Roland sat on the side of the mountain and pulled his legs close to his chest for warmth in the biting wind. It had been two days and he was still no closer to rescuing his friend from whoever, whatever, had imprisoned him.

From this vantage point he could see the castle in its entirety. It had four towers, no two of equal height. The parapets were in disrepair, casualties of the elements and vines growing in profusion everywhere. The open drawbridge spanned the greenish moat, mocking him with its invitation.

He thought of the ensorcelled key hidden inside the thin mattress of his modest home. His village had no locks! It was a small town, a quiet town, a poor town. Everything that closed depended on a simple latch. The lock must be elsewhere – above the small hamlet. In the castle.

On the verge of distress, he had an epiphany. Cain kept a strongbox for the meager savings of the villagers. But surely that couldn’t be the proper lock.

But somehow, he knew that it was. What else but coin was inside the box?