Sitting on a stool before Grevail’s cell, Eukriss bent over the leather-bound tome in his lap. Flipping through the pages, the tails of his maroon chaperon hat fell past tufts of gray hair to dangle beside his head. Stitched into the man’s robe was the golden scythe manifest of Darunen, the Paragon of the harvest and of food. He raised disdainful eyes, staring at Grevail through the bars and pursed his lips. “I hope…at the very least…you know this? Which two Paragons were sisters?”
Grevail smirked. Everyone knows that. “Varien and Mara—“
“Silence, you fool!” Eukriss shouted, nearly jumping from his seat. The Thavak shook his head and calmed himself. “You do not say her name! Never say her name.”
“You asked me which two—”
“I did, but even a drunk in a swamp hovel knows not to say her name.” Eukriss released a long, incredulous breath and resettled on the stool. After a moment, he continued in a measured tone. “We refer to Varien’s sister as the Lady of Graves, the Mistress of Death, or the Woman of—”
“What happens if I say it?” Grevail heard Marath’s name uttered more than once and never saw anything happen, but it was taboo to say it, even to people like himself who never stepped foot inside a Spiritkeep. Marath was the Paragon of death after all, and not only that, of evil too. As the stories went, she embarked on a murderous spree in a bid to lessen her sister Varien’s fame. Varien healed and took care of the sick, and in jealous rage, Marath poisoned and killed those her sister helped. There were Sefkha in Lowtown, who worshiped Marath and said her name all the time, yet Grevail never saw anything happen to them either.
A blank look passed over Eukriss’ face, as if stunned Grevail would ask such a thing. “You darken your fate to do so. Illness will befall you, death, misery and destruction soon after. The Lady of Graves can pass through walls and appear anywhere as she wishes. If you say her name, you call her attention, and may the Parents have mercy upon your spirit if you draw her focus.”
He sneered at Eukriss’ ominous speech, which only deepened the man’s glare.
With a look of stubbornness, the Thavak pressed on. “Which Paragon rescued the Thava and led them to the homeland? Who saved Sanyatta Barragos in the desert and brought him water?” A smug sneer flattened Eukriss’ lips, as if he were sure that Grevail would not know the answer.
Indeed, Grevail didn’t know which one it was. Anger flared inside him. I don’t care about your beliefs, Thavan. Grevail readied himself to tell the man that, but after a moment’s thought reined in his emotions. Eukriss would not receive the satisfaction of seeing him angry. “Was it Ilen?”
The Thavak scoffed and pushed up the sleeves of his maroon robe modestly embroidered with gold thread. “Ilen? Are you serious? Is Ilen the only Paragon you know anything about?”
Grevail spread his hands. He never gave beseechings to Paragons, or gave Thavans his coin. Most people didn’t know the entire history of Paragon, but most knew all the manifests. From the Paragons Grevail knew, he always liked Ilen most. The mute, valiant killer. Small and unimposing, but deadly and agile…always ready with a knife. Out of all the Paragons, he thought she would fit in Lowtown best. Skill with a knife was always useful in Lowtown after all, and a mute would never say a word to the watch.
Eukriss shook his head in disgust. “Volera. It is Volera…you…” The Thavak took another long breath. “It is so easy to remember. She was known for her fiery temper and red hair. The Paragon of passion, anger and love. Red hair…fire…passion? Do you understand? I’ve seen life-long Dawnbreakers who know more than you do.” Eukriss emitted a frustrated growl. “If you haven’t studied the Paragons, you can redeem yourself by telling me the conditions of the Accord.”
Grevail scratched his head. “Well…I know one is that you are not supposed to eat at dawn.”
Eukriss waited for more, but when none came, his face slackened in disbelief. “That’s it?” The Thavak closed his eyes, reciting passages from memory. “We will never acknowledge, praise, or celebrate those who came before the Long Dark nor handle their possessions. We will never break an oath. Food nor drink will never be consumed when the Parents are on the horizon. The Stricken must be Purified wherever they are found and Voxetta protected from them. At Dawn, we accept our duty, and at sunset, mourn our loss.”
An incredulous chuckle escaped Grevail’s lips. “You don’t really follow all that, do you?”
The Thavak scrunched bushy gray eyebrows over narrowed eyes. “Of course…at all costs.”
“You’ve never eaten something when the Parents were on the horizon? What if you were starving? Would you wait?”
The Thavak scoffed, snapping shut the book in his lap. “Joszi gave me the task of bringing you to forswear, and I will do everything in my power to see that you do. Tomorrow when I come next, you will have studied the materials…or all of Varien’s compassion won’t be enough.” Eukriss eyed the pile of untouched parchment in the corner of Grevail’s cell.
Grevail inclined his head. “I’ll read them all night and into the morning.”
