CHAPTER 11 - THE TRACKER

Gideon underestimated the toll that loneliness and the constant fear of being caught would take on his spirit.

The cave that the voice had shown him on the first night was damp, but it let him get some much needed sleep. He didn’t dare to light a fire, and instantly passed out on the cold ground. The following morning brought a late Autumn chill, making him thankful that he had been wearing his overcoat the day before.

Stealing some linens hung out to dry in a nearby town, Gideon tore them into strips and did his best to clean the wound over his eye and the stab to his leg. Even if he found someone with a Healing Gift, he had no way to pay them for their services, which always ran steep. Those Gifted with that ability were always snatched up as personal Healers for guard corps, hospitals, and noble houses, and paid well to do so.

For days, Gideon Eldridge walked south, although the voice did not reach out to him. He foraged during the day, tried to keep himself hydrated, then would wash his wounds and apply fresh bandages before bedding down for the night. The wound in his leg especially caused him grief and limited his mobility.

He had to take special care to not leave anything behind, and to hide anything he had to. He was very aware of the tracking skills used by Trace Gifted, and knew that Dorian recruited several of them into the Knights of the Silver Moon. One touch of an object he left behind, in the hands of a Tracer, would literally lead them right to him. A discarded bandage, a strand of hair, even a single drop of blood on a leaf could give him away. Thankfully, the lands he journeyed through were teeming with animals, ones that would scavenge most of what he may accidentally leave.

Almost two weeks had passed, and the sound of a naying horse woke him up in the middle of the night, after falling asleep in an unguarded barn. We woke up with a start, his eyes darting open while the rest of his body remained still. He had positioned himself on a bed of straw, and any movement would have made noise. The group carried some kind of light source, and Gideon could see its faint glow through the weathered slats of the barn walls.

“Do you see anything?” one voice asked out loud.

“Does it look like I can?” another retorted with attitude. “It’s dark as hell out here. Where are we, anyway?”

“You’re the Tracker,” the first voice replied. “You told the Master that you could Track the traitor. Now I’ll ask again…where is he?”

Gideon did his best to control his breathing. Based on their volume, they seemed to be across the road, at the northern entrance of the property. But it was hard to tell.

“First of all,” the Tracker answered. “He’s not my Master. He hired me because his own Trackers were on a mission and this was urgent. Hence my emergency pay. Which I still haven’t gotten yet!”

“You get half when we find him, half when we bring his head back,” the first voice said flatly. “Just use your Gift and tell us where he is.”

“Do you want to go ahead and wake up whoever is in that farmhouse?” a third voice came out of nowhere. “Because if you keep shouting at each other at whatever bloody time it is, you might as well. I’d rather not deal with civilians.”

Gideon remembered that third voice. It belonged to Ozhriath, the Vintelli archer of the Knights and one of the few inside the organization that used the Second Stance: Binor. His skill with a bow made him an excellent hunter, and his presence told Gidon that Dorian didn’t want anyone going toe to toe with him. Oz, his nickname at Grenfield, was an excellent tracker in his own right, even without that specific Gift.

If I could take them all out, I’d be able to escape, he thought. Oz is weak at melee combat, and the Tracker probably is as well. I don’t know the first voice, though.

What would happen if you killed them all here? The gentle voice asked, as if it wanted an answer.

Then…Dorian will find the bodies, think that the people who lived here aided me, and kill them. Damn.

The voice did not respond, but Gideon could understand the reasoning. His offensive training needed to take a step back if it meant he could think outside the box.

“I told you both before we left,” the Tracker continued. “I need a big piece of something he’s left behind. If it’s small, like this, then it will only give me a rough estimate.”

“I could work with that,” Oz chirped. “What range does that strip of bandage give you?”

Gideon cursed. He had carefully buried all his used bandages, but a piece must have fallen off while walking. Or maybe an animal dug it up.

“About a hundred yards,” the Tracker answered. “Give or take.”

“So you’re telling me,” the first voice began, an edge creeping into his tone. “That we’re in the middle of nowhere, it’s pitch black out, and we have to search what looks like an entire farm?”

“And he’s probably heard us by now,” Oz interjected.

“Thanks for pointing that out,” their leader said, his voice dripping with anger and sarcasm. “I’m going to check the farmhouse. I didn’t want to involve whoever is inside, but we don’t have a choice. Oz, come with me. Tracker, head towards the western edge of the property, maybe you’ll get a better sense of where he’s hiding.”

Gideon’s hiding spot was on the southern edge of the property; he had chosen it because he had a feeling that any pursuers would come from the north, and the hunch paid off.

If I intercept the Tracker, I could take the piece of bandage he found. They’d be stuck here with no direction.

He heard the leader and Oz pounding on the farmhouse door, but didn’t wait to see what would happen. Instead, Gideon stalked carefully and quietly towards the empty stables on the west side of the farm. He huddled behind the nearby well, tapped into his Sight Gift, and scanned for the Tracker. He found him, pacing back and forth, looking down at the tiny scrap of bandage in his hand. As Gideon moved closer, the Tracker’s head rose up, his eyes flicking around in the darkness.

“Ugh…you’ve got to be around here somewhere,” the Tracker muttered to himself, then turned towards Gideon’s direction. Gideon swiftly moved back behind the well again, listening carefully as the Tracker walked closer and closer.

The Tracker, in the darkness of the night, cast the lantern he was carrying forward. The well in front of him illuminated, with Gideon hidden in its shadow.

“They won’t mind if I take a minute and refill my waterskin, our guy isn’t going anywhere when it’s this dark,” the Tracker said to himself, after taking a cursory glance around. He put down his lantern, then pushed the bucket from the lip of the well towards the middle. It fell, scraping the sides on its way down until it sent off a distant splash. The Tracker reached his hand out towards the crank, to retrieve the bucket when Gideon’s own hand shot out and grabbed his arm. In a swift motion, he spun the Tracker around and put his other hand over his mouth.

The Tracker fought for a moment, then went rigid. The two crouched, bound in darkness weakly flicked away by the lantern, until the Tracker’s breathing slowed down from a panic.

“If you say a word, you’re dead,” Gideon whispered into the Tracker’s ear. “Then whoever lives in that farmhouse will die when Dorian investigates. So I’d rather not. Nod if you understand.”

Nod.

“Are you a Knight of the Silver Moon?”

Head shake.

“Do you know who I am, or what I did?”

Head shake.

Good, Gideon thought. He’s not invested.

“Are you the only party Dorian sent after me?”

Head shake.

Damn it. Wait…

“Did he send a party in every direction?”

Nod.

Well, that’s something. He doesn’t know exactly where I went. But if this group reports back, he’ll concentrate his efforts.

“Have you reported back to the Knights about finding my trail?”

Head shake

Gideon breathed a quiet sigh of relief from his nose.

“So you must have found the bandage recently. Yesterday?”

Nod.

“Where is it?”

The Tracker made a shaking motion with his left hand, and Gideon looked. He was impressed, in the split second he was about to be captured, the Tracker managed to hide the shred of bloody bandage in his sleeve. Gideon pulled it out, stuffing it into his pants pocket.

A clattering noise shattered through the night air from the farmhouse, as the two searching Knights ransacked the inside. A elderly man and woman sat on the steps in front of the door, embracing each other as they trembled in fear.

Gideon tapped into his Sight Gift and saw their terrified faces, and it made his blood boil.

Patience, the voice reminded.

“Okay, here’s what’s going to happen,” Gideon began, adding an edge of confident hostility to his voice. “I could have easily killed your entire search party a dozen times by now…that’s why the man who hired you sent an archer; he knows no one he sends can beat me in melee combat.”

The Tracker’s nervousness ramped up, as he began to shake almost as badly as the farming couple.

“If you want to live, you’re going to do exactly what I tell you. Nod if you understand.”

Nod.

“Good,” Gideon replied, tightening his grip on the Tracker’s wrist to accentuate his point.

“Where is your Parsell?”

The Tracker wiggled his middle finger, and the nearby lantern’s light glinted off a thin, gold ring. Gideon pulled it off, then dropped it into the well. A barely-audible plunk of a splash dribbled out of the murky void. The Tracker continued to stay crouched, his hands not bound, so Gideon decided to not bother grabbing them again. The man knew when to submit.

“There’s an old horse blanket in the barn. You’re going to take a piece from it, then lead those two to the west until the trail runs cold. You never saw me. And your ring fell off while you were filling that waterskin. Nod if you understand.”

Nod.

“If I see you again, I will kill you, " Gideon continued, more edge laying into his whispers. “If I find out that ANYONE was hurt in your pursuit, I’ll find you and kill you. I doubt the commission you’re earning on this hunt is worth your life.”

Head shake.

At least he’s not stupid, Gideon thought. But the others will report that a trail was found at some point. Have to match some adjustments.

“The first town you come to going west…find a hunter and pay him to say the bandage was his. Do whatever it takes to prevent the other two from sending back a report until this happens. If anyone from Grenfield finds me, I’m blaming you and you’re dead.”

An enthusiastic nod followed the final threat.

Gideon shuddered inwardly. He hated threats, and was grateful the Tracker didn’t call his bluff and try to attack him.

“Now, I’m going to let you go. Stay right here, tell them you’ve been trying to get your ring this whole time. If you say ANYTHING…”

A frantic head shake ensued.

“Good, you’re a smart man,” Gideon replied. He carefully took his hand away, the Tracker’s eyes wide, following Gideon into the treeline nearby. The pursued man skirted that treeline back to the southern point of the farm, then waited. No call from the Tracker burst through the night, and once the two Knights were finished, they wordlessly left the farmhouse and met up with the Tracker. Gideon tapped into Sight to see the Tracker pointing furiously down the well, and nowhere else.

Satisfied, Gideon silently continued south, and spent the remainder of the night in a hollowed out tree, grateful that a bad situation didn’t become much, much worse.

CHAPTER 12 - THE TAVERN

After several more arduous days, and thanks to some medicinal herbs Gideon found in the forest, his eye and leg were healed. Per the voice’s request, he limited the usage of his Sight Gift, and was able to scout out locations like towns or single houses before he would approach. A small family of a husband, wife, and two children took him in for a few days so he could rest, and he repaid them by chopping firewood and doing other chores. It reminded Gideon of his childhood, although he grew up in a much more urban area, and it made the goodbye harder than it should have been. He prayed that no harm would come to the family, and he earnestly meant it.

It was getting very late, and Gideon found himself wandering aimlessly through some brush trying to find a place to bed down for the night. It had the assorted thistles and a few bushes of wild berries, some of which he grabbed and immediately threw into his mouth.

The journey made Gideon realize how much he missed comforts. A warm bed, a mess hall full of food, clean clothes, bathing…the open wilderness between small towns south of the capital city of Morwell had none of those things for the weary and penniless traveler. The homestead he had left a few days prior offered him a space on the floor with a blanket in a heated room, and he felt like a king with even that little bit of civilization. He had been trained on wilderness survival, but only minimally; it essentially showed him how to build and maintain a fire, and how to verify what was safe to eat.

The yellow berries he was currently chewing on were safe, that much he knew. He couldn’t quite remember the name, but he could remember a line from his wilderness class:

“If it’s yellow, nice and mellow.”

His boots, designed for walking to and from classes on smooth stone floors and rugs, were almost worn completely through. He avoided rivers, mud, and sand the best he could, but had to stop frequently to remove the piece of rock that had squirmed its way in as he walked. Having thoroughly chewed and ingested the yellow berries, he stopped to clear his boots again. A large piece of light gray gravel had lodged itself under the arch of his bare foot.

Wait…gravel?

Gideon looked down, and finally noticed that he had stepped onto a narrow trail made of the same lightly colored rock. It had mostly been hidden by the overgrowth, but now that he was looking for it, it was plain as day. He followed it with his eyes, and saw in the soft darkness a speck of light.

He froze, his eyes fixated on the distant speck, waiting for it to move or get bigger. It didn’t. Gideon couldn’t remember if there was any village or town here based on a map, but since he had no idea where he was, it didn’t really matter either way. One warm place to spend the night was as good as any, and this place seemed…cozy. The light almost called out to him.

Not drawing his weapon, in case the light might reflect off the blade, he carefully inched his way through the remaining brush and down the gravel path. Eventually, the brush ended and opened up into a small field. Surrounded by dense overgrowth to the left and right, it was like the earth itself beckoned the man forward. Passing a few broken down husks of small houses or sheds, he eventually found the source of the light: a tavern, nestled against the treeline to his right. A gentle smoke began whispering from the river rock chimney and with it came…

Meat, he thought. Good gods, they’re cooking meat in there.

Gideon swallowed, and carefully approached the tavern. He used his Sight hastily to scan the area, and found nobody stalking around, or anyone at all. There were houses sprinkled in the distance, in addition to plowed fields, with flowing hills past those. A whole small town sprawled out before him, the tranquility of the place matching the soft chirp of the crickets nearby.

The tavern seemed small, at least by the standards of the ones in the capital city, but it was clean on the outside. A basement door sat inconspicuously near a set of stone stairs that led up to the main door, but he couldn’t see a lock on either one. After he climbed the stairs, he placed his ear against the old wooden door and listened. The sound of clashing pewter, talking, and laughing resonated through the wood. He closed his eyes to listen more intently, until the noise suddenly became stronger.

An older man, around sixty years of age, had opened the door. He stood in front of Gideon, his patched overcoat under his arms and flecks of indeterminate food in his beard, and stared at him. Gideon stared back, wordlessly, about to draw his weapon, before the old man huffed and raised an eyebrow.

“You mind?” he said, in a gruff, but even voice.

