Hubris - 51. Welcome to Caldreath

Crowe must have nodded off because the next thing he knew Barghast was shaking him awake. He lifted his head, wincing. Lightning strikes of pain arched up his back. He stifled a grunt of displeasure. Barghast watched him, his eyes wide and excited. What is there to be excited about? the practitioner would have asked if it hadn't felt as if his throat were sealed shut.

“Look, twin o’rre, there is a clearing up ahead! From here I can see a road! We’ve made it…we’ve found the way out of here at last!” Barghast yipped with joy, his tail wagging.

No, we haven't. Don't let yourself fall for false hope, my sweet lycan. We both know this place likes to trick us. That's all this is: another trick.

But Barghast was leading them towards the opening in the trees. Crowe looked down at his hands. Even as hope tried to rise up inside him, quickening his heart, the contrary part of him squashed it down with a bootheel.

Cords of muscle and tension bunched up beneath the lycan's fur. Crowe knew he wanted to charge ahead, to breach the clearing before the woods sealed it shut - but he was pulling Mammoth along at a brisk march to keep the practitioner from falling out of the saddle.

Several yards away from the clearing a buzzing sound filled the air: a high-pitched droning whine that made Crowe clench his teeth in misery. Beyond it there came crackling sounds like the splitting of wood. Tree roots tore themselves free from the ground, snaking towards them with a malignant concentration that made the sorcerer think of snakes and creatures that slithered along the ground. He has to bite his tongue to keep from screaming.

He had enough time to press himself flat against Mammoth's back, clinging to his back like a flea, hugging him with his arms - with his thighs, with the last vestiges of strength he had inside him.

Barghast tugged impatiently at Mammoth's reins, cursing and whining in Okanavian. A tidal wave of wind had picked up, battering at them from all sides. The trees were converging, the breach closing.

We’re not going to make it! We won't make it out - we’ll be trapped - we’ll die!

“No,” he heard himself hiss under his breath. “I’m not staying in these shitty fucking woods another night!”

Crowe yanked his rod from his pocket. His desperation and fear burst from the tip of the wand, parting the air with a comet of white flame. The comet struck the stampede of trees with a shrieking roar, burning leaves, wood, and embers raining down on them. The moment Barghast was positioned on the saddle, securing Crowe to him, the practitioner urged the massive shire horse ahead with a shout.

Bolstered by his defiance, Mammoth let out his own screaming bray of defiance, his eyes rolling in his skull so that the whites showed. His nostril flared like the black mouth of caves. He surged ahead, braving through black tendrils of smoke, every bit as ready to be out of the woods as his riders. I’m sorry, Crowe told the horse through his horse. I’m sorry we always put you through this. Monad could not give us a better, more loyal horse.

The horse answered him with an empathic surge of relief that raced up the herald’s arm as if to say No hard feelings.

At last they were through. Coughing and sputtering from the smoke, but through. Crowe could feel the air on his face. He could see the stars high above their heads. He craned his neck around, looking around Barghast’s broad frame. Sentient tree branches flailed through the air, the breach folding shut as if it had never been there at all.

We’re free, the practitioner thought. For now. Onto the next trap.

Crowe wasn’t the only one who was not ready to accept the fact they were safe. Mammoth’s hooves thundered against the dirt road that curved ahead of them, taking them further away from the accursed forest. Crowe could not completely ignore the hope that the road would take them somewhere safe. We need food. We need to be able to sleep in an actual bed…Just for a night or two.

“Twin o’rre!” Barghast yipped. “I see lights up ahead. Buildings…”

Could it be? Could hope be so close at last after surviving through another living nightmare of terror? Crowe wanted to believe such a thing was possible but already he could feel a wall rising up inside his heart. No! He seized the necklace around his throat; that it was still there at all after fleeing through the woods was a miracle in of itself. Don’t lose hope! Never lose hope!

Yes, he could see small domes of light in the distance now that they the top of a hill. And here was a sign. He squinted, straining to make out the name carved into the wood.

“STOP!” he screamed. The voice that came out of his throat was raw and scratchy and full of terror.

“What is it, my beloved?” Barghast sniffed at the back of his head with a concerned whine.

