Rhodes slammed the heavy tome shut with a snarl. The winds of his mantle roared away, sending leaves and stray papers all across the Autumn Hollow. Rising angrily he stalked across the space and out into the overgrown glade from the wooden floor.

For months, months, over a year he had tried to form a Freehold Pledge. Twice he had crafted the words in a way that would be bounded. He had used every trick he knew to try and accomodate for the transience of the Changelings that passed through Sacramento - at times this was less of a Freehold and more of a freeway - but both times the Wyrd had unravelled in a matter of days. Not only had the pledge been unbroken, but it was as if it had never been made in the first place.

It was abhorrent. It was illogical. It was nonsensical.

Worse than all of these things, the utter worst of all, it tarnished his image.

What kind of Pledgesmith worth the name had the Wyrd unravel their words? The very memory of these failed attempts made his skin scrawl. The Dread Lord's Mantle twisted the winds around him, faster and faster, spinning a blizzard of furious leaves. A tornado of red, gold, yellow and brown roared around Rhodes. Bark and leaves and scraps of parchment were torn from the trees and the tables, joining the maelstrom at the Autumn King stalked through the bookshelaves of the archive and out among the gnarled, twisted trees that bordered the edge of the Hollow with the Hedge itself.

As the cacophony of scholarly material and Fall nature whirled around him, he roared, enraged, out into the the Hedge.

"WHY WON'T YOU JUST BIND THE BASTARDS TO THEIR WORD?"

Everything exploded away from him in a raging wave of force and debris, pressing back the brambles, thorns and branches of the bare trees.

For what seemed like a age, the winds and haunting whispers refused to die down, but slowly the twisting tempest ebbed away to nothing. The Flowering Fairest was left in the centre of a blasted arc from the tempest, panting and dejected. At least he was alone, and no-one saw his.... well, almost Fae-like tantrum.

Slowly, tiredly, he turned and moved back to he desk, taking the tomb and moving back into the archive.

I've tried everything. Every trick, every twist, every manipulation of the Wyrd I can think of. I've got nothing.

At he placed the tomb on Sacramento History back on the shelf, he ran a hand lovingly along the spines. The latest section had taken some time to fill. Local Changeling history. Obviously not a complete or coherent history - a hodge-podge collection of everything he could find about the past Changelings of Sacrament. Some books were collections of scraps from the old Autumn Hollow he had gathered before crafting this new one. Some he had travelled into the hedge for markets for. A gold coin from the time of the Dragon. One book was even a Manual on the history of the Four Season hotel - it was purely mundane but there were pictures of masked changelings if you knew where to look and compare with the tiny scraps of diaries and polaroids that he had scoured the hedge for. Dozens of dead Hollows and former hiding places left signs of years of presence, lurking and hiding. Sometimes even before the Freehold had-

THUD.

The Dread Lord was jolted from his self-indulgent reverie by the heavy sound of leather on wood.

Whirling around, he saw nothing. No-one. A chill creeps down the Dread Lord's spine that had nothing to do with his own signature mantle.

Perhaps I made this place a little too in line with Fear....

Creeping back in the direction of the sound, Rhodes moved around one end of the shelves to find a heavy leather-bound tome lying open on the floor. There was an image drawn in the same browning inks on the parchment - an egg-shaped stone, with rich green veins running though it and looped in what looked like a medieval impression of twisting magic. The description was in an elegant, if faded, formal script.

"There are many ways that the Wyrd binds and ties beings together, hob and mortal and Fae alike. The most common are the obvious ties of the Skein and those that the Fae and their sculpted minions-"

The Dread Lord grimaced angrily before continuing.

"... can call upon to honour the innately deceptive words through the Wyrd that binds all word, imagination and deed together. Yet there can be more, for the Wyrd is fickle and capricious as those that are bound to it. The abilities of binding and joining in unity can be replicated through other manifestations found in the Hedge. One of the most peculiar is the Wyrd Stone; though rare, these objects, when crafted properly, can help bind a collective and identify those faithful to that collective without the more constrictive bindings of a pledge.By imbuing the stone with Glamour from each member, the stone forms connections through the Wyrd.... blah blah blah...."

Slowly, a twinkle appeared in the Dread Lord's eyes, and rich, booming maniacal laugh began rumbling from his throat. For several minutes, he laughed - months of frustration being released all at once.

He had found an answer.

Looking back to the page, he noticed a post script in the bottom. It was in blue.... ballpoint biro?? It was a small, compact hand.

"Sol to Sac Oath Problem? Need more research. M. A." Around the... initials? - they looked line initials - were a pair of 5-pointed stars.

The Dread Lord frowned. M.A.? What was Queen Mhari's last name? He didn't think Sera had mentioned it.

Maybe he could find some more scraps matching the handwriting among the scraps he had put together for the Archive.

But finally, finally, the Wyrd had rewarded his effort.

There was much to do.


Special thanks to Saber Sloth for letting me do the opening for some of their future works!

Orianna Seraphina Origins Circe