Gideon’s eyes darted back and forth, scanning the man for weapons, before his brain started to work again.

“Uh…what?” he asked.

“Just trying to get home,” the old man continued, gesturing with his other hand out towards the town. “Yer blocking the way out.”

Gideon blinked, then sheepishly realized that the man was right, and wasn’t planning on killing him.

“Oh, I’m sorry sir,” Gideon apologized with a croak, stepping back and holding his hands out to guide the old man. He grunted, nodded, then descended the stairs, landing in the soft grass below. With a stretch, he took in a big breath of the evening air and continued to walk towards what Gideon assumed was his home, whistling on the way.

Finally entering the tavern himself, Gideon automatically took in every detail he could, in case he needed to make a quick escape.

Eight windows, he thought. A bar that looks like it leads to a cellar. Two fireplaces; one on each side of the long main room. A second story with two...no, three rooms branching off from the upper hallway. Twelve patrons, possibly thirteen.

He couldn’t tell if the woman in an apron he saw was working there, or was just making small talk with a middle aged couple at a round table in the corner. The patrons, Gideon noticed, paid him nearly no attention at all. Several looked up for a brief moment before returning to their meals or drinks, but most ignored him as he entered.

The inside of the tavern seemed to emit an aura of peace. From the non-threatening people eating and drinking, to the pleasant aroma of grilled meat and freshly baked bread, topped off with the earthy smell that appeared to be in the background of it all. The musk also confirmed what Gideon had seen outside; this must be a farming community. He relaxed slightly, while keeping his blade hidden the best he could, and slid onto a chair next to the door.

“Alright, what’ll ya have?” a voice fell towards him, a few seconds after he closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. He opened his eyes and focused, to find the woman that had been making small talk, now standing in front of him. Her light brown eyes stared at him expectantly, framed in a face that must have been the talk of the town thirty years before. Her blonde hair has a frizzled, grayish tint to it, tied up behind her in a ponytail. The patchwork apron she sported was worn, but clean, with a yellow floral pattern that was a stark contrast to the constant mud and grime that had been surrounding Gideon for weeks.

“Uh…what?” Gideon asked, caught off guard.

“I don’t know you,” she began. “So that means you’re travelin’ and are probably hungry. Aint ya?”

Gideon bit his lip, as his brain reminded him of the delicious smells flowing from the kitchen.

“Yes, I am,” he replied. “To both your assumptions, I suppose. But…I don’t have any money.”

The older woman put her hands on her hips, as she sighed through her elegant nose.

“We’re about to be hit with the after work rush,” she said, flatly. “Can’t have ya sittin around, takin up a table and buyin’ nothin’. Costs me money.”

Gideon understood per predicament, but it didn’t make it any less of a problem.

“Look,” he said quietly, leaning towards her from across the table. “I left in a hurry and forgot my money. I just need a place to rest for a bit before I keep going…can I get a meal on credit? I can work it off.”

“No meals on credit!” an older man behind the bar counter barked.

“You heard my husband,” the woman said. “If ya got something valuable I’d consider that in exchange, otherwise you best hit the road again.”

Exasperated, yet grateful for the chance, Gideon unbuttoned his coat and began rummaging through his pockets. The broken steak knife, some jerky from the family in the woods, and his tattered socks were all he could find. He didn’t dare to expose his sword, he wasn’t sure what these people would do to someone armed with such a fine and expensive weapon. He remembered Professor Corvo’s lectures about the Battle of the Yontin Plains, against the lizardmen of Freed’s march, about how one should never show the enemy all your resources.

“Not a single copper Rad,” the woman said with pity, looking over Gideon’s pathetic offering. “Maybe if you stay around outside I can bring you something after we cl…wait.”

She leaned in towards Gideon, her head pivoting as she stared at his necklace with one eye.

“Are you from Grenfield?” she asked.

Gideon’s muscles went rigid with panic, before he forced himself to remain calm. “Yes,” he replied, as he dropped his arm inconspicuously to the side, fingers dancing on the handle of his weapon.

“Joise, C’mere,” she beckoned to the corner of the room. The couple she had been talking to when Gideon had walked in turned to face them, and the woman stood up. She walked over to the waitress, her hands clasped in front of her plain blue dress.

“Hmm?” she directed at the older woman. “What do you need?”

The waitress leaned back, as if trying to cut Gideon out of the conversation, while still remaining in earshot.

“You think they actually sent somebody this time?” she asked Joise.

“How do you figure?” she replied, looking Gideon up and down.

The waitress motioned with her chin towards Gideon’s chest. “See that necklace?”

Joise tilted her head forward, eyes over her spectacles, looking at Gideon’s Parsell. The old piece of jewelry was a family heirloom, given to Gideon by his mother, which eventually bonded with him upon receiving his Gift. The trinket, about the size of a walnut, could never hold a lot of Whispers. It depicted a sleeping baby in a basket, the symbol of the goddess of rebirth: Avara.

Gideon had never really forgotten that the jewelry was there; it was his Parsell and had been a part of him for so long that he didn’t really see it as an object separate from himself.

Do they want to buy it? He thought. No…they’d have to see that it’s a Parsell, and there’s no point in buying one already bound to someone else. No one would ever sell their own Parsell.

The two women stood sheepishly in front of Gideon, who was sitting, looking up at them, hoping they wouldn’t attack.

“Are you…” Joise asked curiously. “The replacement?”

Gideon’s eyes darted between the two women, then the man Joise had left at the table, the barkeep, and a few other patrons nearby who had gotten a whiff of the conversation.

The voice finally spoke.

Tell them.

“Possibly,” Gideon answered, praying his answer was the one these people were hoping for. “Please forgive me, I must have gotten turned around. Where am I exactly?”

“Yer’ in Avandale,” the waitress replied, as she gestured out of the front door with her chin, arms crossed.

Gideon put on his most priestly face and demeanor. He wasn’t particularly religious; he wouldn’t even be wearing the necklace if it wasn’t a Parsell.

“Ah, good. I’m in the right place, then. I lost my map in the commotion at Grenfield and was worried that I had gone too far,” he explained.

“The commotion?” Joise asked, an eyebrow raised.

Aaaah. I can’t make this more complicated. Tone it down.

Gideon’s mind shifted, remembering weeks prior. “Yes, I left in quite a hurry, once I heard about your little town. I’m so glad I managed to get here in one piece! My professors…didn’t like me leaving so quickly, there was a scuffle.”

The two women each let out a sigh of relief, and a few smiles came from the patrons eating nearby. Their faces brightened, as if a great burden had been lifted.

“We were worried the school would never send anyone,” Joise began. “Our priest died over a year ago, Avara bless his soul to be reborn in peace. Anyway, we sent letter after letter to the evangelical department of Grenfield but never heard anything back. When we finally got a response, they said that…”

The woman’s demeanor changed.

“They said that they had no priests in training who worshiped Avara…” she finished, crossing her arms in front of her chest, awaiting an explanation to the problem she’d just discovered.

Uuuuuh oh. Gideon thought. I need to shift the blame here.

“Who did you correspond with at the college?” Gideon asked, stroking his mangled short beard.

“Honey!” Joise turned her head to holler at the man in the corner. “Who wrote us back about the priest?”

“His name was…Orion, I think,” the man called back.

I have no idea who that is, but buddy, it’s your fault.

“Ah, ok. I see now,” Gideon began. “See, Orion, with the rest of Grenfield, doesn’t really think much of the worshippers of Avara. I’m sure you’ve met people like that.”

Both women and the bartender, who was listening intently, nodded sympathetically.

“Anyway, I decided to devote the last year or so solely to my studies, so I could be a better priest,” he continued. “I spent all my time in the library, reading about the glory of Avara, and Orion must have completely forgotten I was even there!”

The waitress stared at Gideon for a moment, then smacked Joise’s shoulder lightly with the back of her hand.

“See? Ain’t that always the story? I had a feelin’ something like that was goin’ on,” she said, her voice slightly damp with pity. Joise nodded in agreement.

“I found a letter from you in a pile on Orion’s desk when I was cleaning up one day, and was so moved I dropped everything and came as fast as I could. Hence my current…unprepared state of affairs,” Gideon continued, gesturing at his worn clothes.

Joise shot out her hand, clasping Gideon’s in her own. “Well, we are so very glad you’re finally here,” she said earnestly. “My name is Joise Yards, my husband over there is William. Say ‘hi’ to the new priest, William!”

William Yards rose a mug of whatever he was drinking towards them. “Spot on, yeah!” he replied.

“And I’m Bonnie Vergassen,” the waitress introduced herself with a slight curtsy. “My husband is Andy, but he’s in the kitchen at the moment. I’m gonna go tell him you’re here and bring ya’ll a big plate of somethin’ good. On the house, of course.”

A huge wave of relief swept Gideon, from his head to his toes.

“Bless you,” he said, gratefully with a nod. “I appreciate your hospitality.”

Bonnie had already left the table, and walked through a swinging door to what Gideon assumed was the kitchen, before Joise could put another word in.

“We have a house all ready for you,” she said, full of excitement and pride. “It’s near a quiet part of the town…not saying that the town is noisy and you’ll be spending a lot of time in the church house anyway…I’ll get a few people to stock it up with linens and food, and add you to the water heater’s morning rounds…”

“Dear…” her husband broke up the chatter. “Calm down, you’re going to scare him off.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” she said, slightly embarrassed. “Anyway, after you have your dinner I’ll bring you a change of clothes and lead you to your new house. Tomorrow, we’ll have a meeting to introduce you to the town council and get you better oriented.”

Gideon wiped a tear that had somehow appeared on his cheek. “Yes. That’ll be just fine. I’m looking forward to it,” he said, trying not to give away his immense relief. He then remembered his predicament, and motioned with his finger for Joise to come closer. She nodded, then sat down across the table.

“I must mention,” he began, keeping his voice low. “I had to borrow a lot of money from…less than desirable people at Grenfield, to afford books and tuition and whatnot. No reputable banks would lend money to a lowborn, devout follower of Avara like myself. So if anyone comes by looking for me, please tell them that you never saw me.”

Joise looked at him with resolution.

“Of course. But I don’t even know your name, Father,” she answered.

Gideon thought about his last day of his previous life. He should have died when Torvald almost decapitated him with his axe. He never thought about it, but maybe a new name would be safest.

“Axeton…Bridges,” he replied. Laughing inwardly at the irony that still kind of set him on edge.

The newfound priest smiled at the coincidence. He was officially reborn, and rescued at a place that worshiped his mother’s meager goddess, one who taught about the grace and glory of rebirth.

“I’m glad you’re pleased, Father Axeton,” Joise said, mistaking his smile. “This town is full of hard-working, loving people who just need someone to spiritually guide them. We hope you’ll stay, and make this place your new home.”

GONG

The bell, the same one he heard at the edge of the forest weeks ago, sounded. The warm, enveloping peal rang in the distance, when before, it was only in his mind.

At least…Axeton thought. Was it in my mind?

GONG

The priest turned his head, to hear the ringing more clearly. Joise smiled, at the sound she’d heard a thousand times before.

GONG

Suddenly, Axeton felt the small reserve of Whispers widen. Before, the reservoir of his powers was a bucket, now it was a lake.

GONG

What’s happening? He thought.

GONG

“When someone experiences powerful emotion, is far enough away from their old Parsell, and close enough to a stronger one, they just might become bound to the latter,” Professor Richmond said once in class. Gideon had never paid attention, as someone with a minor Gift.

GONG

But I can still feel my mother’s amulet, his mind spun. How is it possible to have TWO Parsells at the same time?

GONG

He stood up quickly, startling Joise, then opened the tavern’s front door and looked through into the town.

GONG

The priest tapped into his amulet, and followed the Whispers from the little charm to his eyes, igniting the scene in gold. His Gift pierced through the darkness.

GONG

At the center of town, a tower stood tall from a simple, but sturdy stone building. His Gifted eyes focused on the source of the warm ringing; a shimmering golden bell. He could feel the Whispers, enough to power the Gifts of a whole town, flowing from the bell like a cascade. It splashed up to him, and to a few others around him.

GONG.

“Ten o’clock,” Joise commented. “Avandale runs by our precious bell. It won’t be the last time you hear it…but it always reminds me that the goddess ends one day, only to bless us with another.”

“Yes, she does,” Axeton replied. “She takes care of us, even when we sometimes can’t see it.”

The priest sat after Joise left, exploring the connections he now had through the Bell. He never had to share a Parsell before, since his father had a minor Gift and his mother and brother were unGifted, but the feeling was incredible.

I can…feel them. He thought. Their emotions, the rate at which they draw Whispers, their Gifts. They all just have it exposed. Or…they leave it open for others to see.

Suddenly, an isolated farming community tied to the Bell made sense. They could warn each other of danger, pull back on their Whispers when someone was using their Gift for something important, or anything that involved teamwork. A place where their meshed Gifts could let them laugh together, mourn together, and empathize with incredible insight.

It’s almost like…what did Professor Richmond call it…a hivemind. No, these people can all think for themselves. It’s…

Axeton chuckled to himself.

It’s like…a family.

He bit his lip.

A family I just lied to. I shouldn’t be here. I’m not who they need, he thought.

The voice, stronger after Axeton had become bound to the Bell, gave a simple reply:

You’re not?

CHAPTER 13 - THE HOME

True to her word, Joise Yards led the newly-minted priest to his modest home at the western edge of town. Axeton tried his best to take in as much information as to the layout of the area, but after a long day his mind refused to function. Thankfully, he had changed into the fresh clothes the Yards had brought him while at the Tavern, and he collapsed onto the bed of his new home as soon as he found it. It was a little small for him, but clean and comfortable.

