Heir Apparent

Prologue:

The creaking door interrupted Visha Woad’s prayers, and the repetitive thump thump thump of heavy boots on the hardwood floor drove away any fleeting desire of ignoring the intrusion and returning to her ministrations. She knew who was coming to visit; the only person who would dare make so much noise in this particular room was her patient’s father.

“Good day, milord,” she greeted him before she had even started turning around in her chair.

“Good day, Healer Visha,” the Count greeted her. His normally smooth and cultured voice was heavy with fatigue, owing to the weight he bore on his broad shoulders. “Has there been any change?”

“No, milord,” she regretfully informed him. Turning in her chair, she regarded him with sympathetic eyes. The late afternoon light shining through the nearby window fell directly on the man as he stopped near the foot of his daughter’s bed. The Count’s long, dark hair was beginning to turn grey at the temples, and twin trails of grey streaked through his short beard, bordering either side of his pointed chin. His steely grey eyes gazed down at her patient with sadness and love. The tenderness behind his eyes caused a wave of warmth to spread across Visha’s chest and stomach.

“... I see.” Valens Salvorin, Count of Balreeve, reached forward and placed a hand on his daughter’s still foot. Artesia, as usual, did not respond. She lay still and unmoving on her bed. The only indication that they weren’t staring at a corpse was the slow rise and fall of her blanket-covered chest. “Is there anything else that can be done?”

“I don’t know,” Visha murmured, her head downcast. She stared at the carved wooden pendant she wore around her neck. The design on it was rather simple, unlike the badges of those in higher offices, but it had been lovingly sanded to a smooth finish. Different colored varnishes had been worked into the wood, bringing color and life to the image of Tycorin, the God of Health and Healing. The Bleeding God, her patron deity, who had opened his own veins and shared his life-giving blood with mortal Men, soothing their wounds and restoring their vitality.

An act that she, in this particular case, had failed to do.

“The shivers stopped on the second day, and the fever on the third,” Visha recounted to Valens, who knew as well as she did how his daughter’s treatment had gone. “The rash has long since been cured, as have the hives. As far as I can tell, there is nothing wrong with her. And yet… she will not wake.”

“Surely… surely there must be something,” Valens asked, a twinge of desperation in his otherwise calm voice. “Some potion or ointment, anything, that will wake her.”

“I’m sorry, milord, I’ve tried everything I can think of,” Visha said, tears prickling at the edges of her eyes. The Count was, by all accounts as well as her own experience, a just and honorable man. No man, either noble or lowborn, could honestly claim that the Count had mistreated or taken advantage of him. Of everyone who had suffered under this plague, the Count and his daughter were perhaps the least deserving.

Though, perhaps, the worst part for Visha was admitting that all of her carefully learned skill and Gods-given talent was not good enough to cure everything.

“... I see,” Valens said as he bowed his head. With a deep and heavy sigh, he said, “Then I suppose there is only one thing left to do.”

“What… what is that, milord?”

“Pray.”

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“Are you ready, my lord?”

Feeling a bit of frustration, Valens turned away from his saddlebags and looked towards the man who spoke to him.

“I seem to be missing the jar of lunar spirits, Lupis,” Valens told his companion, gesturing lightly at the saddlebags he had been searching through. “Do you perhaps know where it has wandered off to, Captain?”

“I placed it in the cart before dinner, my lord,” Lupis replied. A large man, he stood head and shoulders over all but the largest of men, and was half-again as broad in the shoulders. His auburn hair was also beginning to turn grey, though he kept his face bare save for a rather impressive moustache. “Everything is prepared, just as you ordered, sir.”

Count Salvorin looked around the small courtyard in front of the castle’s stables. A dozen of the castle guards, knights one and all, stood resplendent in their brigandine cuirasses, the overlapping metal plates polished to a brilliant shine. The County Guard numbered nearly one hundred, each man having been hand-picked by Count Salvorin himself to act as his personal guard, both on the field of battle, and here at Balfors Castle. Their arms and armor were all paid for out of the Count’s purse, as was the custom for landless knights in the service of the landed nobility.

