"Your Majesty. Kirill has told me of the plight of Daggermark. I wish to help, but I am afflicted by a curse. I remember nothing; I cannot distinguish between truth and lies. I am sure that buried in my memories there is something you can use to protect your people, but we have not yet discovered it, or not yet recognized it."

Theron repeats the words carefully, trying them out, then gives a quiet nod of approval.

"That's clear," he says softly. "It's simple. And honest, too—maybe that will be enough." He glances at Kirill, faintly hopeful. "Do you think he'll accept that?"

"I think he'll think we're full of shit, but we aren't, and maybe further questioning will establish that. It is rightly quite important to the King that you are here for Daggermark, not for me, and that if the King and I tell you different things about what to do you will listen to the King. Does that make sense."

Theron nods immediately. "Yes. That makes sense. I'll make that clear—if he asks, or even if he doesn't. I'll follow his word over yours. No offense."

This calls for more whiskey. He pours himself another glass. "I serve the King. Always have. It's a noble thing he did, calling you here, and you ought to help him protect our kingdom. As long as you know that, and don't get confused and tell a bunch of lies, probably goes fine."

Theron watches Kirill pour another glass, feeling something between amusement and dread twist in his stomach. He lifts his own glass slightly, smiles faintly, and says, "Probably."

He drinks.

Kirill is one of a very few people who would ordinarily wear his sword to dinner with the King. This time he pauses at the door to make a point of taking it off. The King might tell him to stop being silly.

The King does not do that. He has laid out a generous table, with chairs on his left and his right, and he has greatly expanded the shrine in the corner of the room, now laid out so as to nearly be joining them for dinner, in case the hero is the kind of man who will not lie in the presence of the holy and honorable gods. He watches Kirill disarm himself and gestures to the seat at his side. "Theron of Ithos. Welcome to Daggermark. We are honored to make your acquaintance."

Theron hesitates only briefly before stepping forward. He bows carefully, deeply, grateful for Kirill's careful coaching. "Your Majesty. The honor is mine."

Six words spoken, no disaster yet. Kirill settles himself at the King's side, knowing His Majesty will notice his tension, unable to stop being tense all the same.

He straightens, meeting the King's gaze steadily, conscious of the shrine looming quietly nearby. "Kirill has explained the plight of your kingdom. I want to help—but first, you should know that I've arrived bearing some manner of curse. My memories and knowledge are unreliable, a mix of truths and falsehoods I cannot yet tell apart. I hope that among those truths lies something that will aid Daggermark."

"Well, isn't that something. Be seated, young man, and we'll see what we can do."

Theron nods, grateful and quietly relieved. He takes his seat carefully, glancing only briefly at Kirill as he settles in.

"Thank you, Your Majesty," he says softly, and waits.

"How're you finding Daggermark? You and Kirill getting on all right?"

Theron glances briefly at Kirill, then back at the King, choosing his words carefully.

"Kirill's been very patient with me," he says. "I can't say I've seen much of Daggermark yet—but from what little I have, I understand why it's worth protecting."

The kid's smart, he finds himself realizing belatedly - he should've noticed it from the poker, really. He found the initial pretense maddening, but it was fluidly executed and clever - most people couldn't do that if their life depended on it - and now he's supposed to be polite and diplomatic and so he's quite polite and diplomatic, in a way that'd take an ordinary person a long time to learn.

Who was he, before the fae cursed him? 

"Tell me more about this fae curse of yours. I've never heard of any such thing. I take it it doesn't make all you say come out false."

"No, Your Majesty, not exactly. It’s more—subtle than that. I find myself knowing things, or believing I know them, and only later discovering they're untrue. It's like having memories without substance. When I speak, I'm often certain, but not necessarily right."

He pauses, struggling briefly to explain clearly. "The things I say feel true. But I have no memories behind them, and no way to judge which is truth and which is falsehood."

"When he arrived, your Majesty, he told me he'd fought plenty of archmages pretending at divinity before, and he meant it, but once you tried to get down into details there weren't any."

"A strange thing, that that's who the ritual'd pick to stand us up to Razmir."

"Well, it'd be a strange person who could do it at all. I think he must know something, some secret weakness of Razmir's, and the puzzle is just figuring it apart from all the other things he knows that aren't true."

"Is that what you think?" he addresses Theron.

"It's the best guess we have, Your Majesty. I think—I hope—that hidden somewhere in all this knowledge that feels familiar, there's something true. Something useful." He pauses, carefully, then adds quietly, "I wouldn't trust me with a sword, or an army. But maybe with a puzzle."

"A puzzle, hmmm? You know any wizardry?"

Theron shakes his head, apologetic. "No, Your Majesty. Kirill tested me on that already. I thought maybe—but nothing. The only thing I've found I really know is poker."