Jurat wasted no time. Luthr had been in his cell for less than an hour when the man came with his stools. Luthr remained on the floor, but Jurat still set up the two stools across from each other.

“I don’t understand what upset you,” he said.

Luthr scoffed and turned his head towards the songwood.

“I told you that you were saved by Prince Einsof. Did I indicate you were no longer enjoying his courtesy?”

“Courtesy?” Luthr turned to Jurat, slowly.

Jurat folded his hands on his lap and peered at Luthr from under his hood. Even in the dark, his eyes glowed bright.

“He could have returned you in the condition you were in; dead-eyed and spouting heresy.”

“I would not!”

“Oh, but you did.” Jurat leaned forward, his left hand very close to his sword hilt. “You cursed Iyegas up and down, and you cursed King Rommel, and Ein Gyi of the North for having spread the seeds of Iyegas’s truth in the first place.”

Luthr felt oddly confused, and it bothered him. “Ein Gyi...”

“Yes. You were quite thorough in your cursings, Luthr. You went all the way back to the beginning. You even said that you wished your grandchildren and siblings were still alive.”

To that comment, Luthr gave offense. “They are alive.”

Jurat leaned back. “To the honor of your family. It’s a shock, I know, but it’s true. You were poisoned by the Unkindled, as I once was. My purpose is to understand how that poisoning took place, and to understand how it can be healed, as it was done with me, and as it shall be, if you’re willing, with you.”

Luthr grumbled, feeling somewhat foolish, but most of all confused.

“You can’t become one or the other. There are those of us who are born with clean minds, capable of higher thought, who can understand and appreciate the soul of the world. The Unkindled are a diseased ilk that was bred to usurp the world from its rightful dwellers. They are a species, not a persuasion. And they are less than beasts! They are mindless sacks of flesh with no thought that exist only to wander and consume!”

Jurat put up his hands until Luthr calmed, then folded them on his lap. “Luthr, if you wished to usurp a world, would not choose a weapon that could spread its influence?”

The question was a worthy one, and Luthr felt relaxed as his mind went to work deciding an answer. “Yes. Yes, that would be the most effective way.”

“Then is it so far-fetched?”

“No. Not in concept. But it’s different than what I’ve been taught.”

Jurat nodded. “The attributes of belief are universal, Luthr. Whatever one chooses, it is important to them. Even if one chose to believe in nothing, they would cling to that nothing as frantically as a zealot clings to dogma.”

“I have never been a zealot,” Luthr said. “I’ve always tried to be a balanced man.”

Jurat smiled. “And you have that reputation. Let me ask you another question, and then I’ll leave you to your thoughts. If one’s concept of reality is intellectually driven, and not dependent on tradition or circumstantial validation, would they not welcome refinements to their understanding?”

Luthr did not reply right away, and when he did, his voice was almost a whisper, though it echoed in the cave. “You’ve been studying the Unkindled, and so you’ve learned things about them not commonly known. Is that what you’re suggesting?”

Jurat nodded. “My job is to help you heal, then return you to your king. But, if you pay attention, you might learn a great deal on your own about the rift between Rommel and his brother. It might interest you to know, for example, that they’ve lost no love for one another over the years.”

“That’s not unheard of in Par Galen, even if it’s not common knowledge.”

“But now I’m telling you that it’s a fact. And it’s a fact that may serve you well in times to come.”

“In times to come?”

Jurat leaned forward again. “Surely you feel it, Luthr. Unless your memories are still too faded. Work with me, Luthr, and it will all become clear to you. I promise.”

Luthr nodded. “I will. I think I just...” As his voice drifted, his head turned to the songwood.

“You need more time in the true light,” said Jurat. “I'll have your supper sent down, along with some more books. Would you like to reread some of the ones you had before?”

He shook his head. “No. Bring me something new.”

Jurat stood and was still for a moment in thought, then bowed and left.

White petals fell from trees in Luthr’s thoughts. He found himself in a stream, his back against the bank, the roots of a songwood forming a couch around his shoulders. When he looked up he saw Iyegas, grand and gold, a pillar of sunlight earthbound and glorious.

He blinked and he was in his cell, gently pinching of the sapling's buds between his fingers. He let go of the tree and folded his arms, resting quietly while he waited for his supper and a new book. Instead of gruel, he was brought a hearty mushroom stew with leeks and chunks of ground sausage. He ate it quickly, and grunted when he picked up the book. It was a journal filled with Jurat’s observations on the tests done with the Unkindled captives.

