The other children took up the cry and Nortah waved them to silence, his face taking on a mock serious countenance. “Scary story it is. But,” he held up a finger, “this is not a story for the faint at heart or the weak of bladder. This is the most terrible and frightful of tales and when I am done you may curse my name for ever having voiced it.” His voice dropped to a whisper and the children leaned closer to catch his words. “This is the tale of the Witch’s Bastard.”
It was an old tale Vaelin knew well; a Dark afflicted witch from a Renfaelin village snared the local blacksmith into lying with her and of their union a vile creature in the shape of a human boy was born, destined to bring about the ruin of the village and the death of his father. He thought it an odd choice of story for these children, given as it was often used to warn of the dangers of dabbling in the Dark, but they listened avidly, eyes wide as Nortah set the scene. “In the darkest part of the darkest woods in old Renfael, before the time of the Realm, there stood a village. And in this village there dwelt a witch, comely to the eye but with a heart blacker than the blackest night…”
Vaelin rose quietly and made his way through the darkened ruins to the main camp where suspicious eyes stared at him from makeshift shelters. There were a few guarded nods of greeting but none of the Gifted spoke to him. They must know I’m one of them, he thought. But still they fear me. He continued on to the building where he had awoken that morning, the place Nortah called a library. There was a faint glow of firelight in the doorway and he lingered outside a moment to ensure there were no voices. He wanted a private conversation with Harlick, the one-time librarian.
He found the man reading by his fire, the smoke escaping through a hole in the ceiling. Looking closer at the fire Vaelin noted it had an unusual fuel. Instead of wood the flames licked at curled, blackened pages and blistered leather bindings. His suspicions were confirmed when Harlick turned the last page of his book, closed it and tossed it into the flames.
“I was once told to burn a book is a heinous crime,” he observed, recalling one of his mother’s many lectures on the importance of learning.
Harlick jerked to his feet in fright, taking a few wary backward steps. “What do you want?” he demanded, the quaver in his voice draining any threat from the words.
“To talk.” Vaelin entered and crouched next to the fire, warming his hands and watching the books burn. Harlick said nothing, crossing his arms and refusing to meet his gaze.
“You are Gifted,” Vaelin continued. “You must be or you wouldn’t be here.”
Harlick’s eyes flashed at him. “Don’t you mean afflicted, brother?”
“You have no need to fear me. I have questions, questions a man of learning might be able to answer. Especially a man with a gift.”
“And if I can’t answer?”
Vaelin shrugged. “I shall seek answers elsewhere.” He nodded at the fire. “For a librarian you seem to have little respect for books.”
Harlick bridled, anger overcoming his fear. “I have given my life to the service of knowledge. I will not justify myself to one who does little but litter the Realm with corpses.”
Vaelin inclined his head. “As you wish, sir. But I should still like to ask you my questions. You may answer or no, the choice is your own.”
Harlick pondered in silence for a moment then moved back to the fur covered stool beside the fire, resuming his seat and cautiously meeting Vaelin’s eye. “Ask then.”
“Is the Seventh Order of the Faith truly extinct?”
The man’s gaze dropped immediately, fear once more clouding his face. He didn’t speak for a long time and when he did his words were a whisper. “Have you come here to kill me?”
“I am not here for you. You know that.”
“But you are in search of the Seventh Order.”
“My search is in service to the Faith and the Realm.” He frowned, realising the import of what Harlick had said. “You are of the Seventh Order?”
Harlick seemed shocked. “You mean to say you do not know? Why else would you be here?”
Vaelin was undecided whether to laugh or cuff the man in frustration. “I came in search of my fugitive brother,” he told Harlick patiently. “Not knowing what I would find. I know a little of the Seventh Order and wish to know more. That is all.”
Harlick’s face became rigid, as if he feared any display of emotion could betray him. “Would you reveal the secrets of your Order, brother?”
“Of course not.”
“Then do not expect me to divulge the secrets of mine. You can torture me, I know. But I’ll tell you nothing.”
Vaelin saw how the man’s hands trembled in his lap and couldn’t help admiring his courage. He had thought the Seventh Order, if it still existed, a malign group of Dark afflicted conspirators, but this frightened man and his simple courage spoke of something different.
“Did the Seventh Order orchestrate the killing of Aspects Sentis and Morvin?” he demanded, more harshly than intended. “Did they try to assassinate me during the Test of the Run? Did they deceive Hentes Mustor into murdering his father?”