Axeton woke up in a panic, then relaxed when he realized where he was. He actually felt rested for the first time in weeks, and the rejuvenation was very welcome.

He patted himself down, after getting up from the bed.

Everything’s still here…that’s good.

After changing into fresh clothes the night before, he wrapped his sword in his Grenfield blue uniform, doing his best to hide the weapon. While the school mostly focused on combat, there was a corps of priests and Healers that, as a rule, did not carry weapons. They were always supposed to be guarded at all times by combat students and any Gifted they could get their hands on.

The priest wrapped his old friend’s sword in a sheet he found in a cupboard, and tucked it under a sack of flour at the bottom of the fully-stocked larder in the kitchen.

His mind suddenly froze.

“This place…” he thought out loud. “Has a kitchen!”

When they told him they had a house ready, he was expecting a shack where he would be expected to sleep before spending all day at the church house. But compared to his room at Grenfield, and especially compared to weeks of living on the road, this place was a palace. The toilet room, conveniently next to the bedroom, had the standard hole that seemed to lead outside by way of a copper pipe attached to the bottom. A lever was nearby, and when Axeton pulled it, water streamed out of another pipe that hung directly over the nearby sink, then into the hole.

I’d better stay clear when I pull that, he thought. Incredible… there must be an artificer here.

Artificers, those with a Gift of Function, were highly prized, more so than even Healers. The Gift was very rare, but those who had it didn’t necessarily carry it to adulthood. Not because they would die, but because children found it boring, especially compared to more flashy Gifts like an Elemental, or Fauna, the ability to influence animals. An unnurtured Gift was of no use to anyone. And of course, no Parsell meant no Whispers. And no Whispers meant no Gift.

Axeton, Gideon back then, knew of one person with Function; a young woman named Nethyr. They spent some time together, and before realizing they were incompatible, she had mentioned that the Function Gift was “like the building blocks of the universe were laid bare…imagine a sheer cloth with instructions, overlaid in front of your eyes”.

He initially balked at the thought of a town in the middle of nowhere having a Function Gifted, on retainer or as a resident, but a further exploration of his house continued to confirm the theory. The kitchen, with polished white marble countertops, had a sink very much like the toilet.

Richter would love this, he thought, before a lump caught in his throat.

Gods, I hope he’s okay.

A knock rapped through the front door. It took Axeton a few seconds to register the sound, which was promptly followed by another set of knocks. He walked to the door, in a small central room that branched out to the rest, and opened it. The Yards stood on the opposite side of the doorway, smiling and eagerly looking inside.

“Someone must have had a good rest!” Joise said. “Is everything to your liking so far?”

Axeton blinked, adjusting to the words and reminding himself of the events of the previous night.

“Oh yes, thank you,” he replied. “Wait…what time is it?”

William Yards pulled a pocket watch from his crisp, red vest. “Ten AM,” he replied, before replacing the watch.

Axeton rubbed his face, glancing out into the bright morning. “Please forgive me, I never sleep this late. I had a long day of travel yesterday. It must have caught up with me.”

The Yards smiled, looking wryly at each other.

“Father Axeton,” Joise began. “You came into town two days ago. You slept all day yesterday.”

The priest scratched his head, more than slightly embarrassed.

“Really?” he asked.

“It’s okay,” the older woman continued. “You were pretty scuffed up when you came into town, we figured that we’d let you rest. Some of the church committee restocked your kitchen and linens while you were asleep.”

Axeton was less mortified at the lack of privacy, and more impressed that he had people in and out of his house and they did not wake him up. The Yards seemed to sense their priest’s unease.

“It was just a one-time thing, we just had to make sure you had what you needed,” she continued, desperately wanting to change the subject. But if you’re ready to go, we have lunch prepared at the church house. There are lots of people for you to meet!”

Axeton’s stomach growled, almost as if on cue.

“That sounds wonderful,” he replied. “Give me a few minutes to get washed up and we can go.”

The couple stepped into the house. “Take your time dear,” Joise said musically. “We’ll wait in the study until you’re ready.”

Axeton blinked.

“I have a study!?”

CHAPTER 14 - THE REPORT

Back at Grenfield, Bernhardt Dorian sat in his once rarely-used faculty office in the campus proper; the fire his students…the traitors…had started caused so much damage that he had to bring in craftsmen to rebuild the underground base. The rest of the school’s staff raised questions about the fire, the missing students, and the work being done, but Dorian made sure to Deceive away any potential problems.

The missing students? They ran away due to being homesick.

The fire? Someone with a Flame gift was practicing down there and it went out of control.

The rebuilding? It is just to repair a storage area, nothing more.

It was exhausting; Dorian’s Gift was new and he did not have the level of control he was used to with his previous Gift, Leadership. Thankfully, he had his Knights, who were more than happy to spread lies on their Master’s behalf, so he would not have to maintain so many Deceptions at once.

But the one who got away…the one with the Sight Gift who was going to be his second in command. The traitor. The thought boiled in the back of his mind as he sat at his desk, absent-mindedly reviewing term papers. Professor Dorian had a tenured position in the Histories Department, which took up much more of his time than he cared for.

Loose ends…he thought. I…HATE…loose ends.

The cook was a loose end. They’ll never find him. The thought gave him some satisfaction, but not much.

His mind snapped back to the present as a knock came at his office door. Not a weak, petulant knock, but one given to his Knights to secretly announce themselves.

“Come in,” he ordered.

Ned Sturges poked his head through the doorway.

“The southern expedition is back, Master,” he said dutifully.

“Let them in,” Dorian replied.

The hired Tracker, Ozhriath, and the leader of the group stepped into the office. It was cramped, and their discomfort of their current position was evident on the faces of the two Knights. Oz’ bow had to be held in front of him, it would have knocked over books if left slung on his back. The two stood at attention, while the Tracker looked curiously around the small room.

“It’s been weeks,” Dorian began. He popped a knuckle as he stared at the leader. “What did you find?”

“Lieutenant Morgans reporting for duty, sir,” the leader responded sharply. “We picked up a trail from a bloodied bandage, and followed it west to a small village about twenty miles southwest of here.”

The Master exhaled from his nose, his mouth forming a thin line as he stared at the lieutenant.

“I know your name and rank,” he said flatly. “Both of which will be meaningless VERY SOON unless you give me a FULL REPORT.

Morgans, who was standing at attention, swallowed nervously as his Master raised his voice with his order.

“The lead the Tracker followed belonged to a hunter,” he continued. “He said he injured himself during a long hunt while following a herd of wild keggin beasts.”

Dorian turned to Ozhriath. “Does the story check out?”

The archer crossed his thick arms in front of him, widening his stance as he attempted to relax and think clearly.

“Yes and no,” he finally answered. “Yes, there are keggins this time of year that like to migrate through the area where we first found the bandage. But historically, there are closer herds to that hunter’s village. No idea why he’d go that far northeast.”

Dorian’s eyes narrowed, remembering everything he had taught the traitor about not being found. Those eyes settled on the Tracker, who finally seemed to be paying attention to the conversation going on around him.

“Did you ever…get close to the target?” Dorian asked, a flicker of hostility creeping into his voice.

“At one point, I thought so,” the Tracker replied. “There was a farmhouse a straight shot south from here, where the trail turned west. Maybe he spent the night there and it confused my Gift, but he wasn’t there. Your two underlings searched the entire property.”

Dorian marveled at the audacity and lack of respect. These were Knights, not “underlings”.

“Is this true?” Dorian asked Morgans, the man’s eyes flicking between the Tracker and his lieutenant.

“Yes,” he said. “We checked the farmhouse top to bottom just in case, no sign of him. The occupants didn’t know what or who we were talking about. We came out, and the Tracker you hired had lost his Parsell in the well near the western edge of the farm. We spent three hours fishing it out.”

POP

POP

It sounds like… he thought.

“Let me guess,” the Master continued. “You came to the farm at night, and saw nothing.”

The two Knights looked at each other, worried. The Tracker seemed bored.

“And while you continued to…’see nothing’, you were suddenly, after a time-consuming accident, sent in a completely different direction from the trail you had been following previously.”

Ozhriath spoke up in the silence that followed his Master’s summation.

“We had no reason to believe the Tracker wasn’t accurate,” he said nervously. “Maybe the hunter was after those keggins for a particular reason, and stopped at the farmhouse because he knew he could spend the night there?”

Dreaded silence filled the room again.

“Gentlemen,” Dorian finally spoke, a somewhat cheerful tone to his voice. “Give me a minute alone with your Tracker. We have a…business matter to discuss.”

The two Knights gratefully and hastily left the room, the old door closing with a thud behind them.

CHAPTER 15 - THE MEETING

After allowing their priest to get washed and dressed, the Yards couple escorted the mildly bewildered Axeton through town to the churchhouse. Word of a new priest’s arrival must have spread, because he found himself returning enthusiastic waves almost the entire journey. A young woman shoved a loaf of some kind of bread into his arms, and a little girl bestowed upon him a bouquet of freshly-picked flowers. A mother and what looked like her young son approached as the band reached the town square.

“Greetings, Father,” she began. “My name is Eupha Vash, and this is my son Tomrenn. Say hi, Tomrenn.”

Axeton looked down and saw the boy standing to his mother’s side, looking bored. He looked up at the priest, and waved with limited enthusiasm.

About eight years old, he thought. What was I doing at that age?

“It’s nice to meet you,” Axeton replied. And he found it warming that he actually meant it. “Everyone here has been so welcoming.”

“Well, we’re all so grateful to finally have a priest again,” Mrs Vash said, bringing her hand to her chest. “As soon as I heard, I started working on a welcome gift for you. I still have a market stall to watch after, so Tomrenn and I will bring it by this evening.”

Axeton began to protest, and was met with a gentle nudge in the ribs by Joise, carefully concealed under the payload of gifts he was carrying.

“Thank you, I look forward to it,” Axeton replied warmly.

The three left the Vashes, the mother’s hands clasped in pride as her son looked at the priest in an assessing and suspicious gaze before turning to help their father, who had just walked up carrying an armload of cloth.

When they arrived at the church house, just north of the town square, Axeton’s eyes took in a long drink of the aesthetics in front of him. The grounds were immaculate, with perfectly-maintained bushes a respectful distance from the building itself. A fine, lush lawn bridged the gap, interrupted by a neat cobblestone walkway leading to the front door. The church seemed to be hewn from some kind of white stone; Axeton knew almost nothing about building or geologies, but a great amount of care must have gone into its construction. William Yards opened the wide set of oak double doors, and all three stepped inside.

A clean, but humble interior welcomed them. Warm, despite the oncoming chill of late autumn. Cool light poured in through the plain, but spotless windows that ran along the tops of the long walls. Two rows of pews, ornately carved and stained, braced the middle of the room up to the pulpit. And beyond the pulpit, Axeton’s eyes were drawn to an incredible sight.

The curve of the small ambulatory gracefully led to what was clearly the heart of the church, if not the town. A glorious stained glass window, twice the height of the priest and as wide as he was tall, was affixed firmly yet elegantly into the boldly etched wood paneling of the far wall. It depicted a beautiful woman, lightly tanned with flowing white hair, arms outstretched as several pictures of a plant growing, thriving, and dying in a cycle surrounded her in golden orbs. The sun’s position cast a grateful beam of light through the visage, spilling brilliant colors onto the polished floor below.

Axeton marveled as he stared at the mystical panes. He felt a comfortable peace, and wondered, just for a moment, what color eyes the goddess would have if she opened them. The glass made the visage seem so real, that he thought she just might, right in front of him.

“Quite a sight, isn’t she?” a voice from the mortal realm shook his daydreams away, as he looked down. Settled in the aisle between the two rows of pews was a modest wooden table, with the Yards, Molly Vergassen, and several others sitting around it.

“Yes, she is,” Axeton replied, his mind still lingering in wonder. “But…I apologize to everyone; I know you all wanted to have this meeting yesterday.”

“It actually worked out better this way,” Joise explained. “We have the church thoroughly cleaned once every two weeks, and the man who usually does it was sick yesterday. He came and took care of it this morning.”

“And a fine job he did,” a man sitting across from the Yards commented. “I’ve always said this place is the pride and joy of my lands.”

William Yards pointed to the man. “This is Fial Estes, Avandale is in his barony.”

“That it is,” Estes continued, beaming. “And I love to visit on pleasant days like this. I just wish you’d let others come visit and bring their tourist coins with them.”

“We’ve been over this,” a younger woman interjected. She appeared to be in her early twenties, with her soft black hair tied back in a striking red ribbon. “Sanctioned tradesmen and travelers only. We don’t need tourists trampling our fields or gawking at the Bell, no matter how many Rads they bring along with them”

“I agree with our Community Manager. Also, Fial what are you talking about? It's bloody cold and we all have work to do!” Andy Vergassen quipped. “I have to prepare for the dinner time rush, so if we could hurry this along…”

“Thank you Andy,” the woman said gratefully, before sticking out a hand to Axeton. “I’m Coria, by the way.”

Axeton took the hand and shook it. “A pleasure to meet you,” he replied.

“Regardless!” Joise said in a raised tone to bring the conversation back to business. “We have a new priest, thank the goddess. He came in from Grenfield two days ago.”

“Dear, they all know who he is. You’ve been talking about him nonstop since yesterday morning,” William said out of the corner of his mouth.

“Be that as it may,” Coria said briskly. “We’re all grateful and also glad to have a face with the name. We also heard that you were a little worse for wear, and came in through the north?”

