Roland sighed, setting aside the gazette in his hand and taking the proferred cup of tea, nodding a small thanks to the portly man handing it to him. Across the table, Brother Tobias Amand frowned back in contemplation, the old man's face contorted with indecision. The younger man ignored him, glancing about the well-lit, exotically decorated office. For a moment, his eyes locked on the stuffed gryphon's head that hung over the mantle of the fireplace. A rare decoration indeed in these times. Yet the Gray Order still had the reach, and the money for such things. They could afford such frivolous items, even in a detached mission post such as this.

“You did a good job with Orrin, we couldn't have done it without you,” he said finally, “You avenged brothers Martin and Croue, and for that I truly thank you.”

The witch-hunter stayed silent, taking a long sip from the fine porcelain cup in his hand. There wasn't much to say on the matter.

“I assume the pay is satisfactory,” the old man added.

“Indeed,” Roland nodded in acknowledgment.

Brother Amand frowned intently, as if trying to recall something he wanted to discuss.

“I heard how you did it. Most impressive feat. I had not expected to see you succeed so easily, you people are really remarkable,” he half smiled at those words.

“It is a pity,” he said slowly, “Our order never could produce hunters like you. Scholarship, wisdom. Logic and patient dissection. All those we could do, but not killers of your breed.”

The Malthorian witch hunter said nothing, simply taking another sip of the tea in his hand. It had been a long time since he had last drank such a fine specimen, and he wanted to savor every moment. The old man drew his lips into a tight line, disappointed in the witch-hunter's lack of input.

“There were certain complications at the border,” Roland said coolly, “Looked like one of the damn beasts from the Great Northern.”

“Are you certain?” Amand shook his head in disbelief.

“Yes,” the Malthorian snorted derisively, “Or do you think I picked up a limp for show.”

“I never said that, I simply wish to be certain,” the old man rebutted him, “It's strange that one would be here in the south. I've heard of wizards consorting with outlanders of course, but that seems a bit much. To deal with those savages.”

“It makes sense to me. As a hunter of undesirables. What better creature?” Roland shrugged and took another sip of tea.

“Perhaps you are right, it's just a disturbing notion, that's all,” Amand sighed, “I am glad to see you made it in one piece. No doubt difficult facing those savages one on one.”

At that the younger hunter nodded, draining the last of his drink and staring at the bottom of the cup. The older man seemed tired and perturbed, as if there was something else on his mind.

“There is something you aren't saying. What are you holding back on?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

The man eyed him warily, palms tapping nervously against the surface of his desk.

“Father Parrou has made a certain decision,” he said finally, “He's been informed of your origin, Roland. I hate to say it, but he has ordered me to cease our ties with you.”

The witch-hunter blinked, stunned and disbelieving. That was certainly news.

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“Why?” he asked finally.

“The Gray Order cannot afford the association,” Tobias said simply, “As useful as you are, the potential for disaster if we were found to be employing you, with full knowledge of who you are, is far too great.”

“Do any others know,” Roland raised an eyebrow.

“That you exist? Or that you work with us? The latter fortunately, I believe is negative,” the elder said, “However, I have gotten word that the investigators in Brachsenburg concluded a Malthorian slew our friend Orrin.”

He could feel his lips draw taut as Amand explained, that was a decidedly unfavorable revelation.

“It's not simply rumors and hearsay Roland. Not any longer. It's their official conclusion. They know. Even King Charles knows you exist now, and he is certain to be furious. He isn't simply going to allow the murder of one of his most valued sorcerers to go unpunished.”

“Do they pursue?” the witch-hunter asked, “Do the king's agents pursue?”

“I am unsure,” Tobias shrugged, “They could no doubt do so. They could even travel here, to Loseine. They could walk right into these offices and demand to speak to me if they wanted to. The Duke is not up to refuse any demand from his excellency Charles.”

“Excellency? You never talked about him that way before,” Roland snorted.

“Times are changing. We do what we must to survive. If our order dies, my friend, there will be nothing left to maintain balance,” the old man said sadly.

