They stayed in the tower for three days before embarking on the journey back to the capital.

Of all of Ezril’s brothers, only Darvi seemed truly disturbed by his actions. Takan treated the event as if it was a daily occurrence. Ezril often caught Salem with an expression of guilt, as though he had unwillingly taken something from him, and Olufemi… there was nothing different about Olufemi. It was as if he’d never left as far as the young priest was concerned.

All things considered, Ezril found he didn’t care how his brothers felt. He’d spent the three days readjusting to life in the tower, which proved surprisingly easy. The nights, however, had been the challenge.

On the first, Darvi had taken to checking on him and Lenaria at random intervals after accepting he could do nothing to keep the priestess from the room. The trust Ezril had once gained from his brother was long gone. And rightfully so.

On the second night, Lenaria had demanded he lock the door, not that they planned on frolicking in the sheets. She simply didn’t like the interruption, and the incessant appearance of Darvi made cuddling next to him unlikely. So when Darvi came knocking with a force and consistency that threatened to wake the tower, against Lenaria’s pleading that his brother would grow tired and leave them be, he opened the door.

Darvi had simply regarded him with a look of scorn before leaving. Infuriated, he had returned to an equally infuriated Lenaria, tossing caution to the wind. When his brother returned, creaking the door open for a simple peek, he’d stared at him from his place beside Lenaria. Unfortunately, Darvi had thought him asleep, and had deemed it his duty to disentangle their arrangement.

He’d mentally pleaded with his brother not to approach. The futility of his plea saw Darvi two steps away from him when he moved. Mildly enraged, he slipped from the sheets, took Darvi by the neck, knocked away Darvi’s hand that came to his aid in defense, kicked his leg from beneath him, and stepped with his brother in tow. In a single step he pinned Darvi against the far wall over ten paces away. Everything had happened in the space of a heartbeat. His movements were more fluid than he remembered them ever being, each action seeming to flow in one long motion.

He saw the shock in his brother’s eyes, the shadowed wisps around him—clear even in the darkness—disturbed. Only when Lenaria called his name did he unhanded his brother. In troubled silence Darvi left them, leaving with a worried frown on his face and gifting Ezril the shadow of his confused expression.

Suffice to say, Darvi made no other appearance for the rest of the night.

The night before their journey, he returned. But rather than grant himself entrance, he stayed on the other side, simply watching. After a short while, he left.

The morning of their departure Ezril stood at the entrance of the carriage clad in his black cassock. It seemed a new one had been commissioned for him during his time away, but it was more plausible to think it had been commissioned perhaps days before his disappearance.

Right now, it mattered very little to him.

Lenaria stood beside the horse she was to ride with her sisters. The chestnut stead snorted in what he could only think of as expectation. If each of his brothers took their horses, riding at a gallop most of the trip, they would arrive at the capital in no more than three weeks, but they were taking a carriage. Ezril having refused, at Bilvion’s suggestion, to leave Shade behind, they pulled the beast in a massive cage hooked to the carriage where it would roll behind through the events of the journey. He had suggested they let the beast run at their pace, but everyone had argued this was the best choice to prevent panic in the streets.

So they would be tardy by a week… maybe two.

While they stood at the carriage door, Darvi stood far removed from them. engrossed in a conversation with Dragmund. They exchanged a few words, some of which solicited a smile and the occasional laugh from the hero. Darvi, however, remained stoic through the entire conversation. Remembering he had people waiting for him, Darvi tried to bid the hero farewell, and made his way back to them.

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Dragmund followed, undeterred.

The man still walked with authority, but there was a coy grin playing on his lips as they approached, like a child up to some mischief.

“Ah, Father Urden,” he greeted when he was within earshot. “I see you are in good health. Any limbs missing? No? Good. I couldn’t imagine a first bow without a hand. Or a leg.” He tapped a thoughtful finger to his lips, his expression going grave. “Just imagine if you’d lost both limbs. By Truth!” he gasped in mock dread. “Might as well be dead, then I wouldn’t be owing your brother anything.” The last part he added before shooting Darvi a look.

