Roland paused for a minute, staring at the closed door and contemplating the possibilities. It seemed reasonable, even probable now that Jacques had followed this same path two days earlier.

He turned back to the strongbox. Gathering his nerve, he pushed the fragile silver key into the over-large keyhole and turned, praying that it wouldn’t snap…

...and moved…

...somewhere else…

...in the rain.

Roland was standing in a downpour on the drawbridge of the castle. He had faint memories of a dusty storeroom in the dead of night, but the pale light emanating through the dark clouds above the far plains suggested that the sun had not yet conceded the day.

A heavily cloaked figure shuffled out of the guardhouse, holding a lantern aloft.

“Sir Roland?” it asked softly. “Oh, Sir Roland! It is you! You’ve returned!”

A name flashed through Roland’s memory. Jacques. He peered into the shadows of the figure’s cloak.

“Felipe?” Roland asked. The man beamed in response.

“Welcome home, Sir Roland,” he said.