The lycan’s inquiry fell on deaf ears. Crowe clambered down from Mammoth’s saddle. His movements were frantic and determined despite his growing fatigue. He staggered towards the sign, his eyes wide. “That’s not possible,” he gasped.

Barghast drew up next to him. The sign read “WELCOME TO CALDREATH!” POPULATION: 451.

“This should not be here.” Crowe forced himself to look away from the sign to his companions; only the whites of his eyes showed. He had his rod out at the ready. “The Theocracy burned it down years ago. A century. There should be nothing here.”

But there was something there. They approached it, Mammoth picking his way cautiously down the other side of the hill at the herald’s reluctant urging. Smokestacks rose above tiled roofs. The houses were made of solid oak and sturdy looking. Many of the windows glowed with the promise of warm fire. The closer they drew to the town, the more Crowe felt his inhibitions diminish at the thought of approaching civilization. It was not an immediate shift into resignation, but a gradual dawning that swelled in tune with the sound of excited voices. He could see people walking in between the buildings. Not running or fleeing, but a relaxed kind of stroll. And it looked like there were quite a few. Dozens of them.

Crowe took comfort in the fact that Barghast did not raise any alarms of suspicion. Surely if he had sensed something wrong about the town he would have said something. When the practitioner reached out with his mind he sensed no flutterings of danger in the pit of his stomach nor did he see any celestial lights in the sky. As far as he could tell it appeared to be an actual town.

A man waved at them happily as they passed. At first it was hard to see his face, but as he drew closer his face beamed with open delight. He reached for Mammoth as if to touch Crowe. The horse stopped, watching the man, but did not step back to avoid his touch. Barghast was not so easily suaded. Shielding Crowe with his arms, he steered the horse away from the man who continued to close in on them undaunted.

“It is you, herald!” the man cried. His voice rang with laughter. The look in his eyes reminded the practitioner of the boy from the beach whose blood he had given to save his life after being attacked; the transfusion of blood had caused side effects that disturbed Crowe. “You have come at last!”

More people became visible. Many carried weapons, wearing the diamond-backed uniforms of the resistance. Their uniforms looked clean, their boots well-made. Their faces were clean-shaven and robust. These were not the scraggly, hollow-cheeked troops the practitioner and lycan had glimpsed while on the road. They were armed with rifles with leathally sharp bayonets screwed into the muzzles. Crowe blinked. Everywhere he looked he saw men, women, and children walking amongst the soldiers. Many wore masks with the faces of deer, tigers, cats, and dogs painted on the front; others wore painted feathers glued to their dresses or the front of their shirts. The sound of laughter carried above the street. Streamers of paper and lamps were strung through the branches of trees. A warm wind caressed Crowe’s cheek. He inhaled, breathing in the smell of spirits and the mouth-watering aroma of meat roasting over a fire.

Crowe’s distraction was interrupted by the gathering clamor of voices. His heartbeat quickened when he heard a voice shout, “Herald!”

“Not again,” he hissed under his breath.

People were turning to face them from every direction. More voices shouted, voicing not terror or hostility, but joy. Everywhere he looked he saw glimmers of silver on their necks, marking the Lion-Headed Serpent they wore. Monad’s people! It can’t be…How is this possible?

He should have been overjoyed to be in a town full of his own people, but the thought of them worshiping him - of seeking his favor - made his skin crawl. Before he knew it he was taking off down the main street at a canter. Anything to get space between himself and him.

The only forward - the only way to get away - was to go deeper into the town. Mammoth lumbered past the well in the center of the town. He was beginning to slow down; Crowe had pushed the horse to his limit. Just a little further, he urged the horse through his touch, running his fingers through his mane. Before they could take a left onto the next street, a small parade of Monad’s people appeared, cheers of “herald!” on their lips.

They came to a stop before the flagstone steps of a tall church with a bell tower at the top. Now the bell rang in earnest, its peals seeming to reflect the clamor of excitement that echoed through the town.

Candlelight flickered in the windows of the church. A bright half-crescent moon held vigil over the bell tower. The tall wooden doors of the church creaked open. Organ music poured out, the sound melancholic, serene, and beautiful. Crowe’s body was tempted towards it even as a voice screamed in his mind to turn around and flee in the other direction. Even if he had the ability to, there was nowhere else to turn. They were surrounded from all sides and the only way of escape was to run into the church. Who knows what trap awaits us in there? he thought. Surely it’s a one way ticket straight to our doom.