“Well then, let’s be off,” Valens belatedly replied to his Captain of the Guard. Placing one foot in his stirrup, Valens grabbed the saddlehorn and hauled himself up, smoothly swinging his other leg over until he sat astride his destrier. Once settled, he used a skill long since learned out of necessity and projected his voice, shouting, “Mount up!”

The dozen knights obeyed, each of them easily hauling themselves into position on their saddles. It was one of the other major advantages his knights’ lighter style of armor afforded; they did not need a squire’s assistance to mount their horses.

Valens pressed his knee against his horse’s flank, the well-trained charger turning away from the pressure as he had been taught. As this was not a war party, none of the knights bore the standard of the County, nor did they carry their lances. The only indication at all that these were the County Guard were the tabards each of them wore over their armor, bearing the coat-of-arms of the County of Balreeve; a gold pine tree set in a white circle on a field of red.

The small mounted procession filed its way two-by-two out of the small courtyard enclosed by the stables, and into the main courtyard between the middle gates and the keep. A few dozen men-at-arms -not proper knights like the County Guard, but skilled soldiers none-the-less- in the employ of the Count milled about. Several were cheering on a pair of men duelling in the practice arena, while others shot at targets with bows and crossbows. Still more guarded the gates or patrolled the walls, performing their duties as required.

The keep of the castle sat atop a large promontory overlooking the surrounding countryside. Long ago, before the fall of the Teranthian Empire, this promontory had been a wooden fortress used by the Imperial Legions during their northward expansion, and had remained a strategically important fort in the region. Castle Balfors had been built on the ruin of the old hillfort centuries after the Cataclysm, once civilization began to return to the old Imperial territories.

The top of the hill, at some point lost in the mists of history, had been levelled off. The steep, nearly impassable slopes made for a natural defensive barrier; indeed, a wooden palisade would have been sufficient to hold off all but the most determined assaults. As it was, though, several centuries ago the middle walls had been built out of packed earth between an inner and outer stone face. At nearly twenty feet tall and six feet thick, they were a formidable defense. Crenellations lined the top of the outer face of the wall, and large, round towers bristling with arrow slits lined the wall at regular intervals.

Past the gatehouse, the dirt track turned to the right and descended the steep slope at an angle. It ran several hundred feet along the curve of the hill until it finally reached the bottom of the promontory and onto somewhat more level ground. Wooden houses and shops lined the dirt road, their daubed walls whitewashed, making the dark wooden tresses stand out in comparison. The largest houses, at three stories tall, were built closest to the road to the castle, with others growing shorter and shorter the closer one got to the outermost walls.

The sole exception to that was the buildings nearest the central market square; the wealthy merchants who could afford to buy land near the square could also afford to construct larger buildings, most with the shops on the ground floor, and their living quarters on the upper floor.

“The stench is worse than usual,” Valens commented, rubbing at his nose. “It hasn’t been this bad since the siege…”

“Aye, milord,” Lupis, who had been riding next to Valens, acknowledged.

Valens eyed a woman, kneeling just outside the door to one of the larger houses. She was dressed in rough clothing dyed black, and wore a similarly colored shawl over her hair and face. Her arms were wrapped around herself and she rocked back and forth, her mournful wails mixing with the other cries of despair rising up around the city.

“What is the latest count?” Valens asked, keeping his voice low, barely audible over the sound of the horses’ hooves and the wailing mourners.

“Nearly a thousand,” his Captain replied. Lupis shook his head and made a religious gesture, as if to ward off the illness.

“Marwyn have mercy,” Valens sighed, swearing on the name of the Goddess of Mercy and Justice, and shook his head. “It seems as if this plague will never abate.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not,” Lupis shrugged. “Only the Gods know.”

Valens scratched at his beard, snagging a louse between his thumb and index finger, killed it, and flicked the body away. “As if the lice weren’t bad enough,” he muttered.

