Fire Emblem Fan Fiction ❯ Fire Emblem Tellius Saga: Book 1 ❯ CHAPTER 8: ARCANE ARTS ( Chapter 8 )

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

Soren stayed for a week, and finding the ruse not difficult to keep up, stayed for a month after that. Then came another month, and he could find no reason to leave. So he stayed, satisfied with having enough to eat and a place to sleep. He remembered well the months spent on his own, and he had no desire to return to that constant state of fear and desperation.

Belm and the others gave him daily chores around the compound, and they enlisted his help for special occasions ranging from festivals to fasts, weddings to funerals. Soren accepted most tasks assigned to him, but he refused to wear the robes of a novice, to stand at the altar during sermons, or to shake the hands of visitors and parishioners when they came and went. He refused to lead chants or prayers or to read lectures aloud from the holy texts.

Belm accepted these restrictions and eventually stopped asking him to devote himself to Ashera. But whenever he saw Soren reading one of the gospels, there was an eagerness in his big eyes that made Soren’s shoulders bunch. Regardless of Belm’s hopes for him, he was determined to read his way through both the little library in the clergy’s sleeping quarters and the larger library in the temple’s basement. While it was nothing compared to some of the grand libraries and archives founds in the cities of the world, it was certainly more than Soren had ever had access to before.

 

Nine months passed, and very little changed at the temple. Soren attended most of the sermons, lectures, and even some of the prayer circles that took place around Ashera’s statue. The content was not of interest to him, but he was bored and people were sometimes entertaining.

Old men fell asleep only to be nudged awake by their wives. Children went to great lengths to make bizarre faces and noises at each other without their parent’s noticing. Young men and women liked to show off to other young men and women. Some wished to prove how devout they were, while others wanted to show how wicked they could be. (There was a distinct subset of people who were clearly invested in seeing how many of Ashera’s doctrines they could violate on temple grounds.) Most people, however, seemed to enjoy the pageantry of a temple visit most of all. They never knew if they would encounter peers from another town or even noble visitors, and their eagerness could cause them to make fools of themselves. Soren enjoyed watching them flounder.

Most of all, however, Soren liked to watch people lie. They lied to their families, to their neighbors, to the clergy, to themselves, and even to the Goddess. Soren imagined he could improve his own subterfuge by observing it done poorly by so many people.

  

   But then, in the early weeks of winter, someone started coming to the temple who did not behave like anyone else. She became the object of his scrutiny, as if instinct told him there was something to learn from her.

   She was a child still, probably only a year or two older than him, and yet she stomped through the snow unchaperoned. Her visits were sporadic, but they averaged twice a week. She did not seem particularly interested in the sermons, but neither was she there to show off or do the things that others did. If anything, it seemed she came to observe people too.

He watched her steel gray eyes scan the crowd, and he read her expressions when she saw something amusing, disturbing, depressing, nauseating, intriguing, or endearing. He tried to guess what had just happened by the tiny movements of the muscles around her eyes and mouth.

   He’d developed a rather decent ability to watch people without them noticing, but perhaps she sensed the frequency of his gaze, because she began looking back at him out of the corner of her eyes or even (when she must have been feeling bold) staring at him directly. However, she did not approach him, and Soren never approached her.

   Or rather, she didn’t confront him during the first month of her visits. Then one day, she walked up to him after Sister Eliza’s lecture (her year of silence having ended not long after he’d arrived). The girl smiled familiarly and said, “I know you.”

It wasn’t the greeting Soren had anticipated, but he hid his surprise and stared back at her.

“Do you remember me?” she pushed, clasping her hands behind her back.

Soren frowned. Sometimes he did think the girl looked familiar, as if she were tugging at some memory. But now that he had spent eight separate days watching her closely, he couldn’t trust his own judgement on that matter.

“Would you like me to tell you,” she teased, “or do you want a hint so you can guess it on your own?”

“I have no interest in guessing games,” he replied icily.

The girl cocked her head. “You came to Crimea from Daein six years ago with an old man in a green cloak. I remember you because of this.” She touched her own forehead and stuck out her tongue in much the same way she had back then.

Soren felt an urge to squirm or make an excuse and leave. He always felt this way when someone mentioned his birthmark, but he refused to let this girl make him feel weak or scared. So he kept his feet in place and his hands still. “I remember you,” he replied. “You were like a little soldier doll, made up in the mimicry of a knight’s uniform.”

