Therin’s satisfaction with silencing the annoying little man-like spirit was quickly ruined when the form flickered and further solidified. Cognizant of the warning he had been given about Alira’s safety being directly linked to the spirit’s, he retracted the Light and quelled it within himself. He didn’t trust the spirit but he also didn’t want to find out the hard way that he wasn’t lying. He didn’t want to kill the witch, just take her to Devan, to prove he was capable.

The witch. He castigated himself mentally. She has a name, Therin.

Alira…

What had he done? He had promised to help her and look where that had gotten both of them. He, with a desperation mounting to panic, and Alira in a dire position, her life threatened. He had betrayed her trust, chasing her to some far corner of the world. And he remained in the same position he was in just hours before: with nothing to offer Devan to prove his worth. He had barely been able to contain his infuriated disappointment at her escape, quickly flushing himself with Light to calm the fire.

He checked himself and shook his head. He had the book. Alira had done as she had promised, at least, and given him the book. And Galvyn’s mace, to boot. He wasn’t returning empty-handed but Devan had not wanted the book back. He had wanted Erin’s daughter, the witch that had torn down his greatest Paladin. The High Lord wanted justice.

Therin bent and picked up the spirit’s limp form, surprised by how solid he was. He carried him in his arms and laid him on Alira’s unused bed. His glow brightened as Therin stepped away, as though just being near the Light-infused monk was dangerous. At least he had not been lying about that part.

He cast his gaze around the room and sighed. He had not searched the room for anything after she had escaped, too distraught in the immediate aftermath to think clearly. Now, with his captive bound and silenced, he could process his thoughts better. He rolled his shoulders, easing the tension that played across them.

His eyes landed on the corner of a thick stack of paper bound together with twine that stuck out from under the bed. He knelt and drew out a stack of letters.

The first one was addressed to himself in a slight, feminine hand. Frowning, he turned it over and saw that the seal had never been broken. The next letter in the bundle was addressed to Noran in the same handwriting. That seal had been broken, he saw. He opened that one and greedily read, his heart in his throat.

Noran,

It has been the most incredible week here. I have been given the Inquistor’s rooms as they are the only private rooms here at the monastery. I confess to being quite attached to the space. Perhaps it is fate.

I have tried to write to your brother again but he has ignored my letters. Perhaps you are not passing them along. I hope, for many reasons, that you are doing as I asked.

I will write again soon. I have enclosed a copy of the letter I sent to your brother. If he has not read it yet, please ensure he does so. It is important that his anger about this situation is soothed.

My tenderest affections,

M

With alarm, he quickly opened the enclosed letter, which was not sealed, merely folded into thirds.

Therin,

I can’t begin to tell you how desperate I am to see you again. It’s all I think about in this prison of a monastery. I’m not sure the lies that Devan has given you but I assure you I am being held against my will.

Noran writes to me yet you do not. This breaks my heart, Therin! He says that you are angry still, that you think he is to blame for the misunderstanding between our fathers. Please understand that he is not. He had nothing to do with it. I’m still unsure why the High Lord thinks those terrible things. I promise I am doing all I can here to assure him that he is mistaken, that you are an innocent man. I love you, Therin, with all my soul. Please don’t abandon me.

All my heart,

Mara

Therin could remember being numbed by anger only a few times in his life. The most prominent of those times was when he was facing Mara and Devan, his shirt on the floor, the metal scourge in his hands. His knees barely registered the metal studded discs of cork beneath his weight. Rage had made him numb then and he had been thankful, barely recalling the bite of the four-headed whip as it flayed him again and again.

He kept that rage white hot as he stared at Mara’s heartshaped face, her own feelings unreadable. Her crystal blue eyes were hooded, her pale lashes blinking slowly as she watched him dole out his own punishment for a crime she claimed he had committed. He was forbidden the comfort of the Light, bearing the flagellation with gritted teeth and his own fiery anger. He had been denied the healing succour of the Light afterwards as well, and the healing had been slow without it. The scars still pulled painfully as he moved sometimes.

He rifled through the rest of the letters, of which there were many, and felt that numbness wash over him. The more he read, the more he felt detached. He left the ones addressed to himself unopened but got the gist of them from the letters that she had written to her lackey. The last few were in the witch’s script that he recognized from Noran’s diary. Those had no second letter for him. He trembled, his skin tingling with numbness as he threw the letters, all of them, into the fire.

He braced himself against the mantle, dragging in his breath in heaving gasps. He began reciting his prayers, grasping at the Light to still his rage. A wash of gold across his skin was put out by a fresh wave of blinding heat. He recited again.

“I am a Hammer of Light.” This time, the rush of Light across his skin pushed the numbness away and stayed, the faint glow warming him. Relief flooded him and he breathed in deeply.