“Haven’t seen it this bad since the last campaign,” Lupis acknowledged. “And it’s always bad on campaign.”

“Aye, that is true,” Valens agreed. “But I have never seen it this bad in a city not under siege before.”

Lupis remained silent for a moment as the procession edged their way through the market square. Normally, stalls would line the large, open space as travelling merchants or countryside freeholders displayed their wares to the city’s populace. It was not so today, nor had it been so since rumors of plague had spread to the surrounding areas. Travelling merchants passed by rather than stop, and freeholders elected to remain at home rather than risk catching the illness.

Instead, a large pyre burned at the center of the square. A few unfortunate workers, tired and dirty and covered in soot, threw the newly dead onto the pyre, in the hopes that burning the bodies would halt the spread of the disease. Families gathered in small groups and mourned those they had lost; perhaps when the plague had abated, they would craft a small gravestone and place it on sanctified grounds, where the dead were typically buried. Given the present circumstances, though, the unusual practice of burning the dead would have to suffice.

‘Better the stench of burning flesh than the stench of rotting flesh,’ Valens admitted to himself. While burning flesh turned the stomach and lingered wherever one went, it was infinitely preferable to the sickening rot of a mass grave; he had seen and smelled those more than once during the last war, and he fervently prayed he would never have to see one again.

‘Though, the rumors of Kymringr raiders may make that wish impossible…’ Valens admitted to himself.

The County of Balreeve was far from the coast, perhaps a little more than one hundred and fifty miles, and nestled in one of the few wide passes in the Gaelspine Mountains. That did not mean that his fief was immune to potential Kymringr raids. The peoples of the Frozen Coast raided where and whence they could each summer, after planting season but before the harvest. During winter, their seas were so choked with ice that not even their famously seaworthy shallow-draft ships could navigate across the Northern Sea.

It was those ships, though, that allowed the Kymringr to raid as far inland as they could. During his grandfather’s time, a force of five ships and nearly two hundred warriors had sailed up the Balan river and landed not fifty miles from Castle Balfors. They had managed to raid and burn several small villages, and when his grandfather called his banner-men and levies, the raiders had fled back to their ships and sailed back down the river with their ill-gotten gains.

“What troubles you so, milord?” the Captain asked, interrupting Valens’ musings. “... is it your daughter?”

“No. Well, yes, of course I’m worried about her,” Valens corrected himself. “But my thoughts were on the Kymringr.”

“Ah. Pirates, raiders, and overall scum, Kyril take ‘em,” Lupis swore darkly. “Attacking the defenseless, and fleeing at the merest hint of a fair battle.”

“True enough,” Valens chuckled darkly; there was no lost love for the Kymringr in the Kingdom of Scael; not since they had burned down the capital city a century or so ago, destroying the main Temple of Velieris there. Even their merchant traders were not allowed in the Kingdom’s ports. “Still, I’ve heard unsettling rumors of late…”

“What rumors, milord?”

“That the Kymringr have been united under the rule of a single King once more,” Valens said, making a gesture of prayer to Valieris. “I do not know whether these rumors are true, but there have been fewer raids these past few years.”

“I doubt there is any truth to the rumor,” Lupis shook his head. “It took a living legend of the likes of Thorven the Great to unite those savages before, and he was the chosen of Angelor, God of War.”

“That does not mean another cannot do the same.”

Lupis remained silent as the procession passed through the outer gate. The few houses that had been built outside the walls were all universally smaller and less well-kept than the ones in the city proper, with the exception of the traveler’s lodge and the brothel next to it; per custom, those were to remain outside the city limits.

“All the royal families of Scael, Wittan, Fyne, and Louche are descended from Thorven the Great, and half of the great houses of the Electorate can trace their lineage back to him,” Valens continued. “Even my family has some small portion of Thorven’s blood in them.”

