We breached the door at midnight. Me, I would’ve preferred to go in, guns blazing, by the light of day. But guns don’t seem to be worth much against the Brethren, and anyways, Yefi insisted the cover of darkness was essential. The residents of Nevazut are quite suspicious of outsiders, he reminded me, and swore fealty to the castle on the hill. As he explained, local folk wisdom dictated that the castle and its rumored occupant were not responsible for the sorry state of Nevazut’s women – that was due to a curse of nebulous origin and dubious design, passed down through the centuries – but were, in fact, all that kept them aboveground. The stories passed down by the elders suggested the effect of the castle’s occupant was not life-draining, but life-sustaining, that without their unseen lord’s influence upon them (and his rumored midnight ministrations) the women would have died long ago. And what’s more, these people attributed every crop in this verdant valley, every child born, and every revolution this tiny hamlet managed to weather unnoticed, to that selfsame lord.
