His plan was tenuous, at best. It hinged very heavily on Devan not asking him too many questions. His boots echoed in the hall as he made his way toward the High Lord’s quarters in the monastery. The bare stone hall wasn’t even carpeted, an indulgence the High Lord rejected. The monks on duty steered clear of him, his two black eyes evidence that he had endured something traumatic, a hint of his dangerous aura seeping through the shine of Light he flushed himself with.

He knocked on the High Lord’s door, the hammer and book seal picked out in gold on the dark wood. He fidgeted as he waited, his chainmail ringing as he put his weight first on one foot then the other. After only a minute, the door opened and Therin was staring into Devan’s shocked face.

It was worth it, he decided as he stood there, the mace over his shoulder heroically, his nose broken and his two eyes blackened. Letting the spirit hit him had paid off, he knew. The High Lord could not hide his expression quick enough and the young monk saw the surprised pleasure quickly replaced with calm curiosity.

“Therin?” Devan finally said and held the door open for him. As he passed the High Lord, the monk was pleased to hear the quiet gasp that he let out when he recognized the mace he carried.

“High Lord,” Therin said, dropping to one knee and holding out the mace. “I bring you Galvyn’s hammer. And,” he set the weapon at Devan’s feet and pulled the book, wrapped in cloth, out from under his robes. “The stolen book.” He bowed his head and waited. After a brief silence he lifted his head to see the High Lord’s expression. He was disappointed to not see a hint of pride or surprise. Instead, the older man’s brow was furrowed.

“And the witch?” Devan did not take the book from his hands.

Therin silently recited a prayer, his mind flaring with heat. He recited another and the heat cooled, his anger fading.

“She is next, sir.” He stood and bowed once before putting his hands behind his back, at ease. The book was still clutched in his fingers, the cloth damp from his sweaty hands. “She is…wounded. And I can track her.”

“How did she escape?”

Shit.

“She has many powers, sir. And she’s very smart.” The High Lord pursed his lips and his frown deepened.

“Quite,” he agreed and strode past the monk, leading him into a small sitting area. The mace remained on the floor.

The small room was divided into two, one half a sparse sitting room with a plain wooden tea table and two long, bare bench seats. The floor was bare. There was nothing comforting in the sitting arrangement. The other half of the room was taken up by a huge, plain wooden desk and chair. The desktop was empty save a large black quill, ink, and stack of blank pages, slightly longer than a standard sheet of paper, each stamped with the watermark of the High Lord.

Behind the desk was an ornate cage that housed the High Lord’s gilded mace and the giant Book of Heroes. Most of the room was illuminated by the glow from the two treasures.

Hope was blooming inside Therin, his heart thudding painfully as he held himself in check. Devan was the High Lord and his goals were aligned with Therin’s in this case. He would listen to the monk.

“I believe this will qualify–”

“I told you what I will accept to earn your mace, Therin.” His tone was not the High Lord’s but the impatient father, the man who had said time and time again what was expected only to be disappointed each time. The monk heard the change in tone and baulked, clenching his jaw to stop from saying something he would regret.

“Sir,” Therin said breathing in through his broken nose. It whistled annoyingly but he ignored it, calming himself and ploughing forward with his plan. “I have other news.”

The High Lord sat and poured himself some tea and held the teapot out, offering some to Therin. He shook his head and continued forward, walking past the High Lord to deposit the cloth wrapped book onto the large desk.

As he reached his hand out and set the bundle down, the large dark quill glowed a faint purple, reminiscent of Alira’s daggers. Glancing once over his shoulder to ensure that Devan was still busy making himself tea, he grabbed the quill and tucked it down the front of his robes where the sharp nib dug painfully into his skin. Ignoring the sting, he turned, his face determined.

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“Mara–”

“High Inquisitor,” corrected the High Lord and Therin struggled to contain himself as he moved to stand before Devan.

“Yes, sir. She and Noran–” Devan put his teacup down loudly.

“Not this again, Therin.”

“Sir, please, listen. I know what happened the night the Witch stole this book.” He gestured with the beaten up tome. “Orin told me.”

Devan’s expression only darkened.

“He had no right to do that.” Alarms rang in Therin’s head and he scrambled to contain the situation. Images of the aged man being arrested, his thin wrists manacled, flashed in his mind.

