“All?” Gwen asked. “Every single Beohur is dead? Something was able to slay all fifteen?” Her mind was jumbled. Her thoughts chased each other’s tails like confused dogs. Even one Beohur dying was practically unthinkable, but all of them?

The Herald bowed his head. “All of them are gone.”

“Who...what...how did they die?” Were the Eoten back somehow? Had they come for revenge? Would they destroy the rest of Ascangen next?

“They slew each other.” A log crackled in the hearth. Or was that just the world splitting? “The best time to plant a tree was twenty years ago. The next best time is now.”

“Huh?” What did that have to do with anything?

“In three minutes, you will wish you had put the kettle on right now.”

“Oh.” Gwen shook free of her shock and went through the motions of filling the kettle and hanging it above the fire. Her mind was still occupied by the enormity of what the Herald had told her. At least thoughts were starting to sort themselves out, though, chasing their own tails now instead of each other’s.

“The journey of a thousand leagues starts with a single step.”

“What?”

“You have questions. Ask the one at the front of your mind. Then ask the next one.”

“Oh.” Gwen couldn’t tell if the Herald’s wisdom was profound or just annoying. Still, she did what he said, giving up on organizing her thoughts and instead grabbing the question within the easiest reach. “Erm...how did you get in here?”

“I am not here, strictly speaking. I do not have a physical form. I only exist in spirit. I am not bound by the laws of space and distance. I was in Selador, and then I decided to be here, so I was here.”

That seed bloomed into several more questions. “You were in Selador? What is it like?” Gwen would have given anything to visit the home of the Beohur.

“It is sunny, and bloody, and empty.” The Herald’s tone and expression were as placid as a lake on a still day, but Gwen somehow still felt pain behind his answer. She also wasn’t sure she wanted to visit Selador anymore.

“Does being a spirit mean you can’t touch anything?”

“Correct.”

“So you don’t need to eat or drink? Do you sleep?”

“I do none of those things. Nor do I feel heat or cold.”

“What about emotions? Happy, sad, that sort of thing? Spirits can still feel those, right?”

The Herald paused for a few moments. “I will have to think about that and give you my answer later.”

“All right.” He seemed so sure about the rest of it--how could he not know whether he had feelings? But Gwen supposed if anything would be confusing, it would be emotions. “Do you have a name?”

“I am the Herald of Wisdom.”

“That’s not a name. That’s a title. Like Mayor or King or Lieutenant.”

“I am not a mayor or a king or a lieutenant. I am the Herald of Wisdom.”

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Gwen sighed and pursed her lips. “Yes, but do you have a name? Something people call you other than Herald?”

“I am not other than a Herald. I am the Herald of Wisdom.”

Well, that line of questioning was getting Gwen nowhere. She set it aside and asked the next one on her mind, the one that scared her. “Can you prove you are who you say? And...and that what you say is true? About all of the Beohur being...” She wasn’t ready to serve that sentence.

“Has the fire of your faith been so thoroughly snuffed by one encounter with a monster?”

The Herald knowing that was one step toward proof, but plenty of people had seen Steffan’s eye by now. The monster attack was surely public knowledge in the village. “The Beohur earned my faith by creating the world. They reaffirm my faith in them every time I step outside. But I also know that the world they made is full of liars and tricksters, so I’m cautious.” Especially down here at the Roots, which had more than their fair share of scoundrels.

The kettle whistled. Gwen grabbed three cups before remembering the Herald didn’t drink and putting one back. She busied herself with the familiar ritual of packing tea leaves into the cups and then pouring the steaming water over them.

“So, can you offer me any sort of proof?” she asked once the tea was steeping.

“Ryland was always the most skeptical of the Beohur. I suppose I should not blame you for your suspicions.” The Herald stepped forward until he was inside the table. Or maybe the table was inside him. He stood in the center of it, with his legs underneath and his head and torso above. Neither he nor the table seemed bothered by the arrangement.

“I hope this assuages your skepticism,” he said. “I can offer more proof, but--”

The door swung open, and Steffan stepped inside. He hung up his cloak and sword. Then he frowned at Gwen, who was standing in the middle of the room staring at the table. “Is everything all right? Oh, that tea smells good.” Taking a seat, he reached through the Herald to grab a cup.

Gwen’s mouth fell open in surprise. She forced herself to close it. “Can he not see you?” she asked.

Steffan glanced around. “Can who not see me?”

“Not presently,” the Herald said. “Would you like me to reveal myself to him?”

“Please.” If Steffan could see and hear the Herald too, maybe all of this would feel a little more real. Not that it being real would mean anything good, but the alternative was that Gwen was bewitched or mad, either of which would be worse.

Steffan frowned at Gwen. “What--Kendra’s left tit!” He jumped back with a start, only to splash scalding hot tea all over himself. His chair tilted backward, balancing on its rear legs for a brief moment before falling and dumping Steffan onto the floor.

“Ow ow ow ow ow!” Steffan rubbed the back of his head with one hand and pulled his sodden shirt away from his body with the other. A stream of curses poured from his mouth, hotter and stronger than the tea.

“Steffan!” Gwen ran over to help him up. “Are you all right?”

“Of course I’m not all right! Someone is standing inside our table! Or our table is inside a person! Or...”

“This is the Herald of Wisdom,” Gwen said. “Herald, this is my brother, Steffan.”

“Well met,” the Herald said.

“Y-you too.” Steffan stammered. “I’m sorry, I don’t...er...who are you?”

The Herald looked to Gwen. “Ryland was clear I was only to explain to his chosen Torchbearer.”

“Torchbearer?” What did that mean? It didn’t matter. “Steffan’s the only family I’ve got. You can tell him.” Gwen needed her brother’s insight on this. His suspicious nature would be helpful here.

“As you wish.” The Herald turned back to Steffan. “I am a spirit who serves Ryland, the king of the Beohur. In the event of his death, I was tasked with bringing his ember of divinity to his chosen Torchbearer.”

“His death?” Steffan asked. “Ryland is dead?” He rubbed his head again. “Maybe I fell harder than I thought...”

“All of the Beohur are dead. Their prospective replacements are being informed right now.”

“Replacements?” Gwen asked.

The Herald nodded. “Ryland made a plan with the Heralds to be carried out in the event most or all of the Beohur were slain. We were tasked with taking the dead Beohur’s embers of--”

“Slain?” Steffan asked. “Ryland was killed?” Usually, Gwen would be annoyed by her brother retracing her conversational footsteps, but she found that right now it was helping her finally start to organize her thoughts.

“He was, as were the rest of the Beohur. However, his power and ethos can live on. Gwendoline Shepard, I am here to give you the ember of divinity formerly belonging to Ryland, Beohur of Wisdom.”