Therin rowed in silence following his reassurance and Alira felt the bone-deep weariness of exhaustion draining her energy. Some time later, Alira having dozed off somehow, she woke to the small boat bumping and scraping on a pebbled shore.

“Alira,” whispered the weary monk. “Wake up, we need to move.”

“Where are we?” She stood, shouldering her bag and leapt to the shore, gravel crunching beneath her boots. She stretched and yawned, her muscles and bones creaking.

“Just outside of Lightholde. I’m going to scuttle the boat, watch out.” He lifted an oar and slammed it loudly into the bottom of the boat. Only then did Alira realise how poorly maintained the craft was. She was thankful she had not noticed while they were out in the black water of the bay. Having managed to put a hole in the boat, Therin pushed it away from the shore, wading out with it to chest deep water. With a gurgle, the boat took on the sea and dipped below the blackness. He sloshed back to her, shaking the icy sea from him and reached for her hand.

“Let’s go.” He led them off on the road out of Lightholde, the city asleep behind them.

“Where are we going?” Alira asked after a short time walking hand in hand with Therin. She pulled her hand free and made a pretence of adjusting her pack and then tucked her hands into her arms, wrapping herself in her cloak.

“Just outside of Lightholde is Devan’s manse. I spent summers there, riding horses and learning to fence. I’m hoping he’ll have come back from his meeting with the Primate. If not,” he said, slowing to allow her to catch up to him. “Well, let’s see how good of a horse thief I am.”

“You’d steal your father’s horses?”

“Devan’s horses, yes.”

“You don’t think of him as your father.” Her words weren’t a question and Therin merely shook his head in agreement.

“I remember my father,” he said quietly. “He was a blacksmith in Lightholde. He died when I was seven.”

“And…” Alira stopped herself. Asking about his mother seemed incredibly personal.

“My mother died in childbirth when I was five. I would have had a little sister if they’d survived.” He flexed his hands at his sides and Alira felt his restless fidgeting.

It was nearly dawn before they were at the drive leading to Devan’s private home. The gravel drive was long and winding, flanked by silver-barked trees on either side. Their leaves whispered as the sea breeze blew through them and Alira closed her eyes to hear the familiar rushing talk of the trees.

No lights were on in the manse save for one small wing which Therin indicated was the living quarters of the servants. Instead of going to the front door, which Alira was heading for, he steered her to the right and behind the manse, through a tall black wrought iron gate. It squealed in protest when he opened it. He closed it carefully behind them, latching it securely. He trotted quickly to the small dark brown door and knocked once. They waited, hearing some kind of slight movement behind the door before it opened a crack.

“Yes?” a lilting, country feminine voice asked hesitantly.

“Sally,” Therin said and grinned widely. “It’s–”

“Master Therin!” The round-cheeked young woman threw the door open wide, grinning back at him. “‘Tis such a surprise!” She nearly threw her arms around his neck but noticed the thin shivering figure behind him and checked herself. She did a quick curtsy and batted her eyes at the tall man before politely raising her eyebrows at Alira.

“This is my friend, Alira. Alira, Sally. She’s De–my father’s housemaid.”

“Come in, come in,” Sally swished away, her white apron crisp, her matching bonnet covering thick, coppery curls. The door had opened to a small foyer and cloak room and through a second door was the kitchen, warm, dim and smokey. Bacon, coffee, and bread made Alira’s stomach growl hungrily.

“What happened to your face?” Sally said as she turned toward them. “How horrid.” She reached a hand up to touch the wound and Therin caught her hand and ducked his head away, cooling the stinging rejection with a grin.

“You know me,” he said evasively. Sally grinned back and nodded.

“Indeed,” she agreed.

“Is my father home?” Therin asked as he took his pack off and made himself at home by pouring a mug of coffee from the large coffee urn. He handed a second cup to Alira and tore hungrily into a full loaf of bread.

