Geoffrey woke to the sight of gray dawn. Its gentle veil trailed through the window’s diagonal mullion grid. He was glad to have been awoken by the blessed Sun, though it was hardly a miracle. He’d left his curtains open the night before, for Harmon had asked to be woken early, and hadn’t wanted to impose on the servants.

“Their work is demanding enough as it is,” he’d said. “They deserve their rest.”

Geoffrey rose from his bed still wearing his nightclothes. He could have called his clothes-servant with one of the bells hanging on the rack on the wall, but he chose not to, out of respect for Harmon’s wishes.

Athelmarch Castle was a place of wood and stone, wrapped in cracked, fading plaster even grayer than the fog on the surrounding marshes and moors. Its prickly gardens were often barren, with the flowers bringing their colors far less than Geoffrey would have liked. His home’s angular, merloned towers were stained by water and mold and augur-birds’ feculence. The stone had to wait for the rains to wash them clean. Yet, even then, they seemed to weep.

Geoffrey put on the simple slippers on the floor by his bedside. The gnarled, splintered edges of the hardwood floor made it unsafe to walk the halls barefoot. Leaving his room, Geoffrey quickly walked the short distance to Harmon’s room down the hall.

Even as a child, Harmon had always had a bad habit of sleeping in. It was one of his few faults, and he hated when Geoffrey reminded him of it.

“I’m just as troubled as any other man,” he’d say. “I suppose I simply do a better job of hiding it.” And then Harmon would flash his enigmatic smile.

Within the memory, Geoffrey thought back to an earlier horror—a memory’s memory. I let the remembrance percolate into the castle’s drafty halls. The walls melted away. Varnished wood flooring became a gravel-paved town square, peppered with feathers and weeds and little chunks of dung. Geoffrey’s clothes changed; in an instant, he sported riding boots and a dark blue doublet with green breeches on white hose, with the wide-brimmed hat traditionally worn by southwestern Trenton nobility.

In this memory within the memory, Geoffrey rode his horse down Main Street, accompanied by his two retainers. He wished it would have been mere business, but the situation was dire. Geoffrey followed the lead of a young lad riding a white mare. The boy was one of Harmon’s seminary students, in training to become a clergyman. Unlike most of his classmates, the boy was a farmer’s child, so he knew his way with animals.

That’s why he’d borrowed the mare to ride to Castle Athelmarch.

The boy pointed down a dusty intersection. “It’s this way, sir.”

Seasweep was a large fief, and Geoffrey was only familiar with its capital. This town—Sacred Hill—was one of several communes located a mere three-quarter-day’s ride from Seasweep proper.

The four horsemen rode into the town square as quickly as safety allowed. Geoffrey’s short cloak billowed behind him as he rode.

The Sun hung high overhead. It reigned supreme, unchallenged by cloud or storm, having long since boiled away the morning’s fog. Pitched rooftops bowed before the hot Sun, hatted in thatch, ceramic, wood. A small platform stood at the center of the square, built up from rectangular slabs of smoothly cut stone. The town well sat off to the side, unused. Except for a few bystanders huddled in the corners and the hung-over drunks lingering outside the tavern, the square was hauntingly empty.

It was easy to see why.

Five souls—four men and a woman—were crucified at the center of the square. Geoffrey could picture it in his mind: a group of Mewnee samurai, clad in layered armor as dark as bile, marching through the streets in the dead of night, unloading a wagon of prisoners and stringing them up on the makeshift stockades. They’d stand guard for hours, sometimes days, killing anyone who dared approach. Even the tenderest mercies were denied. No food. No water. Not even a comforting touch. Only the samurai themselves and whatever officials had ordained the punishment knew how long they’d be stationed there.

The seminary boy—Ash was his name—had ridden for Castle Athelmarch as soon as the prisoners had arrived the night before, because his teacher was among the condemned.

Geoffrey yelled in shock as he rode into the square.

“By the Godhead! Harmon!”

Geoffrey’s breath caught in his throat.

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By a minor miracle, the samurai had only recently left. But, even so, the townsfolk had been understandably reluctant to come and help the prisoners.

You could never know if a Mewnee spy was watching, nor would it have been the first time the local magistrate chose to crack down on dissent by luring out rebel sympathizers.

After all, anyone could be a sympathizer. Even a child, crying at their dead mother’s dangling feet.

“Lindon, watch the horses,” Geoffrey said. He left the animals in his retainer’s care as he the others dismounted.

He could smell death’s grip on the prisoners. Blood and bruises; shit and pus.

Geoffrey tried using his sword to hack away at the base of the crucifix, but it had little effect. Clenching his gauntleted fists, he turned to the townsfolk cowering in the distance. “For Angel’s sake,” he yelled, “help me! And if not for me, do it for my brother. Help him! He’s more than just another Athelmarch! He’s a man of God!”

A cooper and a wainwright took pity and offered their aid.