He was glad he ate his supper before reading. Jurat was a skilled sketch artist, and the tests were often very invasive, some downright macabre and even deranged. Luthr frequently surprised himself with how shocked he was at the instruments used to examine their eyes, or the sketches of flayed torsos with the skin held up by clamps so their innards could be examined. Many of them had their eyes removed so they could be dissected, and it seemed they were probed for signs of mental change after their eyes were removed. The procedures all seemed very surgical, and many anesthetics were listed in the index. Luthr felt relieved at that, then wondered at his humanitarian notions. Did he not just tell jurat the Unkindled were less than beasts? The conflict bothered him, so he put the book down and slept.

But he didn’t sleep long. His dreams were unsettling, of him reliving old battles with his brother and three sisters at his side. He always marveled at his older sister Perrian’s equestrian prowess, and he dreamed of her felling many enemies on horseback with either a saber, bow or lance. She, like his mother, and in fact all the women in his family, was very tall and strong for a girl, but when he woke, he felt sick, remembering their joy in battling together. The last blow of the dream battle stayed with him. His brother stabbed a faceless foe with his dirk and flames spurt out of its eyes.

“I brought you something pleasant to read,” Jurat said when he returned. “I hope my notes were informative. I wasn’t sure how you’d respond.”

Luthr picked up the journal and took it with him to his stool. He thumbed through the pages while Jurat gave him news of the village.

“Everyone misses you, and people ask me on the hour if you’re well and will be returning. More than a few of them went through this very process, Luthr. You’d benefit from opening up to them, if you choose to go back topside.”

“I think I’d like to,” he said. “But, I think I need to see more of this place first.”

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A wide grin spread slowly across Jurat’s face, and his bright eyes glowed. “Luthr, you make me very happy. You are most welcome to explore the buried city. I only require that you have an escort. Either myself, or a guard of four.”

“Worth four guards, are you?” Luthr smiled.

Jurat flipped back the sides of his robe. The sword Luthr had seen glimmered in the light of the rush torches. Its scabbard looked smooth at a glance, but, peering close, Luthr saw the intricate vines engraved on every inch of its surface.

“A Chloranthy blade?” Luthr said in awe.

“The last one made,” Jurat said proudly. “But certainly not the least.”

Luthr leaned back as if frightened, then leaned forward with a smile. “Well, now I must challenge you.”

Jurat laughed. “I wouldn’t.”

“I’m no slouch myself.”

“Luthr, you’re a Iudex! I imagine you’re one of the best fighters alive. Which is exactly why I hope to never cross blades with you. Warriors of your caliber are rare and much needed. It would be a waste to lose you in a petty duel.”

“Lose me?! I’m talking about a friendly match, Jurat.”

And Jurat shook his head. “The Chloranthy weren’t taught to fight, Luthr. We were taught to kill.”

“Very well, then.” Luthr gave Jurat his journal in exchange for a new book. It was a book of poems written by the villagers.

“Many of these poor souls were early subjects,” Jurat explained, “and their memories, tragically, are lost to their waking minds. I asked them to put this book together, and my supposition proved correct. You see, I knew their histories, and their memories manifested in their prose. I defy you not to shed any tears as you read them.”

Luthr bowed his head in thanks. He was counted a stalwart man, but he valued poetry above his pride, and was ready to be lost in the emotion of a people lost to the world. Tragedies were always his preference, and he could think of nothing more tragic that a mind imprisoned within itself. And he did weep as he read, seeing the heartache of the subconscious yearning to awaken, of hidden loves gasping for air, and forgotten bonds so close to remembrance.

As close as the pen was to the paper, he thought, wanting to add a line or two of his own to the book.

Jurat came to him a day later with spelunking gear. They each wore a pack with coils of rope and various climbing implements. Jurat had abandoned his robe, favoring close fitting leathers and an oiled cap. He gave Luthr similar clothing to wear, and Luthr commented on the small quantity of torch oil Jurat had brought.

“There will be light enough where we’re going,” he said.

But the first leg of their journey was very dark, and they made their way slowly. Once they were out of reach of the evening sunlight spilling through the hole in the ceiling, they went down a steep switch-back stair cut into a narrow channel. Many of the steps were worn away, and thrice they had to use their ropes to descend.

“Has no one ventured down here before?” Luthr asked as he tucked a coil of rope back in his pack.

Jurat took a swig from his canteen before answering. “I visit the city routinely.”

Luthr wondered why he hadn’t bothered to leave some ropes or ladders behind, but chalked it up to his Chloranthy training. If Jurat were indeed a survivor of that old order, and hadn’t simply stolen that sword from one of their graves, then a great many things about the man could be explained, including his resilience to this supposed ‘poisoning’ of the Unkindled.

“Are you the last of the Chloranthy?” Luthr asked as they made their way to their next drop. The system of caves they traversed were somewhat cramped, but a cold breeze promised an opening ahead.