In Alira’s bed, the spirit stirred in reaction to his Light, a frown creasing his pale face.

“The Light guides,” he muttered to himself as he saddled the mare Alira had stolen from him. “Right, Sabra?” He rubbed the horse’s neck and sighed as he watched the sun rise between the buildings of Lightholde. He had had a plan, but it had proven to be terrible.

The first part, convincing Alira to join him in seeking out Devan, had failed catastrophically when that meddling spirit had somehow figured out what the letter from the High Lord said. He had the forged one in the same pocket, one that stated that he was to bring back the book. Why couldn’t the spirit have seen that one instead?

“I am a Hammer of Light,” he whispered, and Light flared along his skin. He shook the spirit with a Light coated hand, waking him instantly. The spirit’s eyes popped open, wide and alert. After a second he grinned and the annoyance it caused Therin was so great he had his hand halfway to decking him again before he stopped himself.

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“What’s so funny?” He growled but the spirit merely narrowed his eyes and clenched his jaw.

“Your attempts at being helpful come to mind,” he said and Therin stood, his back to the small man-like being. “But Alira’s still detectable, if that matters to you.”

Therin, securing Galvyn’s mace to Sabra’s haunches, looked over his shoulder at Hrulinar.

“Of course that matters,” he said and the sting of the spirit’s comment washed across him. He deserved it. “I’m not heartless.”

“Just a backstabbing bastard, then.”

Therin closed his eyes, whispering prayers and breathing. The Light had tamed the anger in him once. He had found peace and he could find it again. He was strong.

He had been an angry boy and his father had not known how to tame the rage that flowed like liquid heat sometimes, though he did try. He made the boy help in the smithy, tiring him with physical labour but the hard work and exhaustion did nothing to quiet the fire inside. He got into fights with the neighbourhood boys, usually from them teasing him about his size.

“You’re the size you were meant to be,” his father would tell him in his native language. “All the Dinaaru are taller, bigger. We are built to do powerful things, my son.” Jithan ruffled his son’s golden hair, one of the gifts his willowy mother had given the boy, and handed him a hammer.

“Strike true, Therin, in all that you do. Don’t hold back.”

When Therin applied this advice to the fights he got into, his father struggled to find a way to caveat the wise words.

“Do you remember the meaning of your name?” Jithan had asked him as he wiped blood from his young son’s face. Even though his father was soft-spoken when he used his melodic mother tongue, Therin could tell he was angry by the way he clipped his words. The boy remained silent.

“It comes from theravanna in Dinari. It means strong.” His big hands were roughened by his work but he was gentle as he cleaned the cut on the boy’s face. “And there are many kinds of strength.”

Therin sat and let his father tend to him but offered no reply. Sighing, the blacksmith continued.

“These things the boys say about you, are they true?” Jithan asked as he bandaged the cut on the seven year-old’s eyebrow. “Are you a motherless dog? A demon of fire and anger?”

Therin glared at his father, stoking his anger with silent words inside his mind. Finally, he shook his head.

“No,” he mumbled.

“Then you will ignore them. You’re bigger than these boys. Be bigger and better by being strong enough to ignore them.”

When he had come home clutching his hand the following week, his father had handed him the antiseptic ointment, bandage and warm water. He crossed his massive arms across his chest as he watched the boy clean his knuckles. He didn’t ask what had happened nor did he ask for Therin’s justification. Instead, Jithan had spoken to Therin in Common, his accent thick as he spoke slowly and clearly to his only child.

“I’m very disappointed in you.”

They were the last words that Therin ever heard his father speak.

The next morning, the smithy attached to their house caught fire and spread to the nearby stables. Jithan, busy saving the two horses, was still inside when the roof collapsed, trapping him inside.

When his father died, his death was a fuel for the rage that filled the young boy, but his father’s last words to him rang in his mind each time he lifted a fist. He was mollified by the thought that if Jithan had found his way to Aethra, and was somehow able to see him from her Garden, he’d be further disappointed in his behaviour.

Clenching his fist, Therin looked over his shoulder again.

“Hrulinar,” he began but the princeling hissed at him and stopped him from continuing.

“I gifted you that language as a show of good faith. Have the decency to decline to use it now that you’ve proven what you’re worth.” He stood and winced as his words caused Light to flare up his cuffed arm.

“We are going to the monastery first before we set off.” He swung his leg up and over Sabra, leaning and patting her neck as her skin rippled in anticipation. “Let’s go.” He jerked his head toward the nag he had saddled for Hrulinar, the long lead wound around his hand.