The girl laughed as if that were a humorous observation. “My name’s Koure,” she announced, lowering her hand so she could offer it to him.

Soren didn’t accept it, but Koure would not be refused. She took his elbow in one hand and forced him to grasp her other. “Like this,” she teased, giving his hand a couple firm shakes before releasing him. Soren didn’t appreciate being physically overpowered, but there wasn’t much he could do about it other than cross his arms and glare at her.

Koure did not seem affected. “You live here now, don’t you? Why’s that?”

Soren could ignore her, walk away, or avoid answering by redirecting the question. But after watching her all this time, he couldn’t deny he wanted to hear her story, and that would mean giving up parts of his own. “I had nowhere else to live,” he answered. “The man you saw me with that day, he was my master, but he died before I could complete my training.”

“You were learning wind magic, right? All wind mages in the army wear green, just like he did. Why don’t you wear green?”

Soren glanced down at the simple brown tunic he had taken from the temple’s donations. It had never occurred to him to try to pass himself off as a real wind mage, but the answer came easily to his lips: “I am not a soldier.” He shook his head. “And I believe I just told you, I was not able to finish my training.”

Koure shrugged. “When I was little I wanted to wear armor, even though I wasn’t a real knight.”

“How fortunate for you that you got what you wanted,” Soren returned, perhaps a little resentfully.

“Yup!” Koure did not seemed insulted. “My dad is a Royal Knight,” she announced proudly. “There was no one to take care of me when he was on patrol or when he was stationed somewhere, so I got to go with him. The other soldiers and knights helped look after me, and they taught me everything I know.”

“Your mother couldn’t be bothered?” Soren asked, although he wasn’t usually in the habit of asking about people’s relatives.

Koure shook her head and looked a little sad. “I’ve never met her, or my real father actually. I was adopted when I was just a tiny baby, so I don’t even have any memories of them.”

Soren could relate to that, but he did not volunteer this information. He did not feel compelled to befriend this girl. She’d clearly been raised by a loving parent, no matter her origins, so they didn’t really have anything in common at all.

“So what is that thing?” Koure asked, suddenly changing the subject and catching Soren off guard. She pointed to her forehead again.

Soren gave her his most irritated scowl. “It is called the Spirit’s Protection. It’s because I’m a mage.”

Koure didn’t seem convinced. “I don’t know; I got to meet a bunch of mages and sages in the army growing up, and none of them had any cool tattoos like that.”

Soren frowned. “It is not a tattoo.”

“Were you born with it?”

“No,” Soren answered quickly, not knowing if it was a lie or not. “Didn’t your knightly father ever tell you it’s rude to pick apart another person’s appearance?”

Koure looked immediately contrite. “Sorry,” she muttered, “I was just curious…”

“Where is your father anyway?” Soren stayed on the offensive. “Does he not have the time to chaperone his daughter to the temple?”

Koure’s shoulders sagged. “He’s still at the Daein border… He- he and I don’t get to stay with each other anymore. I have to live with his sister now.”

“The word for that is ‘aunt’,” Soren replied pertly, “and if your father has been in the Royal Knights for any length of time, that must mean he is part of a noble family. Surely living with his sister is nothing to complain about.”

Koure shook her head. “Dad doesn’t have any money or standing or anything, and Hilda has her hat shops, but not much land, and the land she does have is nowhere important. She has three daughters who’re all older than me, but only the oldest gets to go to a boarding school. And-”

“I get it,” Soren cut her off. “How unfortunate for you. Of course, I imagine your aunt is quite cruel to you, and your cousins are spiteful and wicked.”

Koure sighed. “They’re not that bad. Hilda lets me come to the temple instead of going to school, if I want. And they don’t really mind me as long as I stay out of the way. But I know she didn’t want dad to adopt me in the first place.”

“Why do you come to the temple?” Soren asked, tired of talking about her family.

Koure brightened some. “To see interesting people!” she answered, as if that were obvious. “It’s better than lessons.” 

Soren thought back to the schooldays in Ike’s village. If given the choice, he would return to that life in an instant. The lessons had not always been stimulating, but Ike had been there (more often than not) and that had made every day entertaining.

Just then, Sister Maren appeared, tapping the door to announce herself. Soren and Koure were still loitering in the back of the empty temple, and they both turned to her. “A prayer group is coming in soon,” Maren whispered. “You two had best run along if you are not going to participate.” Although her vow of silence had expired around the same time as Eliza’s, she still tended to whisper and make her actions as quiet as possible.