And then what would happen? Would Barghast and he find themselves reliving the events that had led them to this moment? Or would it truly be the end of their journey - the end of his stint as herald?

It’s a risk you can’t take! Petras screamed in his mind.

But his body was powerless in the throes of the music. Every soul in Caldreath had gathered before the church, stretching out behind them to create a basin from which there was no escape. They swayed in time with the music, Lion-Headed Serpents agleam in the firelight. A figure emerged from the church, pausing at the top of the steps. Crowe blinked in surprise. For a moment a paralyzing terror had broken through the euphoric stupor created by the organ music. He’d been sure that the figure emerging from the church would be the woman with the bone headpiece - that a twisted version of the events that had occurred in his vision at Fort Teague would play out again. But it was not the woman from his visions.

She was taller than the woman from his visions; in her way she was far more imposing. If anything her appearance was more reminiscent of the Seraphim who had appeared to Crowe on the day his quest had started. It was the battle greaves she wore. She’d fashioned a breastplate, wielding into a shape that conformed to her body. A sword swung from a sheath strapped to her hilt, the pommel edged with silver. Sharp green eyes focused sharply on the confused duo sitting atop of the massive shire horse. The cheers from Monad’s people had changed at last. Instead of screaming “HERALD!” their cries had switched to “THE BITCH OF CALDREATH, THE BITCH OF CALDREATH, THE BITCH OF CALDREATH!”

At last the woman began to descend the stone steps. Her descent was stolid yet confident and graceful. A woman who had trained herself to gather the favor of the crowd - a learned performer as well as a warrior. Monad knew she’d had time to teach herself. Long white hair fanned away from her face. A face that was both ferocious. In spite of the silver hair and silver threads of her eyebrows, Crowe recognized the angular face and full lips of the woman at once.

It was Commander Loras Gyrell.

She raised her hands with the regal air of a diplomat. The cheers died. The crowd grew still but their anticipation still charged the air. She smiled at them, her teeth as white and healthy as porcelain. She exuded a genuine warmth Crowe would not have expected from someone so fierce looking. But then, Crowe reminded himself, leaders would have not become leaders if they did not possess some kind of charm to draw people in.

“It is a glorious evening!” she proclaimed in a voice that made the herald think pleasantly of velvet and smoke. An effeminate, slightly raspy but commanding voice that invited rather than demanded the attention of Monad’s people. She too wore Monad’s symbol at her neck. “The evening we have been waiting for!” She thrust her arms out in Crowe’s directing, spreading her fingers. “The arrival of the herald!”

Rounds of applause rolled through the crowd. Voice raised cheers of raucous joy. Loras shrugged her shoulders and beamed at the sorcerer as if they’d always known each other and this kind of outrageous behavior could be expected on a daily basis. Crowe’s head slowly craned around his neck, taking stalk of the strange faces over his shoulder.

“We can’t tell you how happy it makes each and every one of us to welcome you to our sanctuary,” Commander Gyrell continued. She approached Mammoth, a hand outstretched. Rather than step back reproachfully, the horse craned his neck forward, dipping his head so she could place her palm on top of his muzzle.

Crowe felt rather than heard Barghast growl. Before he realized he was doing it, he reached over his shoulder, placing his hand on Barghast’s muzzle. Silencing him. Now his eyes were fixed completely on the woman. In his mind all he could see was the tortured show who had been forced to watch her family - her whole entire village - burn to ash. Though she would endure many centuries yet the experience had turned her hair completely white. Is this what happened to Petras? he wondered selfishly. Will the same thing happen to me? Will carrying the burden of herald turn my hair white long before it’s meant to?

The thought made something in him recoil. He also felt…not pity…but sorrow for the woman who stood before him. She’d lost everything that had ever meant something to her. Long before she had become a vengeful wraith who graced the battlefields, extinguishing the lives of torchcoats, she had been a wife. A mother. Were it not for Pope Drajen’s intervention, she could have spent the rest of her long life tending farm and home. Instead the Third Iteration had other plans for her. The tragedy had formed her into something new. Something powerful. A weapon that could be used against the Theocracy.

