After a few hours of slow walking, they finally stumbled into Sothfæder. Quiet and somber voices performed the evening tea ceremony, and the air bore the faint smell of musky herbs and soothing minerals, much like the Cracks, but the tea-making process made the scent even stronger. Still, they weren’t enough to calm Revin’s nerves.

Revin passed the large window of one of the homes. Master Teradith faced him, standing across a table and pouring tea for his family. His eyes met Revin’s, then turned to the limping monk at Revin’s side. Teradith’s eyes widened. He set the kettle down and ran out the door.

“Revin!” Teradith shouted. He stepped off his porch and approached, “What’s going on here, is that serpent back?”

Revin shook his head, breathing hard.

Monks gathered to help, several arriving with a table, others talking in rushed voices, discussing what aid to offer first.

“Carefully,” Revin said. The others took Ismander from his shoulder. “She... has a cut... on her side.”

Revin sucked in a gasp. His body ached. He was used to trekking with a heavy pack and a mastersuit, but not with a person on top of that.

The monks moved with precision, gently laying Ismander on the table. Hirgen, the overseer of the Healing House, cut away the bloody bandages with a practiced hand. She inspected the wound, then nodded. Pulling out another bandage.

Revin could see the gash, it seemed pretty deep. And since Hirgen had removed the bandages, blood oozed down her side, dripping into the ornate carved patterns set into the wood. A trail of blood following the winding swirl of a gust of wind.

The Hiriv monks paid no mind to the blood now staining the work of art. A monk manned each corner and lifted.

“Revin,” Ismander said, her voice hoarse.

“Don’t exert yourself,” Hirgen said kindly.

“I will speak when I must!” Ismander almost shouted, causing several of the monks to jump. She hissed with a sharp intake of breath at the pain. She turned back to Revin. “Revin... I need... to speak to your father… Mindcall him now.”

Revin, hesitating, looked at her in surprise. Mindspeaking was for intimate or sacred occasions. Not to be used on a whim. Something his father told him he should always respect. Revin hadn’t even thought of using it when they were in the Cracks. Not that it would have made a difference, mindspeaking from that distance was difficult.

“Do it now boy!” Ismander’s voice echoed in Revin’s head, “The life of every monk on this island is at stake!”

Revin nodded. The other monks’ bore frowns of concern. He reached out with his mind. It was like speaking to his animals, but one way. The only way you could tell if your message was received was if you got another message back, once you got a message, you could start to get a feel for the other person’s location. He reached out first for his home. No response. He reached out to the Holy House and the upper tower. “Father, are you there?”

After only a moment, he got a response.

“What’s wrong? What’s happened? Are you hurt?”

“A monk named Ismander is here, she was injured by some... monsters. Says she must talk to you. She’s hurt too.”

His father’s next words echoed with urgency in Revin’s mind. “Ismander? I’m coming now.”

Revin told Ismander what his father said. The monks continued heading for the Healing House, walking calmly and patiently. The sun had still not set, though it quickly approached the mountain-peaks, and it cast a discomforting red glow over the scene.

✦✦✦

After only a few minutes Revin’s father rushed down the hill to Ismander’s side. He took Ismander’s bloodied hand into his own and walked beside the table. Ignoring the bloodstains now spreading to the sleeves of his white robe.

“Ismander, what are you doing here?” he said.

“Old friend,” Ismander said slowly, “Still the prophet?”

“Never mind that,” his father snapped, “What happened?”

“Narazoth.” Ismander blinked slowly and her head swayed, she looked exhausted. “He’s back… he’s found a Lord.”

“That can’t be true. He’s supposed to be dead.”

“We failed… Somehow, he has an army of metal beasts.” She blinked. She looked close to sleep or passing out. “He’s… invading the east… Ateya… then he’s coming for you… He wants to try again.”

“You really shouldn’t be talking right now,” Hirgen said, looking firm, “You need sleep.”

She shook her head violently and grasped Revin’s father’s hand tighter, her voice a straining whisper. “Alrin! There will be no stopping him this time, he’s found powers we’ve never seen… Flying machines… and metal men…”

With that, her grip loosened, and she fell back, falling unconscious, her head hitting the table with a painful thud.

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Revin rushed forward. “Is she alright?”

“She’ll be fine,” Hirgen said. “She looks like she hasn’t slept in days.”

Hirgen gave Revin’s father a knowing look, and his father bore a deep frown of concern. He turned to Revin.

“We will take care of Ismander, go finish your evening ceremony.”

Revin couldn’t stop thinking about everything Ismander said. Flying machines? A monk who controls those metal men? He looked at his father. “Who’s Narazoth?”

“He’s nothing for you to worry about,” his father snapped, “now go!”

Revin nodded uncomfortably and turned around, heading back to his family’s home. Blackfire nuzzled up to his hand, checking on his well-being.

Revin glanced back.

And for the first time in Revin’s life, his father looked terrified.

Revin almost tripped as he stepped into his parents’ home. He removed his coat and hung it on a hook by the door. He missed and it fell to the floor.

He left it.

He made his way down the hallway, the orange-yellow lamps illuminating his path, his boots thudding loudly. He looked down at them. They were encrusted with mud and blood.