“Therin!” Sally squealed, yanking the bread out of his hands. “No, he’s not.” She turned her back to him. As soon as her back was turned, he nimbly stole two huge slabs of bacon, stuffing one his mouth and offering one to Alira who ate hers with scarcely less gusto. Sally deftly sliced two thick slices from the end of the loaf he had assaulted, buttered them and handed them to him.

“Cheers,” he said, sandwiching the slices together and taking a huge bite. Sally rolled her eyes and sliced a third piece of bread for Alira who thanked her, blushing.

“He should be back by midday today, mayhaps the evening.” The maid’s pretty green eyes sparkled in the kitchen firelight and Alira noticed she had pretty dimples and very straight, white teeth.

“Too bad,” Therin said with little regret. “Well, I’ll just kip in the stables for a few hours and be on my way.”

“Nonsense, Master Therin. Your room is always ready for you.” Therin stilled at the door, a look of sad regret washing over him which he quickly wiped away before turning back to Sally.

“Oh, that’s–” he began but Sally had already pulled a long tasselled cord and a silvery tinkle sounded.

“I’ll just let Mrs. Jones know that you’re here. I suppose I’ll be making more breakfast,” she glared at the largely depleted bacon and the half loaf of bread.

“Thank you, Sally,” Therin said and ducked out the kitchen, beckoning Alira to follow.

“Thank you,” Alira muttered shyly as she let Therin lead her away.

They met the formidable Mrs. Jones on the way, her ample bosom heaving as she tried not to trip over her skirts while she briskly descended the wide, carpeted stairs.

“Master Therin!” The shock on her face told Alira that Therin did not venture to his childhood summer home often. “We were not expecting you.” She curtsied awkwardly on the stairs but Therin caught her in a quick embrace, beaming at her.

“Lovely to see you. Beloved Mrs. Jones.” He kissed her cheek and kept his arm around her shoulder as he steered her back up the stairs.

“You brought someone.” She glanced back and blinked. “A girl.”

“Alira, Mrs Jones.” Therin nodded politely and rolled his eyes when he caught Alira looking at him.

“Nice to meet you, I’m sure,” Mrs. Jones said as they all stopped at the landing of the stairs. “Master Therin, what are you doing at home? Was Lord Devan expecting you?”

Therin had the wherewithal to look a little abashed.

“Err, no actually. I’m quite sure this visit will be a surprise. In fact,” He caught her hand in his and kissed the back of it. “If you didn’t mention I was here, that’d be ok.”

Clucking her tongue like a peeved mother hen, she slipped her hand from his and waggled a finger at him.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

“You behave,”

“Mrs. Jones,” Therin said, putting a hand to his chest. “I am always behaving.”

“Behaving badly, perhaps,” the older lady grumbled as she straightened her cap, and brushed out her skirts. She swished past him and led the way to his room.

“I won’t be staying long, Mrs. Jones.” Alira felt it was a conscious choice to not include her in the mention of his plans, as though the quick-witted housekeeper might forget that an entire other human drifted behind them.

“And your friend?”

“Likewise,” Therin assured her. “We’ve had a day and just need a rest.”

“Hmm,” the housekeeper said, looking him up and down. “And clothes.”

“They would not go amiss,” he admitted and smiled at her. “I missed you.”

The stout woman scoffed and shook her grey-haired head.

“Then you’d have come home to visit more, wouldn’t you?” With no reply ready, Therin merely accepted her chastisement and bowed his head in assent.

“Here we are then,” Mrs. Jones said as she unlocked two tall white double doors and pushed them open. “I’ll open another room for–” she turned to lead Alira away but Therin stopped her.

“Actually, she’ll just stay with me.” He gave the elderly lady an innocent, open expression, daring her to ask questions.

“It’s like that,” Mrs. Jones said and pursed her lips tightly. She looked like an angry toad and Alira smiled shyly.

“It’s really not,” Alira argued.