“He stumbled into my tavern,” Andy answered. “Molly just about threw him out because he had no money. Thought he was some no account drifter or somethin’. To be fair, he did look the part.”

The Yards nodded in agreement.

“But he’s here now, rested and ready to minister!” Joise spoke up. “Everyone here has been apprised of your…situation,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “But you must truly be blessed by the goddess to find this place.”

Axeton tilted his head. “How do you mean?” he asked.

“It means that Avara protects this place,” Coria began. “If anyone has ill intent, or the goddess just doesn’t want them to find the town, they usually won’t. It really cuts down on the amount of traveling merchants that are able to come through…but overall it’s worth it.”

“I see,” the priest replied. “So the goddess’ influence is strong here.”

“Thanks to our Bell,” Joise said, pointing straight up with a single finger. “You heard it that night you came in.”

Axeton remembered the call, the warm rings that echoed through the night and pulled his soul to a warm place.

“It’s beautiful,” he said. It must be very old, but well taken care of.”

The rest of the table fell silent, giving the priest sideways glances.

“You…saw the Bell, from Andy’s tavern?” Estes asked, not quite believing his own words.

Oops. Maybe I should have kept my Gift hidden. A little too late now…Axeton thought.

“I did,” Axeton answered, rapping his knuckles softly on the tabletop. “I…have a Sight Gift.”

Smiles slapped onto the faces of everyone at the table.

“A new Gifted priest? This is fantastic!” Coria beamed. “You can See the whole town and make sure everything is running smoothly. The farms and homesteads are a bit spread out, so it’s hard to get an overall idea of the whole valley, but you can do it easily!”

“That’s if we have enough Whispers,” William pointed out. “Remember the Chippens boy and his Strength Gift? He drained the Bell three times in a week trying to impress his friends before we put a stop to it. Mister Roschell caught him lifting boulders near the creek.”

“That…blessed soul,” Joise chimed in, correcting herself before some choice words betrayed her frustration. “But that’s assuming Father Axeton became bound to the Bell when he arrived.”

Axeton nodded. “I did, it was incredible to see how everyone was connected. The goddess really loves you all and this place.”

The group nodded, when the front door of the church house opened. Several teenaged boys and girls came in, carrying wooden boxes. Axeton read the faces of those nearby and, deciding that these children were not a threat, watched them as they set the boxes on the floor nearby.

“Excellent, our lunch is here. I’m starving,” Baron Estes said excitedly.

“Yes, what’s it been, fifteen minutes?” Coria mocked, poking the Baron in his ample belly.

“Now, that was uncalled for,” the Baron replied, slightly hurt. “But you paid for lunch, so I’ll overlook it for now.”

Coria shrugged. “The Community Chamber fund paid for it. A treat expense to celebrate our new priest. I had them pick up some things from the square.”

The delivery teenagers began to pull food out of the boxes. Breads, cakes, roast lempie, and gork pies. Mugs seemed to appear out of nowhere and were promptly filled with fresh cider.

“I hope this is to your liking,” Coria said to Axeton. “I didn’t know what you were in the mood for.”

Axeton smiled. “This all looks perfect. I feel so welcomed, this place is more heavenly and wholesome than I could have possibly imagined.”

The table beamed, as one by one, the diners raised their mugs.

“To the goddess!” William decreed.

“To the goddess, and our home reborn!” the rest replied in unison, before they each took a drink.

Reborn, the priest thought.

Yes. Reborn.

CHAPTER 16 - THE FARMER

The group, which Axeton deduced to have been the Community Chamber Coria talked about, discussed more over their hearty lunch. Joise argued about traveling merchants offering better discounts, while the Vergassens planned out their role in the upcoming Harvest Festival. Baron Estes argued with Coria over possible trade connections to the nearby town of Ostiphas, before moving along to merchant taxes and what resources the town needed to focus on importing and exporting.

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

Soon, with their stomachs satisfied, the group stood up and began to put away the table and chairs into a storage closet to the side of the main chapel. Plates and the remaining food went back into the wooden boxes, which were then placed outside of the main door. Axeton carried them out, then stretched and enjoyed the view out into the valley.

“Did you get enough to eat?” Joise asked. “I’m a grandmother, that seems to be all I ask nowadays.”

Axeton patted his stomach. “Absolutely. But I could use a walk to help digest such a delicious meal. Is there anyone who needs ministering today?”

Joise put her hands on her hips. “Well, everyone does. That’s why you’re here. But if you’re asking for anyone who needs it urgently, Brey Gunderson could use your help. He supplies the Harvest Festival with Sunblossom Flowers. It’s a tradition, he just likes to have someone to pray with before the final watering and harvest. A simple trip to ease you into your new role here.”

“Consider it done,” Axeton replied. “Where does he live?”

The older woman pointed up to a ridge, at the eastern corner of the valley. “He’s up there. Just follow the path at the base of the hill, you can’t miss his farm.”

Axeton tapped into his amulet, augmented by the Whispers of the Bell of Avara. He could see a well-worn, but easily noticeable pathway zigzagging up a hill to the crest.

“I See it, I’m on my way,” he replied.

Joise stared at the priest, then laughed. “Ah yes, of course you can See it. Praise the goddess for bringing you here, Father.”

The priest casually made his way towards Brey’s farm. As he walked, passing other small farms and homes, peace flowed into his soul in the same way the sun warmed his back. He felt a little naked without his weapon, but he was a priest now, and should probably get used to the feeling.

At one point, the main road was blocked by a passing caravan of lempies, being herded to or from their grazing field for the day. A middle aged man, who Axeton figured was the shepherd, nodded politely as he crossed the road with his animals. They bleated and shuffled mindlessly, a river of white and brown spots with hard hooves crunching the dirt of the road underneath.

Axeton chuckled to himself, as the herd finished crossing and he was able to continue his journey.

Lempies…he thought. Fred always hated them.

While Frederick Krass grew up in the city of Morwell, his family’s blacksmithing shop was in a suburb on the outskirts of the capitol city. Being that close to farmland, Fred had told his friend countless times about the “stupid animals” that would wander into the forge during the winter nights, trying to soak in some of the warmth left over from the day’s final glowing coals. They always left piles of poop around, which Fred had to clean before the sun came up. One of his favorite things about Grenfield, he confided dozens of times, was the lack of lempie droppings.

He wondered how his friend would have liked Avandale.

He’d probably think it’s too boring. Farms always need a blacksmith, but he likes to make weapons, not tools.

A knot hit his stomach.

Fred…liked to make weapons. The best I’ve ever seen.

The priest wiped a tear, which cooled his cheek as it came in contact with a chilly autumn breeze, and laughed.

He would have proposed to Coria by now, he thought, remembering the endless string of courtships Frederick had during their time at the school. There was a notoriously shallow dating pool at a mostly male combat academy, but he did his best.

After some time, Axeton finally reached a simple, but steady home. The dusty glass windows confirmed that a farmer lived there, and preferred the outside to the inside. A wooden grain silo stood stubbornly across a field, on the other side of the property, all of which was coated in row upon row of what he assumed were Sunblossom flowers. Each of what must have been thousands of flowers were turned towards the setting sun, their spun gold petals almost saluting their celestial namesake. The chilly wind, which had become stronger up on the ridge overlooking the town, gushed over the fields and brought a sweet smell with it, and made the fields ripple like the surface of a gentle sea.

The flowers, he remembered, looked strikingly similar to the worn pattern on Molly Vergassen’s apron.

“Can I help you, young man?” an older male voice asked, before a man of about 60 summers came out from around the back of the house. He cleaned his spectacles with a handkerchief, put them on, and looked through them at the newcomer, his face holding more curiosity than concern.

Axeton took a step forward. “I assume you’re Brey Gunderson?” he asked.

The man narrowed an eye. “Depends on who’s askin’,” he replied.

This is going to take some adjustment, Axeton thought. I was well-known at school, but I’m new here, and this is a big place.

“Please forgive me,” Axeton said respectfully. “I’m the new priest, I just arrived. Joise Yards said you needed some help?”

The man’s suntanned face brightened, the wrinkles at the edge of his eyes turned up with his mouth.

“Oh, wonderful,” he said, clasping his hands together and approaching Axeton. “I was worried you may not get ‘round to comin’ up here, since everyone needs help with the festival comin’ up.”

The priest extended his hand. “I’m Axeton, pleasure to meet you sir,” he said.

The farmer accepted the handshake, bowing his head slightly. The top of his head, exposed from a bald spot, was healing from a recent sunburn.

“And I’m Brey Gunderson. I plant, maintain, and harvest the more…picky crops,” the old man explained, his calloused thumbs pointing to his chest.

Axeton tapped into his amulet, but did not adjust his sight. A whirlwind of Whispers flowed around the man, while some of them seeped into the ground.

“Picky crops, eh?” he asked. “Are these…Sunblossoms hard to grow?”

“Well, not necessarily I reckon,” the man replied. “They just have to be perfect. But I grow vanilla, pepper, sassafras…what else…in the western field. Saffron!”

Axeton balked. He had slept through a mandatory horticulture class, but remembered Richter telling him about those spices. They were extremely expensive because of their difficulty in growing them. He was once able to get a crate of pepper from Vintelli, a sea trade based country on the other side of the continent, literally worth its weight in gold.

“How do you even grow them here?” the priest asked, genuinely curious.

The old man gave a wry smile. “Father Axeton,” he said. “I reckon you know exactly how. I saw your Whispers just as you saw mine.”

The farmer, in a practiced movement, hunched down and scooped a handful of earth, then doused it with a splash of water from a waterskin tied to his belt. In a final motion, he plucked a tiny seed from his apron’s pocket and poked it into the pile in his hand.

“People always love this,” he said with pride. “What’s yer favorite color?”

Axeton thought. “Blue, I suppose.”

The swirls of Whispers that orbited Brey churned faster, then poured into his hand, leaving only some scattered remnants behind. In his hand, a shaft of green shot up from the dark earth, the bud on top proudly opening to reveal bright blue petals.

“Incredible…” Axeton said, thoroughly amazed.

“I’ve always felt blessed to have a Flora Gift,” the old man continued. “Ever since I was a young’un, I wanted to make things Grow. Now I can, although…you can tell how many Whispers it takes. Thankfully, I usually only have to intervene when somethin’ is wrong. I figure there ain’t enough Whispers in the world to force an entire field to Grow at once…creatin’ life is a whole new ball a’ wax compared to other Gifts. But, the town is fine with me usin’ more than a fair share of Whispers, since I also go ‘round, helpin’ others with their crops as well.”

“So that’s how you grow exotic plants,” the priest commented. “I imagine the soil here is different from their native growing places.”

“Yup, that’s the tricky part,” the farmer winked, as he waved his hand over his view of the crops. “I get to know ‘em, tell ‘em to pick certain nutrients from the soil. That’s how I changed the colors on that daisy there. A plain ‘ol flower, which I told to consume its food in a way that would turn the petals blue. I asked someone about it once, they said it had somethin’ to do with ‘acid’. But the plants listen, and I’m plumb happy with that.”

“I’ll bet the whole town is happy with that,” Axeton marveled. “All those expensive spices, grown right here.”

The old man sighed, planted the flower carefully at his feet, then put his hands behind his back.

“You know, son. Er, Father, excuse me. I can’t shake the feeling that this place was created by the goddess herself. I reckon the love I have for this place, and the love this place has for me…really strengthens my Gift. I can’t explain it, but give it time.”

Brey flexed his fingers, drawing more Whispers from an unseen Parsell with a practiced hand.

“You’ll see it.”

Axeton and Brey, after taking a moment for some hot tea, finally said the Prayers of Harvest over the Flora user’s crops. The priest turned to leave, and upon reaching the crest of the ridge, tapped into his Gift once more. The flow of Whispers, in the peaceful evening of a sleepy town, had started to slow. The Bell of Avara still had plenty, but the people bound to it seemed to lessen their usage as they prepared for bed. He couldn’t sense any hostility among them, apart from childish arguments among siblings here and there, as the peace Brey spoke of began to manifest within him. Nearby crickets chirped their song as the chilly breeze carried it to the valley below, the fields dotted with lamps and candles from cozy homes.

CHAPTER 17 - THE SNAKE

Bernhardt Dorian scratched at the burns along his neck.

Damn that traitor, he thought. When I find him, I’ll make him suffer.

After the fire in the Knights of the Silver Moon headquarters, Dorian had run to the medical wing of the school after dousing himself with a bucket of brackish water he had found along the way. The pain had been excruciating, but the Healers could only Heal him from the inside out. By the time they reached the last of his burned skin, they had run out of Whispers. Ironically, if Doctor Hodge hadn’t been killed, she could have Healed him completely.

He was still furious with Torvald, for his misplaced initiative in killing the Healer, and sent him north to find the traitor. A little bit more Healing would have had him as good as new, but once an injury had been inflicted for more than a few hours, it became the body’s new “baseline” for health, and a Healing Gift could do nothing to remedy the injury.

The stinging was driving him mad, and stoked the fires of his anger at the one who caused it; the traitor.

Dorian glared at the Tracker in his office, who while relatively aloof to his circumstances, was starting to get nervous.

“So,” Dorian began. “You never saw the one you were supposed to be Tracking, correct?”

“I already said that I didn’t. The bandage we picked up was a false lead,” the Tracker replied, a slight irritation to his voice.

Who is this guy? He thought. Clients always buy what I tell them.

The Master got up from his desk, and began to pace the room.

POP

POP

“So you’re saying, and just to make it clear…you followed the only lead any of the teams could find, then made a sudden change of course, and the person you were Tracking was some hunter in the middle of nowhere. Is that the jist of it?” he asked.

