Silence was a welcome distraction in a night that refused Seth sleep. At least the silence that filled the room with the absence of words. The fire still crackled, the wood still burnt, and the blizzard still roiled beyond the shelter. Save all this, he considered it silent.

“What’s a child your age doing out here, by the way?” Dazda asked, as if averse to the silence. “A boy your age should be home.”

Seth held his silence. He hoped the man would rethink his aversion to it and allow its reign. Dazda did not.

“You should be home with your family.” He made a forlorn sound, something between a sigh and a groan. “If you’re a mage I’m sure some of them are as well.”

Seth said nothing.

“If not, then I’m sure they’re proud of you.”

Were they?

Seth thought of his father and his silent strictness. Lord Darnesh never asked for much. The little he asked for, he liked done as was required. His father might be pleased if he became a soul mage, but proud was a step too far.

His mother’s exuberance came to him after. Her pursuit of class and status was never lost to any of her children. If she could not be it, she would look it. He remembered her extravagant clothes, her poise and unnecessary grace. Her annoying pretense. Now that he thought about it, perhaps it wasn’t so bad. He had been a younger child then, enclosed on all sides by a mother who spoiled her youngest child to rot. Maybe he was overreacting to who she was.

He thought more on it. Would she be proud? No. Being a soul mage was not an accomplishment to her. Being a powerful soul mage was.

Jonathan was the only one that would be proud. His pride would be simply and precise, dutiful. Sometimes Seth wondered if all his positive attributes were simply outcomes of his duty, characteristics of a first son.

His mind touched only softly on Derek before moving on. He didn’t care much for Derek’s pride. And Jeremiah wouldn’t know how to be proud of someone else even if his life depended on it.

It was tough to think of his family. Even now as they flitted about in his mind like flotsam on the surface of a green sea it brought a weight on his chest. It was like having a specifically fat pig sit on him. But it was not as bad as he’d thought it would be. Being homesick wasn’t as terrible as he’d expected.

“Or did you run away from home?” Dazda asked, reminding Seth of his presence.

Seth turned on his side, away from his guest, remembered it wasn’t the safest choice, and turned back. “I don’t have a home.”

He hadn’t necessarily intended to speak. The words were meant for his mind. They were birthed to remind him. Unfortunately, a part of him likely wanted to remind the world as well. Something wanted to declare him homeless and without allegiance.

“But you came from somewhere.” Dazda’s voice was softer. It carried a touch of empathy.

Does he feel bad for us? A mind asked, confused. Why?

We don’t always have to be retards, we know? another mind thought. We aren’t happy about our state either, but sometimes we have to make sacrifices.

The fuck are we talking about?

Sacrifices. We know? For the sake of power.

But we didn’t sacrifice anything. And why are we talking like we’re really homeless. The seminary’s not that far… we think. If we pass the test, we get to go back. So what’s with all the melodrama.

Yes, a mind answered, solemn. But it’s not home.

It’s got fatso, though.

Fatso’s not enough.

What do we mean not enough?

Their conversation was molding to an argument. It crowded Seth’s head and made him wince. Soon their tone would rise. It would not necessarily be loud, not in the sense of what loud is. But it would fill his head and choke his thoughts. It would leave him slightly addled, like waking from a dream he could not remember and yet could not forget.

And why’s he asking stupid questions? Another mind asked suddenly. Doesn’t he see the cassock?

For a moment Seth had forgotten he’d been clad in a cassock. It was not of the same color as the ones the Reverends wore but there was no man alive that did not know what a cassock represented. Once it had been the priests of the Roman Catholic Church, now it was not.

The Vatican rarely moved in the open or publicly anymore and their churches had gone aground since the emergence of new religions. In over two thousand years of their existence they were less popular now, but no one was stupid enough to think them less powerful.

Suffice to say, the cassock was of the Reverends and there was scarcely any that did not fear it

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Tired of whatever games Dazda was playing at, he asked, “You’re a wanderer, right?”

Dazda grunted in agreement.

“You've been to places. So would you say you do not recognize the cassock or are you playing pretend?”

A frown touched the old man’s lips and there was a wariness there. The moment stretched but it could not have lasted more than a few seconds. When he answered, his words were full of caution.

“I’m sorry.”

Seth bristled at the apology. It was odd to have an old person apologize to him. In fact, it was odd to have anyone older than him apologize to him. He couldn’t even remember the last time a person apologized to him. Since joining the seminary he’d been annoyed and offended, but never apologized to.

There’s nothing odd about it, one of his minds thought. It’s an unsouled apologizing to a soul mage. Perfectly normal.

He wanted to remind it that he was not a soul mage but thought better of it.

“I just thought you wouldn’t want to be treated like one,” Dazda continued. “It’s just… there aren’t many priests your age. None that I’ve heard of, actually. And they don’t wear cassocks that color.”

“Because I’m not a priest yet,” Seth answered.

“Oh.”

Seth nodded, as if answering a hidden question. The lights on the ceiling continued their dance as the flame flickered and wavered but they were losing their interest. Even the fly trapped in the ice was no longer intriguing as the conversation forced him to think.