As she continued to trace lines up and down Mammoth’s muzzle, speaking to the horse in a low voice, their eyes connected. A knowing smile graced her lips, pulling one corner up towards her brows. Aye, we are two of a kind, aren’t we? that smile seemed to say. There is much you have to learn from; much we have to learn from each other.

“You need not fear,” she said and now she spoke only to him. “You are welcome here. These are our people. These are your people. They will follow you anywhere if you let them. Think of this as your home away from home.”

“We have no home.” The words left his lips before he could stop their passage.

She rewarded him with another knowing smile. “You do now.”

“How is this here?” He swiveled his eyes around to illustrate his point. “How is any of this here?”

“I know you still have a lot of questions,” she told him. She spoke with a tone of understanding that said she exactly knew how he felt; there was just enough bitterness in her voice to stir his heart up a beat or two. “I did when I first came here as well. I can assure you I will explain everything as best I can. I also know you are tired. You and your lycan companion have traveled far and been through much to get here.”

“Indeed we have.” Ignoring Barghast’s protest, Crowe lowered himself from the saddle. He tried to keep the discomfort of his chafed thighs from showing on his face. Barghast drew up beside him, his lupine face drawn in a scowl of dislike set towards Loras. The practitioner did not notice.

“It has been my experience that we must endure long periods of great suffering before we can find a moment of pleasure,” Loras said. Her voice rang with sorrow and conviction.

The herald reached for Barghast’s paw. The lycan’s shoulders lifted slightly when Crowe’s slender fingers curled through his much larger digits. “That has also been my experience,” the practitioner agreed.

This response earned him a smile. “I imagine though we live at the opposite end of our lives our experience is matched in this. I have heard tales of your exploits in ridding the town of Timberford of its filth. I’ve also heard tales of your heroism on the Daminion Highway, your capture in Boar’s Head, and your escape from Fort Erikson. Not many survive an encounter with the sadistic Inquisitor Charoum. Willing lapdog of the Theocracy. He licks Drajen’s bootheel only because it grants him a position of power. He may look angelic, but he has the heart of a bloodhound. It seems you have a way of leaving a mark everywhere you go, herald.” Something mischievous and familiar flashed in Gyrell’s eyes.

Crowe’s cheeks turned scarlet. “Thank you, Commander. That is high praise coming from someone experienced as yourself. Know that I am only getting started. I hope my efforts will only back up the tales you’ve heard about me.”

Gyrell was backing up the steps towards the church now. Crowe understood without needing to be told that they were to follow. Barghast followed behind, his claws unfurled. He’d made sure to load the rifle with several rounds in case. The Okanavian did not trust the people, nor did he trust the woman who was leading them towards the church; the only thing he trusted in was his beloved’s instincts to lead them where they needed to be. Behind them the crowd dispersed as the people of Caldreath returned to their lives.

Loras boots thunked solidly against the polished floorboards of the sanctuary. The inner sanctum smelled of wood and perfume. Vines of green health crawled through the walls as if the church itself was alive. The aura of the place gave off a sense of serenity. No one else followed them into the church. Crowe expelled a breath of relief. At the very least if this was a trap, they would only be dealing with Loras. Let’s hope she’s a fool we can handle. He would be sure to keep his hand close to his pocket.

Outside it had been easy to speak when he’d needed to put on a brave face before a crowd of strangers. Now in the quiet, calmer moment it was difficult to hold onto his composure. “Is this…? Is this…?” He tried twice before giving up.

“Is this the actual Caldreath?” Gyrell turned around to face him. Now that she was not facing a crowd, she too had let her demeanor slip. Her expression was remote. Unreadable. Her eyes impenetrable. A mask she had created to hide her pain from the rest of the world. Crowe wished he had such a mask for himself.

“It is as far as I can tell. As well as I can remember it.” The humorous tilt of her mouth was of bitter memory. “Everything is exactly where it should be: the well, the blacksmith’s hut, the windmill. I questioned my sanity the way you are doing now when I first saw it, but after spending months here I cannot deny this is the true Caldreath. It isn’t here by accident.”

“You speak as someone who is sane. But how can you be sure that the purpose for this town being here is not ominous? We encountered many obstacles to get here. We were attacked at Fort Teague by an entity we cannot give name to.”