“With all due respect, milord, I’ll believe it when I see it,” Lupis grunted, stubbornly resisting the very idea that the Kymringr could ever unite again. “I’m more worried about Wittan.”

“The King of Wittan is married to the King of Scael’s sister,” Valens pointed out. “There will be no war between our two kingdoms.”

“And yet, the Duke of Saxebury has been feuding with your liege-lord, the Duke of Caent,” he countered, perhaps a bit more argumentatively than a man of his station should. “I heard rumors that the Lord Justice of Wittan has called a Thyng.”

“Where in the Gods’ names did you hear that?” the Count asked, surprise written across his face. A ‘Thyng’ was a sacred meeting, overseen by a priest or priestess of Marwyn, meant to arbitrate the end of hostilities. Each side would argue their case, and the priest or priestess would render judgement. If one or both sides refused the judgement, it left only one recourse; war.

“A merchant fresh from Reeveport, just before the plague struck,” the larger man replied, his smirk lifting his bushy red mustache and pressing it against his nostrils.

“That is worrying,” Valens admitted, looking away into the growing gloom of twilight. “The Duke of Saxebury is the second son of the King of Wittan; if it comes to war, his father will undoubtedly come to his aid.”

“Even worse, King Brogue may decide not to aid Duke Ambrose,” Lupis pointed out. “It’ll be the Duchy of Caent alone against the whole of the Kingdom of Wittan.”

“And us along with it…” Valens sighed. “And a refusal on my part would be seen as a betrayal.”

“Aye, but such is the lot of a vassal,” the larger man quipped, slapping Valens’ armored back with heavy blows, jostling the smaller man.

“Oof!” The Count was pressed against the saddlehorn, nearly draped against his charger’s neck. With a joking protest, he cried, “Unhand me, you lout!”

Several of the Count’s Guard, following behind the pair, chuckled their amusement.

With the mood sufficiently lightened, the group descended into their typical ribauld jests as they followed the road to the west, following a winding path up the steep slope.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

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The torches flickered in their brackets every time a gust blew into the mouth of the cave. The half-dozen acolytes continued their mournful singing, the wind rustling their heavy robes. It was chilly, for late springtime, but it was to be expected; they were halfway up the mountainside, after all.

Even so, Valens rubbed his hands together. They were shaking, partially from the cold, and partially at the prospect of what was to come. The anticipation and worry clashed in his gut, and he felt a rising nausea.

‘Calm down,’ he chastised himself. ‘It’s no worse than forming up for battle, and you’ve stood bravely then. You can stand bravely now.’

With pursed lips, Valens dragged his eyes away from the chanting acolytes and looked around the small shrine. It had been built into a cave at some point in the mists of history, long before the Cataclysm and the fall of the Teranthian Empire, and those events had happened over a thousand years ago. Though the walls still appeared to be natural limestone, granite flagstones had been set in place throughout most of the cave’s floor.

“It is almost time.”

The voice coming from behind him startled Valens, and he quickly turned, one hand gasping the hilt of his sword. The old woman, her hair long, grey, and matted, was dressed in robes identical to the other acolytes, though an ornate sash wrapped from shoulder to waist indicated her status as High Priestess of Selatura, Goddess of the Moon.

“Have you prepared the sacrifice, my lord?” she asked, her voice thready and brittle from age.

“I have,” Valens nodded and gestured towards a pure white lamb held in the arms of his Captain of the Guards, Lupis.

“Very good. Place it on the altar,” she said, pointing towards the mouth of the cave.

The waist-high slab seemed to have been carved from a single block of stone. Every surface of the dark grey granite had been polished to a mirror shine. A small raised lip, barely a thumb-length tall, lined the altar top, and a small groove had been carved into the smooth surface just inside the lip. A hole had been drilled in the groove on the side closest to the cave opening.

At Valens’ nod, Lupis placed the lamb on the altar. Though the poor beast struggled, its four legs were tied together. Aside from some bleating, it quickly gave up its struggles and lay still.

“I trust you know the rites?” the High Priestess asked.

