“I wish to go with you,” said Master Ruel. They sat beside each other on the pew facing the shrine. Kurn’s face of Desire looked at them mockingly through lifeless eyes.

  “But I don’t know where I’m going yet.”

  “Does not matter,” Ruel replied. “I trust in the gods, and Kurn put his trust in you. You will do what is needed, just as Kurn said, and I will follow.”

  Tristan frowned. The monk had more confidence in him than he did. Still, Ruel had a point.

  Neila was still out there. Going back to the Southland to warn High Lord Ulan would seem a natural choice. But Tristan would be returning in disgrace. He was a Lord Defender who had lost all his men, and as the only survivor, would be thought a coward for leaving them behind. While the High Lord might think otherwise, his court had no reason to believe Tristan’s story. The nobles would see it as an opportunity to put someone favorable to them in his place. In conciliation the High Lord might send someone to investigate, but it would take a season or more to confirm what happened. Longer if the investigators also died at Neila’s hands. Tristan could not count on help from the Southland.

  “There is a difficult task I must do. Where would Kurn send me for help?” Tristan asked, thinking out loud.

  Ruel answered. “The Emperor, of course.”

  Of course. Emperor Orphir was known to have little patience for rebellious warlords. Tristan’s own father had died under orders from the previous Emperor for defiance against the Empire. The current Emperor inherited those concerns. He might not believe that a single woman could threaten the Empire, but having a vassal territory taken by force and used to threaten others was not something the Emperor would ignore. And if the Emperor felt it necessary to act, the Southland would as well. High Lord Ulan could not afford to do anything seen as disloyalty. And until Tristan was officially replaced, he was still the Southland’s Lord Defender. The Emperor would listen to him.

  “Then I must see the Emperor,” Tristan agreed.

  “And I will help,” Ruel stated factually. Tristan could not argue otherwise. He suspected that Kurn had purposely allowed the monk to see the end of their conversation. Ruel likely had an unknown part yet to play, and Tristan had no reason to deny him.

  It took Ruel a day to prepare. He informed the other two monks of his order what was required to care for the sanctuary and remind them of their duties. He called them boys, but both were over twenty winters in age and excited at the idea of making the monastery their own. Master Ruel promised to return eventually, but he could not say how long it would be or if he would return for good. Neither monk seemed bothered by the idea of his absence.

  Despite their enthusiasm, Tristan wondered how the monastery would survive without Master Ruel. Two monks did not make a religious order. As it was, the temple and dormitory looked ready to fly apart with the next strong wind. It would be a shame to see a thousand winters of worship come to an ungraceful end.

  As the day passed, however, Tristan’s doubts eased. As word got out about the Master Ruel’s departure, a steady stream of locals came to pay homage, bringing gifts of food to the temple. They looked to be poor farmers who made a living supporting nearby Nassir. That they did not go to Nassir for worship surprised Tristan, but he suspected none of them cared much for the wealthy priests or their ornate temples. They wanted a more intimate connection with their gods. This small, out of the way temple was more than sufficient for their needs.

  That the worshipers did not provide monetary help explained the state of the monastery. The monks had nothing but their own hands and their untrained skills to maintain the temple and its grounds. But as Ruel explained his planned departure to the parishioners, Tristan overheard many offers of service. Among them was a carpenter overjoyed at the thought of rehabilitating the monastery with his skills. It looked like the young monks would not be alone after all. Perhaps Kurn had known this would happen. By arranging for Master Ruel’s departure, the god had given to the monastery a desperately needed revival.

  Later that afternoon, Tristan spent some time wandering near the river. A path from the monastery led between trees and thick brush to a beach that sloped gently down to the water. Here a natural cul-de-sac along the river’s course resulted in eddies that swept in anything that came from the rapids upstream. Driftwood and fish alike were drawn in close to the bank by the current. It was no wonder he had come ashore here.

  The entire experience with Neila had left him physically and emotionally drained. After helping Ruel clean the temple floor of dropped food, his stomach rumbled. Saving what he could and pillaging the monastery’s pantry of the rest, Tristan must have eaten a day’s worth of food in a single sitting. That helped his body heal, but his mental wounds was another matter. Every time someone came near he found himself shying away. He had become overly vigilant, his body preparing for pain at every turn. He needed time by himself to calm his nerves and relax.

