"People of Alysgard, trust the Amity. Our most holy sacrament will root out the cursed ones in this time of dark disorder." — from a recent notice penned by Father Bertram

~~~

The man looked to be in his sixtieth year. The cuffs of his white robe were lined with a strip of dark blue, which Briar knew signified a high rank in the church. A string of brown beads hung from his mottled red neck, supporting a circular pendant that had seven painted dots traveling around it in different colors. A dot for each gem, for each saint. Like the forehead tattoos of the Consecrated. It reminded Briar of the circle of gems in Rook's palm.

The priest's face was flushed and sweaty with drink, but his eyes held a shrewdness that made Briar want to shrink away. He was certainly old enough to have made the pilgrimage to the northern monastery in the days of the last Orla. He might have seen her in the flesh. Might have prayed to her. Kissed her feet.

He wasn't looking at Briar though, to her relief. His eyes were locked on Rook with a keen interest.

Briar exchanged a quick glance with Rook— nervous on her part, but merely wary on his.

"Greetings, hunter," the man said, raising a swollen hand. "Saints be with you."

Imagine if the priest knew a saint is literally with him, Briar thought.

Rook met his intense gaze with a flat look. "Evening," he returned. His stiff body language suggested he wasn't interested in speaking.

The priest either didn't notice or didn't care. "I am Father Bertram of the Amity. I've heard many tales of you. The townsfolk say you sometimes hunt werewolves who have not submitted themselves to their Darkholm relocation."

"Mhm," Rook said vaguely.

"Your venture is greatly appreciated and blessed by the Amity," Father Bertram said. "I want you to know that you are doing holy work."

Rook hesitated. "Alright."

"Since the news of the princess reached us, we too have been doing our own part to cleanse the world of evil. We've been doing rounds of the town, sprinkling holy water in the crowds to find anyone who may be tainted."

"Not sure what could make water holy," Rook said.

"Silver, of course," Father Bertram returned, as though it was obvious. "Pure spring water distilled with holy silver. To give any werewolves the telltale burns. It is most wonderful."

Briar poked at her pie crust, her appetite being replaced with the desire to run. If that priest tried to sprinkle dubious water on her, she would barrel him to the ground.

"I see," Rook said. "Found any of the vermin yet?"

"No, but we are hopeful. The monsters are cursed creations of a fallen saint whom we have long endeavored to wipe the world of. A dark saint. She has a long history of antagonizing our blessed lady of light, the saint we deem as highest— Saint Orla."

Rook's eyes flicked to Briar briefly. "Never heard of her."

Briar bit back a smirk despite her nerves. She was keeping very still, head tilted away from the priest. It was dark in the tavern and his mind was likely addled with drink, but she wanted to be careful just the same.

"Ah, but of course you have," Father Bertram said, giving an uneasy laugh. "I see you must be a man of humor."

"Been called lots of things in my day, but never that."

Father Bertram seemed to struggle with what to say next. "I must ask on behalf of the church— have you ever considered hunting arcanes?"

Rook nearly choked on his sip of coffee. "Arcanes? In Oloria?"

"It shocks and frightens me too," the priest said solemnly. "But I begin to wonder if it might be true. Magic is no longer illegal, as I am sure you know. This worries the Amity. Putting ourselves above the saints by wielding every element is presumptuous and blasphemous. We see it as the highest form of heresy, and thus should be punished to the highest degree."

"The magic is dangerous from what I understand." Briar could tell Rook was choosing his words carefully. "Doubt many would be willing to risk their lives for a title few people care about anymore."

"And yet there will always be ambitious free thinkers tempted to try. And with no threat of punishment, what's to stop them? And if no one stops them, will they not inspire others? Before long we will have a guild of arcanes again. A guild of blasphemers, laughing in the face of our most hallowed deities. What a terrible thought."

"Mhm," Rook murmured again. "I only hunt monsters, though. Not humans. I wouldn't even kill a werewolf unless it was in monster form."

"Ah, well. At least you are a man of conviction. It's hard to find people who believe in anything in this age of irreverence. It matters not— for now, at least. All will come to light before long. Some claimed to have come across the blessed Saint Orla in the northern woods. The source is unreliable, but I am hopeful."

Briar didn't dare breath. "

A saint in the woods?" Rook's tone was incredulous. "Sounds unlikely."