“I remember them,” Valens reassured her.

“Good. Here, take this.” The priestess held out a dagger hilt first to the Count. The curved blade was as black as night and polished to utter perfection. There was no crossguard, and the hilt appeared to be made from ivory. Valens took the knife and balanced it in his palm; it was much lighter than he had been expecting.

“When the moon fully rises over the mountaintops, you may begin.”

“Thank you, High Priestess,” Valens absently said, most of his attention taken up by the blade.

Turning his attention from the blade, Valens took his position at the Altar. He stood facing the mouth of the cave, pointing towards the east. It was a nearly cloudless night, with only a few faint whisps to obscure a few of the stars. The moon, not quite full, was beginning to peek over the mountain tops on the far side of the valley. Dozens, or perhaps hundreds, of orange lights could be seen spread across the valley floor; a large collection near the center of the valley was Castle Balfors and the surrounding town, while other, smaller collections were the many peasant villages that dotted the countryside.

‘My home… my family’s legacy…’ he thought to himself.

The Salvorin family had lived in this valley since before the Cataclysm. At least, that was what the family histories claimed. Generations of his ancestors had lived, worked, ruled, and died in this valley. Kingdoms and Duchies and lesser principalities had come and gone, and yet his family remained.

‘And now, it is just myself, and my daughter… my precious Artesia…’

The fickle fortunes of fate, at first felicitous and fitting, finally faded and fell, forsaking his family, fading fast as a fairy-light in the fog of the fens. War, illness, and accidental death had slowly pruned away the branches of his family tree, until only he was left. Valens parents, despite trying for years, had only managed to have one child. Valens own wife, Maven, had died in childbirth. And now, his only daughter, Artesia, lay on her deathbed.

The damnable plague infesting his lands struck without warning. A sudden onset of fever and headaches, then an outbreak of rash, then finally delirium and death. The priests, with all their poultices, potions, and healing prayers could do little to fight the illness; after all, there were only so many potions and prayers to go around.

‘Please… Selatura, my family has revered you for generations. Please, hear my prayer.’

The tone of the singing acolytes changed. Their pace got faster, the men singing deeper and the women higher. The harmonies echoed throughout the cave, louder than the half-dozen acolytes should have been able to produce on their own. A high ringing sound began to resonate seemingly from between his ears; the sound of it set the hairs on the back of his neck on end.

The light of the nearly-full moon, just now fully visible above the mountains, bathed the dark altar in an otherworldly glow. Flecks of color, like the stars on a moonless night, shone seemingly from within the stone itself.

Following the ritual he had been taught as a young boy, Valens pressed the dagger against the lamb’s neck. The acolytes held the final note to the sacred song, now singing so loud that Valens could feel the resonance in his chest. All at once, the acolytes fell silent, and in that moment, Valens drew the dagger away with a sharp swipe.

Even as the lifeblood of the struggling lamb spilled onto the surface of the altar, Valens began his prayer.

“Hear me, O’ Selatura, Lady of the Moon.” Valens’ voice rang loud and clear through the cave, even as he kept his eyes locked on the moon. “Hear me, Selatura, Bringer of Sleep. Hear me, my lady, Guardian of Dreams.”

Holding his hand to the side, the High Priestess pressed the small bottle of Lunar Spirits into his hand. Glancing at the bottle just long enough to make sure that the cork had been removed, Valens began pouring the liquid onto the weakly twitching lamb on the altar. The sharp scent of pine sap and licorice, along with the acrid stink of alcohol, blended with the coppery tang of freshly spilled blood, the combined essence wafting through the cave.

“As in the days of old, I bring to you an offering, that you might turn your gaze upon me,” he continued. Dropping the now-empty bottle, he held out his hand. The High Priestess pressed one of the still-burning torches into his palm, allowing him to grasp the handle. “May the offering please you, my Lady, and may the smoke carry my prayers to your ears.”