The blood brought images of the giant bleeding lizard and the cut in Ismander’s side. He’d seen Blackfire hunt game, seen Blackfire eat. But those metal men had felt… different…

They killed just to kill. This was death for death’s sake.

He cursed quietly and removed his mud and blood-encrusted boots, stepping back to the door and setting them on the shelf. He looked at the polished cherry wood boards on the floor, carved with waves to evoke a graceful wind or flowing water, rushing ever-forward, occasionally spinning in on itself. Now covered in filth. He had to get his ceremony done before he lost his connection to Blackfire again. He’d left Blackfire in his usual place outside.

He also realized he’d left the door open and looked out. Blackfire sat on the porch, eyeing Revin with concern.

“It’s fine,” Revin said. Trying to send the wolf a wave of calm. But he had none to give.

He gave Blackfire an apologetic smile and closed the door. He made his way back down the main hallway, avoiding the dirt and blood.

So much blood…

Revin physically shook his head.

He walked in a half-daze into the family room. The dining table was long, made of a sturdier wood than the halls. To the front was a tall and wide window, its stained-glass panes hanging open despite the chill in the air. He closed them until only a crack let in the cool, whistling breeze. He went to the family tea chest and paused. Metal men, giant lizards…

He leaned against the table. Spears piercing flesh. Glowing turquoise eyes.

The Hiriv had some of the most intricate clocks in the world, if the scholars were to be believed. But those metal… things… they were something else. How does one create such things? How does one control them?

With another shake of his head, he urged himself forward. Judging by the color of the light outside he was running out of time. In a practiced motion, he opened the chest. He set a palm-sized oil-burning stove on the table. He took a cup to the kitchen, cranking the pump at the sink. Water flowed out.

Like blood… Revin thought. So much blood...

He placed the water-filled cup on the stove.

Narazoth… Ismander had implied Narazoth was a monk. His father had reacted with fear and disbelief. What would make his father so scared of another monk?

With some oil, flint, and tinder, he lit the miniature stove. Flames licked the bottom of the metal plate, heating the cup and water.

Ismander said something about a place… what was it? He stared at the cup of water, waiting for it to bubble. Just hot enough to drink.

Ateya… Narazoth is going to invade it…

He opened the lidded dish and used a small metal spoon to get a single scoop of the mixture of ground herbs and a pinch of the dark mineral from the Cracks. He then stirred the hot water and mixture together.

He knelt on his knees to perform the official ceremony, trying to silence the million questions in his mind. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“Oh, Father God, bless this evening tea that it may clear my mind to understand your will, that it will purify my heart to desire your will, and bless this night that it may strengthen my body to do your will, and that I may have faith to grant me peace in trials.”

He opened his eyes and sipped his tea. A person stood to the side of the room. He jerked in surprise, spilling a few drops of hot tea onto his hand. Revin steeled himself against the pain, stiffening his hand to not spill any more. “Hello mother,” Revin said, trying to force a smile.

Revin took another sip and a pain in his side made him wince.

“What’s wrong?” She sat on the floor next to Revin, her brow furrowed in concern.

“Just that bruised rib from the serpent.”

“I saw your boots, and the mess in the hall.”

Revin frowned. “I was meaning to get to that.”

“What happened?”

Revin set down his teacup and took a deep breath. He told her just enough to get the main events across. He left out the gorier details, and especially left out almost getting speared off a cliff. He still felt a bit, numb from the experience. His mother’s eyes widened further at each development in the tale, and her look turned shocked at the mention of Narazoth.

“Who is he?” Revin said.

His mother looked down at the miniature stove and moved her hands forward to clean up.

“What did your father say about him?” she said as she picked up the items, blowing out the flames.

“He said it was nothing for me to worry about.”

“Well,” she said, placing the mixing stick, the measuring spoon, and the tea mixture back into its box, “your father is wise. There are things you don’t need to know, even if you want to.”

“You know something,” Revin said, picking up his tea. It was cold after all his storytelling. He downed it all the same.

“If your father wanted you to know he would have told you. I won't go behind his back.”

“Ismander said Narazoth was going to invade with an army of metal men. Mother, I saw them, they’re huge, they’re cruel. And the monks, they’re just out in their fields, they don’t have a clue! The world around them could be on fire and they’d just sit around and sip their tea. They’ll do nothing until some invader stands on their doorstep with a sword in their hands.”

His mother took his teacup without a word and stood, rinsing it off in the sink. She set the cup to the side and grabbed the sink, taking a deep breath, as if trying to steel herself.

“Your father is the prophet,” she said, turning to him, “he will know what to do.”

“He isn’t infallible.”

“When he speaks the will of Father God, he is,” his mother snapped.

“How do we know when he’s speaking the will of Father God?” Revin said.

“When he says so,” his mother said firmly, “I can understand speaking against your father’s opinion, but when the prophet says he is speaking the will of Father God, we listen.”

“And if he says that Father God is telling him to sit around and do nothing?”

She gave him a steady gaze. “Then. We. Obey. Father God does not see fit to tell us all things.”

Revin shook his head. “And the Hiriv monks are passive again! What a surprise.”

His mother’s gaze didn’t waver. Revin let out a quiet huff.

“Once you’ve changed, I need your help with the wash. The longer we wait the more scrubbings your robes will need.”

Revin nodded and followed her out to the back. He wondered what his father, or Father God, would decide they should do.