At Levlin’s words Teradin barked a derogatory laugh. “Fear will make a man see anything. Apparently, it makes savages see gods.”

“Only one, General,” the scholar corrected, seemingly accustomed to such mistakes. “A goddess. There was no veneration in their address of this… Night’s blue. Perhaps they see him more like a messenger of some god, or even the goddess herself.” He thought a moment. “A harbinger, if you will.”

“A Tainted?!” Bilvion demanded, angered by the idea. “Amongst my ranks?!”

“I wouldn’t go as far as to say that my lord,” Leviln interrupted. “The boy said ‘if not for the goddess and the night’s blue, we would’ve cleansed you from the face of Vayla.”

Bilvion frowned. “I hear nothing that tells of the Night’s blue’s relationship to a god.”

“Context, my lord.” Levlin waved a dismissive hand. “Context.”

“Ok, then,” Bilvion decided with a wave of his hand, dismissing the notion. “Do you think it is possible to identify this night’s blue amongst my ranks?”

Levlin observed him through guarded eyes but spoke, nonetheless. “Do any of those under your command wear the color?”

“No.”

“Then perhaps it is something about their weapon.”

Bilvion’s frown deepened, transforming into a scowl. “Perhaps the boy will have more to offer before my men are through with him.”

He made to give a command but the scholar’s words gave him pause. “I highly doubt that. The boy speaks of them like a legend. To him they are but stories, most likely told by those who survived previous battles. At best, he would spin a tale deserving of his fear and veneration of these people.” He paused. Ezril noted the way his thumb rubbed his other fingers whenever he seemed to be in thought. “Sadly,” he continued, “I cannot help you with the identity of the goddess either.”

“That will be no problem,” Teradin assured him. “There is only one woman within our ranks they could be talking of.”

“Oh,” Levlin replied. “Then if you do not mind, I would like to see to my chambers, and perhaps a decent meal. I have been riding for days, and it has been a while since my last meal.”

Bilvion nodded. “Certainly. I hope you will continue to prove yourself of use to us.”

The leader of the captives spat on the ground as Levlin turned to leave, voicing a few words in disgust.

Levlin frowned then muttered under his breath: “Savages.”

“What is that, Scribe?” Noem asked.

Levlin gave his reply, speaking the word like it held no meaning: “Insults.”

He bowed to Bilvion once more, “My Lord.” He regarded Darvi and Ezril with a quick bow of acknowledgement as he left, a slight hesitation as his gaze met Ezril’s.

“My Lord,” he added, raising the flap of the tent open for himself, seeking to offer a last opinion before his exit. “It could also be the eyes.”

Ezril had withheld his frown but had made sure to remember the word the Merdendi had afforded the scribe: Unthvar.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

In the days that followed, the scholar spoke with the captives often, individually. He would have one of them taken to a separate room where, under the eyes of armed men, he would ask whatever questions were required in their language.

Ezril couldn’t help but note how the man spoke. His mastery of the Merdendi language seemed lacking. Where the Merdendi spoke fluently, his words were clipped, and his accent vividly off. Even his brogue bore an unfamiliar note when he spoke the realm tongue. His expressions seemed to change depending on who he spoke to, growing familiar to the Lord Commander’s whenever he spoke with the man, or his soldiers when he spoke to them. It was eerily so whenever he spoke to the captives. He would dip and cock his head to the side as he spoke, just as they did, but with less fluency. It was an attempt at imitation so good that with more time he could possibly look like one of them, without the tattered rags for clothing and the brown of dirt and grime that bespoke their captivity.

Ezril often suspected the night’s blue the real reason Darvi had pulled them from the encampment, regardless of what their brother told them. If there was a Tainted in their camp, then it would be their duty to find him and bring him Truth’s punishment in whatever form it would choose to take.

“A man who only fights at night,” Ezril said in response to his brother.

Darvi nodded. “We already have a fair enough idea of who it is, and I’m fairly certain some of the soldiers have their suspicions.”

Ezril observed his brothers, each bore a certainty in their gaze. “… And?”

“And I think it best if you stay away from any battles of the night.”

“Why?” he asked, the wheels turning in his head.

“You really don’t know, brother?” Salem asked.

Ezril thought a while, uncertain of his decision to ask the next question: “Are you certain?”

“Certain enough to not want to risk a brother,” Darvi answered. “Your eyes have a tendency to…” he paused, clearly thinking of an acceptable word. “Declare themselves in the dark of night.”

Ezril thought of all the times he had run into different people at night. He shook his head. “A lot of people have seen me at night. If it was reason enough, then there shouldn’t be anyone without this information.”

“Not entirely true,” Darvi disagreed. “It’s not something definite. At the seminary it only happened when you focused. Like when you try to hit a target too far from you.”

“And no one saw to tell me about this?”

“We reckoned ‘twas one of those things,” Takan interrupted. “Y’know, like the scar on your back, your nightmares…”

“… Sister Alanna having feelings for you.”

Ezril turned to Salem, perplexed. “Unlikely.”

Salem observed him through narrowed lids before shaking his head. “Never mind. It’s of little import.”

“That said,” Darvi continued, interrupting their conversation, “we will be attending the masses in the fort.”

There was a collective grumble.

“Is this compulsory, brother?” Takan asked.

“No,” their brother answered. “However, we will all be aiding in the celebration of this morning’s mass.” He paused to regard them, perhaps waiting for an objection. “I see. Then that will be all,” he finalized, clearly satisfied with what he saw.

As they proceeded to the door Takan asked, “So who’s on Olufemi duty?”

Ezril didn’t see any reason as to why his brother had asked a question that was in and of itself supposed to be rhetorical. In the seminary Olufemi was known to incur the wrath of Father Ornam’s knocks to the head for sleeping during masses. The man was not faulted for this, after all, it was the duty of the priest in charge of the chapel activities.

However, the knocks had grown so constant that in an attempt to protect their brother’s skull from much battering, they had created a position that demanded one of them keep Olufemi awake at all times, or at least enough times that Ornam, the chapel master, didn’t have to grace their brother’s head. As expected, the duty had fallen upon Ezril on default.

Nonetheless, Ezril voiced a response. “I believe our brother is old enough to stay awake on his own.” And despite their lack of celebrated masses after their spiritual year, he added, “Besides, he isn’t just attending mass, he’s serving in it.” At this point they were out of Darvi’s room whilst he stood at the entrance. “I doubt sleep would be a problem.”

Darvi placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “It would seem you know very little of Olufemi’s spiritual year.”

Baffled at the insinuation of his brother’s words, Ezril turned to Olufemi, eyes imploring. Olufemi presented him with an unapologetic shrug. Their brothers laughed, finding a humor where Ezril did not.

Darvi chuckled. “May Truth grant you the strength you need as you continue to embark on this journey, brother.”

He closed his door, leaving them moving towards their rooms.