Lanomis could hear the children cheering and running alongside their wagon as it rolled into the town of Silver Hill.  The eager musicians shifted, preparing to unload their instruments as the wagon slowed.  Lanomis lifted the splintered false door in the floor.

"I will sing the Whispers of the Hunt if the mage is in the audience.  That will be the signal."  Nerina whispered.

Lanomis turned to her and nodded, then slipped down into his dark hiding spot.  He heard the moan of the hinge as the wagon door opened.  As he lay in darkness, the floor above him squeaked and moaned, flexing with the footsteps of his companions.  He heard—faintly—the muffled welcome of the townspeople.

Then there was a long silence.  The performance would be on the eve. Lanomis’ cramped confines were nearly unbearable, but the reward would be fitting the suffering he endured.  Minutes became painful hours.

The first melodic strum of the zither grasped him from distant bemusement. What a beautiful sound it made.  Nerima’s ballads resonated, even through the wooden casket.

His signal came as the third song.  Sweet relief poured over him as he eased open the door above him, sat up and stretched his rigid body.  He slipped through the wagon door into the darkness.

His eyes scanned the features of the buildings and once he had his bearing, he crept throw the shadows toward the house of the mage.  A group of men stumbled out of the door of the tavern ahead of him.  He tucked into the alley, out of sight as they passed, laughing and pelting each other with slurred insults.  He darted across the road.

He rounded the corner and jogged up the long winding path to the house of the great mage of Silver Hill.

It stood, an eerie silhouette against the shard of grey moon laced with brisk wisps of silver clouds.  He passed through the open gate and stood at the front door, grasping the amulet he wore around his neck, given to him by the stranger who contacted them.  He silently hoped it was the key to offer him protection from any charms lain upon the house.

After drawing a deep reluctant breathe, he turned the knob, and the door opened.  He crept toward the staircase and tiptoed up them.  The amulet warmed against his skin as he neared the door to the study.  He paused, reached inside his tunic, clutching it.  With his other hand, he opened the door and lit the candle inside.

Spell components hung from leather thongs strewn from shelves and there were tables with vessels and potions.  He turned toward the mantle of a dingy hearth and froze, awestruck.  Above it was a portrait of a man, bearing striking resemblance to the stranger who hired him.  But the painting seemed centuries old, as dusty and weathered as the hearth below.

He scoured the shelves for the box he sought. I t would fetch the most handsome reward he had ever earned. Then he saw it, brilliant polished amber-colored gopher wood.  He ran his finger along the finely grained and ornately carved treasure, then pulled a cloth from his belt.  He unfolded the fabric and delicately lifted the box, setting it down in the center, then folded it and tucked the parcel beneath his arm.  He hurried back to the wagon.

***

The music stopped just as he slipped back into the wagon.  Nerima’s last chilling note resounded and was followed by cheer and applause.  Again he crawled into hiding until the wagon rolled, bumping out of Silver Hill.  A safe distance from town the door opened above him.  The companions looked upon Lanomis; their eyes gleamed.

"Did you find it?"  Nerima asked.

Lanomis unwrapped the box.

"Open it," Tobias snapped.

"We do not know what power it contains.  We will collect our reward, and be satisfied."  Nerima gave Tobias a cold glare.

"The amulet kept me safe from the protectives.  It will keep us safe from what lies inside."  Lanomis fingered the intricate latch, but he remembered the portrait.  "What did the mage look like?"

"An old one, he was.  Ember robes, and a yard-long braided beard."  Tobias’ words put Lanomis at ease.

"No harm shall befall us as long as I wear the amulet," he said.

"You lusty fools will one day be the end of us."  Nerima turned her shoulder.

Lanomis brushed her cheek with the back of his fingertips.  "What harm can come from a glance, Nerima?"

"Well, be done with it then, fools" she said turning back toward the box.

All eyes trained on Lanomis as he slid the needled hammer from its clasp and opened the box.

***

"Shirack."  With a whisper the mantle blazed and lit the study.  Berian walked to the table and unfolded his beautiful box.  With his slender finger, he traced the fine grains of the exquisite gopher wood, then opened the box.  The soft melody of his favorite ballad, Whispers of the Hunt flowed within.  He looked upon the four figurines of the musicians inside, admiring their realistic likeness.