The princeling hesitated but after a beat he shrugged and mounted with ease. Therin saw as he settled himself in the saddle that his clothes had changed. He now wore a light travelling cloak thrown over his back, and his silk shirt was plain white, his pants a soft tan leather. The cuffs of his shirt were long and ruffled, hiding the band of Light on his wrist. In the daylight, he was more solid with less of a green glow to him.

“Lead the way, master,” the spirit said darkly and Therin clicked his tongue, coaxing his mare into a walk. At his back, he could feel Hrulinar’s eyes piercing him.

In a very little time they were reigning up in front of the monastery, the red brick building stolid and plain beside the impressive basilica.

“The stables are around the back,” Therin said unnecessarily as he led them down the side alley. The princeling did not answer so Therin checked over his shoulder.

Hrulinar had his eyes closed, a soft smile on his lips as the breeze lifted a lock of red-gold hair off his forehead.

“Can you communicate with her this far?” Therin asked as he dismounted.

“No,” Hrulinar said, his eyes still closed. “But I can feel her and it soothes me to know she’s still there.”

“Wouldn’t you die if she weren’t still alive?” The monk asked as he dug in his pack for his robe and chainmail. He slung Galvyn’s mace over his shoulder as Hrulinar opened his green eyes and blinked slowly at him.

“Yes, likely. But there are other ways to no longer exist than to die. Her mind remains intact is what I meant.” His tone was subdued and Therin was starting to miss the sharp-witted spirit that had upset him a few hours before.

They entered the monastery through the back door, ending up near the kitchens. He set the mace on the enormous chopping block in the centre of the room. Therin, ever hungry, took a chunk of cheese and bread and ate them quickly, offering some to his captive.

“I don’t eat,” he said and crossed his arms, disgustedly. He leaned against the wall near the door. “I didn’t even like doing it when I had to.” He watched Therin, the way his powerfully muscled arms moved as he ate. He eyed the monk’s profile, his aquiline nose and the shine of the kitchen fire in his golden hair.

“When did you have to eat?” Therin asked with his mouth full.

“Ever the picture of grace and allure,” Hrulinar said but looked thoughtful for a moment before continuing. “When the witches captured me and traded me to Erin’s family, I was a servant, bound in human form. I cooked, cleaned, and did a lot of manual labour. When Erin was nine or ten she asked to keep me with her at the Temple and I remained human. I was a slave there, though.” He did not continue and Therin looked up.

“What was the difference for you? You weren’t able to leave either way.”

“Free will, and the things I was made to do.” The darkness in his voice was deep and pained, and Therin eyed him.

“What kinds of things?”

“The Morinn are very good at enthrallment and subjugation, Therin.” Hrulinar’s voice was nearly a whisper. “As a thrall, I was unable to do anything but what was asked of me. Completely devoid of free will. A skilled witch can use enthrallment on anyone, even subtly.”

Therin met his eye again, his deep sea blue to the spirit’s bright green. He understood the princeling’s meaning.

“I was a stupid child,” Therin said by way of answer and he dusted his shirt off, ending the conversation. He pulled on his robe and chainmail, shaking out his arms to settle the armour.

“Expecting trouble?”

“Something like that,” he said and he jerked his hood up. Therin seemed to take in his own appearance and screwed up his mouth, thinking. He picked up a kitchen towel from the counter.

“Hit me,” he said to the spirit lounging by the door.

“Gladly, but why?” Hrulinar’s grin was half amused, half befuddled.

“I’m not a good liar.” Therin said briefly and the spirit smirked outright.

“You’re really not,” he replied, uncrossing his arms and rolling his lean shoulders. “How hard?”

“Break my nose,” the monk said and he rolled his own shoulders, his breathing quickened, getting himself ready to take the punch. He balled the towel up in preparation. Hrulinar noted that he had dropped all the Light around himself, leaving only the cuff on his own arm. “I’ll heal it a little to look like an older injury.”

Hrulinar did not hesitate. He wound his arm back and popped the monk in the nose, the loud crunch and the spurt of blood the only sound in the large kitchen of the monastery. Therin didn’t make a noise, instead hurriedly pressing the towel to his face and flaring with Light. He held the towel for a second before dropping his hand. He looked at Hrulinar, his eyebrows raised.

“Not bad,” the spirit said with a shrug, impressed.

“It’s how I got away with fighting after joining the monastery,” Therin said thickly, his voice nasal. “Can you still drop your form?”

The spirit held up his cuffed arm and shook his head.

“No, and not this far from Alira. Most of me is stretched out, a thin line binding us together. What is left is what you see.”

“Then wait here.” He handed the spirit the bloodied towel, gesturing to the fire.

“Therin, wait,” Hrulinar touched his arm as the monk made to pass him. “What are you doing?”

He slung the mace over his shoulder and looked at the spirit.

“Fixing a mistake.”