooded hills at the feet of the white wall of the Alps. The season was late, and few guides were taking parties into the passes. A Swabian named Lenhard agreed to lead them by the high road, the weather still holding clear, to save nine days over the lower pass. They spent the first evening in a monastery on the brink of sheer valley—by the next night they would gain a sheltered shrine in the pass, and would be descending into Swabia on the third day.

“Nearly there,” Lenhard told them the following afternoon, “Another two hours, maybe three.” But he kept looking over his shoulder, where dark clouds were piling up. Within an hour the storm reached them, and they were soon engulfed in blinding sheets of snow and bitter wind. The light was failing, and the way back was six hours at least along the edge of a precipitous chasm. “We go on,” Lenhard pleaded. “There is shelter and firewood at the shrine—another hour perhaps!”

But the way was blocked. A wall of darkness loomed across the path. Thorns, thickly layered in windblown snow, forming a wall five paces high and extending as far as could be seen to either side. “Is this usually here?” Madeleine asked, but Lenhard only shook his head with a worried look. “Well if we stay here we’ll quickly freeze,” Michi said, and Gaspard cast a lance of flame to burn a hole through the thorns. The path continued beyond. “A faerie realm?” Michi asked, to which Gaspard simply shrugged.

The storm quickly fell away, though the air was if anything colder. The party crunched through a thin layer of frost and snow as stars found their way through the parting clouds above. Suddenly Stephan stopped with a gasp.

Ahead, limned in frost and moonlight, the trail was straddled by a castle of gargantuan proportion.