Of the nine virtues, Anwe’s greatest deficit lay in compassion.The unenlightened might even call her ‘cruel’.Torin could feel her anger like heat from a furnace.The messenger’s every word was a bellows.
‘Forgive my Knight of Action,’ Torin said.‘Her first virtue is industry.She cannot abide wasted time.’
He fixed his gaze on the messenger’s eyes.The man was already carrying a wide array of fears.Fear of Anwe, most pronounced.Fear of Torin, creeping up the back of his neck, now, as he maintained his steady, searching gaze.Fear, too, of the Count of Afondir; of the loss of his station if he disobeyed the strict orders he had been given.
Torin needed no invocation of the Agion, no gift of holy power, to read these things in the face of another mortal.Years of service as a Knight of Mediation, and then as an anakriarch—an inquisitor of the Mortal Church—had left the faces, bodies and minds of others as legible to him as the simplest book.
This one… The invocation of compassion to draw out and redouble his fears would be more than enough.Not the subtlest, nor the kindest way for Torin to get what he wanted from the man, but the morning’s delay had strained his patience to the point of breaking.Afondir clearly had no conception of the stakes here.The haunting that had killed his king offered a singular opportunity for the influence of the Mortal Church to spread.And not on the edge of a blade, as it had been brought to the frontiers of Tarebach, but peaceably.
By eradicating the haunting, Torin would win not only the gratitude of the nobility and Crown Prince Owyn, but the hearts and minds of the people.Soon they would welcome itinerant priests in their villages and towns, who would preach that the haunting had sprouted from roots of old religion, still clinging to the leavings of the First Folk.In a generation, Parwys would be brought into the Mortal Church’s political fold.One more principality shepherded into virtue, ready to be shaped into a weapon against the ancient enemy—the City of Vice, Thaumedony.
For that glorious day to dawn—and, just as importantly, for Torin to play a key role in its dawning—he needed the Count of Afondir’s cooperation.An anakriarch of the Mortal Church could not simply walk into the throne room of a heathen kingdom and declare his intent to meddle in local magic and politics.He needed an escort.Someone of sufficient status to vouch for and protect him.Cooperation that Afondir had offered, and which this messenger had been sent, it seemed, to rescind.
There would be some pleasure in twisting the man’s haughty expression into naked panic.
‘By Kovan, Agion of Compassion,’ Torin said, and felt the inrush of sacred power.Cold fire whirled into life at the crown of his head.His awareness of the messenger’s fears became more pronounced.No longer mere inferences.Torin could see the emotions trailing from him like loose threads from a frayed hem.With a motion of Torin’s will, he seized one, and pulled, and watched the man’s carefully woven garment of bravery, loyalty and superiority unravel, revealing the quivering mess he was beneath.
‘You know who we are,’ Torin said, pulling that thread.The messenger’s face went as white as curdled milk.‘You know that the Count of Afondir will not poison his relationship with the Iron Citadel for the sake of such a one as you.’
The garment unravelled.The messenger’s posture collapsed.His stallion bucked and whickered beneath him, agitated by its rider’s panic.
‘Please,’ the messenger breathed, his voice struggling through a throat seized by terror.‘You can find him north of the city, near Woodsman’s Hearth.’
Torin released his invocation, and with it his hold on the messenger’s fear.The messenger took a sharp breath, seemed confused for a moment, then shocked and freshly terrified.
Torin felt genuine pity for the man—thrust into this situation, compelled to betray the trust of his lord.Not the messenger’s fault.Compassion let him see and twist the feelings of others, but it was also a weakness.In excess, it bred regrets and could lead one to shy away from necessary cruelties.An excess he remained ever vigilant against.
The git had deserved it, he reminded himself.
‘Thank you,’ Torin said, kneeing his mount forward.‘I will put in a good word for you with the Count of Afondir and insist that he not remove you from your station.’
The messenger’s face went white again as Anwe and Orn rode past—Anwe with a rumbling chuckle, Orn with a single, pitying glance.
* * *
The sun had long since begun its descent by the time Torin, Anwe and Orn found the Count of Afondir.They had ridden north from the arranged meeting place where, according to Templar Unwith’s plan, they had been meant to rendezvous with the count’s entourage on their way to King Elbrech’s funeral and Prince Owyn’s crowning.
Only Afondir had not met them on the road, which would delay their arrival to Parwys.The window of opportunity was narrow, open only because of the prince’s inexperience and his desperation to end the haunting that had claimed his father’s life.Every day they delayed was a chance that the kingdom’s heathen priesthood—the loathsome druids, an order to which the queen regent belonged—might find a solution.More, arriving late—worst of all, after the king had already been buried—would be a grave insult to the prince.If Afondir’s patronage turned from an asset to a disadvantage, Torin had little hope for success.
Two banners fluttered in the breeze of early evening: Afondir’s gold tower on a mauve field, and a silver stag on a field of forest green.The emblem of Glascoed, Torin recalled—a forested, sparsely populated county to Afondir’s north.Forests which played host to fae folk and ancient fiends, or so spurious rumours told.Far more likely ones indicated a nascent rebellion—or at the very least, banditry on the roads, preying on merchants, logging caravans, and wagons loaded with raw iron from the mines on the slopes of the Shield Mountains.
Ifan, the Count of Glascoed, would be on his way to Parwys, too, then, for the funeral and coronation.But, at least from the maps Torin could recall, a more direct route lay across the hills and marshlands that separated his county from the royal holdings.Why had he travelled this way?And why had Afondir detoured to meet him on the road?
A housecarl in Afondir’s livery spotted their approach.He motioned for two halberdiers, who fell in behind him, then called for Torin to halt.Torin reined in his mount and waited, making his face a placid, gentle mask.The housecarl looked them over.His gaze lingered on their weapons and armour—particularly the enormous sword strapped to Anwe’s saddle—before settling on the pendant of nested triangles Torin wore.
‘You’re not supposed to be here,’ the housecarl snarled up at them.
‘Neither are you,’ Torin observed.
The housecarl’s glare might have stripped the hide from a stag.‘Go back to your encampment.Things have changed.’
‘Indeed,’ Torin said.‘And I would like to know why.The Count of Afondir sent for me.’
‘Things have changed,’ the housecarl repeated, his voice taking on a biting edge.
While they spoke, Orn extended his spine to peer over the assembled crowd.‘The banners stand over a pavilion.’
‘Where I suspect we will find the count,’ Torin said.‘Let us pass, man.Unless you intend to slaughter the count’s guests as they arrive?’