They chopped down the crucifixes. The four men—Harmon included—survived; the woman, sadly, was already dead.

Geoffrey wrapped his arms around his brother’s beaten body as he and the cooper lifted him off the downed post.

Harmon’s slender, elegant face was little better than a bruised blackberry. His hair was singed in places. Burn marks weltered on his skin, which was exposed to the elements, covered by nothing but a pair of tattered breeches.

The wainwright shook his head. “I hear he was tortured by Nighttouched Sakuragi himself. Rumor has it someone heard one of the samurais talking about it last night.”

Yuta looked on in disgust. “I hated the cruelty of these punishments,” Yuta said. “I always forbade crucifixions on my land.”

“How courteous of you!” Geoffrey said, oozing venom.

“There are monsters in this world, Lord Athelmarch,” Yuta replied. “I did all that I could not to become one. I wish I could say the same of you.”

The scene dissolved as the Geoffrey of these memories turned his thoughts back to home. It had been over a year since they’d pulled Harmon down from the crucifix, yet the horrors of that moment were still as raw in Geoffrey’s mind as the day it had happened. It had taken months for Harmon to recover, and even then, he never returned to who he’d been before. He was… diminished, as if part of his soul had boiled away, lost to the aether.

But Harmon persevered. He always persevered. He’d left to go on pilgrimage to Elpeck, journeying with lay worshippers. Yesterday, the group had passed through Seasweep, and Harmon had stopped by at the castle for a visit. The plan was to follow the Trade Road north, passing many holy sites from the era of the Righteous Five, and reach Elpeck in time for the Summer Solstice.

Geoffrey had never been to the capital. It was dangerous for any noble to make the journey, least of all an Athelmarch. With Sakuragi’s generals tied up in the east in a stalemate against Trueshore’s ferocious fighters, the Holy City had become the focal point of the rebellion. Knowing the rebels were desperate to re-establish ties with Trueshore, the Mewnee patrols did not hesitate to cut down anyone suspected of aiding that cause. Near forts and other checkpoints, the roads were lined with crucified suspects. Crows feasted on the bodies piled at the bases of the stakes, the corpses of anyone foolish enough to try to offer aid to the condemned. The sheer horror of it all deterred travelers more thoroughly than any military blockade.

Yet Harmon would brave that, for the sake of the faith.

Geoffrey wished he could be as strong as his younger brother. But he didn’t have Harmon’s optimism.

Geoffrey knocked on the door as he arrived at Harmon’s room.

“Harmon?” he said.

But there was no response.

Then again, that’s why he asked me to wake him in the first place, Geoffrey thought.

He stepped inside.

Harmon’s room was as simple as ever. Even as a child, he’d shunned the use of servants or bed hangings. “Scripture, flute, and a flower are all I need,” he’d like to say.

Yet Geoffrey’s brother was nowhere to be found.

When Geoffrey had gone to bed the night before, he’d heard Harmon’s prayers echo from the castle library. He liked to read the Testaments by candlelight.

Did he not go to sleep? Geoffrey wondered. Or did he wake up on time for once?

He decided to head for the library, to see for himself. Harmon might have fallen asleep among the books.

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Geoffrey muttered, grinning wryly.

Feeling a bit peckish, Geoffrey stopped by the kitchen first. It was on the way to the library, and the cook and scullery maids always woke early. If they’d seen Harmon, they could tell him.

For whatever reason, Geoffrey hadn’t slept well last night. If, by some miracle, Harmon had left without saying goodbye, a bit of bread in his belly would help Geoffrey catch up on his missing sleep.

“Don’t go,” Geoffrey said, in the now.

More memories bubbled up to the surface. The emptiness of Harmon’s room pulled Memory Geoffrey back to the dark days of his brother’s recovery.

In a moment, we were back in Harmon’s room, but this time, the bed wasn’t empty.

It had to be several days after the crucifixion. The swelling on Harmon’s face had diminished to the point that he could see and talk again. The servants had been washing him methodically: cleaning his wounds, trimming his overgrown beard, and cutting away the burnt sections of his dark blonde hair.

Harmon lay on his back, his head propped up by a pillow. Geoffrey felt the full weight of his brother’s wide, hazel-eyed gaze.

And then he yelled. “Why are you here?!”

Both brothers’ features contracted; Harmon’s in anger, Geoffrey’s in shock.

Why is he angry?

“I think my brother had to persevere,” Geoffrey said, in the now. “Next to the Mewnees, Harmon was his own worst enemy. He’d give alms to the poor even if he’d be beaten or mugged. He hesitated when he should have been decisive. He denied himself for the sake of others, despite his frailties. He kept secrets and let them fester.”

He turned away, unable to watch his brother’s suffering.

Harmon groaned in pain; his own yell had been too much for him. He coughed and groaned.

I noticed Harmon’s arm twitch. At first, I thought it was just fidgets, but, as I watched, I began to suspect it was something… more.