  Returning to the monastery, he spent his evening counting knots in the wooded planks of the ceiling. He did this first by evening moonlight, then by candle, until the wick’s flame flickered out from flowing wax. He was surprised when the light of morning touched his face through the room’s small window. He must have slept, though he had no memory of it.

  After breaking their fast on rolls and jam, Master Ruel and Tristan were on their way, walking along a path leading away from the river toward the city of Nassir. Tristan was anxious to be on his way to meet with the Emperor, but his traveling companion wanted to visit the holy city first. His own small monastery was considered ancillary to the larger temple of Yu the Mother located there. The monk wanted to let them know he was leaving. Since the road north intersected near Nassir, Tristan was willing to go along with the minor detour.

  The distance was not far, but Master Ruel was not a fast walker. He did not so much walk as weave like a sailor on rough seas, his bulk rocking from side to side. He gasped heavily from the light exercise, preventing him from speaking. Tristan appreciated the silence, but he worried that the monk would collapse from overexertion before they arrived.

  Since Tristan had nothing more than the clothes on his back, he offered to carry their supplies. They were little more than a shoulder sack and some bedrolls, but the sack was heavy with bread, fruit, and wrapped cheese. This relieved the monk, but their progress remained slow.

  It was nearly midday when they found themselves joining a stream of farmers and merchants approaching the gleaming gates of Nassir. Despite an overcast sky, stray rays of sun would shine through to make the walls glow like cut diamonds. It made Tristan’s eyes hurt whenever he looked up from the road, but dust was soon replaced by paving stones, making the path shine just as brightly. He resigned himself to squinting as they approached the guards standing watch.

  Tristan was used to being challenged when entering a city, but dressed in monk robes, the guards hardly noticed. He passed unchallenged beneath the stonework arch of the gate. Without weapons, tabard, or banner to announce his presence, no one recognized him. Although many knew the Lord Defender by title, very few knew him by sight.

  Tristan felt conflicted. Anonymity would help his travels, but would anyone in the capital recognize him? Would he arrive at the Emperor’s gates only to be turned away? There were some among the Emperor’s advisors who had met him previously, but he could only pray to Kurn they would remember.

  The city of Nassir was much as he remembered from his last visit over fifty winters before. The buildings along the central avenue were ornately decorated, with fountains located every other street crossing. From Tristan’s experience and Ruel’s occasional comment, Nassir was better at hiding its less savory side than others, but there was no denying it was there. Priests asked for alms on every corner and hawkers sold charms to passing petitioners with a promise of currying favor with the gods. Though the city had its roots in the spiritual, it was difficult to see it among those who asked for coin at every turn.

  Master Ruel insisted they stop for a bite to eat. They purchased meat pies from a wandering baker, his cart trailing its savory scent as enticement, and sat on the edge of a massive fountain for their lunch. The mist from spattering water cooled the air, and the soothing sound made the day feel peaceful.

  Tristan found that he had little need to start a conversation with his companion. Once Ruel had caught his breath, he talked endlessly about his time at the monastery. The monk had been left on its doorstep as a baby some forty winters ago. Having spent all of his life there, the only stories he had to tell were long descriptions of rituals, gardening, and detailed encounters with every visitor who had ever come to the shrine. Tristan listened patiently. If it meant not having to answer questions of his own, he was happy to hear it all.

  When they were done with their food, they continued down the main street toward the temples. The shrine of the Mother Yu was located within sight of the temples of the Three, but still well short of them. Though she was considered the mother of all the gods, in the Vorshan Empire she was often consigned to the status of a minor deity. Master Ruel mumbled his grievance at this terrible oversight as they approached the temple but closed his mouth once they entered.

  Though the temple seemed small from outside, the enclosed space within stretched off into a dimly lit distance. Only an array of candles arranged around the interior provided any illumination. The flames creating shadows from interior columns that danced and swayed in honor of the sacred Mother.