“What balance?” the younger man grimaced, “What balance can be achieved as little more than a figurehead, Brother Amand? If you have no spine and no teeth, you are not a witch-hunting order, but a notary institution.”

“Father Parrou and the upper council have made their decision, Roland, I will not question it,” Tobias shook his head, refusing to acknowledge the witch-hunter's criticism.

Roland's lips drew ever tighter.

“Understand something, Roland. It was your people's methods, and your refusal to adapt that saw you burn,” Brother Amand steepled his fingers and gazed at the junior man sagely, “Witch hunting. It is not the profession it once was. To treat every man and woman of the wyrd blood as potential enemy is a relic of days long past. We live in a new society Roland. Magic is not the evil it once was.”

“Magic was never evil,” the witch hunter said frostily, “Magic is power, pure and simple. And such power is a source of rot. That is all it is, all it ever was.”

“Is that your justification? To punish violently those you suspect? A pre-emptive strike against evils not yet done? I'm sorry Roland, that is too much,” the old man shook his head at such a notion.

"Sooner or later it leads to damnation," Roland said, "And then- then it must be excised."

“It is not for us to be judge, jury, and executioner. Only in the most extreme of cases may we act, and even then, discretion is paramount.”

“And how many died while you deliberated on whether Orrin was truly responsible dear Toby,” the witch-hunter raised an eyebrow, his tone taking a condescending note, “How many died before you opted for the desperate option?”

“We would have made efforts elsewhere to see the matter resolved. There is always a way forward,” Tobias waved his criticism aside, albeit without conviction, “We could have received the Kings censure if needed.”

Roland said nothing, a slight smile creasing his features. Implausible, given the weight both the church and the sorcerer's conclaves had on the matter.

“I won't debate this with you. Arnow, if the king and his people decide you must die, they will spare no resources to put an end to you,” the old man said, “You will be slain and gain nothing. You must leave this city, and you must leave Astana.”

“I could operate further north. Maybe travel east,” the witch hunter noted, “The people there are much friendlier to men of my profession. The lands more wild.”

“You can certainly do so. But you will do so alone. Without our aid,” Tobias frowned in turn.

“Without your money you mean,” Roland Arnow smirked, a malicious gleam in his eye.

Brother Amand shook his head, “Without our money, intelligence, or protection. You will be no better than a mercenary. A mercenary who has to jump at every shadow.”

“And you have some better suggestion?” the hunter said contemptuously.

“Ditch the Malthorian cross. Abandon your profession. Disappear,” the man advised, turning back toward the large map behind him, “Join a mercenary company. Find work in the great librarium's. Find a trade. A man of your talent can do just about anything. You need not die for pride and nothing else. Please understand, your profession as it once was is finished.”

“I see that. But I haven't surrendered it, not yet,” Roland stood up and made to leave, “I still have matters that need tending.”

“What missive could possibly be important enough to die for it?” the elder ran a disbelieving palm across his face, “Your order is gone. Frolingen is the king's territory. Our order is forced to withdraw its sponsorship of your actions. You have no obligation left to save but your life.”

“Just one more thing Amand, and I will leave,” the Malthorian conceded, “Just one more thing and I'll be gone for good. You will never have to hear of me again.”

“How long will it take?” he asked.

“Who knows?" Roland shrugged wryly, "Days, weeks, perhaps years.”

“The world is changing. Give it a few more years, and even the rabble in the east will have turned, and what then? Then where will you run?” the old man said bitterly.

“I'll figure that out when I get there, Brother Amand,” the killer smiled, “I thank you for the words, and for the support you and your order have given me. And for the tea.”

The Gray Order officer slumped in his chair, mouth drawn in a thin line as he watched the witch hunter move to depart.

“Whatever may be said of you, you're a credit to your people, Malthorian,” he said finally, a half smile forming on his face, “I wish you safe travels.”

“Keep yourself well, Brother Amand,” the corners of Roland's mouth curled upward into a leering grin as he left, “I pray that when all is done, you find yourself vindicated, and times are indeed changed.”