“That quest was as rotten as last month’s fish,” said Gorm. “No reason to take it, other than distractin’ the public from what we found. No dragon to fight at the end. No reason for a hero as experienced as Johan to die.”

“The entire expedition was a charade,” said Jynn. “The deaths of the Golden Dawn could be as well.”

“But that sprite… the damage to his honor, or his image as some mighty paladin… why would he do that?” asked Burt.

“I suspect that answer will probably lead us to the reasons for the false dragon attacks,” said Kaitha.

“Maybe,” sighed Burt. He slipped the packet Kaitha had offered into his vest, but given that the packet was almost his size, the maneuver was about as surreptitious as covering a rhinoceros with a tablecloth. “Maybe not. There’s still a chance Johan is carrion worm food.”

“Trust me, nobody wishes for Johan to be gone more than I do,” said Gorm dourly. “But in order to believe that, ye have to think one of Arth’s most powerful heroes died on a false quest against a fake monster. Any way ye look at it, it just don’t add up.”

“We’ve triple-checked the math, sir,” said the accountant.

Weaver Ortson looked up from the memorandum. “And the auditors have seen this?”

“They went through everything, sir.” The badges and bars covering the silver-haired Tinderkin’s long, black robes put her among the most senior ranks of guild accountants, but the uncertain grimace she wore could have belonged to any bookkeeping apprentice about to deliver bad news to a client. “We’d, uh, we’d be happy to be wrong, but given the king’s reported position within Wynspar, the presumed threat rating of the dragon, and the… well, that horrible sprite, we couldn’t really come to any other conclusion.”

“Hmm.” Ortson scrubbed a hand over his unshaven jowls and scoured the memorandum for any possible error. “This is Johan the Mighty, after all. The man slew Az’Anon and Detarr Ur’Mayan in one-on-one combat, and survived a duel with a liche not two years ago.”

“I’m well aware of the king’s impressive record, sir. We wouldn’t have delayed a proclamation this long were it anyone else. But after two weeks with no word, His Majesty’s chances of survival…” The Gnome trailed off and gestured at the parchment in Ortson’s hand.

Ortson let out a deep sigh and read the memorandum again. It proclaimed in the straight, precise letters of a Gnomish printing press:

Let It Be Known That on This Day,

the 11th of Al’Matra,

the Party Known As

The Golden Dawn

and Comprised of:

His Majesty Johan the Mighty, Paladin of Tandos,

Dagnar Firdson of the Bharad’im Clan, Warrior

Fenlovar of House Tyrieth, Cleric of Tandos

Agatha of Chrate, Mage of the Order of the Moon

Grettel Sparklit, Lawful Rogue, and

Rod Sparklit, Bard

Has Been Declared

STATISTICALLY DEAD

by the Accounting Department of the Heroes’ Guild of Andarun.

These heroes of the realm have met their end in the line of duty, and are hereby HONORABLY DISCHARGED from their quest.

The rest of the page was filled with a rationale for the decision, tables listing comparable cases, models used, and an index of probabilities that all pointed to the same terminal conclusion.

“Guild law says we have to make the declaration within two weeks of last contact,” said the accountant. “We can’t put it off any longer, sir.”

“So be it,” sighed Ortson. He signed the document, dribbled some wax next to his signature, and pressed it with the seal of the Grandmaster of the Heroes’ Guild. “It is done. The king is dead.”

“I’m sure that was hard for you, sir,” said the accountant.

“It was a rum by the Teagem compared with what comes next,” he said, standing. “Summon my carriage.”

The short ride to the palace gave Ortson time to splash his face with enough perfume to mask the reek of liquor. His face was still damp when the ornate guild carriage rode through the palace gates. A muttered word with the royal guard sent bannermen running to deliver ill tidings, leaving the guildmaster to deliver the most baleful message of all.

Attendants and an acolyte of Tandos met the guildmaster by the throne room. They guided him into a passage that was opulently decorated yet also covered with thick cobwebs. The grotesque webbing lined the walls and ceilings, and thin strands of it crossed the room and stuck in Ortson’s sweaty hair.

“The state of this hall is a disgrace!” Weaver sputtered, brushing a thick white strand from his face. “What are the bloody servants doing if not cleaning the royal halls?”

“I’d say we all have had more pressing matters of late,” said the acolyte archly. “With the news you bear, I’m surprised you have the attention to spare for such mundane matters.”

Ortson scowled. “Of course not.”

“Indeed. The queen awaits.”

The webbing subsided as the guildmaster and the attendants reached the royal dwelling. Marble statues and opulent furnishings were all dusted and polished as well as Ortson had come to expect others to expect. Yet despite the servants’ attentions, the air felt as still and empty as a tomb inside the waiting chambers, and Weaver was relieved when one of the royal handmaidens summoned him into the queen’s presence.

Queen Marja reclined on a long, sturdy couch, flanked by several of her ladies-in-waiting. Ortson presumed that she had anticipated his news, as she was draped in a black gown and veil. What he could see of her eyes shimmered with tears. “What news, Mr. Ortson?” she asked him.

“A thousand pardons for the intrusion, Your Majesty. I have an announcement.” Weaver bowed as he stepped into the room. “It is as we feared. My lord and king is declared dead.”

“No!” cried Marja. She turned away from the guildmaster and stared out the window at the falling darkness.

“Ah, I’m afraid so. Uh.” Ortson shifted uncomfortably when he glanced at the queen.

Marja faced the window in a pantomime of wistful sorrow, but her face was set in a tight smile, and her eyes darted back and forth as though reading words written in the evening clouds. “Our destiny was written in the stars. It’s just like Gaelan and Yvette,” she whispered. “Or Madren and Haela, or Edward and Bel⁠—”

“Your Majesty? Are you… are you well?” said Ortson uneasily. Hadn’t the king mentioned a couple of these stories at some point? He was sure Johan had made a comment about Marja’s affection for tragedy.

A couple of the royal attendants smiled apologetically and shrugged, as though the queen’s enraptured monologue wasn’t entirely unexpected.

“And just like those poor souls, Johan and I are star-crossed lovers who cannot be apart,” said Marja, staring out the window. “They say that not even death can stop love.”

“Well, not in a metaphorical sense,” said Ortson.

“No. Not a metaphor. It’s true.”