  Yu was also the goddess of the night, the darkness of the temple impressing that aspect upon its visitors. Without windows to the daylight, the air was stale and smelled of acrid smoke and burnt wax. Tristan found it difficult to breathe, and despite the large space he felt claustrophobic as he struggled for air.

  Rather than venture into the shadows with his friend, Tristan stayed on a bench near the entryway where a faint breeze made breathing easier. He had had his fill of gods, and was acutely aware that the shrine of Kurn was just one more building further down along the road. For reasons he could not describe, the longer they were in the city he felt increasingly nervous. The sooner they were away the better as far as he was concerned.

  Apparently the monk’s lengthy descriptions of rituals reflected reality more than Tristan thought. The sounds of chanting eventually lulled him to sleep. He was startled awake by Ruel gently nudging him. Tristan had to shake off his stupor before nodding his readiness to leave.

  Stepping outside, Tristan had to blink to readjust his eyes to the afternoon light. Even before his blindness faded, the sounds of bells ringing throughout the city told him something was very wrong.

  The fountain before the temples of the Three was surrounded by people, all eyes in the direction of Kurn’s shrine. Many were rough looking soldiers all too familiar to him, with still more running down the street with swords drawn to join their comrades. Blood stains smeared the armor of many. In fact, between the tolling of bells, Tristan thought he could hear the sounds of clashing blades coming down the road from the entry gates. Besides soldiers, a number of civilians, priests, and merchants filled out the crowd as well. All were on their knees with heads touching the bricks before them.

  Tristan’s hand went instinctually to his hip for a sword but there was nothing there to comfort him. The monk had been unable to provide another weapon for him at the monastery. He felt naked and vulnerable standing there with only robes to protect him.

  Master Ruel looked to him questioningly, not understanding what he was seeing. Touching a finger briefly to his lips, Tristan pulled the robe’s hood over his head and motioned for the monk to follow suit.

  Not wanting to look out of place, they went with the flow of the crowd, joined the incoming soldiers heading toward the fountain. Since neither of them were armed or threatening, they were able to approach the crowd with only a few appraising glances.

  Joining the mass of people, Tristan pulled Ruel down with him to kneel in the street, facing the same direction as everyone else. Over the sea of heads he could see Kurn’s statue. Unlike the one from his memories of past visits, this statue knelt in prostration rather than standing tall. He recognized the small figure of Neila before it. Though she now wore the blue, loosely cut tunic and pants of a Lord’s weapon master, her short blonde hair, small stature, and cock of her hips gave away her identity. As he watched, he could see her taking a sword from Kurn’s outstretched hands. She then turned toward the gathered crowd.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  A man beside them turned to Tristan. “Did you see?” he said, his voice quivering with a mix of fear and excitement. “Kurn chose her! The statue kneeled and gave her his sword!"

  Master Ruel looked at Tristan with raised eyebrows. Tristan could guess what he was thinking. Kurn speaking to one person was a miracle, but two in as many days?

  Neila walked forward, raising the sword over her head. Everyone around Tristan and Ruel bowed to touch their foreheads to the street. Tristan gave Ruel a stern look, urging the monk to follow suit. They both put their heads down, the dust of the cobbles brushing his nose.

  "I be Neila," she shouted. When she spoke, the crowd looked up, returning to their knees to listen.

  Neila was only a few strides away from where Tristan sat. From there he could clearly see the creases of laugh lines around her mouth, her smooth skin showing no trace of life’s burdens or pain. Though he wondered what she might see written on his own face, Tristan did not want to find out. He fumbled nervously with the hood of his robe, trying his best retreat further into its shadows.

  "Kurn’s sword be mine now,” Neila said defiantly. “The god of War bowed to me! Now it be time for change. I have taken this city, and Kurn gives me his favor. My word is law. I say Vor’s time is done as head of the gods. Now it is my time to take his place!"

  The soldiers among the crowd cheered with adoration. How she could attract such devotion Tristan could not guess. The rest of the crowd murmured, in awe of Kurn’s subservience but unsure what it meant. A priest began to speak out in Vor’s defense, but a sword butt to the face stopped him short.