“The entity you encountered is the guardian of this place. We encountered her as well. We lost many good people in our escape through the forest. While I cannot say I enjoyed my encounter with her” - Commander Gyrell cocked a snowy eyebrow, leading them past crystal glass windows with a cocked eyebrow. All the windows bore Monad’s insignia. “- I have come to understand her for what it is. She and the forest are what keep Caldreath safe from unwanted forces. You could even say she is the reason why this town is here in the first place. I promise to tell you more, but I can tell you are dead feet. All who come here pay a terrible price…”

“I fear the people here may pay a terrible price again,” Crowe blurted. The blaze of emotion had yet to fade from his cheeks. Sweat dripped down from his matted hair. “I encountered Inquisitor Charoum and two torchcoats not far outside the town.”

The commander rolled her eyes with the air of someone who had heard this news many times before. Her indifference to the situation reminded Crowe of his conversation with Matthiesen. We’ve had this conversation before… “This is not the first time Charoum and his troops have tried to breach the defenses. Sometimes they succeed. When they breach again, the people of Caldreath will deal with it as we always have. And we will come out of it for the stronger the way we always have.” The pangs of pride in her voice was unmistakable. “Your presence here will only further bolster the courage of the soldiers and refugees who have been looking to me to keep them safe.”

She was leading them up a long staircase. Sandwiched between her and the lycan, the practitioner did his best to keep pace but every inch of his body was a screaming ache; once more he'd pushed himself to the limit. Barghast rested a paw against the small of his back. The warmth of his touch was a reassuring comfort. It was enough to keep him going. At the top of a landing, Loras led them into a large room that had been set up as a dormitory. A dozen beds had been set up along the walls in two rows of six before a window that overlooked the town square. Crowe could see that many of the souls had disappeared, perhaps having returned to their dwellings for the evening. A few couplings danced along to the merry strings of a violin but the roarous chatter from before had died down completely.

“I know you both want answers and soon you will have them,” Commander Loras said in a clipped voice that stated there could be no other way. “But tonight you must rest. Take comfort in knowing you are amongst allies; that while you dwell within these walls you will not be harmed.”

Crowe nodded, too exhausted to offer a protest. The mattresses on the bed looked thin and they would have to put several of them together to make a larger bed for Barghast to fit. Loras did not exchange verbal farewells, but nodded at one another, silently communicating to one another this would not be the last conversation they’d have. She closed the door with a soft click.

He closed his eyes. He let his shoulders fall. He took a deep shuttering breath. He felt the lycan's solid presence at his back. His warm breath caressed the back of his neck. Barghast let out a whine. “Beloved, I know you are tired and I know this is the place where we are meant to be, but I won't pretend to like it.”

Crowe gritted his teeth together. The stab of annoyance he felt was as sudden and sharp as a knife to the gut. He forced himself to take another breath; he unclenched his hands which had been curled into fists. “I know you don't trust Gyrell. I don't trust her either.

But for better or worse we are in the center of the black hole and we are in a town that should not be here, but is. What is there to like about the situation?”

Barghast dipped his head low, pressing his ears back against his head. “I've said something to upset you, my beloved.”

Crowe was about to wave a hand dismissively, but held back. Something like shame pierced the gauze of impatience that had been building unbeknownst to him. “I’m sorry Barghast.” He stepped into the Okanavian's always welcoming embrace.

“I’m not upset with you. I could never be upset with you, you know that. I’m just tired and cranky and confused. But I also don't know what else to do until we get more information on what's happening. We've both learned the hard way about what happens when we charge into places with our guns blazing. Haven't we?”

The barbarian nodded solemnly. “We have.”

“This time it's time to do things differently. For all appearances the people here look safe. They look happy. Well happy and well fed…”

“That could just be illusion fashioned by the very thing that's keeping them trapped here!” Barghast growled. He gnashed his teeth together before falling silent with another chastised look.

“Perhaps so.” Crowe threaded his fingers through the lycan's chest fur. “Perhaps you're right. There's nothing we can do about it on this night. I simply don't have it in me to find a solution at the moment. I have pushed myself and pushed myself until there is nothing left. Do you understand?”

Barghast tucked his head against his chest. “Of course I do. We need rest. We need food and sustenance. We need to be able to lick our wounds.”