Soren nodded, and Koure led the way out. She walked with her hands on her hips and she glanced at the sky as soon as they were outside. Soren stuffed his hands into his pockets and wished he’d worn his cloak. It was getting colder and colder every day. “It’s getting late,” Koure announced, apparently having read the position of the sun. “I should go or Hilda will think I’m getting into trouble.”

“Then go,” Soren dismissed her.

Koure grinned to the side. “Your ruder than me,” she said, “for the record.”

“What?” Soren replied flatly.

“Earlier you accused me of being rude, but you’re way worse.” She laughed at her own assessment. “But it’s okay, I don’t mind. You’re different, and that’s why I liked watching you. You were watching me too, I know. Do you think I’m interesting?”

Soren hesitated before answering, but eventually he said: “You are definitely unusual.”

Koure grinned as if that were a great compliment. “I’ll be back before the end of the week. Let’s talk again then.”

“I assume there is no avoiding it,” was Soren’s answer.

Koure laughed. “So aren’t you going to tell me your name before I go?”

“My name,” Soren repeated, realizing he hadn’t given it and she hadn’t asked.

“I can make one up for you if would prefer,” she offered, pulling on a pair of leather gloves from her pocket.

“Soren,” he said before she could assign him something ridiculous.

“I’m glad I found you again, Soren.” She waved over her shoulder.

Soren watched her disappear while parishioners filed into the temple’s vaulted interior. He felt an oddly familiar emotion, and after a couple moments, he realized it was the same feeling he used to have after encountering someone kind or generous. Whenever someone had given him food, water, a place to sleep—or even if they’d merely caught him trespassing or stealing and let him go without punishment—Soren had felt seen. And now again, he felt seen. It was not something he’d experienced when welcomed to the temple, although Belm and the others treated him well. A feeling of relief and hope accompanied this sensation, and once again Soren felt as if his counter of days had been reset. Time had begun anew, and there was chance tomorrow would not be like yesterday.

  

Koure arrived three days a week after that, and she always found him no matter if he was doing chores or attending services. Sometimes she helped him finish his task; other times she convinced him to put it off until later. When she pulled him away from a lecture or sermon, the speaker, whoever it was, would watch disapprovingly.

“Let’s go on an errand,” Koure said one day, and when Soren asked her what she meant she answered: “I know you go into town to run errands for the priests sometimes. Go ask Father Belm for a job, and let’s go!”

Soren didn’t know why he went along with her plans. But more often than not, he did whatever and went wherever she wanted. She was not particularly pushy or overbearing, but he could see no reason to choose one course of action over another, when neither would impede his survival. Koure was not a detriment to his life to the extent that Belm would send him away, so Soren merely bided his time and let her have her fun. For whatever reason, she seemed intent on befriending him, and Soren thought it was easier just to go along with it.

“Do you want to see something cool?” Koure whispered one day, glancing around conspiratorially

Soren shrugged indifferently.

She seized his hand and led him around the back of the temple, into a prayer garden hidden by evergreens. Snow was falling lightly, and no one was here. Koure didn’t let go of his hand until they were tucked behind a tree that barred the view from the temple’s window. “Get a load of this,” she said before immediately pulling a dagger from between the layers of her snow trousers and leggings. The handle was made of elegantly wrought silver, but the sheath was simple and unassuming.

“It’s real,” she promised, and her breath puffed in the cold air. She drew the blade and passed it to him with both hands. “My dad took it off an enemy commander when he was just a new recruit, and he got to keep it. He always said he’d give it to me when I was older.”

Soren returned the knife by the handle. Weaponry was of little interest to him, but the unexpected behavior of people was. “Why give it to you now?”

Koure shoved the blade back into her trousers. “His letter said he was missing me, so he wanted to send me something!”

“He could have sent you a toy or a dress,” Soren pointed out. “Heirlooms rarely arrive through the postal service.”

“What would you know about heirlooms?” she returned, sticking out her tongue.

“I am merely pointing out that his behavior is suspicious,” Soren returned calmly, but this only seemed to irritate Koure.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she growled.

Soren shrugged, deciding to change the subject. “To most people, that blade is worth more as a trophy than a weapon. You should not let people see you with it or you’ll be robbed.”