  Ruel turned to Tristan to tell him something, but Tristan could not hear a word he said. The monk’s voice was drowned out by the crowd. Everyone had began shouting Neila’s name. Looking about into the crowd, Tristan could see a mix of worship and fear, some wanting to believe in miracles while others afraid of what would happen if they did not yell loud enough.

  Two men walked up behind Neila. Tristan recognized one Neila’s companions from Lavignal fortress. This time the Elahner carried his helmet beneath one arm, no longer concerned with combat. His curly black hair flowed over his head like turbulent waves.

  The other was Stevan, or at least a much younger version of him. His graying hair was gone. Now golden locks cascaded over his shoulders, and his chin was framed by a light blonde beard. Yet despite his youth, Tristan could still see the same hard vigilance he remembered from their ten winters serving together as Southland soldiers. If not for that, Tristan would have been hard pressed to recognize him. The laugh lines were gone, as was the wry smile. This Stevan’s eyes smoldered like glowing embers with suppressed fury, even as he hovered over Neila protectively. This may be a younger man, but he had developed an edge like tempered steel.

  Neila walked further into the crowd, with Stevan and the Elahner close behind. People parted before her like waves at the bow of a ship as she headed toward the fountain. Tristan grew increasingly nervous as she came close to where he sat. She stopped when she reached the edge of the fountain’s stonework basin, just three short strides from him.

  She waved her arms for silence. The calls of her soldiers faded quickly, leaving everyone present in rapt attention. The crowd was anxious to know what she would do next.

  "Those who be following me have seen, but so should the rest of you. The blood of gods flows through me. If you be wanting to know me, then drink." She held an arm over the fountain’s waters and drew back her sleeve. With a quick cut of her sword, crimson flowed from her forearm into the clear water of the basin.

  The flow of blood faded to a trickle and then stopped as she healed, just as Tristan had seen at Lavignal. Her face spasmed in rapture as she bled. Only when her wound had closed did her control return.

  "Drink," she said, her voice soft like she was speaking with a lover. She motioning everyone forward to the fountain. "Be feeling the power of a god yourself. Drink!"

  There was uncertainty among the people. Drinking blood was known among the Elahn, but to the people of the Empire it was a revolting practice. Yet the ring of armed soldiers was enough to change their reluctance. The people rose to their feet and pressed forward to dip their hands into the water. Tristan and Ruel did as well, carried forward by the tide of the crowd and the push of armed men behind.

  At the fountain Tristan reluctantly cupped his hands and dipped them into the water. He did not wish to draw attention to himself by refusing. People to either side started moaning in pleasure as they sipped, dropping to their knees again despite the press of the crowd behind them. Some were crushed against the fountain by those behind them, yet they were so caught in rapture they did not appear to notice.

  Tristan’s stomach fluttered with a deep chill, his sense of danger telling him not to participate. Unfortunately Neila stood nearby, watching as the people drank. If he did not join in, she would notice.

  The water in his hands looked clear. The amount of blood in it was too little to alter its color. Tristan wondered if it was even enough to effect him, especially with his own ability to heal. Even so, no need to take a chance. He planned to just hold the water in his mouth for a moment and then spit it out when Neila’s gaze was turned. She would never know. So fighting his reluctance, he took a sip.

  His tongue burned the moment it touched his tongue, making him gulp out of reflex. The sensation of fire followed the liquid’s path down his throat. When it hit his stomach he doubled over, his abdomen spasming in response.

  Then it was gone. There was no pain, no fire. He looked down at his hands, letting the remaining water slip through his fingers. Despite the initial sensation, he felt fine.

  "Tristan!" Hearing his name over the moans and sighs around him, he whipped his head up up to see Stevan pushing toward him through the crowd.

  Wishing he could disappear into the crowd, Tristan realized he was the only one beside the fountain still standing. His hood had slipped as well, allowing his old friend to see his silhouette. With nowhere to hide, he pulled down the hood and waited for Stevan to reach him.

  "Is it really you, sir?" Stevan asked.

  "Yes, Stevan. It’s me."