“He’s old, sir, and unwell. He…confessed, thinking himself…dying,” he stammered and he cursed his panic when he lied. He let the Light soothe him and continued. “And he told me things you are unaware of.”

The High Lord crossed one leg over his knee and gestured to the monk to be seated across from him. The high backed sofas were spartan and meant for practicality, not comfort. Therin adjusted his bulk on the bench-like seat and cleared his throat. He took a deep breath, steadying himself.

“High Inquisitor Mara has betrayed us. She is a witch.” The words were still ringing in his ears as Deven replied.

“And you got this information from?”

“Orin, sir.”

“From the infirm, old man that thinks he’s dying?” Devan picked up his cup and looked at Therin over the top of it, steam curling into his thick black eyebrows. He blew on the cup and sipped, his eyes never leaving Therin’s.

“I see what you mean, sir, but I trust his memory.”

“And I do not.”

“Sir,” Therin said and his patience slipped enough to make the word strained. He breathed and blinked, then tried again. “Sir, Orin’s story is compelling. He was there the night that Galvyn and Erin–”

The flare of anger in Devan’s eyes made Therin stop.

“And I bound him to silence, Therin. For life. So unless he is dead…” he let the sentence hang, unfinished.

“He is not, sir.” Therin’s voice shook.

“Then either he is senile, and doesn’t know what he’s talking about or…” He sipped from his tea. “He needs to be brought in for questioning.”

The two men sat in silence for a long while. The elder of the two sipped his tea politely while the younger stared at him, his mouth agape, his eyes fiery. His plans were unravelling before him once again, his foresight always too short to make things work.

“Sir, Orin has information that incriminates Mara. He witnessed her Black Baptism.” His words were strained, the hold he had on himself a thin thread. He recited a prayer and let the Light’s heat cleanse his mind again.

“It sounds to me that he either should have come forward with this sooner or he should have kept his mouth shut. I doubt that neither you nor your uncle understand the intricacies of this particular situation.”

The words were harsh, spit in an angered tone and Therin clenched his fists in his lap, the Light inside him fading in the wake of the wave of anger. Before he could stop himself, he shot to his feet. His chainmail tinkled softly as he moved. He breathed deeply, calling on the Light to soothe him.

“Devan,” he began and he was trembling with the effort it took to keep his anger reigned in. “You are making a grave mistake. Mara is a threat. Why do you think it was so easy to plant Noran? Because Mara was his mistress. He isn’t pretending to be our mole, he is protecting the witch who gave him his power!”

The High Lord replaced his cup, quietly this time, and stood slowly. He was not as tall as Therin but his presence was commanding. Light filled him, seeming to make him bigger and grander than he was. His black eyes flashed and the younger man was reminded that this man had grown up with his real father in the West.

“Father,” Therin said in Dinari. “Please, listen to me.” Devan’s expression did not change as he listened to Therin’s perfectly accented words. He made no sign that he even understood his mother tongue. The two men, though they shared this other language, had never spoken in anything other than Common together.

“This personal vendetta against the High Inquisitor and your brother ends today, Therin. There’s a small monastery south of here. I should have done this sooner. I am assigning you to a new monastery to complete your training. Effective immediately.” He watched the monk for any sign of reaction and as Therin merely stood there, he continued.

“I’ll draw up the orders and you can leave today.”

Therin did not hear the words, not at first. They echoed bizarrely in his head, leaving trails of heat and smoke as they were absorbed, processed, understood.

“You can’t just send me away again because you don’t want to deal with me!” Therin shouted in Dinari. “You can’t just ignore me!”

Devan, who had always done just that, continued the trend and sighed. He turned from his adopted son to make his way to this desk on the other side of the room but Therin’s hand shot out, grabbing him by the arm. The High Lord froze, his eyes on the large fist around his upper arm.

“That won’t be necessary,” Therin whispered in Common. His rage had numbed him. His face was devoid of anything but black thunder. “I’m resigning my position in the monastery.” He did not let go of Devan’s arm, instead squeezing it to emphasise his words. “I’m done trying to please you.”

“This is a mistake you will regret,” Devan said darkly, his thick brows low over his eyes.

“Add it to the list,” Therin said in reply and he shook the High Lord’s arm out of his grasp and left, pausing only to pick up the mace that had been left by the door.