The trek back to Anchor was slower than the trip to Rockfall had been; Thomas truly had been an excellent horse. Madelaine reflected on his rank, but couldn't decide what promotion he truly deserved. Certainly higher than these … slow, lumbering people, with their carts full of useless junk.

There was an odd red mist in the air behind them; she noted it absently. It was – probably bad, but that is why they were leaving, after all. Her attention turned once more forward, considering the hills in front of her. At least they had gotten past the bodies, although she could still hear sobbing from somewhere behind her in their procession. She hadn't liked watching families – children – checking every corpse they came across to see if it belonged to the missing. She especially hadn't liked it when somebody inevitably figured out who it was; it had slowed their already slow procession further, and it reminded her too much of …

She shook her head. Right. Elijah walked beside her, in his strange shadowy not-clothing, which simultaneously hid everything and nothing at all. He was currently occupying himself tossing a metal ring up in the air, and catching it as it fell.

“So did you learn any healing magic?” He looked up, smiling.

“A little. It feels weird and uncomfortable to use, though.”

“Yeah. Making the skeletons feels like math. Crazy math.”

“That's … not inaccurate. I … I think I knew a mathematics like this. Why can't I remember it?”

“No idea.” Madelaine shrugged. “Well, I think it has something to do with gods.” She remembered several conversations about gods, but the memory of the kindly old man's office hurt; when she tried to think about what had been said, it just reminded her that … that the Lady had died.

They walked in a companionable silence. And then there was a sound, from up ahead, and the two of them moved forward, pushing past the much taller people in their way to see what was going on. Well, Madelaine pushed; Elijah seemed to move through people sometimes, as if they weren't there. They broke through the wall of cloth, and she saw that King Mersin was yelling at somebody. And she froze. It was the woman who had nearly killed Thomas. And her gang of thugs. And somebody else started shouting, and there was a strange cracking sound, and then King Mersin swung a fist at the woman.

What the fuck was that woman doing here? The King stumbled backwards without landing a blow, without even being touched, blood spurting from his nose and eyes; and then his fist ended in the air, glittering with light. The woman, a strange light already blazing in her eyes, fell to a knee; the light in her eyes erupted, missing Mersin and had just begun to burn into Madelaine with a shock of pain – but it was gone, before her hands had even finished lifting to feebly try to fend it off. Elijah, who had moved to intercept the blow – turned slowly, his shadowy cloak flickering in and out of existence – and collapsed to the ground. Madelaine looked down at him, and the blood that had started to trickle out of his ear.

The area had gone suddenly quiet; she looked up. Everyone – even the evil woman – was looking at her. No, looking at Elijah. Madelaine, with a surreal sense of calm, knelt, feeling for a pulse – and had just found one when somebody knelt beside her. The woman. Madelaine was reaching for her blade when the woman, who looked – stricken – nodded, and rose, with a pointed look at her sword. Madelaine … reluctantly let go of the blade, and instead pulled Elijah to her, away from the evil woman's grasp.

“He'll live, child. Peace.” The inquisitor – that's what she was, she was an inquisitor – looked to King Mersin. “Peace. We aren't here to fight. We're here to help.”

“There was absolutely no reason for what happened, except that it was permitted to happen. The wardens don't step in until it is already too late, even when they know what is happening, and could stop it. They don't care about anyone, individually.” Madelaine had found herself the subject of a somewhat lopsided conversation by the crazy inquisitor, who had a laundry list of complaints about everybody who wasn't one of her people. She tried not to scowl.

“But … ” Madelaine shot a look, doing her best to hide her burning hostility, at the inquisitor. “You just go around killing people, for no reason.” The inquisitor glanced over at Elijah, carried by two skeletons on a pallet, her expression twisting into a grimace, her voice softening.

“I … am sorry, for hurting your friend.” And then the softness was gone as if it had never been. “And it isn't … always, pointless. Look around. Look at these people, fleeing homes they will never return to, abandoning graves of loved ones they will never be able to visit, even leaving those loved ones …” A subtle hesitation, there, something Madelaine couldn't quite understand creeping into her tones. “ … leaving those loved ones behind, not knowing. Worse, not even knowing whether or not they could have done something more – they left, because they had to leave. There's somebody out in a field right now, loved by somebody here, who doesn't even know they should be leaving, who will come back to a home in ashes in ruin, who will spend their last few days, without even the knowledge that it will be their last few days, in sorrow and confusion and loneliness.” Madelaine searched the severe woman's face for – something. Anything. It remained severe, stony, aloof.

“So, what, that justifies killing people?”

“Sometimes, yes. The Guard is not perfect, and sometimes we even kill the wrong people. That is why we so prioritize getting people like me, who can see the truth of things.” The woman looked at Madelaine, who was trying not to react. Lady Anne. “People like you, if you so choose.”

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“What, me?” Like hell she'd help this woman.

“Yes. I can pierce some minds, see into them, see the truth of things. Psionics, however, aren't the only dedication that can permit one to see the truth. Accursed, like yourself, are also valuable. The domain of my dedication is the mind, and the application of my art are straightforward; the domain of your dedication is chance itself, and you can twist chance. Used correctly – a liar can find herself accidentally confessing to her crimes. An illusionist can conjure the truth where he meant to conjure falsehood. Simple mistakes, simple matters of chance. The highest power of your calling, to twist another's chance so, it is a long road. But well worth it.”