“That’s right,” the Tracker croaked, his throat getting dry.

“And what’s the effective range of your Gift?” Dorian asked.

“About a hundred yards,” came the answer.

“And you didn’t see the traitor at the farm, but you were able to find this hunter right away. In an isolated town, full of woodsmen and hunters, you just so happened to find the exact one right away,” Dorian surmised.

“Just lucky, I guess,” the Tracker replied.

POP

Dorian nodded, his expression showing that he had become amenable to the Tracker’s version of events. He opened a desk drawer, pulled out a gray cloth bag, and plunked it down in front of the Tracker.

“Indeed. Here is your payment. Mister Sturges will show you out.”

The Tracker looked at Dorian cautiously, then, upon not seeing any inflections of hostile intent, snatched up the bag. He immediately pulled at the drawstring to loosen it, then stuck his fingers inside.

Suddenly, he gasped, pulling back his hand in shock. An inspection of his finger revealed two small, red holes, as a snake hissed menacingly from the darkness of the bag. The Tracker dropped it instinctively, and the snake slithered out onto the floor and away from him. The man had seen his fair share of hostile animals in his travels, and knew the type of snake that had bitten him. He had less than two minutes to drink an antidote or he would die a slow and painful death.

“W…what is this? What are you doing?” the Tracker begged in a panic.

“I know you’re lying about finding the traitor. You saw him at the farm, didn’t you?” Dorian demanded, leaning onto the top of his desk, showing no fear of the loose snake. “Tell me the truth, and I’ll give you an antidote.”

“I told you,” the Tracker said as he held his hand above his head, his eyes wide. “I never saw him. Are you godsdamned crazy?”

“You don’t have much time left,” Dorian answered calmly. He pulled out a pocket watch and watched it, listening to the soft tick of the mechanisms inside. “If I were you, a hypothetical of which I’m grateful is just a hypothetical…I’d start talking.”

The Tracker mouth gaped open, before a moment of clarity flashed in his eyes. He reached into his coat pocket, where he kept an emergency antidote…and it was not there.

Dorian held a small, pentagonal glass bottle with a cork stopped between his fingers, dancing it in the air. “Looking for this? My Knights aren’t all brutes, you know. You have…a minute left?”

The Tracker’s head began to shake, sweat beading on his forehead, his eyes darting back and forth.

“Fine! The guy you sent me after caught me at the farm and told me he’d kill me if I didn’t misdirect the search. Happy now? He said he’d find me if he found out I told you where he was. Now give me my antidote!”

“Antidote? To what?” Dorian asked innocently.

The Tracker looked down at his finger, which had no bite marks. The sack contained only silver Rads, and the snake which had until recently been menacing the floor, was gone. The bottle in Dorian’s hand had disappeared as well.

“The agreed-upon payment, plus a bonus,” Dorian began, making his way around his desk. The Tracker sat, stunned but relieved, and didn’t see the man approach.

“A…what? A bonus?” The Tracker asked, still shaking from the excitement.

Dorian put a hand on the man’s shoulder with a forceful grip, and brought his longsword out, the shimmering blade reflecting the Tracker’s confused face as he looked down at it.

“The bonus is, and this is a complete surprise to me…is that you get to live,” Dorian answered. “At least…for now.”

Bernhardt Dorian, Master of the Knights of the Silver Moon, gave the Tracker mercy, but only because the man was more useful alive than dead.

“I have enough to deal with at the moment,” he continued. “I’d rather not explain to the Tracking Guild about your death, since I’m sure you’ve already reported to them that you’ve returned to Grenfield. But I’ll give you one more chance to come into my good graces, and tell me the truth without being under…less pleasant circumstances.”

He glared into the Tracker’s eyes, boring into them with a fire that curdled the man’s stomach.

“Where did the traitor go?” he asked, the even tone of his voice arguing with the anger and menace of what would happen in the event of an unsatisfactory answer.

The Tracker did not hesitate.

“After he threatened me, I saw him run along the southern edge of the farm, along the treeline. He didn’t tell me where he was going, I assumed he would continue south. I swear by the gods that’s all I know!”

Dorian stared at the Tracker, then pulled back his weapon. He grunted softly as he soaked in the man’s terror, augmenting his Gift.

Always worth the extra effort.

“Thank the gods that I believe you this time,” Dorian said as his deadly blade slid back into its sheath. “Just remember, you sided with the wrong man once. Don’t do it again.”

The Tracker nodded, his eyes supplicating.

“Sturges, send the boys back in,” Dorian called out. Moments later, Ozhriath and Morgans walked back into the room, saluting their Master.

He’s still alive, Morgan’s face read after seeing the Tracker sitting in front of Dorian.

I owe you five silver, Ozhriath’s face admitted.

“Gentlemen,” Dorian said, in a sweeping motion of his hands that concealed an intense tap into his Parsell. “I’m so grateful you came back to us safely. When I heard that the traitor attacked you all at that farm, it still makes me mad when I think about it. Then he forced you to walk west or else he would kill the couple that lived there…I was so worried.”

All three of the men in the room seemed concerned for a moment, then nodded. Dorian tapped at his sword’s crossguard to strengthen his Deception, swimming along the Whispers as he wove the mens’ history anew.

“We had to protect them, Master,” Morgans replied.

“Of course you did,” Dorian soothed. “The last thing I want is for the innocent to be hurt. But now that you’re back, it’s time to rest then get back out there. I’ll send everyone I have to spare out south with you, and you will find the traitor and kill him.”

Ozhriath stood up and saluted his Master. “I’ll lead the way,” he said dutifully.

“I have no doubt about that,” Dorian said. “Resupply, and head out tomorrow morning. The other parties will follow in staggered groups in case he doubles back. And Tracker…remember what we talked about.”

The man nodded, but he couldn’t shake the conflict in his mind.

He threatened me and said to find the traitor…but I didn’t do anything wrong. Did I? The others don’t seem to be concerned.

A pulse washed over his mind. Two clashing memories, until one overtook the other in a stuttering wave.

No, he’s a nice man. He even paid me although we didn’t capture the traitor. I won’t make the same mistake twice.

The two Knights and the Tracker left the room, leaving Dorian alone. He sat down with a heavy sigh, rubbing at his temples. It was hard work Deceiving through memories, even if his targets were loyal to him. He swore to his god that he’d get better at using his Gift, and find the machine, no matter how many had to die to make it happen.

CHAPTER 18 - THE BOY

Axeton, the priest on a tiring trial run of his new vocation, stumbled to his new home and fell on his bed. His mind oozed into a dreamless sleep, and woke up to a soft rapping at his door.

Huh…what? He thought, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He looked down, and realized he was still dressed.

That’s convenient. But I don’t think I have another meeting planned for today…

The priest opened the door, the morning sun not doing much to warm the frosty air that had yet to leave the village from the night before. On his porch stood Tomrenn, holding a white bundle of cloth, stretched out by a familiar shape from within.

“Good morning, Mister Vash,” Axeton said, trying to summon his best priestly voice. He looked intently at the item in the boy’s hands, before making a realization. Anger flashed briefly, before he remembered who he was supposed to be. “Is that what your mother wanted to give me yesterday?”

The boy, an avatar of the word “average” in every sense of the word, nodded. His light brown hair slightly covering his eyes, the blue eyes that refused to look at the priest, directed downward to his feet.

“That seems like a pretty nice and comfortable…scarf,” Axeton continued, eyeing the bundle. “Would you tell your mother I appreciate her gift?”

The boy continued to look down.

“Did she tell you to take my sword…?” he asked, an eyebrow raised, finger pointed at the poorly-wrapped weapon.

“No…” the boy replied, meekly. Axeton could tell he was on the verge of tears.

“Does she know you took it?”

“No”.

Axeton leaned on the doorframe, his other hand on his hips as he looked at the boy.

“Are you going to tell me why you took it?” he inquired, keeping the tone of his voice as friendly as possible. “I’m glad you brought it back, that was very brave. I just want to know how you found it and why you took it in the first place.”

“Are…you gonna tell my mom?” Tomrenn asked, his voice quivering.

“Not if you answer my questions,” the priest replied. “Unless you damaged it, then she’ll have to know.”

Tomrenn shook his head vigorously, finally looking Axeton in the eyes.

“No, I swear! I saw you walking yesterday…like soldiers walk. Our last priest was old, and you’re so different. I thought a soldier would have their weapon nearby, so I looked around your house while you were at Brey’s farm. But after I got it home, I was too scared to even pull it out of the sheath. You’re not going to tell my mom, are you?”

He really doesn’t want his mother to find out about this, Axeton thought. But I can’t have him telling the whole town that I have this sword…

“I won’t tell her, I promise,” the priest said, holding his hands up in surrender. “But I need you to swear that you won’t take it again…or go into my house unsupervised.”

“Userpervised?” Tomrenn asked, confused.

Axeton rolled his eyes. He forgot he was in a backwater village now.

“Un-sup-er-vised,” he said phonetically. “It means that you won’t go in there without your mom or dad with you. Do you understand?”

The boy nodded.

“Good,” Axeton continued. “Now I have a few questions, since I’m new here. Can I count on you to help me out?”

Tomrenn’s demeanor immediately changed, from sullen and shameful to proud and ready to serve. He saluted the priest with a sloppy version of the salute done by Grenfield recruits as a sign of respect to those who they reported to.

Where on earth did he learn that?

“Ok, first question,” the priest started. “You wanted to find my weapon. Why?”

“Because I want to be a soldier when I grow up and mom won’t let me,” he reported with a slight pout at the end, his hand still firmly saluting.

That answers two questions, actually.

“Next,” he continued. “What is Coria like?”

Wait…why do I care?

“Miss Coria?” the boy repeated, slightly confused. “She’s nice, I guess…she talks to the merchants a lot and hangs out in her office at the market square. My mom says she’ll die alone, but I’m not supposed to say that.”

That’s…succinct. Maybe I should go and see her. Wait. Why? Nevermind.

“Ok, final question. Where did you learn that salute from earlier?” the priest asked.

The boy thought for a moment. “My dad went to Greenfield, he told me it’s what they did there,” he replied.

Axeton tensed. “Do you mean ‘Greenfield’?” he corrected, trying not to show his anxiety.

“I don’t think so,” Tomrenn said. “He was there a long time ago, and met my mom when she went to visit family in the city.”

“What’s his name?” Axeton asked, tenuously.

“My dad’s name? He’s Bailer,” the boy answered.

The priest breathed out a sigh of relief. The Knights of the Silver Moon was a new organization, and he had been familiar with the group’s entire roster. Bailer Vash was not a name from that list.

“Is my son bothering you?” Eupha Vash called out as she approached from behind Tomrenn. She hastily handed off her current knitting project, what Axeton thought might be some kind of hat, to a little girl who had been following behind her.

Axeton retrieved the white scarf and shoved it under his arm, concealing the weapon within.

“Not at all,” he replied, plastering a gentle smile onto his face. “He was just bringing over the delightful scarf you made for me, and he was kind enough to answer some of my questions about the town.”

“Oh, good,” Eupha said, relieved. “And yes, we came to bring it by yesterday afternoon, but you weren’t home. Joise revoked permission to go in there since you moved in and have plenty of supplies, and we didn’t want to leave it on the doorstep, so I figured you could get it today.”

The priest nodded. “I’m grateful for your consideration, Mrs Vash. I was out with Brey Gunderson until late. I was so tired when I came home I would have stepped on it on my way in! So thank you for not just leaving it.”

“It’s the least I can do for our new priest,” she continued. “It gets very chilly here, you’ll need it. I’d like to see if it fits, if you don’t mind.”

Tomrenn’s eyes went wide, thankfully facing the same way as his mother so she didn’t see them. Axeton blanched, for just a moment, desperately not wanting to show off his weapon.

“I would love to, but it’s so fine and clean, and I haven’t had a bath today. I’ll wear it this evening, I hope you’ll come to the church for tea and prayers?”

He was starting to remember Avaran customs from his mother’s stories of her childhood. At the end of each day, they were supposed to gather briefly for a communal drink and prayer. It was supposed to bring significance to the dying day and the birth of the day to come, but it seemed like in this town, most just went to the tavern after work instead and imbibed there.

“Well, that would be lovely! The last priest was too old to do that, and so many of us missed that custom,” she said.

That explains some things, he thought.

“He was asking about Miss Coria,” Tomrenn blurted.

Axeton’s eyes bulged, and he almost choked from the surprise.

Is he trying to get attention or get me in trouble?

“I…just wanted to get a better idea as to who I’d be working with,” he said, slightly stumbling over his words. “She seemed nice at the meeting yesterday, I wanted to make sure I thanked her properly and didn’t want to offend her.”

Mrs Vash looked at the priest, an eyebrow raised slightly in a satisfied expression.

“Uh huh,” she said, not believing him. “Well, if it’s for research purposes, Coria Indreds seems nice, but once she gets an idea in her head, she won’t stop fighting until it’s enacted and she’s satisfied with it. She’s in charge of trade for the town, and takes her job VERY seriously.”

Must…change…the subject.

“Speaking of fighting,” Axeton interjected, looking at the boy. “Tomrenn here mentioned that he wanted to be a soldier when he grew up, didn’t you?”

“No I didn’t!” he rambled instantly.

“And I was thinking, the priest continued. “I took a few combat classes at Grenfield and would be more than happy to show him some self-defense moves. Just for protection, and to see how hard combat actually is.”

The boy’s mother looked at Axeton, then at her son, who was standing perfectly still. He had sucked in his lips with wary anticipation, in a poor attempt to play off his ramping excitement. She narrowed her eyes at him, and it looked like he could feel the heat of her gaze.