“Do not think I am blind to the situation my sweet lycan. I do not want to be here anymore than you do. I want to be back on the road where it's just you and me. The way it's supposed to be.” The smile Crowe tried on felt stiff. False. He hoped Barghast didn't catch the way his heart falter a beat. At times it was scary how well the Okanavian could hear. Many times he knows what I’m feeling before I do.

He thought of the people he’d glimpsed strolling around the square. Their clothes had looked clean, free of rips and dirt. If not brand new then well mended by practiced hands. He had not seen faces hollowed by starvation and exposure to the elements. He recalled the way those glowing faces had been turned towards he and Gyrell. These are Monad's people. These are our people. They are your people.

Crowe's heart swelled with hope. Could it be that Barghast and he had last come to a place where they were truly welcome? Could it be that we don't have to fight alone anymore?

He was so lost in thought…he was so exhausted he was literally falling asleep standing in thought…that he didn't realize things in the room had changed. While he'd been thinking of the people here in Caldreath, Barghast had been busy moving beds around the room. He’d put three beds together, creating enough room for them to be able to fit together side to side. Now he took one of Crowe's unprotesting hands and led him to the makeshift bed.

Crowe said nothing as Barghast undressed him. He lifted his hands obediently when the Okanavian pulled his robes over his head.

He trailed his tongue along the back of the herald's neck, marking a slick trail to the curve of his ear. When Crowe moaned, the barbarian's tail wagged. He’d discovered quite recently that this particular show of affection - of teasing - elicited responses from his beloved that he found completely and utterly intoxicating. The way he felt - like now - the practitioner shudder, not from fear or pain, but with pleasure and longing.

Crowe surrendered his body to the lycan's ministrations. Barghast's fingers were unsnapping the buttons of his breeches, tugging them gently past his lips. Crowe could not remember taking off his boots, but there they were resting innocently in the corner of the room. Though it should have been no surprise that he sported bruises and burns after their escape from the woods outside Caldreath, Barghast let out a familiar whimpering sound. Even now, though they had been traveling for a year, he still behaved as if the practitioner's injuries were his doing. It was a part of the Okanavian's behavior the sorcerer had come to accept, but he would never fully understand.

Now that the herald was completely undressed, Barghast lowered himself in the makeshift bed. He pulled Crowe into his lap. Crowe leaned his head against his shoulder, looking towards the window. It was night here. Did that mean time ran the course it was supposed to here? Or was it governed by whatever had resurrected Caldreath from the ashes?

“If we don't like it here, we’ll leave,” he whispered, breathing in tune with the ride and fall of the Okanavian's broad chest. “We won't stay. After all we can't save everyone.”

“We’ll leave?”

The hopefulness in Barghast's voice made the sorcerer’s heart ache. I understand these misgivings you have, my sweet lycan. It has just been the two of us on the road for so long - all we know is each other. So far it has been the experience that when we do find a place inhabited by people, they seek to do us harm. But aren't you also tired of running from place to place, with no sense of an end in sight? Wouldn't it be nice to rest our heads and close our eyes…Just for a moment…?

He simply didn't have the energy to say all of this, so he nuzzled against Barghast to show the lycan his concerns had not fallen on deaf ears. “We’ll figure everything out in the morning, Barghast. I won't be able to help anyone if I'm dead from exhaustion.”

“As you say twin o’rre. As long as you and I are together there is no storm we cannot brave, no enemy we cannot defeat.”

With this Crowe slept.

                               …

“Twin o’rre!”

The alarm in Barghast's voice yanked Crowe from his dreamless slumber into a sitting position. The lycan’s broad form blocked the door from view, but the practitioner knew the Okanavian well enough to sense his distress. His tail made quick swipes from side to side. His hackles were raised. He aimed his rifle at the door.

Remembering their conversation from earlier and the fear he’d heard in his companion’s voice, the herald resisted the urge to tell Barghast to lower his weapon. Instead he reached for the rod tucked safely in his pocket. On the other side of the door the heavy tread of footsteps made the floorboards creak. A deep growl rattled inside the Okanavian's throat; he tensed slightly when the door swung open.