Ezril cocked a questioning brow. “Owing my brother?” he asked.

Sometimes it was easy to forget the man was a great hero of the realm. During his time back, they hadn’t crossed paths, but he’d had the pleasure of seeing the man every now and again. Each time, he was either up to some level of tomfoolery, or hiding from his commanders. Once, he’d come across a soldier whose head was wrapped in so many bandages that the man was unrecognizable. Yet, he whistled a tune as he skipped through the courtyard, he’d even offered him a wink as they passed each other. When the hero’s oldest commander slipped out of some crevice in the tower and asked him if he’d seen any man with conspicuous bandaging, he’d turned around just in time to find the hero running away like his life depended on it, bandages unwrapping in his bustle.

“The gig is up!” he’d screamed in his flight.

As his commander chased, pleading that he return to the war room, he’d returned with. “You won’t take me alive!” his voice, singsong.

“See how they treat me!” he’d dramatized, after being caught, as the commander pulled him away. “Alas,” he whispered conspiratorially. “Betrayed by my butler.”

The commander had sighed in resignation then answered, “I’m not your butler, sir.”

“Unhand me! Chef! I will have you stewing in your own… what’s that thing you usually have in the pot called? You know, the thing you turn with the giant spoon.”

“Broth?”

“Aha! I’ll have you stew in that.”

Ezril shook his head at the memory.

“Well, I had my money on you being dead,” Dragmund answered casually. “Your brother over there, however, was convinced you’d found a way to survive by some stroke of luck.” He thumbed at Darvi. “Now I have to pay him the eight pieces of gold he wagered, and the twelve I wagered. You cost me a lot of money boy.” Then he smiled coyly. “It’s good to see it was bravery and not foolishness.”

Dragmund reached for Darvi after that, and the young priest moved to evade. For all he had done, he might as well have stood still because the man’s hand landed on his shoulder easily in a farewell bid. And turning away, he left them. A few steps away his head turned from side to side, and somehow he managed to make the simple act look mischievous before he broke into a skip, trotting away in slowly increasing speed, all the while whistling a puckish tune.

Darvi sighed, somehow it seemed his brother felt the hero’s commanders’ pain. Then he realized they’d seemed close. I wonder how that happened.

They left the fort long after the priestesses, their carriage pulled by five priest horses, Shade’s cage trailing behind them.

Olufemi sat next to Ezril, and Salem, Takan and Darvi took up places on the bench opposite them. Although he welcomed it, Ezril was surprised at how they sat in comfortable silence for the first few days. The only sound of life evident was in the creaking of the cartwheels and the occasional mild raucous when they ate. Considered, their trip to the fort after their ordination had been just as silent. But then, they had been on single horses and expected to reach their destination within a week. Save the occasional stops to feed Shade and Darvi’s brief exits to direct the horses when they seemed in need of it, they rode all the way without stop.

The trip was mostly uneventful. They spoke on basic things, refusing to comment on the events of Ezril’s disappearance. However, they did regale him with some tales of the things that happened during his absence. Olufemi, as he already knew, had refused to fight. Always he ventured into the forest with them for the battles they were required to fight, but he never fought them. According to Salem, no sooner was he in the battle than he would be gone like the wind, soaring through the forest in search of Ezril. That apparently seemed the only interesting news.

Sister Alanna seemed to have taken his apparent death very difficultly. From what he learned, Nixarv had had to keep her away from the infirmary due to the increasing rate of mistakes she was making. She’d suggested they build a funeral pyre and perform funeral rites for his soul and it had been the one thing strong enough to make Olufemi speak to her. According to his brothers’ tale, in simple, quiet words employed in the realm tongue he promised to ensure the funeral pyre had at least one body upon it during the rites if she ever suggested it again, and she was not going to be around to participate in the rites. His meaning was taking very seriously because she never repeated the suggestion. At least not that any of them knew of.

In two weeks they arrived at the capital.