“Well…I guess that would be fine. I’d rather you teach him than his father. He gets a little excited when talking about swordplay; it’s too rough for Tomrenn.”

Tomrenn humphed, crossing his arms.

“Great,” Axeton said, before realizing what he had just promised to do. “We’ll hammer out the details. In the meantime, I need to get ready for the day.”

Eupha gasped. “Oh, I’m so sorry. You have the whole town to visit and here I’m standing just taking up your time. Please forgive me. Tomrenn, let’s go.”

Axeton patted the air down with his hands. “Please, don’t worry at all. I’m here to stay, there’s plenty of time to see everyone. An extra minute with one person isn’t the end of the world. I need to get to know everybody, and that has to start somewhere, right?”

Mrs Vash sighed, relieved. “Oh, ok. Thank you, I feel better. We need to get back to work, we’ll talk later.”

Both the adults nodded to each other before the Vash’s departed, and Axeton closed his front door. It was time, he realized, to start the day.

CHAPTER 19 - THE CLEANUP

Bernhardt Dorian watched from horseback as the farmhouse south of Grenfield stood before him, its occupants lay dead on the ground outside, their bodies indifferently cushioned by the fresh snow. The elderly couple had almost made it to the treeline, before Ozhriath had shot them both in the back with deadly efficiency. His Force Gift allowed him to whip his missiles through the air, hitting targets without much need to correct for the arrow’s drop in flight.

Their calloused hands held out for each other’s embrace, surrounded by white, joined together one last time.

Ozhriath felt sick. He had a gut feeling that the couple was innocent, but Master Dorian had told him that they confessed to helping the traitor, so they had to die. Half his soul relished the difficult shots it took to bring them down at such a distance, the other half made his stomach churn when he saw the red snow as he retrieved his arrows.

“Good work,” Dorian praised Ozhriath, before spitting on the corpses. “Anyone who works against the Knights deserves the same.”

“They…the house didn’t have anything we could Track,” Oz began. “Maybe their confession was a lie?”

Dorian sneered. “Lying to the Knights is even worse.”

It had been a miserable several weeks on the road south, with autumn giving way to winter, making the journey harder than it should have been. Dorian brought every Tracker in the Knights, as well as any that could be hired in the city, and enough combat Gifted to instantly overpower the traitor. Although he hated the cold, the Master himself insisted he go along, to prevent a repeat of what happened the first time a party went south.

Dorian grunted in pain, the irritation bubbling in this throat as he failed to pop his knuckles to soothe himself. Between the thick gloves he had to wear, and the constant, bitter cold that continued to creep into his joints, the digits were too frozen to do as he asked.

If I can find the little shit, he thought. It’ll all be worth it. You have no money, no friends or family in this direction. You couldn’t have gotten far…

The Master looked up at the sky, seeing that the sun had just about finished setting, and cursed at the inconvenience before turning to his Lieutenant.

“It’s getting dark,” Dorian said to Morgans, who was still on the ground, searching through the couples’ bodies. “Knights in the main house, everyone else in the barn.”

The group of hired Trackers groaned, before collecting their gear from the wagons and scuffling through the cold to the drafty barn. Morgans and Rufus, another lieutenant, conducted head counts and led the Knights’ forces to their designated spaces. Dorian set himself up, with plenty of food and wine from the farmhouse cellar, in the master bedroom and locked the door behind him. The arduous journey had drained him, and he fell asleep almost instantly, not even bothering to light a fire.

In a blink, he found himself in an open plane, which stretched as far as he could see. The land was barren as smoke hazed in the distance, and a scent of blood and fear hung in the air around him. The earth below his feet was scarred and pitted, dotted with scorched spots and unmarked graves. Dorian could feel the souls in the earth, they felt as though they blamed him for the fate; and how dare he step foot in their mournful, dusty prison.

Unsettlingly out of place, a table stood in front of him. Made of wrought iron framework, a fine porcelain tea set sat delicately on the sleek, stone tabletop. One of the chairs, arguably more comfortable-looking than anything Dorian had ever seen, was occupied by a man taking a sip from his fragile white cup.

The man wore a tan overcoat, neatly pressed, which covered a white silk shirt underneath. A golden chain emerged from the pocket of a red vest, sealed with onyx buttons that shone from a light who’s source Dorian couldn’t quite identify. The pants and shoes of the man before him were those of a nobleman: sleek and clean, in the same shade of tan as the overcoat. The rich could afford to wear light colors, since they never had to travel and risk getting their clothes dirty.

And this being before him was rich, in more ways than one.

He had seen the man before, many times. Dorian could never quite overcome the aura of pure menace that radiated from him, leaching into his skin and swirling around his mind. In the times they had met, the man had appeared in the prime plane, although only Dorian could see or hear him. He had never been pulled elsewhere before, much less in a dream.

“Where are we?” Dorian asked, respectful but cautious as he approached.

The man smiled, finished his sip of tea, and set the cup on its saucer with a soft clink.

“A spot, frozen in time, that holds a special place in my heart,” came the reply, with a voice that sounded like a dark amber syrup being poured into a silver bowl.

Dorian stared blankly, his mind did not always work well in these situations.

“I thought you knew your history,” the man said with a sigh. “This is the battlefield of Garesh. The version of it from right afterwards is a bit…messy, so this is from after the capital was razed to the ground. Only a few years after the carnage. Do you hear it? The anguish from the earth? So many…all fading away. It’s fantastic.”

He told the tale wistfully, as if recalling a precious and meaningful memory.

“Ah, yes,” Dorian replied. “From the book.”

The man’s face soured. “Yes…the book you almost lost to that traitor.”

Dorian patted his coat pocket, where he kept the book. In this place, of course, it wasn’t there.

“I did my best to save it, Master,” he began. “The traitor broke through my Deception. You assured me before that he would not be able to do that.”

The man glared at him. “Remember to whom you speak, Dorian. I was unaware of her presence, or his connection to her. He was not a worshiper, and her machinations are…fuzzy to me, like mine are dark to her.”

He picked up his teacup and took another sip, letting the steaming liquid calm him down.

“She can’t hide him forever,” he continued, talking to himself. “She doesn’t have the power on her own to conceal someone from me for long. He has to be somewhere further south…if he’s still alive.”

“Yes,” he said, sniffing the air. “I can still…he is still alive.”

“That’s where we’re going,” Dorian answered. “The winter is harsh, so we’re resting for the night and continuing in the morning. The Trackers should find something.”

“I very much dislike your lack of control among your underlings. I gave you the power to Deceive them; they should obey your every command without complaint,” the being chided. “You know how important it is for us to find the machine…and they waste time.”

Dorian supplicated. “They’re only humans, my lord. And I haven’t had my Gift for long. The amount of Whispers it takes to control that many people…to keep the balancing of Deceptions going in a web around me…it’s extremely difficult. I have to work around their affections, keep them away from anyone who might help them break through it. I’m exhausted.”

“Oh, you’re tired,” the man mocked, his perfectly-manicured white eyebrows furrowed towards his pointed nose. “Meanwhile, the traitor, who knows exactly what you and the Knights plan to do, gets further away by the moment. I told you to be careful with whom you trust and you ignored me… You have the Whispers, and can augment your Gift with pain, so GIVE THEM PAIN OR I WILL GIVE IT TO YOU TENFOLD!”

The man stopped, and looked down to see that he had crushed the tea cup in his gloved hand. He dissolved the shards of the old one, and manifested a new one, full of piping hot brew. His orange eyes, flaring with an inner fire, stared into the bleak distance before turning back to his subordinate.

“You begged me for power to find the machine,” he said, reigning in his anger. “I delivered, at a great cost. Now you do your part and find it. I don’t care what it takes, or how many have to die. Consider that a bonus…I do, anyway.”

Dorian bowed.

“It will be done, Master,” he said humbly, his soul angry at himself for failing thus far, but keeping the inner self-flagellation from his stoic face. His mind already raced with laying the groundwork to continue his network of Deceptions.

The Master nodded. “See that you do,” he warned. “Because there are plenty of others who can take your place.”

Dorian awoke with a frantic rapping at his bedroom door.

“Master Dorian!” a voice came through the simple door. “We have something!”

After hastily getting dressed, Dorian rode to the barn, his horse’s feet crunching on the snow. It had just begun to fall again, with innocent flakes drifting calmly from the gray sky. As he approached the barn, he did not unhorse, and instead sat on his mount, surveying the scene.

A half dozen Trackers stood in a circle outside the barn, one of them holding onto a piece of straw. They had their eyes closed, focusing on the wheat-colored shaft before them. Several silent minutes passed, as they swam through their Whispers, their fingers making nearly invisible ticks as their concentration continued.

Except…Dorian thought, as he squinted at the straw. There’s something on it.

He cracked a grin from the side of his mouth, then suppressed it with a cough. The Trackers stopped their communion and looked up at their Master.

“We’ve all confirmed it,” Rosario, a Knight Tracker, said proudly. “This is blood, and it leads a trail straight south. We can’t determine where exactly it ends, and the line is weak, but it’s there. He must have stayed here for a night, the blood soaked up a good amount of his aura.”

“You do your Master proud,” Dorian said, looking down at the straw. “Where are Morgans and Rufus?”

The two lieutenants appeared beside their Master, disheveled but saluting in their saddles. The door guard had woken them up with just enough time to get dressed, horse up, and get to the barn to anticipate their Master’s bidding.

Dorian turned, bringing attention to the horses that came up on his flank suddenly. He tried to pop a knuckle again subconsciously, but pressure on the joint just made him flinch.

“We have a lead,” he informed his men. “It gives a bearing to the south, like I anticipated. Get everyone up, feed them quickly. We must get back on the road NOW.”

Lieutenant Morgans looks concerned. “Sir, it’s barely four in the morning and we traveled all day yesterday. The men and horses need rest.”

Rufus, Morgans’ senior by a year, blanched, and turned his head slowly to his fellow officer. Any Knight knew better than to question the Master’s orders, no matter the circumstances.

The men thought it was because Dorian was infallible. In reality, his network of manipulation was exhausting, and creating lies to justify his orders due to someone being obstinate made it worse. The Master groaned inwardly.

“We should all be well-rested by now,” he began, his mind scattering his influence throughout the camp. “We barely traveled at all yesterday; you’ve been lounging around this farm as a means to rest…but rest time is over.”

The Knights, used to the Deceptive influence on their minds, began gathering themselves immediately. The hired Trackers looked at each other for a few moments, then shrugged and started to pack up. Morgans, embarrassed, turned his horse about and trotted to the farmhouse to relay the order. Dorian motioned for Rufus to stay behind.

“I apologize, Master,” he began. “He’s still young, but I’m working on him to better serve you.”

Dorian shut his eyes, desperately wishing he could keep them closed, before he opened them again.

“I’ll overlook the subordination this time,” he answered. “To prove yourself, I need you to relay a message to the cooks at the mess wagon.”

“And the message is…?” Rufus asked.

The Master of the Knights of the Silver Moon could Deceive all he wanted, but he could not physically affect another person’s body. He had to keep his men marching.

“Tell them, as a special treat…” he ordered. “Make today’s coffee extra strong.”

CHAPTER 20 - THE SNOW

Despite the winter cold, Axeton the priest felt warm and at home as he walked through the woods behind Avandale. The town’s residents did not find issue with him forsaking traditional priestly clothes, so he wore what he found to be the most comfortable: thick boots, trousers, a shirt, and cloak. The scarf given to him by Eupha Vash months before had certainly come in handy, and through great effort, the priest had kept it as white as he could.

The Harvest Festival had gone well, and he had been able to introduce himself to anyone he hadn’t already met. Not all members of the community took part in the church services, but they were more than welcome at the Festival. He had also been able to get in a few lessons with Tomrenn, whose mother temporarily suspended her allowance of combat practice, as she didn’t want her son to catch a cold. Axeton was okay with the change, since the lessons tended to run long and he had become increasingly more busy with priestly duties.

Most people in the winter in Avandale stayed in their homes, occasionally wandering to the homes of friends and family, telling each other stories or giving handcrafted gifts. Axeton had received many of these gifts; as he walked between the trees he humorously thought of the dozens of wooden ducks and rabbits that sat on his bookshelf. He had more sweaters than he knew what to do with, and was starting to gain weight from the endless barrage of pies that found their way to his door.

I knew they were making the sweaters too big on purpose, he thought, his boots crunching softly in the snow. The blanket of white sparkled between the long shadows as the setting afternoon sun shone through the trees. No chores today, just time to walk and reflect. He reached a spot in the woods that felt right, and stopped.

“Hi Fred,” Axeton said out loud, his warm breath creating a cloud in front of him.

Of course, no response came. But it never did. And that was okay.

“It’s been a few months since…you know,” he continued. “I just wanted to make sure you were doing well.”

Not even the birds called back as his words slicked through the chilled air and fell onto the snow.

“Remember the time we filled Richter’s stew pot with snow?” he said with a mirthful laugh. “The look on his face…in retrospect, we just kind of…started the process for him. He would have filled it with water anyway. But we still had fun.”

“I’ve kept it oiled,” he continued out into the white void, trying to redeem himself in his own mind. “You always said to do that, every day. I don’t really have time so I do it once every ten or so…I haven’t been using it. You understand, right?”

The soft snow refused to carry the echo. He didn’t mind.

“Of course you do. You listen even though you’re up there, probably forging something great for the gods... Too busy to hear my stories, but you listen anyway.”

He bit his lip and took in a deep breath through his nose. The cold air burned for a moment, reminding him that he was alive to breathe, while others were not as fortunate.