“But you don't like necromancers.” And you killed Lady Anne.

“Child, necromancy is one of a dozen schools of magic, all of which have their ills. Necromancy is not even the worst of them, but it does have the most potential to cause catastrophe. You have made an oath, and I know you intend to keep it, to not cause catastrophe.”

“What, the spells you made me promise not to learn?” Madelaine was finding herself increasingly confused by this conversation. Was the inquisitor actually trying to convert her? After nearly killing Elijah? Maybe she didn't know about Lady Anne. Madelaine wasn't going to tell her, particularly since they had avenged the lady's death on her killers, the inquisitor's minions.

“Yes. Each of those spells has caused a disaster on the order of what is happening here. And though the so-called pantheon could act, to mitigate the threat, they have done so only once; you see, those spells are precious to the Black order of the so-called wardens.” The severe expression wrinkled in disgust. “I'd call them hypocrites, except they don't even care if the magics are used to destroy countless lives; they only care if the planes are threatened.”

“The Black Wardens use necromancy?”

“They are all necromancers or worse, and to a one they have no compunction about the use of magics that might destroy planes; they've destroyed countless planes, just for training. The White Wardens are … better.” A frown, now. “But they're basically just jumped-up merchants with a weak spot for the corrupted, and aren't interested in anything that doesn't threaten the portals.”

“How many orders are there?” She found herself asking almost in spite of herself; almost. She didn't like the woman, but she freely shared information about those she didn't like, which might be useful. They probably didn't like the inquisitor much either.

“Three. The Black Wardens are a contemptible and vicious lot, but do intervene when the worst happens, and do … ” The inquisitor's face twisted up, and she spat out the words, “ … some good, after the worst has happened. They care about the integrity of the planes, and brook no threat to the planes as a whole - but little for the people who have to live with their choices, or the individual planes themselves. The White Wardens guard the portals against political interference and sabotage; they care only for their precious Right of Exit, and will only leave their posts to ensure criminals can escape punishment. But … they at least do work to prevent catastrophe; madmen sometimes get it into their heads that they can ascend to godhood by destroying the anchor of a plane and crashing it into the astral.

“The Silver Wardens are just the pets of the so-called pantheon, deluded fools who want to join them, but just serve them instead. Avoid them, if you can; their motives are always ambiguous, and they are rarely up to anything you or I would consider good. Evil, either, mind; they have, to a one, been to the astral in person, which corrupts their minds and bodies, turned into ideas more than people. It makes them dangerous.”

Madelaine stopped herself short of telling the scary woman that she gave off a vibe of being more of an idea than a person. Don't taunt the crazy lady. “So … Silver Wardens have been resurrected?” The woman gave out a short bark of a laugh, at that.

“No. The so-called pantheon's so-called afterlives do leave slightly more of a person than those things possess. They visit the astral in person, through the gate of First Anchor. What comes back is not what went in, made more outworlder than human being, an expression of a concept.” The inquisitor's eyes unfocused, shifting to stare past Madelaine. “They don't remember their friends, their family. They don't care about living or dying. They act only to further the interests of an abstract concept, and they employ that concept as a weapon without thought to its ramifications.”

“What if it's a good concept, like justice?”

Her eyes focused again, sharp, piercing Madelaine with a sudden intensity. “No concept is good or bad. Any concept pursued too far becomes a bad thing.” Don't taunt the crazy lady. It was all Madelaine could do not to interrupt and point out the hypocrisy. Don't taunt the crazy lady. The inquisitor continued without apparent self-reflection, “And any concept ignored entirely can be a bad thing. Too much mercy, and you punish the innocent, afflicting upon them the guilty. Too little – and you punish the innocent, for even if a man is guilty of theft, he is still innocent of murder. All are guilty, at least a little – and all are innocent, at least a little.”

“Thomas said your people almost killed a thief.” Fuck, damn, don't taunt the crazy lady. But the inquisitor didn't even blink.

“All are guilty, at least a little. I have some tolerance for overzealousness; it is rebuked, but none of us are perfect. To demand perfection of those trying to do the right thing is itself to pursue a concept too far. Moderation is an important virtue.” That would almost be a convincing explanation, if it weren't so transparently self-serving in application; it was fine for them to be 'a little guilty', but not anybody else. Madelaine looked at Elijah, his breathing shallow, blood dry in his ear; the healers from Rockfall had said he'd be fine, but she didn't know them, she knew Elijah. She'd kill this woman if he died. She'd have to get way more powerful, but she'd kill this woman if Elijah died.

And the woman had delivered Madelaine the names of potential allies, if it came to it. If she hated the wardens so much, then perhaps they would do; perhaps the hatred was mutual. But something else she had said; those who entered the astral were corrupted by it. Made more powerful by it. She would be justice itself, if Elijah died.

The conversation died, giving way to an awkward sort of silence, broken by the sound of the cart wheels behind them trundling over grass and twigs. Madelaine let her mind wander, seeking something other than the fury she was struggling to contain, which kept drifting back to the idea of entering the astral, becoming justice, and bringing it down on this woman and her entire organization. After some struggle, she settled on pondering: What was Sir Thomas up to? Probably killing some more of the crazy lady's minions. Good.