“It could be, I suppose.” Therin said and Alira glared at him. “But, no, it isn’t like that.” He said, quickly changing his expression to one of mock sternness. “Thank you, Mrs. Jones. Good day.” He pulled Alira into his bedroom and shut and locked the door behind her.

Inside the childhood bedroom of Therin, Alira was surprised to see that it wasn’t just a bland, depersonalised space. Along one wall was a large display cabinet filled with figures and other bric-a-brac. The bed, a huge four poster, was dressed in navy silk, the tall windows in a gauzy fabric of a similar shade. A wooden workbench was along one wall, tools neatly displayed above it. Glancing between the tools and the figures, Alira realised Therin was a woodcarver.

With wonder, she wandered to the display case and peered at his work. Displayed with unmistakable pride were small figures of decent quality: horses, cows, chickens, and sheep being the most plentiful. But further down the shelving, clearly projects he had done later with more skilled hands, were palm-sized replicas of buildings. There was a barn, several different kinds of cottages, and Alira gasped to recognize the Basilica Academia.

Therin stood beside her, his arms crossed as he looked at his work.

“Well?” He fished.

“They’re amazing,” she admitted. “How long did these take you?” She indicated the intricate buildings.

“The basilica took me about nine months. I had to restart it a few times.”

“I thought you were only here in the summers?”

“I did the buildings while at school in Lightholde.” He uncrossed his arms and strode to the wardrobe, throwing open its doors. “It was either work on my woodworking or make friends, and I wasn’t in the mood for people as a teenager.” Something dark had coloured his words and Alira felt angry sadness from him.

She heard the ringing of him removing his mail shirt and the rustle of fabric.

“Have you done anything like this lately?” She turned to face him and yelped before turning back to face his glass-fronted cabinet. He had taken off his damp shirt and trousers and had not had on any underclothes. He let out a low chuckle. She heard the soft swish of thick linen and the clink of a belt buckle.

“I’m decent again,” he said quietly. “And no. I don’t carve anymore. That’s child’s play and I have a career now.”

“But surely, in your free time…?” she prodded as she set her pack down near the display case.

“In my free time, I read or spar or drink. I don’t have free time, Alira.” She fell silent and he pulled on a fine quality white shirt, the sleeves long and cuffed in lace. He left the top unlaced as he shrugged into a green brocade vest, which he left unbuttoned. There were golden leaves and flowers down the front panels of the vest and Alira smiled.

“Shut up,” he scowled. “I was raised by a Lord. I have nothing else.”

“It looks nice on you,” she said, still smiling. “I wasn’t mocking you.”

“Yeah, well,” he said but he didn’t continue. He turned and looked through his wardrobe and sighed. “I don't think I have anything that will fit you.”

“It’s fine,” Alira said but she was suddenly self-conscious of her worn and mended clothes. Therin crossed his arms across his chest and Alira noticed the glint of chest hair at the top of his shirt.

“I have an idea,” Therin moved to the door, put his ear to it for a minute and then nodded. “Come on.”

They crept out into the hall and Therin led her to a door just down the wide hall. He tried the knob and huffed in annoyance as he stooped and pushed in on the small white rosette trim at the bottom of the doorframe. It clicked and popped out, leaving an edge just wide enough to grasp. Therin pulled out a short drawer with a single key inside. Standing back up, he held the key in triumph and winked at Alira.

“Here we are,” he said as he opened the door.

The room was cold, clearly never opened and smelled dusty and a little like stale sheets. Therin muttered something under his breath and stumbled to the mantle where a candle and matches sat, untouched for who knew how long. He struck a match, lit the taper, and then used the long thin candle to light the larger lamps along the wall near the wardrobe.

In the ebbing gloom, Alira could pick out an untidy desk, strewn with books, papers, broken quills and dried ink. The top drawer of the desk was open and inside Alira could see a pen knife, small wax sticks and a seal among other things. She slowly revolved, taking in the messy grandeur of the room, so unlike the tidy but simple personality of Therin’s bedroom. She stopped at the unmade bed, which was against the wall shared with Therin’s room. It was crumpled exactly as the occupant had last slept, the sheets and duvet thrown back, the pillow cratered where a head had laid.