The Thavak rose, scowling. “I’ll wipe that smile from your face, Cythraul. This is for your own good…though perhaps it would be expedient to abdicate you on the pyre now and have it over with.” He swept the tail of his chaperon over a shoulder and exited the dungeon, slamming the door shut.
Nasos sneered from where he leaned against the wall. “Only a fool would antagonize him. Are you a fool?” He laughed, the sudden sound filling the dungeon with a harsh echo. “Of course you are…fool Breaker.”
Grevail glared at the man. They can throw me on the pyre, I don’t care. With my friends dead, does anything matter? “Don’t you have anything useful to do? Anything other than snoring half the day and spending the other telling me I’m a Breaker?”
“That’s what I do,” Nasos said. “I love what I do,” he reminded Grevail with a cruel grin.
The thick jail door swung open again and Lyphon strode through. He studied Nasos with a suspicious look, as if he thought the man might be sleeping on his feet again. The Purifier’s voice took on a commanding tone and he jerked his head toward Grevail. “Unlock his cell.”
Nasos raised a dark eyebrow. “I’ll unlock that for Joszi, or the Archenari, and a few others as well…but not for you.”
Lyphon crossed the dungeon and grabbed Nasos by the collar, pressing the smaller man into the wall. “Unlock the cell,” the Purifier grated, “or Joszi will know how well rested you are.”
Nasos averted his eyes, cowering into the neckline of his uniform in Lyphon’s grip. “Alright…alright…just don’t do anything rash!” Lyphon released him and the guard scurried across the room, hurrying to liberate the keys from his belt.
“Come on,” Lyphon said to Grevail as the iron bars squealed open.
Grevail stepped out of the cell slowly, unable to keep the surprise from his face. He’d been in the tiny space for days on end and couldn’t help but feel a ripple of excitement run down his spine being outside of it.
Lyphon saw the questions on the tip of his tongue. “No, you are not being freed. Joszi thinks you should get some exercise.”
Nasos sneered at Lyphon’s back, though wiped it from his face as the Purifier turned for the door.
“Thank you, Lyphon,” Grevail said, still in disbelief.
A seriousness weighted Lyphon’s face. “I want you on your best behavior. I mean it. Any attempt at escape and you will be right back here…with a set of chains on for good measure. Come with me.”
Grevail followed the Purifier from the jail, leaving a petulant Nasos behind. Lyphon wasted no time walking the dim, tunnel-like halls buried beneath the huge building. The Purifier’s ever-present bronze helmet hung from his belt, clicking and shining in the sparse lamplight as they walked along. Grevail still wondered how he never took the thing off his hip. Surely it must get caught on things all the time.
Lyphon led him through a series of twists and turns, until finally at the end of one hallway they came to a robust door. When the Purifier pulled it open, a sheet of golden sunlight poured over him onto the floor. He waved Grevail through.
Through the door, Grevail found a walled garden at the rear of the building he’d been imprisoned beneath. Banks of yellow flowers lined vine covered walls, while benches and bushes dotted thick, green grass. A black iron gate in the wall seemed to be the only other exit. “Exercise?” Grevail asked, shielding his eyes. “Doing what?”
Lyphon turned, and in one smooth motion tossed something through the air. Grevail flinched, catching the object against his body. A board? No…not a board, but a wooden sword. He raised an eyebrow at Lyphon. “What is this?”
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“A practice sword,” Lyphon said. “For your exercise, I will give you lessons on the way a Purifier fights.”
Grevail looked askance at the sword. “Why?”
“Would you rather stay in your cell?”
Grevail shook his head, reveling at the warmth of the Parent’s light on his skin and the gentle breeze ruffling his hair. If it keeps me out of that cell for a while… “Alright, what do you want me to do? I don’t know how to use a sword.”
A smirk curled Lyphon’s lips beneath bemused pale blue eyes. “I know you don’t, but it wouldn’t hurt to learn, would it? Now, hold it in both hands, one atop the other, like this.” Lyphon demonstrated with another practice sword he picked up from the ground.
Grevail watched, then placed his hands on the hilt, just as the Purifier did. It felt awkward holding a sword. You couldn’t use one of these in the tight, twisting paths of Lowtown. A knife was much better. Not to mention a sword would attract the watch like minnows draw a crane.
“Now loosen your arms…relax your shoulders,” Lyphon advised, rolling his own shoulders. “You are much too tight. If someone were to strike at you—“ The Purifier crossed the few paces between himself and Grevail with abrupt speed, cutting downward with the wooden blade.
Grevail reacted with a clumsy parry, like he imagined people fought with swords, but could only brace as Lyphon’s weapon cracked him on the shoulder. He rubbed his arm with a curse and glared at the man.
“See,” Lyphon said, smiling. “You must be fluid…loose. If you are too rigid, you cannot act appropriately. The sword must become part of your body, and you should be able to use it as you would your own hand. Do you have to think when you use your hand?”