Koure grinned to the side. “You nag too much, Soren. You sound like one of the sisters.”

“Don’t let them see you with it either,” was his reply.

This caused Koure to emit a snort of laughter. “Hey, do you know how to use that smelly old book?” she asked, glancing at his satchel. “I mean, you bring it everywhere.”

Soren frowned. “Of course I can use it.”

“Then we should fight each other!” she offered excitedly, and Soren was stunned, suddenly imagining Ike was standing before him. He took an involuntary step backward.

“What, are you scared?” Koure laughed, misreading his retreat.

Soren regained his composure and shook his head. “I am merely alarmed by such a ridiculous idea. Without protective gear, we could seriously hurt each other.”

 “Oh well, then,” she sighed, giving up easily.

 

For the rest of the winter, Koure wore the knife under her clothes where no one could see it, but it was clearly a kind of talisman for her. Soren didn’t berate her for carrying it again. Her companionship was not unpleasant, and he found himself looking forward to her visits.

When spring finally came, Crimea started to grow lush once more. The early crops were already sprouting, and the priests preached about rebirth and renewal. The rains fell hard this year, and Soren and Koure often sought shelter in the prayer gazebo while they waited for a break in the deluge for her to run home.

In silence they sat and watched the rain fall in sheets off the roof. Koure kicked one leg and then the other under the dripping eaves until her boots were soaked. It seemed to Soren she was unsuccessfully trying to kick the falling water back into the sky. The gazebo had a clear view of Ashera’s statue, and the rain looked like tears on her stone face. Koure had been uncharacteristically quiet today, but Soren did not want to ask what was bothering her for fear he would be expected to provide consolation. Eventually she told him without having been asked: “I have to leave.” She didn’t break the rhythm of her kicking or remove her gaze from the downpour. 

“The rain will let up soon,” Soren replied, although he doubted that was what she meant.

“I mean the day after next.” She let out a long breath. “And I mean forever.”

“Okay,” Soren replied. He had known this day would come, and so he had already prepared himself for it. Koure was simply another person passing through his life, or perhaps he was merely passing through hers. Either way, their time as companions was over. There was no point imagining it continuing, but he still wanted to know the reason why. “Where are you going?”

“Hilda is sending me to an orphanage in the south. I am not going to live with her anymore.” Her voice was choked by tears she was wasn’t crying, but Soren wondered if she would start sobbing in a moment. He did not know if he should try to prevent it.

“Why now?” he asked instead.

“My dad-” her voice broke, “He’s dead now, so Hilda doesn’t owe him anything anymore.” Her feet fell still, and her eyes grew moist.

Soren observed her reaction to this loss, much as he had watched her when she’d first started coming here. He wondered why she hadn’t said something before now, instead of being silent and mopey all day. Was he supposed to have guessed what had happened? “How did he die?” he asked.

“Hilda said he’d been sick for a while, but he didn’t want me to see him like that. He didn’t want me to know.” She wiped her nose on her sleeve but still didn’t cry.

“As next of kin, your aunt should become your guardian.” Soren attempted to speak rationally. “Crimean law clearly states-”

“He never really made me his daughter,” she cut him off, her voice almost inaudible. “He never made it official. He just found me, and he kept me even though his family said they would never…” She sniffed and wiped her nose again. “Hilda’s all that’s left, and she hasn’t changed her mind about me. She thinks…” She shook her head. “I’m going to the orphanage in a couple days. I wanted to let you know I probably won’t ever come back here.”

Soren thought for a moment before responding. “You will be taken care of at the orphanage,” he finally said. “There are worst fates than that. Will you be escorted south?” His tone was objective, which was probably not right for this situation, but he didn’t know how to console her other than to point out the advantages of her situation.

She finally turned to face him, and the squint of her eyes was hurt and confused. “…A, uh, a carriage is coming to take me away,” she answered disjointedly.

“That is good. You will not have to walk, and you needn’t fear bandits or inclement weather on the road.”

“Are you even listening to me?” Her mouth peeled into a grimace. “My dad is dead, and I have to leave my only real friend…” A sob rolled over her voice like a wave, and in the aftershock, the first tear spilled over the ridge of her right eye, followed quickly by a second in the left. 

“You cannot mean me.” He resisted the urge to squirm in discomfort. Even if he did consider her a friend—as he had Ike before her—hearing it aloud felt like an accusation. He never behaved like a friend was supposed to, and he was certainly failing in that regard now. He never knew what to say.