“Noran’s room,” Therin said quietly. “Devan had it shut up when Noran left.” Alira wondered how long ago that had been.

She turned to the sound of Therin rifling through the desk, pressed against the opposite wall as the bed, and as she did she noticed him pocket the seal and tuck a small leatherbound book into his vest. She looked away, uncomfortable with how wrong the thievery felt, despite it clearly being an abandoned room. He dug around in the papers on top of the desk before shrugging and going over to the wardrobe.

He quickly opened the dark oak doors and pulled out a black shirt, very like his own but lacking the lace, a darker green vest with no embroidery and several different types of pants. He reached up, snagging down a thin leather belt and finally stooped to peer at the footwear on the bottom of the wardrobe. Selecting a pair of small-ish black boots and several pairs of stockings, he turned the knobs on both lamps along the wall, blew out the small candle and jerked his head toward the door.

“Let’s go.” It dawned on Alira that he was expecting her to wear his brother’s childhood clothing. The pocked face, the wicked dagger, flashed into Alira's mind and she felt a chill run down her spine. She followed him out of the room where he locked the door, replaced the key in the hidden drawer and crept back to his own room. Therin dumped the clothes on the bed and pulled the stool out at the workbench, his back to the room.

“You can get changed,” he said as he took out the small book he had taken from Noran’s desk. Alira didn’t answer but hesitated before slowly removing her cloak.

The clothing didn’t fit great, but they were soft, dry and clean. The shirt fit the best, her small boyish chest unhindered by the vest, which she buttoned up as high as she could. The pants, however, were all too long so she chose the best fitting ones, tightened the belt as far as she could and tucked the bottoms into the tops of the socks and boots. The result was a fairly unflattering baggy ensemble.

While she had dressed she had eyed Therin, partly to watch to see if he’d tried to catch a glimpse of her and partly out of nosy curiosity as to what he was doing. He merely sat, the small book in his hands, turning the pages slowly.

“There,” Alira said as she brushed her hands down her front self-consciously. Therin set the book down on its face and swivelled on the stool to look at her. He nodded in approval but his face was distant, a slight frown on his face.

“Here,” he said, nodding to where he sat. “Look at this for me, will you?” She did as requested, leaning against the workbench with both forearms. He flipped over the book and Alira could see a small, spidery script across the pages.

“Ok,” she said, frowning. “What of it?”

“Can you read it?” She peered closer, squinting, then shook her head.

“No, should I be able to?”

Witch Script. Henry had been silent since their escape and his voice startled her. The surprise on her face must have registered because Therin eyed her closer.

“You do recognize it,” he declared. Slowly, Alira nodded. While she herself did not recognize it, Henry did.

It's the language that the Witches learned to converse with spirits in. Henry said wearily. You might as well tell him.

“It’s Witch Script,” Alira said haltingly. “The Witches used it to commune with spirits.”

“But can you read it?” he pressed. Alira waited and heard a ghostly sigh in her mind.

Fine, I’ll try. She lifted the book closer and loosened her grip on Henry, allowing him to flow into her eyes, her hands, her mouth.

“The last of them will take place next month, during the full moon. If I am careful, I can be branded shortly after and–” Henry stopped and turned inward to Alira.

Your mouth can’t pronounce that word, it’s the name of a spirit.

“This is the name of a spirit,” Alira said to Therin as she allowed Henry to read ahead inside her head. “The spirit will grant powers to the writer, and they will be a witch,” she summarised. Henry took over her voice again to finish the page.

“I will not report this to Devan, as I am sure he will not allow me to be branded, despite my mistress assuring me an exorcism will cure me.” Alira’s eyes shot up to meet Therin’s and she knew what he was going to say before he spoke. He nodded as he saw her understanding dawn.

“This is Noran’s diary.”