  "I’m so glad you're alive, sir." He looked genuinely relieved, his old smile returning. Whatever had happened to him, Tristan was pleased that it had not erased their friendship.

  Yet as quickly as the smile had come, it fell away. Tears welled in Stevan’s eyes. "I’m so sorry, sir," he said. "I’ve failed you. I failed everyone."

  "It’s alright, Stevan. It’s not your fault." Judging by response of those around him to Neila’s blood, its hold over him must be powerful. Tristan doubted there was anything his friend could have done to resist.

  "Stevan," Neila said, calling to him like a willful pet. At hearing his name, Stevan flinched like he had been slapped. He reluctantly turned face her.

  She had an expression of amused expectation, her lips pursed in a lopsided grin. Now that she had Stevan’s attention, she looked to Tristan, her voice measured and calm.

  "I’m more than happy to be seeing his Lordship again," she mocked. She bowed to Tristan. "I be thinking I’d lost you to the river, but I bet it’s a hard thing to be getting rid of you, isn’t it?"

  She turned to Stevan. "I hate to break up your reunion, my sweet, but I think you should be bringing him to me. You can always talk with him later."

  Stevan nodded and then looked back at Tristan, a frown cutting ridges on either side of his mouth. "I have to do this, sir." He brought his sword up, making his intentions to obey clear.

  "I think I understand. I’m sorry too. I may have to kill you, you know."

  Stevan sighed, shaking his head. “You can try, sir. But I think you’ll find that harder than you think.”

  Without another word Stevan struck out, sword going for Tristan’s gut. Having sparred with Stevan many times, Tristan moved out of the way easily. Yet there was no familiar feeling of coldness before the blade came. Only training and reflex saved him from being skewered.

  He had no time to question what that meant. Seasons of honed skill took over. Tristan stepped forward to Stevan’s side and put a hand on his former friend’s face. With a quick flick of his wrist, he pushed back, sending Stevan’s head whipping backward. With his head going one way and the momentum of his thrust going another, Stevan went tumbling backwards onto the cobbled street.

  In an attempt to catch himself, Stevan dropped his sword. The blade flew into the surrounding crowd, and Tristan went for it. He slipped between the press of people, searching the ground, until he found it lying on the cobbles between a rich merchant’s man’s feet. Smiling at the startled man, Tristan bent down and quickly scooped the blade into his hand from under silken robes.

  By this point Neila’s soldiers came alive, weapons bristling. Civilians fled from Tristan to leave a clear circle around him. In moments he was surrounded.

  “No, he’s mine!” Neila screamed. The weapons of the soldiers stayed up, but they stopped their advance. They created a wall of blades around him to prevent his escape.

  Normally this would not be a problem for Tristan, the sensation in his stomach remained as warm as a summer day. Without the feeling of threat, he had nothing to work with. He had nothing to tell him from where attacks would come, or when to get out of the way.

  Panic started to rise within him. Without that sensation in his gut, he was simultaneously blind and deaf. Feeling naked and vulnerable, memories of his childhood flashed through him mind. His shame came flooding back, driving away all rationality.

  More afraid of Neila than her men, however, he needed to do something, anything to avoid her. So he ran into that wall of blades.

  Most of the soldiers shied away from him instead of engaging. Perhaps they did not want to face Neila’s wrath any more than he did. Others may had seen him at Lavignal Fortress and knew better than to face him. Either way, they left him an opening that he used to slip by.

  A few did not know better or did not care. Though the coldness was gone, Tristan was still an expert swordsman. He stabbed in quick movements as he slid between them, leaving them holding their exposed bowels in their bellies or falling away from cut hamstrings.

  In moments he was through, running for his life toward Hir’s temple. He did not get far. The head of a spear slid out through of the right side of his chest just below the collarbone. He staggered forward from the blow, taking a few more wavering steps before shock set in.

  He braced for the pain to take away his senses and reason, but it did not come. Instead he was numb. Only a sensation of pressure told him anything was wrong.