A crunch snapped through the air behind the priest. The back of his neck bristled as he reached for a weapon, which was not there.

It’s behind me, he thought. Did they finally find me? Dorian hates the cold, he wouldn’t travel in this…maybe he sent someon-

The priest turned, to see the right side of Coria Indreds’ face stared at him, the other half hidden behind a nearby tree. Her visible eye bore straight into him, the mouth below it in an embarrassed fine line, with a nose tipped with reddish pink from the cold. Her signature red ribbon, used to tie up her long black hair, danced lazily with the chilly winter breeze.

“Oh…” she said, still somewhat hiding behind the tree. “I’m sorry, Father. I came to your house and you weren’t home, but I saw your footprints in the snow and followed them. Who are you talking to out here?”

Axeton turned around, lingering for a moment, then back towards his pursuer. “An old friend, I guess. He…died. A long time ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Coria replied, earnestly. “Is there anything I can do?”

“No,” he began. “He’d want us to just keep living. Finding happiness, learning, experiencing the new, maybe telling a bad joke now and then.”

Coria stepped forward. “He sounds nice.”

Axeton smiled, looking up slightly. “He is. Was. Still is, I guess. Was there something you needed?”

The woman thought for a brief moment, her dark eyebrows furrowed in thought as she leaned back against the front of the tree.

“My secretary told me that you’ve stopped by my office quite a bit since you arrived,” she began, her eyes occasionally flicking downward, then back up. “I’ve been so busy…between the Harvest Festival, finalizing trade contracts for the spring, keeping Estes happy…I’m sorry I haven’t taken the time for you. I mean… to help you. With business. Business things. Or is it church things?”

Axeton blinked. Had he really done that?

I went a few times…it’s on the way to the church house, he thought. She’s an important person here. I figured I should get to know her.

Is that why?

“Oh, that’s okay. I know you’re busy,” he explained. “Your office is on my way, I didn’t mean to bother you.”

Coria brushed it off. “It wasn’t a bother. We’re both professionals, doing our jobs. When things are going on, we don’t have time for much else.”

Axeton nodded. “That is true.”

“But…” she said hopefully. “Now we do.”

The two stood, several feet apart, in silence. Axeton noticed she was clenching and unclenching her hands, which were covered in red leather gloves.

“Miss Indreds,” the priest began. “Are you going somewhere with this?”

“No…no no no no,” she sputtered. “I just thought if you wanted to come over, we can discuss what you’ve been meaning to for a while. I have nothing going on at the moment. And it would be a lot more comfortable than standing around talking out here.”

Axeton looked up, and finally noticed that the sun was starting to descend. It would be bitter cold, very soon.

The rest of his walk would have to wait. But Fred would always be there. He never really left.

“That would be fine,” he answered. “It’s getting too cold out here anyway.”

Coria Indreds led the priest towards the market square, a relatively long, but peaceful walk through a town debating on whether or not to stay up and read one more page before bed.

The homes around them, with their occupants hunkered down inside for the night, stood like soft beacons in the blue and gray valley. Chimneys streamed a clean, bluish smoke, thanks to a Water Gift user’s ability to make firewood just dry enough to burn perfectly.

So many happy people here, he thought. I feel blessed to be a part of it.

He inwardly confessed; he was not one to worship anything before he moved to Avandale. But he could not deny the goddess’ influence on the people there, the ones who welcomed him when he had nowhere else to go.

“This is it,” Coria said nervously as she came to a stop in front of a small house. It was roughly the same size as Axeton’s, a quick walk away from her office, and well-maintained on the outside. Coria pulled out a small keyring from her coat pocket and used it to open a door, painted in a blazing red.

“What a beautiful color,” Axeton observed aloud as they stepped through the threshold.

“Thanks,” she replied. “You wouldn’t believe how long it took to get that shade of paint. It’s my favorite. Don’t tell Estes, but I had to bribe a traveling salesman to keep an eye out for me. But please, make yourself at home.”

The priest stood at the entrance to a sitting room, with numerous bookshelves lining the walls. He removed his cloak and placed it on the coat hook near the door delicately, as Coria disappeared through a door at the other end of the room.

Axeton had been to many other houses in the community, but this one had a different feel to it.

What is it…he thought.

“Chocolate?” came a shout from the back of the house.

“I’m sorry…what?” the priest replied, caught off-guard.

“Do you want chocolate?” Coria asked.

“How on earth do you have choc-” Axeton began, before he remembered his conversation with Brey, about how he could grow exotic and rare plants. He had eaten chocolate once before; a rich man gave his family a box of fancy chocolate candy in an attempt to influence his father’s vote in the city’s senate, but he couldn’t remember what it even tasted like. Richter told him about it, and how to make it, but had never been able to get ahold of a single bean.

“Sure,” he corrected himself. “I haven’t tried it in a long time, though.”

“Most people haven’t,” she continued to shout from the kitchen, her voice showing clear signs of being distracted.

“Are you okay in there? Do you need help?” he asked, trying not to shout, but knew it was fruitless. He had never liked sitting around while people did work.

A clattering of metal crashed through the small home, with a yelp.

“No no no, I’m fine. I am…fine. I’m good. Please, make yourself comfortable,” she said, exasperated at that point.

The priest surrendered, then sat down in a brightly-colored, overstuffed armchair in front of the fireplace.

Of course, it’s red, he thought, as he sank into the plush seat. The fire crackled peacefully, the fresh logs still stacked neatly in the riverstone fireplace, the heat warming him up like a very welcomed hug.

Just as the chaos and commotion of the kitchen settled down, Axeton began to feel himself settling down as well. The fire perfectly lulled him, his boots with a few remnants of snow slowly fell out from under him, reaching out towards the friendly flames.

It would be rude to fall asleep, or would it? Is it a compliment?

The priest dozed off before he could finish his thought, and woke up to Coria standing over him. He flinched at the unexpected proximity, then swallowed.

“How long was I out?” he asked, his eyes assessing his surroundings.

No weapon that I can see. She’s still staring at me.

“Oh!” she said, clearing her throat as she took a step back and looked away. “About ten minutes?”

The priest rubbed his eyes.

“Please excuse me,” he said, embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep. Your chair is so comfortable, and the fire kind of…finished me off, I guess.”

“I love that chair,” she said, as she sat down in an identical, but brown one a few feet away. “It’s my favorite color.”

He looked at her playfully. “I’m sensing a theme here. But it is a beautiful color.”

Coria smiled softly, her cheeks no longer reddish pink from the cold as they rose up with the sides of her delicate lips.

Axeton sat back up straight in the chair.

There’s something happening here. Is this okay?

His host had placed a wooden plate with two steaming earthenware mugs on the small table between the chairs. He leaned over and peered inside of the mug closest to him, revealing a dark brown liquid.

It smells incredible, he thought. It looks like mud, but smells so good. Is that vanilla? And nutmeg?

“Is everything okay?” she asked, her head tilted as she looked at him, a nervous smile tentatively stitched across her face.

“Yes,” he replied. “I didn’t know what to expect in a chocolate drink. But if you made it, I’m sure it’s delicious.”

“I promise, it is,” she said, apologetically. “I’ve practiced the recipe a lot for…someone special. I just noticed that when you’re being wary of something new, the corner of your mouth twitches a little bit.”

Axeton brought his hand up to his mouth, thinking for a moment he could feel the expression that had given him away. Of course, he couldn’t.

She’s so nervous. Really cute, though.

“So you’ve been studying me,” he said, an eyebrow raised. “I assume for research purposes?”

Coria’s face turned bright red as her lips disappeared. “Do you want the chocolate or not?”

He picked up his mug, rotating it in his hands before looking inside again. “I’ve only had chocolate once, years ago. I didn’t know you could drink it.”

“It’s a new trend from the capital,” Coria answered, grateful to change the subject. “Only rich nobles do it, but serving it to guests is a way to show your mark in high society.”

“I see,” Axeton mused. “And what does serving it here accomplish?”

She raised the cup and took a sip, before looking at him.

“It makes for good company.”

Axeton grinned, matching her own. “I suppose it does.”

He took a sip of the drink, the sweetness and bitterness washed over him and into his stomach like warm waters gushing from heaven. He sighed audibly and sunk deeper into the chair, closing his eyes to better savor the incredible flavors of such a thoughtful gift.

“This is amazing,” he said, Coria’s face lighting up with pride with the compliment. “Thank you for sharing it. I hope it wasn’t too expensive.”

Coria snickered. “Brey owed me a favor. I bought a few seeds and he took care of the rest. I processed it and saved it for special occasions.”

“He’s a good man,” Axeton replied. “He really loves this place.”

“True,” Coria chimed in. “And we’re grateful to have him. Speaking of which, what do you think?”

“About what?” he asked.

“About Avandale,” she asked, gesturing around herself in a sweeping motion with her free hand.

Axeton shrugged, before taking another sip of the hot beverage. “It seemed quaint at first, compared to the city…but I really like it. So many great people, everyone just wants to live, work, and do their best. Also, a surprising amount of powerful Gifts here.”

“What, do you think only city people get them?” she said, sardonically.

“I didn’t know what to think,” Axeton said in defense. “I have a Gift most wouldn’t consider very useful, especially at a combat academy. So I never gave it much thought…where Gifts come from, if a certain place has more Gifted than others.”

“Interesting,” Coria said, while wringing her hands. “Um…Would you be surprised to know that I have a Gift?”

The priest blinked, then looked at her.

“I guess I would be a little upset,” he replied, a hint of sadness in his voice.

Coria’s face blanched. Her eyes darted around, then she held her breath before letting it out carefully.

“Really? Uh…why is that?” she asked, her anxiety threatening to finally break through.

Axeton smiled. “Because I think it would be unfair for someone so smart and beautiful to also be Gifted. I’d go as far as to say maybe they were a little too blessed.”

Coria hastily put her cup down and hid her face with her hands, retreating into her torso.

“UHNNNNNNNN you cannot just say something like that,” she groaned, her voice muffled. “What did you want to talk to me about in my office, anyway?”

We both want this, right?

The priest centered himself, reverting back to his primary role in his mind before continuing.

“I just wanted to get to know you a little better, since we’ll be working together,” he answered. “Although now I really would like to know if you have a Gift, and what kind of Gift it is.”

Coria pulled down her hands, and rested them on her lap.

“I’ll answer that later,” she quipped. “But I’ll give you some details, if that’ll help your…job.”

“I really think it would,” he said quietly. She bristled, then sat up straight in her chair.

“I used to be a traveling trader,” she began.”I grew up in a small village in the middle of the Yontin Plains, about a hundred miles southeast of here. I found this place over ten years ago and liked it so much that I decided to stay. Their products always fetched a high price, but they were looking for someone to help with trade in a more official capacity. So I’ve been here ever since.”

Axeton chewed over the details for a moment.

“A pretty concise story,” he began. “Do you have any family that followed you here, or back home? What do you like to do in your free time?”

“Father Axeton,” she said. “Are those details really part of your job?”

“They can be,” he answered.

Coria took a gulp of the chocolate before continuing her story.

“No, I don’t have family here. They’re gone. A disease wiped out my village, but I hadn’t been back in years by the time that happened. In my free time…when I have it, I like to cook and read.”

The priest’s heart broke.

That’s what’s missing here, he thought. Every other home in town has pictures of family, but there are none here. Not a single one…

“I’m sorry about your family,” he said, truly empathetic. “But I’m glad you’re okay.”

She waved a hand, dismissing the sentiment. “We weren’t close, it’s one reason why I decided to travel so much. But this is my home now, and my family is everyone here. I don’t get along with some of them, and I know they talk about me behind my back…but middle of nowhere towns will have that, I suppose.”

Axeton chuckled. “Yes, they do. It took some getting used to, everyone being aware of everyone else’s business.”

His face dropped as he suddenly remembered his manners.

“I’m sorry, we’ve been talking but I haven’t offered to maintain the fire,” he said, standing up. Keeping a house warm in the winter was always work, and he wasn’t about to let her do it all. “I’d hate to be a bad guest, when you’ve been so nice.”

“Well…actually,” she started, her voice starting to crack. “That’s…”

The priest looked around, and what he saw around the room, or what he didn’t see, confused him.

No ash bucket or shovel, he surveyed. No poker, no more wood piled up to be used next.

He sniffed the air suspiciously.

No smoke.

Axeton tilted his head down towards the fire. The logs, which had been steadily lit since he arrived, had not burned down at all. Then he remembered, it had been lit before he had come into the house. The fire hovered, a detail he couldn’t see at his previous angle, an inch or two in front of the logs.

Her secret, he thought. Please, tell me. Let me help.

He looked solemnly at Coria, whose face was slanted downwards, her eyes turned away ashamed as he slowly sat down.

“I…uh…have the Gift of Fire,” she said, apologetically before brushing her hair behind her ear. “Fire users are almost always drafted to fight, so I’ve had to hide it for as long as I could remember…I don’t want to hurt anyone. A few people here know about it, but they keep it quiet so it doesn’t get out.”

The pair sat in silence, the soft crackle of the flames becoming the music to a painful song.

“I never have anyone over here,” she continued, starting to ramble slightly. “When I come home, I always use my Fire to warm up the house. I had already done it mindlessly when we got back…I realized what I had done and started to make chocolate to distract you.”

More moments passed, the sweet woman getting closer to the breaking point. Axeton struggled to know what to do, and defaulted to levity to hopefully cheer her up.

“Mmm,” the priest said, taking another indulgent sip as Coria sat wordlessly. “This is pretty good for a distraction.”