Valens pressed the burning end of the torch to the lamb’s body. The volatile Lunar Spirits quickly lit, and the hungry flames began consuming the offering. The acolytes began singing once more, the somber sounds softly echoing through the cave.

Turning his gaze from the burning sacrifice, Valens bowed his head, and began to pray.

“My family has long been dedicated to your service, O’ Selatura,” he began, his voice quiet. “For generations, you have blessed us for our devotion. My family will always be grateful for that. I pray to you now to ask for a blessing that I have not earned. My daughter… she lives, and yet she will not wake. I ask of you, please, release my daughter from the realm of sleep, so that my family line will not end with me. I beg this of you, my Lady.”

The wind, which had been blustering about all night, suddenly stilled. A tingling ran down Valens’ spine and goosebumps ran down his limbs. The burning sacrifice and all of the torches around the cave flared brightly, the flames climbing up, higher and higher, until they licked the arched roof overhead. Peering through the nearly blinding light of the burning flames, Valens watched as the fire consumed the offering in mere moments. As soon as the last speck of spilled blood on the altar was consumed, every flame suddenly extinguished all at once.

Holding his breath, Valens watched, transfixed, as the billowing smoke swirled down from the ceiling and coalesced into a human shape. The silver light of the moon seemed to turn liquid, flowing into the forming figure, lighting it from within. Long, silvery hair flowed from head to waist. A robe with wide, billowing sleeves seemed to settle around the ephemeral image, and it twinkled like the night sky. The silvery moonlight glowing from within obscured the precise features of the Goddess’s face, but there was no mistaking this goddess for any other.

“My lady!” he exclaimed, even as he dropped to his knees and bowed his head low. The whispering of cloth against cloth echoed through the suddenly silent cave, alongside the rattle of metal on metal, as everyone else bowed as low. Murmured echoes of “My lady” and “Selatura” slipped from the lips of everyone alike.

“My child…” the voice seemed to echo strangely in the cave. It was motherly and gentle, like a lullaby gently coaxing a young child to sleep.

“I have heard your prayer, Valens Salvorin,” the goddess continued. Valens felt a barely-there touch against his bare head. “My most faithful follower…”

“Thank you, my lady,” Valens said, his voice quavering.

Selatura’s touch drifted down the side of his head and gently pressed against his chin. Valens lifted his head and turned his eyes to his goddess’s face.

“I weep for you, my child,” she told him, her voice turning somber. “If it were in my power to grant, you prayers would have already been answered.”

“But, my Lady…” Valens began, but hesitated. Did he dare contradict a goddess? For his daughter, though… “She… Artesia sleeps but will not wake. Is the power over sleep and dreams not within your godly realm?”

“It is, Valens Salvorin,” she said, her voice soft and soothing, even as her hand pushed his long hair from his face. “But, while Artesia’s body sleeps, her soul has already departed this world. I cannot bring back the dead; such a thing is impossible.”

“Then-” Valens voice cracked as he choked back a sob. “Then all is lost, and my family will die with me.”

“You are still young, Valens. You could yet take another wife…”

“No. I cannot,” Valens looked down and shook his head. “I swore on Marwyn’s name that I would take no woman other than my wife for as long as I live…”

“I’m sure that Marwyn would not hold you to your oath, now that your wife has passed on.”

“I…” Valens hesitated, shamefully looking away from the glowing goddess. “Even if Marwyn would release me from my oath, I would know myself as an oathbreaker.”

“You truly did love your wife…” Selatura said with a sigh of resignation. “Though… there is one thing I could do.”

Valens looked up at her, hope shining in his watery eyes.

“While I cannot bring your daughter’s spirit back to the realm of the living,” she said, looking up at the roof of the cave. “I could find another soul to take her place.”

“My Lady… is that not… forbidden?”

“My husband, Kyril, will allow it, with some stipulations.”

“What… what stipulations, my Lady?” he asked.

Selatura cocked her head, as if hearing something from a distance. A chill breeze swept through the cave, carrying with it the faintest hint of grave rot. Valens shuddered; the power of the God of Death was not something to be taken lightly.

