Orrock of Guar sat in his monk’s cell, his massive horns nearly scraping the stone ceiling. The sharp ivory extended half as far from tip to tip as his arm-span, curling slightly forward at the ends. Once, they were useful for dissipating heat, for digging in his native grasslands, and for the slaughter of his enemies. Now they were merely “decorative,” as the monks liked to joke; they were Tashri, smaller than Guar, and hairless, and lacking horns at all—a shame, Orrock thought. When he’d first joined the Brothers, he’d tearfully offered to saw his horns off. The monks had gently dissuaded him, promising that Holy Creator Anyi had made him who he was for a reason, and that he ought to keep himself whole. The days of self-mutilation were long past for the Brothers of the Hands of Anyi. Generations ago, yes, they’d enforced many forms of physical penance, and some distant sects in Kassia still practiced such barbarism. Not these Brothers, though; all creatures were to be taken as they came.

That included the enormous-horned Guar who Brother Obos had brought to the monastery all those years ago.

The seven-foot-tall acolyte breathed deeply through his broad nose, massive lungs filling with the scent of a pine candle, the only source of light in this little stone room that had been his home for ten years. Long, course brown hair spilled out from his short cleric’s robe and covered his limbs, which he scratched as his prayers drew to a close. It had taken one of the brothers several days to stitch together a robe large enough for him.

Orrock’s giant heart pounded despite his prayer for peace, for the previous night was his last here with the Brothers. The thought chilled him. This morning his mission would begin. He wondered, not for the first time, how he could ever fulfill his vows outside this lonely but warm little fort, high in the mountains of Kassia’s longest range. Obeying the scriptures of Anyi while among the Brothers had been easy once he and the Tashri monks had grown accustomed to one another. Obeying his god out in the world, in the wilds of Kassia once more . . . this worried the former mercenary.

Sitting cross-legged in the center of the room, Orrock prayed again silently to Anyi, asking—not begging, for Anyi had no need of beggars—for the strength and courage to commit to his vows.

Well . . . the courage, anyway. His strength was abundant. His forearms were as thick around as the thighs of the Brothers, and he could lift a draft animal overhead if he truly had a mind to. Then again, perhaps ten years of monastic life had softened his body.

He would find out at dawn, when he began his pledge.

Orrock opened his eyes at the sound of a knock on his pinewood door.

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“Brother Orrock?” His mentor, Brother Obos.

“Yes, Brother,” Orrock answered, careful to keep his baritone voice as quiet as possible. The other monks still slept in their cells lining the hallway.

“It’s time,” Obos said through the door. “Come and eat.”

Orrock dipped his head and whispered a low, “Amen” to Holy Creator Anyi before climbing to his feet.

He opened the door and made sure Obos was clear before maneuvering first his horns, then the rest of his big body out through the doorway. The architecture was designed for Tashri, not Guar. Orrock tugged his orange robe into place, keeping his head bent in the narrow hallway.

“Is it dawn?” he asked, for he had no window in his cell.

“Nearly,” Obos said. “How do you feel?”

“Unforgiven.”

Obos reached up—far up—to pat Orrock on the back. “Even after all this time, my friend?”

Orrock nodded, causing his horn tips to scrape and chip the ceiling. There were many such scrapes scattered about the monastery.

“What does Holy Anyi say?” Obos asked.

“‘Refusal to forgive hurts the man.’”

“And the next verse?”

“‘I am the god of all the world, giving forgiveness to all the creatures within it until there is no more sin, for the sake of my everlasting and abiding love.’”

“What does this mean for us?”

“The forgiveness of self is imperative.”

“Excellent. Your scriptural memory is still strong.” Obos chided the tall creature: “At least your time here was not in vain.”

They turned a corner and followed a flight of stairs down to the narthex of the chapel. Three pillar candles burned without flickering on the altar, casting shadows against the stone pews. Orrock’s eyes lingered on the candles as they passed. “Brother, I fear the creature I was when I arrived still lurks within me. I do not wish to leave.”

“Then you do not wish to take your vows? You do not wish to obey our Creator?” Obos asked kindly. “Is that true?”

“No,” Orrock said without hesitation. “I serve our god.”

Which was ironic, Orrock had long thought, since the Guar and the Tashri believed in the same deity, yet acted upon that belief in diametric ways. Generations ago, monks like these Brothers had inadvertently set the Guar on their violent warpath. For Obos and the others to welcome him in the way they did . . . perhaps he was the first step in a larger plan of reconciliation between Creator Anyi and the Guar.

When they entered the narthex, Orrock stood to his full height. The ceiling was much higher here. He took a deep breath through his nose and shoved his giant’s hands into the sleeves of his robe.

“I will not tell you to forget your fear, old friend,” said Obos as they reached the banded-iron doors of the chapel. “But I advise you to give it no weight. It is yours to wrestle with. You are, without doubt, the most unique acolyte this order had ever had the honor of teaching, and as you go, you take all our love and faith and blessing with you.”

Obos opened the double doors and gestured for Orrock to step out into the flagstone courtyard. Orrock obeyed, walking to the stone table centered in the yard where the morning meal awaited, lit only by the graying Kassia sky. So it was with all acolytes re-entering the world to do Anyi’s will—a simple, silent meal with the acolyte’s mentor.

After: the world beyond, a world he had not seen in a decade.

Orrock felt his heart skip a beat, and hoped it did not show in his expression.