“I ama relic of the Chloranthy.”

Luthr pondered his response before asking for clarification.

“If the Iudex order was disbanded, and all of you required to turn in your badges and gear, wouldn’t you ask to keep something as remembrance?”

“I suppose.”

He expected Jurat to elaborate more, but he was silent. So Luthr questioned him further.

“How old are you?”

“Not the oldest,” he replied, “and not the youngest.”

They made it to their next drop. Cold air rushed upward, and Luthr heard water cascading below.

“We’ll need all our rope and hooks,” Jurat advised, “and you’ll need to be ready for the light at the bottom. It can blind you, if you aren’t prepared. I’ll shout a warning, but the waterfalls are very loud where we’ll make our landing, so you’re better off being forewarned.”

Luthr nodded, and they went to work making their way slowly down, frequently stopping to backtrack, searching for places to grip and safe paths to traverse. The lower they got, the more difficult their climb became. The shaft opened towards the bottom, so they frequently encountered overhangs, and the spray from the falls coated the rock in a slippery mist. Luthr did almost fall once. Jurat watched him as he swung himself close enough to a spur to take hold, but Luthr noted that while he positioned himself where he could reach out, he did not volunteer the help.

He’s either testing me or training me, Luthr thought. He had not ignored how frequently Jurat mentioned his office in conversation. While there was no order in the present day to match the renowned prowess of the Chloranthy, the Iudexes were still a capable bunch. If Jurat or the heretic prince had any designs against King Rommel, a Iudex would make a very useful agent.

They made their way to the bottom of the shaft, and Luthr was grateful for Jurat’s warning. Something was indeed generating a great deal of light down there, and the reflection off the falls was very bright.

Their ropes stopped a dozen feet above the ground. It would have been an easy jump for Luthr in his prime, but at one hundred and twenty years, he hesitated, and managed to sprain his ankle on the landing.

Jurat crouched to look at it. He took some cloth from his pack and bound it tightly, then led Luthr to one of the pools fed by the thundering falls. Luthr followed his instructions to remove his boot and sock and dip his ankle in the water. It was piercingly cold, and he felt his entire foot and calf go numb for a moment. As feeling returned to the limb, the pain from its injury was left behind, and Luthr followed Jurat with ease.

“I would like to bathe in these pools,” he said when they reached a tunnel that dampened the sound of the falls.

Jurat gave him a nodding shrug. “We have the time.”

Luthr pondered the man for a moment. If Jurat were the youngest Knight of Chloranthy, then he would still be twenty years his senior. But he looked that many years his junior, and to call him spry would be a laughable understatement. He figured that Jurat must bathe in those rejuvenating waters regularly.

“Are these pools how you’ve stayed so hale?” He asked.

“They’re part of my regimen,” Jurat replied.

They carried on, leaving the sound of the falls behind them, and eventually made camp in a small cave with two entrances.

“Are their animals down here?” Luthr asked.

Jurat nodded as he chewed on a piece of jerky. He tossed a small bundle of salted strips to Luthr and then swallowed.

“There is life down here. Some of it makes for good practice.”

Luthr found himself admiring Jurat’s sword.

“Would you like to see it?”

Luthr nodded.

Jurat took the scabbard off his belt and handed it to him. Luthr stood, holding the weapon with his hands spread. He’d never seen such craftsmanship. He gave Jurat a questioning look, and Jurat nodded. He drew the sword.

It left the sheath with barely a whisper, but sang like a siren when he slashed.

“Have you named it?” Luthr asked.

“Enion, after my grandmother. She lived through hard times, and her lessons kept me from growing up soft.”

“You honor them both,” Luthr slashed and stabbed, in absolute awe at the perfection of Enion’s design. He couldn’t shake the grim hope that he might see Jurat wielding it in earnest. He sheathed it and gave it back, thanking Jurat for indulging him.

“Your hammer must have had a name,” Jurat said as he made their fire.

“My hammer…” Luthr had not thought of his weapons till that moment.

“Sadly, you had to be relieved of it in order to be rescued.

Luthr lowered his head with shame.

“Forgive me. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

Luthr suddenly laughed. “Belisarius. I named my hammer after my damn dog!”

Jurat smiled. “You named your pet Belisarius? Promise me he was no lapdog.”

“Half mastiff, half behemoth.”

Jurat laughed, a little too much.

They slept for only a few hours, and it was the best sleep Luthr ever had. He dreamt of his big white dog, only he was not a dog, but the mythic beast he was named for. When Luthr woke he was neither tired nor hungry, and they both packed straight away, heading into the cavernous region where the pinnacle of the old world was buried when the Unkindled came down with war.