“This… trade must never be spoken of, and you will swear an oath on Kyril’s name to that effect.”

“Yes, my Lady, I swear it, on Kyril’s name.”

“Furthermore, the balance must be kept,” she continued. “A soul for a soul. As you have served me in life, you will serve my husband in death.”

“I…” he paused and swallowed. The holy texts had little good to say about realm of Kyril or of his servants. If he agreed to this, he would forfeit eternity in Philosia, the land of paradise, for an eternity in Braxos. “I swear it, my Lady, but… but only if I am allowed to visit my wife in Philosia.”

Selatura crooned and placed a hand to her chest. “Your love for your wife deserves to be recorded in legend, my child. I will see to it.”

“Thank you, my Lady…” Valens took a deep breath and steeled his soul. “I am ready.”

Selatura cocked her head to the side, looking down at him. After a moment, she chuckled and patted him on the head once more. “Oh, my child, you misunderstand; Kyril does not want your life now. When the Fates decree you life is done, only then will you begin your service to my husband.”

Valens let out his breath, a tightness somewhere in his gut relaxing. “Th-thank you, my Lady.”

“You are welcome, my most faithful follower.” Selatura stood to her full height, or at least her current form’s height, and reached into one of her ephemeral garment’s sleeves. When she withdrew her hand, she was holding a bottle, seemingly made of a dark, smoky, nearly opaque glass. She leaned forward and placed the open top against her cheek. A bead of liquid moonlight gathered at the corner of her eye, slid down her cheek, and into the bottle.

When she pulled the bottle away and placed a stopper in the top, there was far more liquid light than could be explained by a single tear. Despite the darkness of the glass, it continued to glow with an internal light.

“When you return home, pour this into your daughter’s mouth,” Selatura told him, holding the bottle out to him. Valens reverently took the bottle in both hands and hugged it close to his chest, as if he feared dropping it. “After a day and a night, she will wake; on this, you have my word.”

“T-thank you, my Lady,” Valens nearly sobbed as he bowed so low his forehead touched the pavestones. “I am forever in your debt.”

“Your family is precious to me, my child,” she said as the inner light filling her form began to fade and her hazy form began to dissipate. “As long as my moon shines in the night sky, I will always be with you…”

For several long moments after the image of the Goddess faded away, the worshippers in the cave remained still. The torches that had previously been extinguished flared to life once more, bringing a dim but warm glow back to the erstwhile temple. Eventually, though, the acolytes began to rise, one by one, and turned towards their respective duties.

Valens did not move until the High Priestess placed a hand on his shoulder. Looking up, his gaze met hers. The old woman’s otherwise passive face was betrayed by the light of fanaticism in her eyes, the intensity of which made Valens distinctly uncomfortable.

“My Lady has truly blessed you, my lord,” she said, her voice trembling with suppressed emotion. “What did she say? What message does she have for us, her faithful devotees?”

“You… did not hear?” Valens asked, taken aback. “But I…”

“We could all see your mouth moving, my lord, but not a word reached our ears once Selatura appeared.”

“Oh. I… see.” He turned away from her, relieved that no one else heard his conversation with his patron deity. It felt too… intimate, too personal to be shared with people he barely knew. “Perhaps… it is Her will that what was said remains for my ears only.”

The old woman’s face fell, and a slight frown tugged down the corners of her lips. “Perhaps you are right, my lord. Alas, if only…”

The High Priestess trailed off, seemingly staring at nothing in particular deeper in the cave. After a moment, she continued, saying, “The trek back down the mountainside is dangerous in the dark. I will have guest rooms prepared for you and your men.”

“Thank you.”

With slumped shoulders, the old woman slowly shuffled deeper into the cave. Valens remained on his knees. The flickering torchlight sent odd shadows dancing across his downturned face, even as he stared at the twinkling light glowing from within the smokey glass bottle he held cupped in his palms.

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