Aalis pressed through the crowd as it tried to push her back and down. She bowed her head and put her hands out, forcing her way towards the well. She couldn’t hear anything around her, not the exclamations of rudeness and the sharp rebukes at her presence that went against the flow. There was only the pounding in her brain, the throb as though her mind was trying to explode.

She had to see.

She had to know.

She grasped at the two people in front of her, trying to claw her way forward, the curses at her offensiveness thudding against the overwhelming need to reach beyond…

…when she suddenly fell from the crowd, stumbling to her knees. She put her hand out to the wall of the well and grasped its cold stone, pushing herself up.

Then she saw his face.

The man of Maul.

His black eyes glowered at her, soulless and hard, his mouth in a merciless line and his skin…darker than any tan or biological hue could create…darker than anyone else she had ever seen before…

…except once.

Aalis froze, staring at him, terror binding her legs and arms with unseeable shackles. He was so close, he could reach her if he tried.

“Aalis!” Judd’s arms grabbed her, pulling her back from the well and the shackled man. “What are you doing?”

“Get her away from here.” A guard barked then his eyes narrowed.

Judd sucked air sharply through his teeth and grasped Aalis’ hood, flicking it over her dreadlocks.

“Come away, Aalis. Come on.” She stumbled with him, her legs as wobbly as if she had been at His Lordship’s wine. Judd got her back to the tavern where Verne and Giordi were waiting. “What in Maul were you thinking?” Judd snapped.

“Not now, Judd.” Verne grasped Aalis’ arm, drawing her inside. “We need to get out of sight.”

Aalis looked over her shoulder, the man from Maul staring at her.

And her soul trembled.

She knew his face.

She had seen it before.

In the mangrove swamp, the vision brought on by the toxin of the plant that bit Judd…the vision of a battle fought in vain, the erupting mount of Maul…the death of Judd preceding all of it…

…this man had been there.

“Can I offer you a drink, Caste?” Clariet asked in his private sitting room in the wing of the manor house.

“Thank you.” Caste said, admiring the elegant furnishings, the damask curtains, the dark woods and gold trim. Not even archdeacons of the Order of the Grail lived so well. The officers of the Order tended to live quite plain lives, more interested in expanding their library than investing in luxuries like décor. Bishop Peele alone had finely appointed chambers which was appropriate to his station. After all, he needed to be able to host dinners with his twelve archdeacons and prospective clerical novitiates who were candidates for promotion to deacon. Caste had dined at that very table, a sure sign he was on the fast track to being a deacon.

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His meticulous plans had been somewhat waylaid by Judd’s infernal insistence on pursuing his knighthood but Caste reasoned that, if he was able to help Judd knock off the remaining monsters on his list within six months, Caste would still make youngest cleric promoted to deacon in Order of the Grail history.

Caste looked at Clariet who poured amber liquid into two petite glasses.

“Were you disappointed to be assigned this post?” He asked, taking the glass Clariet offered.

“I confess to a little…bitterness,” Clariet shook his head and smiled, “after all, I had ambitions of succeeding Bishop Peele one day.”

“Doesn’t every deacon, arched or otherwise?” Caste remarked lightly.

“Few are committed enough to the study of the prophecies and tomes or brilliant enough to garner attention,” Clariet gestured to the chairs, each lined with beautifully stitched tapestry covers, “and those that are, face tremendous opposition.”

“Opposition?” Caste sipped his liquor, noting its smooth flavour.

“Well, it’s only natural, isn’t it?” Clariet leaned back in his chair, his legs crossed, cutting a lordly figure. “After all, there can be only one bishop at any point in time and should Peele see a deacon rising faster than his peers, threatening his dream of being the longest serving head of the order…well…”

Caste put the glass down. “You think you were sent here because Bishop Peele saw you as a threat?”

“Oh, I know he did.” Clariet laughed softly. “He knew I had the support of many of the deacons, my work being fresh, not hampered by old traditions and tedious interpretation. He could not avoid my promotion to deacon but he made sure I would be appointed somewhere, publicly as an honour but privately as exile.”

Caste frowned, feeling uncomfortable at the notion that the bishop would have behaved so vainly.

“You speak lightly of it.” He said, trying to shift the awkwardness he felt.

“Well, look around you.” Clariet waved his hand around the room and Caste did. “I live in bishop level comfort, my work is unhindered by nit pickers and naysayers and Lord LeMewn welcomes my counsel.”

“Even regarding trials and judgements?” Caste wondered if his segway into the strangeness of the event in the main square was too obvious.

“I wondered when you would ask.” Clariet tilted his head, his eyes conveying complete understanding, as though Caste’s skull was transparent and he could see what he was thinking. “The man, Suvau he called himself, purported himself as being a weaponsmith of exceptional skill and promised to forge Lord LeMewn a sword of incomparable quality. When he arrived in Quarre, he set up his own stall, taking business away from other blacksmiths, overcharging them and then tried to extort an obscene price from LeMewn for the sword.”

“I do not doubt his culpability, of course,” Caste clasped his hands together, “but a man from Maul…here?”

“Lord LeMewn visited Fort Omra and that is where Suvau met him and promised the sword. In the wall forts, Suvau’s kind are tolerated as a slave class and over time, familiarity breeds so that they ingratiate themselves to the knights and are granted freedoms as though they are on equal standing with us.” Clariet shook his head. “In doing so, Sir Fereak has given permission for the men of Maul to infest our land…” His mouth turned down in disgust.

“The knights of the wall forts are meant to protect us from the savages of the south.” Caste said, sitting up, becoming indignant.

“Knights are not always the brightest and clerics are sometimes pushed to one side.” Clariet rose, a hand behind his back as he walked to the window and stood in the soft light through the lace of the sheer curtains, framed in the dark damask. There was a telescopic viewing device set up on a tripod at the window. Caste knew they cost a small fortune and marvelled again at Clariet’s prosperous placement. “However, I believe there is a time coming where we need not fear the savagery of the south. But it is not through complacency.”

“What is it through?”

Clariet turned to him. “Authority.”

Caste blinked. “I am not sure I understand.”

“You will. Here you will be a witness to history, Cleric Caste.”