Grevail shook his head. “I don’t understand why we are doing this. I’m not a Purifier, Lyphon. ”
Lyphon snorted. “Would you rather be a Purifier than Cythraul?”
Grevail scowled and tossed the practice sword to the ground. “If you say I am. All I’ve ever been is a thief.”
“Wouldn’t you rather be a Purifier than a thief?”
Grevail stared at the sword on the ground. “You’ve lost your mind.”
Lyphon tsked and ran a hand over his bald head. “Perhaps you are right. Instead of training you, I should let Joszi send you to the camps…to toil in the muck until you die of old age. If he does that, you’ll wish you accepted my offer.”
“Are you serious?” Grevail wanted to laugh at how absurd it seemed. “You want to train me as a Purifier? Why?”
“I see promise in you, scamp. You’ve come this far from Lowtown, why not go further?”
“Bury my spirit.” Purifiers were supposed to be noble, brave, and most importantly…Thavan. Grevail wasn’t any of those things. Being noble and brave didn’t put food in your stomach, not in his experience anyway. In Lowtown, you did what you had to. “I’ll never be a Thavan.”
Lyphon shrugged at the disgust on Grevail’s face. “Not all Purifiers are Thavan, Grevail. I wasn’t, once upon a time. I’m not asking you to don the derico. I don’t think you’d look good in a chaperon anyway.”
“Joszi wants me to be a Purifier?”
Lyphon waved a hand as if it really didn’t matter. “Joszi does not decide who becomes a Purifier and who does not. Let’s go over it, maybe you’ll find it interesting?”
Grevail bent to pick up the practice sword and swiped it through the air. If nothing else, maybe I can crack him on the head with it. Might knock some sense into him about this ashen relic. “Fine. If you will not keep your word and let me go…after I showed you where the relic is.”
“All in due time, scamp. We will get there in time.” Lyphon glided across the ground at him.
Grevail and Lyphon spent hours in the garden trading blows. The Purifier would toy with him, often feinting one way, then another, laughing at Grevail’s delayed reactions. Soon, sweat poured down Grevail’s back and beaded on Lyphon’s forehead. His body ached from the strikes Lyphon landed, while he couldn’t remember landing one. The bald man’s sharp blue eyes were amused when he snaked around Grevail’s guard yet again to land a sharp stab on his belly.
“Now imagine,” Lyphon said as he jumped backward, avoiding Grevail’s slow, vengeful rebuttal, “if a Shimmerbeast was reading your mind. How would you deal with that? How do you fight an opponent that knows what you will do before you do it?”
At the mention of a Shimmerbeast, the memory of his friends forced itself to the front of his mind. He’d already cried himself to sleep in that dungeon until he thought there was not a tear left in his body, and the fool Purifier something like that. Grevail growled. “I’m never fighting a Shimmerbeast, Lyphon!” He sprang forward with a cutting swipe at Lyphon’s head that the Purifier parried with a chuckle.
“Perhaps not the best example...” Lyphon circled Grevail, feinting and teasing. “A Catiglian? They cannot read your mind, but they can freeze it…render you immobile…easy prey.”
Grevail spit on the ground at Lyphon’s feet. “When the Stricken return?”
Lyphon nodded. “Yes. Do you think I’m a fool?” The Purifier snapped his wrist and the tip of his sword became a blur, clipping Grevail’s chin before he could react. Lyphon grinned. “Now, I ask again. How do you fight an opponent who knows what you will do before you do it?”
Anger heated Grevail’s cheeks and he launched at the Purifier with a roar. Lyphon danced in reverse, parrying each blow, but with growing concentration. The swords clacked against each other in quickening succession as Grevail drove the Purifier back with the pace of his strikes, yearning to hear the smack of his practice sword against the man’s ribs. He swung wide at Lyphon’s right side, and when the Purifier shifted his guard, Grevail changed direction and stabbed at his stomach. The training sword slipped under Lyphon’s parry, heading straight for his gut.
Like a ballet dancer, Lyphon spun out of Grevail’s vision. The tip of Grevail’s practice sword, which just moments earlier had been on the verge of landing a hit, now sliced through the empty air where the Purifier had been. A sharp pain across Grevail’s back was accompanied by a loud thwack.
Grevail fell to his knees, chest heaving with labored breath. He cursed.
“Almost, scamp…almost. That’s enough for today,” Lyphon said behind him.
He pushed himself to his feet and turned to glare at the Purifier. “You were just playing with me, weren’t you?”
“Did you expect to best me on your first try? I’ve been honing my sword for many years, Grevail. You’ll have to do much better than that.” Lyphon waved at the stone benches around the garden. “Sit, you’ve earned yourself a treat. I’ll find us something.” The Purifier turned to leave but stopped. “You won’t try to escape…will you?”