The Loras Gyrell that had stepped into the room had left her battlegear behind. Her face was as remote and confident as the night before, but she’d exchanged the battle armor for a denim blue dress. A brown leather belt encircled her waist. Her silver hair had been plaited - a styling job that could have taken hours to complete. The dress revealed that she was still in the prime of her health. Her figure was muscular and robust but still effeminate enough to attract the certain male gaze.

“You can tell your lycan to lower his weapon.” She arched an eyebrow at Crowe, her tone sharp with an undercurrent of mockery. “If I didn't want you to have your weapons, I would have taken them before we entered the church.”

“Barghast!”

The Okanavian turned an eye to the sorcerer but did not lower his weapon.

“Down!” Crowe waved his hand towards the floor.

Barghast lowered his weapon but did not strap it to his shoulder nor did he stop glaring at Gyrell.

“Good,” Loras said with a dry smile. “Now that we can dispense with the dramatics what do you say we all have a bit of breakfast? There I promise to explain things. It will be a long conversation that could very well take us into the evening, so I ask you to open your ears. But most of all your mind.”

Crowe found himself nodding to her stoic but agreeable manner. I like her. She cuts to the chase just as one would expect from a warrior of her caliber. It is easy to see why Matthiesen respects her. “Of course. We are merely grateful for your hospitality alone. That you are willing to provide us answers as well is more than we deserve. However, I must inform you that Matthiesen is concerned about you. Lucijan, Roan, and he have officially labeled it “the black hole.”

“The black hole?” Gyrell’s laughter was hoarse, almost cronelike. Something about her reminded Crowe of the silver fox-eyed woman from Vaylin…if only he could say what it was. “Of course he would call it something so ominous. Benedict has a pension for the dramatic as you will no doubt find out.”

“The black hole has the connotations it deserves!” Crowe snapped. “Anyone that goes within its vicinity never comes back out.”

Loras took a step towards him with her eyes narrowed, ignoring the warning growl from Barghast. “I told you I would give you answers at first and I shall, but can we at least get to the dinner table first? I’ve never been the best at conversation, but I’m even worse when I don't have food in my stomach. Soldier’s folly I suppose you could say.”

Crowe gave her the nod to continue. They sat at a square table that could sit up to a dozen people. Three chairs had been set relatively close together, two side by side and the other at the head of the table. The table was adorned with platters of warm pastries, bread, sausages half the width of the sorcerer's hand, and other assorted treats; the sight of it all set his mouth to watering. Without waiting for the commander to do the same, he waved for Barghast to join him at the table. Barghast obeyed, shooting Loras another glare. The chair did not so much as groan beneath his weight, but seemed to be perfectly carved to fit his dimensions.

The moment Loras was seated, Crowe began filling his Barghast's plates with whatever was in reach. It’s been days since we've eaten. I’ll apologize to the commander for my lack of manners once we both have food in our bellies.

For several moments Crowe and Barghast were consumed with the need to eat and drink. They emptied their goblets of chilled wine, only to have them refilled if they so desired. Which they did. Not only was the wine cold and refreshing on the sorcerer's sore throat, it was sweet with a pleasing bite. By the time the practitioner leaned back in his chair, his belly filled with food and drink and his cheeks were bright and red.

It was only then he realized Barghast, the commander, and he were no longer the only ones in the room; two others had entered the room. Now they stood on either side of Gyrell, loving hands placed on her shoulders. Her arms were folded around the narrow body of a young tow-headed girl. A man stood over their shoulder, beaming down at his family as if in that moment he'd fallen in love with them all over again. The last time Crowe had seen him, he’d been beaten so badly his eyes had been swollen completely shut.

Once Crowe was able to get over the surprise of recognizing the two newcomers, the brutal shock of their appearance kicked in. He screamed, feeling in his chair hard enough to send it tilting to the floor. Barghast yipped his name, reaching for him, but Crowe crawled back out of his reach until his back was pressed up against the wall. In his mind he was bound to the post, watching Loras, Jalif, and their daughter being escorted to their final judgement. I watched them burn…I smelled their flesh cook…I breathed in their ashes.

Now Loras held her daughter with Jalif standing at Gyrell's back, his sturdy farmer’s hands placed comfortingly on her shoulders. Neither the husband or the daughter appeared as if they had been dead for over a hundred years.

They looked healthy, as if they’d never died at all.