Coria whipped her head up, glaring at him, incredulous.

“Are you serious?” she asked, an edge on her voice. “I just lied to you. If anyone finds out, no one in this town will look me in the eye ever again. Everyone respects you so much, gives you gifts, clothes, food…I see them drop off things every day! And I deceive you the second you step into my home. They’d never forgive me!”

What have I done? He thought. She’s in so much pain. Please…

The priest’s eyes went from his drink to his host, whose face was twisted with emotion. A gentle and sensitive soul, one he had not seen because she had been keeping it hidden, for reasons that were still a mystery. But it was something she could no longer hide, as a tear rolled down her cheek. The yellow glow of the fire caught the tear, illuminating a golden streak from her eyes…

Axeton gasped. Coria’s eyes, which were normally a caramel brown, glowed with a ring the color of rich embers. He knew that those with an especially powerful Gift, usually Elemental, tended to have special connections to their power, but had never been close enough to one during an emotional moment to see what those connections entailed. The crimson rings bore into his soul, as if they wanted to burn down his world and build something bright and new in its place. She stared, worried, hoping, pleading with her mind for an answer that wouldn’t destroy her and her life she had worked so hard to build.

That’s why she wears a mask, he thought. So she doesn’t give her Gift away.

His own eyes started to water at the thought of her pain. No more jokes. She needed him, and he needed her. His chest burned once he finally realized.

He needed her.

“That…” he said, in a spellbound voice. “Is a beautiful color.”

Coria smiled through the tears, her teeth showing as she chuckled. Her shoulders visibly untensed with a rush of relief.

“Shut up,” she said. “But really…I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too,” Axeton replied. “I’m sorry that…this took so long.”

He held his hand, palm up, on the table between them. She gently placed her own on top of it, a knotted golden band glinting proudly on the middle finger. The ring seeped with Whispers, which floated in a haze to their owner, and her sustained fires.

“I’ll forgive you for not noticing, this time” she said with a sigh. “You have so many that need you.”

“That may be true,” he soothed. “But there’s someone here who needs me the most right now. I had better make sure they’re okay.”

The pair talked more into the night, the Fire and company keeping them warm as her mask continued to fall away. To see her laugh, smile, and care…Axeton had never dreamed of finding such a precious ruby jewel in the middle of nowhere one day. She confessed to anonymously dropping off more than a fair share of baked goods at his house, while he told her that he didn’t know as much about being a priest as he would have liked.

He still couldn’t tell her about everything. Not yet, at least. Maybe one day.

Emotionally and physically drained, Coria fell asleep in her chair as the priest regaled her with stories from home. He found a blanket, red of course, and gently placed it over her as she soundly slept. He turned to leave, to go back to his own house, and stopped with his hand about to turn the doorknob. The door’s bright color begged him to stay, to look one more time at the soul who would do such an obscene decoration to a plain, nondescript slab of wood.

And he did. The priest looked over his shoulder to his sleeping host, snoozing peacefully. The fire had gone out, its Gifted maker no longer sustaining it, leaving him with an idea.

Without a second thought, he walked over to Coria, picked her up, and sat back down, embracing her in his lap as she continued to doze. Her soft breathing lulled him to sleep, his eyes closing after they landed their gaze on her bright red hair ribbon, prim and perfect as it always was.

Red, he thought as he finally surrendered to sleep. Red is certainly a beautiful color.

CHAPTER 21 - THE LEAD

A week after finding a drop of blood on a piece of straw in the barnyard, the Knights of the Silver Moon reached a small clearing in the middle of nowhere. With a quick arm motion, Dorian stopped his caravan’s advance to survey the scene ahead.

The clearing, once part of a small forest, was covered in snow. Rigid bumps in the glistening white secreted the stumps left over from the construction of a cabin, which sat before the cabal of Knights. Dorian made a bird-like whistle to summon Rosario, his best Tracker.

“What do you see?” he asked the man to his left, not taking his eyes off the cabin. Smoke twisted upward from the small chimney, as he scanned for movement but found none inside. He was too far away to see any tracks, but the fresh snow would have most likely covered all but the most recent footprints anyway.

Rosario held the blooded straw between his thumb and forefinger, concentrating. His Master could see the Whispers swirling around it, fed from his underling’s golden bracelet.

“The traitor left a large amount of his aura here,” Rosario began, his deep, graveled voice narrating the movements of his pointing fingers. “It appears to go past this clearing for ways…so he stayed here for a time. The aura is, however, not fresh.”

Dorian turned to his right, locking eyes with Lieutenant Rufus. Morgans was behind him, sheepishly avoiding his Master’s gaze.

“Take the men and surround the clearing. No one gets in or out until I give the order. Understood?”

“Yes, Master,” Rufus replied, before clicking his horse’s stirrups and turning around to address the group. Immediately, sections of Knights and freelance Trackers split off, weaving through trees to keep themselves hidden as they enveloped the property.

“Oz, watch for tracks,” Dorian quipped. “Skirt the house and return to let me know what you find.” Ozhriath nodded wordlessly from his mount, grateful for a quick and simple order that would showcase his skills.

After several tense minutes with Dorian watching his men get into position, Ozhriath crept up to his Master’s side.

“Two sets of fresh tracks coming out of the back of the cabin, going into the woods in the west,” he reported, keeping his voice down. “Based on the depth and stride…one adult male, one child. Maybe ten years old.”

Dorian grinned and nodded, his eyes narrowed at the cabin.

A family, and father has gone away, he thought. This will be very…fruitful.

“Sir?” Oz asked. “Your orders?”

The Master of the Knights thought for a moment.

POP

POP

“Hide your weapon, follow me up to the cabin,” he ordered. “Summon Mister Sturges and have him go around the back. If he hears anything suspicious, he’s to smash the door down.”

After giving his orders a few more minutes to be filled, Dorian quietly dismounted and checked himself. His Whispers were plentiful, the target in sight. They had to know where the traitor scuttled off to; and they were going to tell him.

As Bernhardt Dorian tapped into his sword, his Parsell, he felt the Whispers stream around him, creating the illusion of a snowstorm that whipped his clothes and hair in a frenzy. He turned his cheeks and lips blue, as well as those of Ozhriath, and started walking towards the house.

“Follow my lead, Oz,” he said quickly, looking behind him. His subordinate nodded, and walked as if being pushed back by an intense winter wind. Neither of the men could detect any movement inside the house through the few small windows at the front as they reached the door, and the Deceiver knocked loudly and frantically.

“HELP!” he cried out, allowing his voice to crack slightly. “Please, someone. We were caught hunting in a storm!”

The door, silent for a minute, slowly creaked open to reveal a sliver of the other side. A form peeked out, scanning the two men.

“Where’d ye cam from?” the person called out. “Twasn’t a storm all dey, and never seen ye ‘round here bafore”

“It just came up on us as we were walking through to our hunting grounds,” Dorian answered, pretending to be breathless. “Thankfully, we saw your cabin and hoped we could rest by your fire for a while until the storm passes.”

The woman, in her mid-twenties and slightly taller than average with blond hair, cracked the door open a little bit more, then took a better look outside.

“Ye didna answer mah question,” she responded, her face plastered with suspicion. “Mah hosband is sleepin’, he’s nat gonna wan visitors. Ya best get goin’ somewhere else then.”

She slammed the door shut, audibly clicking and sliding locks into place on the other side.

“Ma’am!” Dorian hollered, pounding on the door. “Please, it’s so cold out!”

“I suggest ye keep walkin’!” she replied, flatly but loudly. “Go away now!”

Dorian scowled, then nodded at Ozhriath, who readied an arrow. With a steady kick, he smashed in the door, sending wood shrapnel inward. As he pulled back from the kick, he felt a thud on his shoulder, and looked in the cabin to see the woman standing in front of him, empty crossbow aimed outward. She stood steady, face angry and defiant, as she reached down to load another bolt.

“Don’t kill her!” Dorian ordered as he heard Ozhriath draw his bowstring. In an instant, an arrow flew past Dorian and slammed into the woman’s arm. She screamed and slumped down to her knees, dropping the crossbow onto the wooden planks below.

The two Knights approached, Ozhriath with another arrow already knocked. Dorian gestured for him to stand down, and he obeyed. The woman, clutching her arm as she hissed in air through her teeth, looked up in a potent mixture of rage and fear. Dorian kneeled in front of her, glaring into her green eyes.

“You know who I am, don’t you?” he asked, already knowing the answer. The woman spat, and turned her head away. Dorian reached out and grabbed the neckline of her simple blue dress and shook, showcasing his strength.

“Some time ago, a young man came through here. Don’t bother lying, I know he did. What did he tell you?

The woman grimaced, then sneered at him, before hanging her head low.

“He was injured, his eye and leg,” she began. “Came outta nowhere, offered ta do chores for a place to sleep an’ heal oop fer a few days. He said…he said to watch oot for ana’one wearing a grey cloak with silvar loinin’…like yers.”

Dorian cursed. The symbol of the Knights of the Silver Moon, and a design he was proud of, could now be used as a warning to anyone the traitor had informed.

“How long ago was he here? And where did he go when he left?” he interrogated, his mind already spiraling about how to fix this problem.

The woman’s eyes flicked to her right, towards an open doorway to another room. Dorian grinned.

“So…” he cooed. “You’ve got another kid in there, don’t you? Hiding under the bed, or in the cellar behind a trap door?”

Her jaw clenched as her defiant green eyes bore into his cold blue ones. But she knew when she didn’t have room to fight anymore.

“He…was here ‘bout three months ago,” she said, solemnly. “Said he was gonna keep headin’ south a ways. Tryin’ ta hide from ye, I take it.”

There are dozens of small towns around here, he thought. Who knows how many the Tracker line will bring us through…I can’t Deceive all of them.

Yes, you can, came the voice. The one that had been instructing him, leading him. It was beginning to irritate Dorian; he knew his limits and his Master didn’t care about them in the slightest. He just wanted results.

I’ll provide results in my own way.

“Master?” Ozhriath said quietly, bringing Dorian out of his thoughts. The Force user turned his head, to reveal a small, new opening in the next room’s wooden floorboards. A small face peered out cautiously. The woman followed her attacker’s sight and her eyes went wide, then filled with tears.

“I won’ say anethin’,” she pleaded. “Jos let us go. I told ye everythin’ I know. Please!”

“She didn’t lie to us,” Oz mentioned. “And she only attacked because of the lies the traitor told her. And after you broke her door.”

Dorian’s eyes narrowed as he released his grip. She fell to the floor, then ran to the room and pulled the child out of the hidden cellar stairway. A little girl, who had just started to cry, buried her head in her mother’s chest as they both turned away from the men.

“Your orders?” Ozhriath asked. His Master stood, his eyes darting about in thought.

POP

POP

If I kill them, the husband will come back and track us…and bring people from surrounding villages as well.

Then kill them all.

How am I supposed to explain that to my men?

You have the tools.

I’ve told you, I’m almost at my limit. I don’t have the strength to use it to its full capacity yet.

Weeeeaaaaaaaak.

I’ll make this work. We can still find him.

Dorian blinked, then looked down slightly to Ozhriath, who had been standing and ready.

“Bring a Healer in here at once,” he ordered. “Everyone else, meet at the forest a mile southeast of here. Now.”

Oz bowed, then bolted out the door. He returned moments later with Jorash Flick, the Knights’ unscrupulous, but dependable, Healer. The man broke the arrow, pulled it out of the woman’s arm, and Healed the wound. She sat in a kitchen chair Jorash brought over to get them both off the floor, bewildered and still terrified at what was happening.

“Go change your clothes, and bring me the bloodied ones,” Dorian ordered quietly. “If you try anything, I have a man at the back door who would take great joy in making your husband a widower.”

He didn’t have to Deceive, she was already terrified. But Dorian hoped she would comply, as the alternative would be too messy to deal with easily.

The woman did as she was told, and brought the bloody dress and undergarments to Dorian, who motioned for Jorash to take them. He did, with a look of disgust. He was used to seeing blood, but did not appreciate toting things around.

Dorian dug into his Parsell, his mind starting to warp and stretch as he reached through the Whispers and added a little more to his network of Deception. He turned to the woman.

“My dear, I’m afraid we have to go back to our shop to get tools to fix your door,” he said pleasantly, pointing to Ozhriath. “My friend here will hunt down the bear that did it, so it won’t bother you again.”

The woman stared at him, her eyes squinting at the three men in front of her, before her expression changed.

“I’m jus’ glad ye were able to come at all, at such short notice,” she said, with gratitude plastered on her face. “It gave us a right scare, please travel safely and we’ll see ye all tomorrah?”

Dorian nodded, and motioned for his two Knights to follow him outside.

“I don’t see any bear tracks, but they have to be here somewhere,” Oz said as he looked around the outside of the cabin. “Do I have your permission to lead a hunting party?”

His Master raised his hands. “No, I’m sure it’s long gone now. Go meet with the rest of the caravan and we’ll continue south.”

Oz and Jorash left, and Dorian turned back towards the cabin. The woman had come outside, holding her child, and had started to assess the damage to the door. She waved at him, and he returned the gesture.

He wanted them dead.

No loose ends.

But it would have put the whole excursion in jeopardy.

He and his Knights weren’t strong enough…yet. One day he’d be able to keep his Deceptions going and manipulate someone’s months-old memories at the same time, but he just couldn’t do it now. And it was infuriating. The woman’s fear should have given him the boost he needed, but he just wasn’t ready.

He began the walk towards the rest of his entourage, his boots crunching angrily in the fresh blanket of fallen snow. The hunt was not over yet.