Grevail watched his back. “No, I won’t.”
Lyphon only nodded and opened the door to head inside.
Grevail walked around the garden, running a hand through his sweaty, greasy hair and arching his back against the ache developing from Lyphon’s blow. If Joszi thought exercise was good for forswearing, perhaps he could be convinced a bath was too. Not that Grevail was accustomed to bathing often. There were no baths in Lowtown, of course, but the Kanarkand was always flowing when it was warm enough. Thinking of Lowtown only returned his friend’s faces to his thoughts and he fled from them. He’d mourned for days while Nasos howled with laughter. He would cry no more. Now, he would get his revenge.
He approached the black wrought iron gate. He wouldn’t try to escape…now, just like he promised. Little chance he could escape without a good plan anyway, surrounded by Thava as he was, but he did give Lyphon his word. Fool, why keep my word when he doesn’t keep his? I’ll have to escape unless I want to die in here.
Somehow, he’d have to make it to the house where the relic led him, and where the stableman must be. What am I going to do? Kill them all? Maybe not, but I can steal that relic. If the stableman and Joszi wanted it so much, the best way to avenge his friends would be to steal it for himself and deprive them of it.
Beyond the gate, the Refuge streets were quiet, though Grevail spotted movement in the houses across the way. He wasn’t sure why, but he always thought there was nothing but Thavaks, Spiritkeeps, and dungeons inside Refuges, but that isn’t all he saw here. There were businesses, homes, townspeople, everything any other town might have. It seemed a place designed to prevent escape, with narrow streets and high walls. First, he’d have to find a way out of the dungeon, that in and of itself would be no easy task. If he could somehow make it to this garden under the cover of darkness, it might give him a chance. There were no guards, and every—
“Thinking of escape, scamp?”
Lyphon stood watching him with narrowed eyes, holding a tray in one hand and a glistening pitcher in the other. “No, I was…just looking.” Grevail returned to one of the stone garden benches near Lyphon and sat.
“You’d make a good student,” Lyphon said and placed the tray lined with crackers between them before sitting himself. He poured two cups and motioned with the sloshing pitcher for Grevail to take one. “You’ve got a talent for swordplay. I can tell. Quick wrists, quick feet, intelligent enough though not afraid…but not too brave either. There is a delicate distinction between bravery and stupidity, sometimes it can be hard to tell the difference.”
Grevail shook his head, still in disbelief the man was serious. “It isn’t my business to be a Purifier.” He picked up a cup and gave it a sniff. It was tea, and smelled of honey. Taking a drink, he found it was cold, sweet and refreshing. He gulped down the rest as if he was dying of thirst.
Lyphon chuckled at Grevail’s already empty glass and poured him another, but it was followed by a tired sigh. “Nobody wants to it seems. Purifiers were heroes once, now…most people don’t even remember we exist. Perhaps the Archenari is right.”
“The Archenari?”
“The leader of the Thava,” Lyphon said with a roll of his eyes.
Grevail restrained himself from rolling his eyes back. Unless the Archenari is a watchman or in Lowtown, why should I care who he is? He’d heard the word before, of course, but the Thava were not a subject he studied other than how to avoid them. And I’ve just spent hours sparring with a Purifier who wants me to ride off and fight Stricken with him. “What is he right about?”
“She thinks Purifiers are outdated. The Stricken we specialize against are so rare, the Thava no longer need us in their ranks. We are too expensive, she claims, too much time in training for something so infrequently useful. You don’t need a Purifier to round up Dawnbreakers or guard the Refuge walls.”
Grevail grimaced. Breakers, right, like me. “But you said the Stricken were coming back.”
“I did, and I think they will, but Lura Guera does not share my concerns.”
“Where does the Archenari live? In Andrada?”
“In the palaces of Volera…far away from any Stricken. I’ve met her, and most think she has served the Thava well. I would protect her life with mine, but on this at least, she is wrong. Voxetta will soon have more need for Purifiers than ever before.”
It was hard for Grevail to discount what the man said. Ever since he came into contact with that cube, he’d seen evidence for not one, but two types of Stricken, and if anyone knew Stricken…it was a Purifier. “Is that why you want me to become one? You can’t find anyone else?”
“I see promise in you. I know you are no Breaker, and I would rather you learn my trade than rot away in some work camp.”
“If you know I’m not a Breaker, why don’t you let me go? Joszi said if I helped him find—”
The Purifier sighed. “Joszi will not let you go until we have the stone, scamp. There isn’t anything I can do about that.”
Grevail stared at him. How long will I be kept here in this dungeon, then? Forever? He turned from the Purifier, scowling at the ground. “You’re never going to let me go, are you?”
“I will do what I can, Grevail. The man who lives in the house you led us to is a noble, and a well-off one too. His name is Seirod…does it sound familiar to you?”