“I do mean you,” Koure shook her head, shaking free another pair of tears. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

Soren simply nodded, not trusting his words.

“Then, even if I have to go away, we will still be friends, right? Tell me it’s going to be okay.” She wiped her eyes and nose with opposite wrists.

“I cannot promise that,” Soren answered honestly. When he saw that this did nothing to appease her, he added: “But I can predict that you’ll do well wherever you end up. You are observant and adaptable.”

“Thanks, Soren.” A weak attempt at a smile flickered across her mouth, and with a sniff, her tears stopped running. The rain, too, was lightening now, and she moved her eyes to the low, hazy sky. “I should go back.”

“Will you come again tomorrow?” He didn’t know why he felt hopeful that she would. After all, a second farewell may mean more tears he didn’t know how to deal with.

Koure slid under the gazebo’s railing and dropped to her feet in the mud. “Yes, I want to say a real goodbye.” She pulled her hood up against the sprinkling rain and stuffed her hands into her pockets. “And there’s something I want to tell you before I have to leave.”

“Wouldn’t it be simpler to tell me now?” he asked, feeling as if he were being baited.

Koure shook her head, causing her curls to fall out of the hood and across her forehead. “Tomorrow,” she insisted before turning and walking away.

Soren did not pester her to give him a clue or stay longer. In truth, he expected all she wanted to say was some heartfelt confession of friendship, and as far as he was concerned, that had already been achieved. There was nothing left to say, and yet Soren was glad he would be able to see her one last time.

 

He was wrong, however, and Koure did not appear the next day or any day after that. For a while, he wondered if she’d lied about returning or if she’d somehow been prevented from coming. Either way, he knew she was long gone, and he reasoned that the best course of action would be to stop thinking about the matter and simply let her become a memory.

Maren and Eliza noticed Koure’s absence and asked Soren about it. Their tones were sympathetic, as though they anticipated he might be mourning her loss. But Soren answered their questions with his understanding of the facts. He assured them he did not need their sympathy, and neither Koure nor her dead father needed their prayers.

Without his companion, the temple became even duller than usual. Soren continued to do chores on the temple grounds and run errands in the surrounding towns. He explored as far as he could but always return to the temple to eat and sleep. He continued to watch the people, but there was no one for him to share his observations with anymore. Because of this, the people seemed less interesting.

He began practicing wind magic regularly, although he knew he would quickly exhaust his tome if he continued. Without spells, he would be defenseless, and he certainly wouldn’t be much of a mage. But he needed something to occupy his mind.

When the priests or acolytes found him chanting spells at a target in the garden, they praised him for his diligence and skill. Belm was especially proud, saying, “That’s the Spirit Charmer we know. Let Ashera guide your voice, my child.”

After a while, this encouragement gave Soren an idea. “I would like to resume my study of magic,” he announced one day. “Would you write a letter of introduction that I might present at a mage’s academy?”

Belm’s eyes lit up at the prospect. “Of course,” he answered, “But I will do more for you if I can. Please, let me write to an old associate of mine—a priest and sage of light magic who currently teaches in Melior.”

Eliza clapped her hands together. “Soren, you would bring honor to our little shrine.”

If taken on as an apprentice or allowed to study at a magic school, Soren would certainly never return here. But he did not tell Eliza this. It was better to let these people believe that his success would somehow reflect on their own. In truth, he was excited that Belm had replied so quickly and so favorably to his request.

 

Two weeks later, Belm pulled Soren aside to show him the sage’s return letter. “He and his colleagues would be proud to accept a young Spirit Charmer at their academy,” he beamed, “Free of tuition of course.”

“Is that true?” Soren could hardly believe his ears, and the fact that he was not actually a Spirit Charmer seemed a minor inconvenience at this point.

“You are invited to apply when you are thirteen years of age, at which time you will be enrolled with the youngest class.” Belm made this announcement as if it were splendid news, but Soren’s heart fell. He hadn’t lied about his age when he’d come here, so Belm knew that he was only eleven now. Another year and a half would have to pass before Soren could leave this place. “Shall I write him back, telling him you are counting the days?”

Soren merely nodded. He would not pretend to be happy or grateful for Belm’s sake. He was disappointed, and he saw no reason to hide it. Belm easily noticed.