  He looked down at the spear blade to check that his eyes were not deceiving him. It clearly jutted from him, a flower blooming in the morning sun with blood dripping like dew. He could not see the haft of it, but it weighed on him from behind, dragging him backward. Off balance, he had to work to keep his feet under him on the uneven cobbles of the street. He coughed, and the taste of iron flooded his mouth. It was real. Yet there was no pain.

  Tristan had a flash of memory, an arrow jutting from his chest in the same place the spear did now. The pain had been incredible as his body tried to heal around the protruding shaft, flesh bubbling like hot soup. Now the blood dribbled and his flesh was unresponsive and stagnant. The only thing he felt was a wave of exhaustion coming over him. He stumbled, dropping to one knee as his strength seeped from him.

  Tristan had taken that arrow in defense of his father. Though he had survived, his father had died. Now it appeared he would finally follow in his father’s footsteps. He had always wondered what dying would be like. Would he be scared? Have regrets? The only thing he felt now was relief. Relief that his waiting was over, that it would be painless. That he could die in peace.

  Yet a part of him did not want to let go. He had wanted more from his life, had wasted his time with fear and anxiety. He would never know why he was the way he was. And when Kurn had spoken to him, he thought he was close to getting the answers he needed. He was wrong. Tristan would die knowing nothing.

  Stevan walked up and looked at him with sorrowful eyes. "Help me," Tristan said in a hoarse rasp. "Take it out."

  Stevan knelt to look Tristan in the eye. "I’m sorry, I can’t. I’m the one who put it in you."

  "Why?" Tristan asked. He coughed with the effort of speaking, sending blood splatting out onto the cobblestones between them.

  "Neila did something to me, sir. Her blood. It heals. And the hunger…" Stevan paused to lick his lips as if recalling something delicious. Then he frowned. "But that’s not why I did it."

  He pursed his lips, thinking over his words. "You see, sir,” he said sadly. “Unlike you, she tells me the truth. She doesn’t hide anything from me. Not like you did."

  Looking into Stevan’s eyes, Tristan admitted his old friend was right. He knew Stevan would have kept his secret. It would have been nice to have someone who knew the real him. So how could he blame Stevan for being angry? Tristan had failed him, planted the seeds of doubt, and now paid the price for his fear. And not just fear, his arrogance at thinking he did not need anyone else. This was just another way he let down the people he cared about.

  Knowing he would get no help from Stevan, Tristan put his fingers around the spear, just below the blade, and with what strength he had left pulled. It slid from him, exposing a hand’s width more of the haft, allowing him to wrap his fist around it more tightly. Though his strength was fading, the lack of pain made it easier. He kept at it, pulling and adjusting his grip, slowly drawing the spear through his body.

  Stevan watched in fascination. He stood to give the extending blade some room, but did nothing to hinder Tristan’s effort. Neila came up beside him, also curious about what was happening.

  Tristan thought other gawkers had joined them as well, but his vision was fading. The world was filling with snow. Only Neila’s and Stevan’s faces could be seen through the blizzard.

  "I can’t feel you," Neila said, bending down to gently touch Tristan’s face. “Why can’t I feel you?"

  Tristan ignored her, continuing to pull at the spear until the shaft finally slipped completely from the wound to clatter onto the street. Blood was everywhere. His robes were soaked, and fluid dripped from his mouth with every sucking rasp. He wanted to fight, but he did not have the strength in him. Neila was so close, yet he could do nothing. The best he could do was remain upright and continue sitting on his knees. He would not give Neila the satisfaction of falling down at her feet.

  Neila pulled at his robe to get a closer look at the wound. She examined him like he was injured horse, prodding to see how he would react. He could not stop her.

  "You not be healing,” she said with disappointment.

  If she said more he did not hear it. Through the falling snow he heard the clopping of hooves and suddenly Neila was swept from his sight, replaced by the wheels of a wagon. Hands reached down, grasping under his arms to pull on him, making the world tilt until he lay on uneven wooden boards.

  Despite the snow falling before his eyes, Tristan could feel the warmth of the sun on his face. Then that to faded. He could no longer ignore the need for sleep. He shut his eyes and let go, allowing himself to drift off and see visions of a home that no longer existed.