“When you asked where I was from,” he said, unable to stop himself. “What did you mean? You knew what I was, so were you asking where the seminary was?”

“Not at all,” Dazda refused, hurriedly. “I would never.” He moved slightly, uncomfortably. Then he lay on his side so that he looked at Seth. “I was actually genuinely curious. I was asking of where you were actually from, before the seminary took…” his words trailed of like a guttering geyser. “I was asking where you were from before joining the seminary.”

Seth nodded sagely. Dazda was a man who feared the seminary. He also feared those tied to it in some way. That made him a smart man.

But his question had never been asked of him so blatantly. He’d been playing with the question in his head for so long now, searching for a suitable answer for when it came. Two years in the seminary and no one had asked him yet. Not his brothers. Not the priests. Dante Faust was more than satisfied just knowing he had come from Jabari.

But now that the question had come, it wasn’t from anyone beholden to the seminary. It was not from a seminarian or a brother or a priest. It was from an old man. A wanderer. There were so many lies, but only one truth.

Where was he from?

“Where am I from?”

Natalia’s side, a mind answered.

Seth paused. He hadn’t seen that one coming.

Are we a part of him that’s still obsessed over her? Another mind asked, befuddled. We mean, we kinda get it. He spent so much time with her and caught feelings. But we thought we were over that already. Do we still have a lingering attachment?

What do we think? A mind returned, sarcastic. Out of sight isn’t always out of mind.

Can we be serious right now. This from another mind. It bore a touch of annoyance and Seth felt a certain malice towards Natalia from it. He wondered what that was about. We’re trying to decide whether to lie or not.

Seth puckered his lips in thought. He was, wasn’t he. Somehow a lie or the truth felt important. Whatever answer he gave felt almost like a binding seal. As if it would change a lot.

Sometimes the truth was all there was to it. Sometimes life wasn’t so complicated.

And sometimes during a test everything might be a test, a mind thought. An old wanderer sneaking into the shelter of a seminarian during a blizzard happening during a test might just not be a wanderer.

Seth sighed at that. The building tension of a half-born melodrama of an existential crisis was gone.

“I don’t know,” he answered, finally.

“That was quite the pause just to say you don’t know.”

Seth heard the amusement in the old man’s voice.

“Why is that?” Dazda continued. “Is it some village somewhere? You didn’t learn the name before they took you?”

“That’s not it.” Seth scratched an itch on his arm. “I don’t know where or who I was before the seminary.” He stared at the ceiling and paused for a beat. He hoped it gave the illusion of introspection before he continued. “I don’t have any memories from before the seminary.”

That seemed to hold Dazda captive because the man turned to face him fully. “Is that why you’re devoted to them.” He gestured with a hand, somehow encompassing everything outside in the single action. “Is that why you’d be willing to go into a forest filled with wild beasts and weather a blizzard for them? Because they gave you food and shelter and one of those stones that change the color of your eyes?”

Those stones that change the color of your eyes, a mind scoffed. What is he; an unbeliever?

There were no unbelievers. No soul existed that did not know what a soul mage was and how one became a soul mage. But there were stories. Stories of people who thought of soul magic as a kind of abomination. There were people who believed humans should never have dabbled in soul magic; should never have collected soul fragments. There were those who thought humanity was better of being wiped out rather than possessing powers soul fragments gave them. The world hadn’t taken long to give them a name.

Negare.

According to Jonathan, it meant to deny in Latin. Thus, the world called them deniers. Although they liked to think of themselves as the reasonable ones. The ones who still held pride in their humanity. As if being able to call fire from the skies somehow made soul mages not human.

He almost asked the man if he was one.

“The priests aren’t that bad,” he said, instead.

“No offense, child, but they take children from their homes.” There was definitely offense there, but it wasn’t directed at him. “Anyone that would take a child from their family is that bad.”

Seth thought back to the carriage ride and couldn’t agree with Dazda. A priest had taken Josiah because he’d asked to be taken. Forlorn had been given to them for his safety. Salem’s mother had been a whore and lived a life even Igor felt should not be expanded on. Even Barnabas had been saved from an entire community that had wanted him dead. Those were not the evil that men do.

Bart was bought, though, a mind offered. It seemed to want to play devil’s advocate.

What kind of life do we think a person has to be living to be sold? another mind countered.

If we think about it, Fin was sold, too, a third mind thought. At least Seth thought it was a third.

Rather than dwell on the thoughts, he answered Dazda. “They’re not all that bad. Not all families are deserving of their child. Not all children are safe in their families,” he muttered quietly.

“That justifies nothing,” Dazda spat. “No one should go around taking what isn’t theirs.”

There was a passion in his words. An anger. A slight. Seth had a hard time believing it was fake. There had been something raw about it, enough to make him turn and look at the man.

Dazda’s eyes had a heat in them, but they were not here. They stared in his direction but didn’t see him. Wherever the old man was, it wasn’t here. His wrinkled face squeezed more. His cheeks sagged a bit further. His eyes glazed over with the anger of the righteously offended.

It was just after a while before he returned to the shelter from wherever he’d gone.

“Would you like to hear a story?”