“Do not fret, my child. I am sure your thirteenth year will be here before you know it. And of course, you are welcome to stay with us until then.”

Soren nodded again, but his chin hitched halfway through the gesture. He realized he should be using this situation to his advantage. “I should spend my time practicing,” he noted. “But I will need a new wind tome.”

Belm seemed to consider this. “Spell books do not come cheaply,” he finally answered. “But I will ask for donations, and perhaps we could write to our sister shrines.”

Soren’s mood brightened. This arrangement would not be a total loss.

 

 Autumn came, and the common folk celebrated the harvest with a festival at Temple Asic. They made gifts of salted meat, ripe vegetables, jarred grains, freshly ground flour, and sweet fruit preserves. The temple’s store room and kitchen were now stocked full. Soren would not go hungry here, and that was reason enough to stay.

The snows came, and soon the hills surrounding the temple were blanketed in white. There were fewer chores to do in the winter, and Soren was more bored than ever. The temple started to feel like a prison, and Soren found himself missing Koure again, who had begun appearing this time last year. But he quickly squashed these feelings, knowing that they were a vulnerability.

 

 The spring was a bad one, fraught with cold snaps that sucked the life out of old and young livestock alike. The ground was impenetrable to the plow, so the season’s early crops were delayed. Ice storms brought trees down on houses, barns, and roads, and the freezing rains made the ground slick. People slipped and were injured. Some even died, and the living cursed whatever they could think to curse.

Most of the locals didn’t bother making the dangerous trek to the temple, but those who did were the ones who prayed most fervently for the goddess to bless them with warmer nights and milder rains. A radical sect of nonbelievers moved into the region, trying to sell their new religion and disprove the existence of Ashera to the anguished commoners. This made Belm anxious, even if the radicals never showed their faces on the temple grounds.

Soren listened to rumors about these animists, who believed in the power of spirits over the mother goddess. They appeared to be crazed, antisocial, tree-hugging zealots, but they were the only interesting thing to happen around here in months. Apparently some of the radicals were even mages, so Soren asked about them whenever he ran errands in town. But he never saw any of the sect, and none of the people he spoke to knew much about them. He was forced to conclude the rumors outshone the newcomers themselves.  

Eventually the days began to warm, and the hard spring came to an end. The countryside burst into life, and everyone soon forgot the trials of the early planting. The Crimean summer promised to be as beautiful as ever. The local farmers pulled fat beets and carrots from the earth, seized the hearts of broccoli and cauliflower from their radiating fronds, and plucked plump strawberries from the shade of their leaves. The rumors of the animists were soon forgotten, even by Soren, who stole into the strawberry fields no one bothered to guard and ate his fill of the plentiful red fruit.

 

But he remembered the animists again when he saw the smoke rising between the hills. He asked himself if Temple Asic had enemies, and the radicals were the only ones who came to mind. His feet pulled him toward the temple road, his half-complete errand now irrelevant. He wasn’t the only one to notice the dark cloud rising, and people started running past him. Some shouted to one another—discordant orders about rousing the fire brigade.

When he neared the temple gate, Soren finally ran, but he stopped when the heat of the flames streaked the air in front of him. The gardens and groves were all aflame, and in the distance, he thought he could see Ashera’s stone head observing the billowing smoke and licking flames with her usual imperious expression.

The townsfolk who’d arrived ahead of them had already joined those who’d escaped the fire. Amidst coughs, shouts, and demands to know what had happened, the people formed a line to the nearest stream. They passed buckets hand-to-hand, although there was obviously no saving the temple now. The survivors made jumbled claims about people with axes and torches, but one thing was clear among all their stories: there had been a fire mage.

Rather than joining the line, Soren circled around until he had a better view of the temple’s main building. The spire fell before his eyes, and he didn’t even hear it hit the roof over the roar of the flames that surged to devour the additional fuel. The stained-glass windows were all shattered. The garden of evergreens where Soren and Koure used to hide now contained only the black skeletons of trees, wreathed in red flame, gushing dark gray smoke.

Soren kept moving until he reached higher ground. From this vantage point he could see the outhouses, the kitchen and pantry, and the priest’s sleeping quarters all burning. Again he moved, and here he saw the guest dormitories, the prayer gazebo, and the stable all aflame. Only Ashera’s statue and the stone lanterns were unaffected. They stoically withstood the inferno, merely blackened with ash.

Careful of the wind blowing smoke into his eyes, Soren shielded his face and kept moving. He squinted against the brightness of the fire and looked for bodies. He thought he saw them, their clothes nothing but thin rags waving in the heat, their limbs burned thin as broomsticks. But he could not be sure of what he was seeing.

Eventually he turned his back to the blaze and walked away. His wind magic was useless against a fire like this, and his weak arms would make little difference in the bucket line. So he watched peasants from the surrounding towns work together to contain the fire.

After two hours, the sky opened up, and rain did what the mortal men and women could not. Combining their efforts, the humans and the downpour eradicated the last of the flames, leaving only the charred remnants of what had once been Temple Asic. Soren stayed away from the people, for fear of somehow being blamed for this disaster, but he lingered long enough to determine that none of the priests or acolytes had survived.

Then he moved back toward the town where he’d been buying medicine to treat Brother Oten’s bunions only a couple hours ago. Squatting in the back of a barn, drenched with rainwater, Soren opened his satchel and took stock of what he had left to his name: two small wind tomes, a few coins, a small water bladder, the remains of the lunch Maren had sent with him, and a small bag containing a bunion poultice. It was not ideal.

He considered stealing back to the temple after nightfall to search the ruins for valuables, but he imagined militia from town would already be guarding it from bandits and other scavengers. He didn’t want to imagine what they’d do if they found him skulking around.

Evening fell, and Soren left the barn to walk around town and listen to the gossip. It quickly became clear that the townsfolk had leapt to the same conclusion he’d come to: the animists were to blame. A search party had already been sent to round them up.

Soren didn’t have to wait long for the party to return, dragging their quarry with chains and ropes. The animists shouted their confusion and claimed their innocence to anyone who would make eye contact, and Soren wondered if they were telling the truth. This was the first time he’d seen any of them, and they struck him as an odd combination of scholars and wild men, but not murderers.

The militia marched the animists to the temple ruins, which were cast in starlight broken only by shreds of the passing raincloud. The town emptied to follow them, and Soren let himself be swept up by the jeering horde.

Pyres were swiftly assembled from the burnt wood, and the animists who had not yet been beaten unconscious screamed and begged for their lives. People shouted for blood and sang joyous prayers. Separating from the crowd, Soren used this distraction as a chance to investigate the ruins himself.

First, he went to the main temple and looked for the silver candlesticks, the holy chalice, and the box containing the day’s donations. Finding none of these things, Soren proceeded to the pantry and searched the cellar for whatever food may have survived. But it seemed the place had been picked clean even before the fire had touched it. Soren collected what little was left.

Next, he searched whatever bodies he could find, although he was reluctant to do it. Memories of Greil’s massacre came to mind even though these corpses looked entirely different. Those had been a fresh, wet mess of red blood, but these were shriveled, blackened, and hardly recognizable. Checking the shreds of their clothes, he found no coins or anything of value. It was difficult to tell, but Soren thought their pockets had been cut. Any purses or bags they may have carried appeared to be missing.

Finally, Soren followed what he thought was a trail of hoofprints leading toward the western gate and out of the temple grounds. But again it was hard to be certain of anything in the dark. There was no sign of anyone here, or in the distance where the road curved around one of the surrounding hills. If bandits had ransacked this place, they were long gone.

Returning to the crowd of bellowing townsfolk, Soren saw that the animists were already burning and nearly all dead on their pyres. A hollow, whimpering moan came from the blackened lips of the last one, but he soon died as well. Someone was trying to take control of the crowd and lead them in one of the most popular prayers about divine justice. The people around him joined in, and some of the older folk sang the verses in the ancient tongue, puffing out their chests and clearly proud to show they knew the more difficult version. Others simply raised their hands to the sky and hummed with their eyes closed.

Soren could hardly believe their joy at having killed innocents without even bothering to investigate for themselves. Although the nonbelievers had also jumped into his mind at first, his brief investigation now suggested roving bandits were responsible. But no one else had been out there with him searching the ruins; no one else had bothered to look with their own eyes. They hadn’t even taken a moment to find the bodies of the priests they were claiming to avenge. Soren shook his head at the blindness of it all.

Then, afraid that he too would be stuck on a pyre if he stayed any longer, Soren returned to the barn he’d vacated not long ago. He would stay out of sight and rest for a few hours. When the townsfolk finally settled down, he would steal what he could and be gone before daylight.