"I thought the very same thing at first. But perhaps she is in hiding. Waiting. Gathering her strength. Perhaps she is making herself ready to reveal herself to us."

"Could be," Rook said.

Father Bertram grinned. "I like the way you think, Master Rook. I appreciate this conversation. I deduce you are a good man, deeply concerned with holy things. A man of faith."

"Do you?" Rook asked, bemused.

"Of course. Even if the sighting of Saint Orla is false, the saints hasten their return. All those who are pure of heart can feel it. It has been written in the stars, telling us the time is nigh." Father Bertram paused, and for a moment Briar worried it was because he felt her unease. "Well, I will leave you to your dinner, and to the company of your lovely wife." He glanced at Briar but she hid behind taking a long sip from her mug.

"So long, Father Bertram," Rook said.

The priest folded his hands and bowed his head. "Blessings of the saints upon you both."

Rook pressed his lips together and gave a slow nod. As he watched the old man go, his expression turned to barely veiled distaste.

They set their eyes on each other, Briar's look a silent plea to leave. Rook nodded and they quickly finished their meal, then left to go upstairs.

She followed him up the narrow stairwell. With every creaking step, the drunken dirge quieted. She wondered if he could hear how loud her heart battered.

Stop it, she told herself. It's just Rook. You slept across from him the night before last.

His room was kept simply. A bed which Briar noticed was big enough for two, a stocked bookshelf, a table, a bathtub, and a painting of Cerridwen above the hearth. It was similar to the one Sybil had hanging in her house, clearly also painted by Sven. In this portrait she wore a white dress and her lips were curved up in a soft smile.

"You can take the bed," Rook said as he set his pack on the table and unclipped his cloak. He was always giving her the bed.

"Are you sure?" Briar asked.

Rook nodded. "The floor suits me. Feels good on my sore back."

Briar set her pack on the bed, struck by how small the room felt. Her skin began to sweat and itch under her wool layers. She could think of nothing to say. Her mind was like soup. The man's effect on her was irritating.

"You were right," Rook said finally as he knelt to make a fire. "Seems word did catch about you quickly."

Briar sat heavy on the edge of the bed. "It seems that way." She looked down at her hands. At the scars. The grime caked under her nails. "I'm not sure what all this means, Rook. What do I do with this new understanding about myself? What is my path?"

Rook paused his wood stacking and rubbed a dirt-stained hand through his beard. "If it was me, I'd just carry on as I was." He looked over his shoulder at her. "Trust it will become clear." His dark gaze lingered on her a moment too long. Both of them darted their eyes down.

"I don't want to end up like past Orlas," Briar continued. "I feel them inside me. They're hungry for power. I feel like there's a capacity in me to become a monster if left unchecked."

It was like the werewolf curse— a monster crouching inside her, waiting to be loosed when the moon was right.

She sighed, shaking her head, and said, "All of this is too much chaos to contend with."

"Your soul bargained for it before you came here," Rook said, shrugging. "The waters just look muddy right now. You're still young. All will be clear in time."

That was one thing Briar hadn't let herself think about. Time. How it would go on and on unless she was killed by unnatural causes. Immortality stretched out before her, a long and bleak path where no flowers grew. Everyone she ever allowed herself to love would die. She'd be left alone again and again.

Before she could stop herself, she imagined being coupled to Rook. How he would grow old and gray and she would stay the same. How she would have to bury their children. A life of palest winter. An eternity of mourning. Strange how she'd been given all the time in the world and yet felt robbed of it.

She blinked away tears. "My path can't be to simply fight Nyxia and seek praise and come back to do it all over again," she said. "What a senseless wheel."

Rook coaxed the hissing flames. "Maybe you're supposed to jam a stick through the spoke."

"How?"

"No idea."

They fell into silence. Before their long bouts of not talking had felt contemplative and comradely. Now they made her want to squirm. She felt the need to fill the silence now. It held the weight of too many unspoken things. Hidden things that wanted to be brought into the light.

"Apparently we're both one sprinkle of holy water away from being discovered," she said finally.

"That priest would never dare sprinkle me, or anyone with me," Rook returned. "It would be an insult and seems I've garnered his respect. Don't think we have anything to worry about."

"I really didn't like him. Father Bertram," she said.

"Me neither," Rook got to his feet and stretched his spine. "Not that I like any of them. He's just another white cloak creep. They're all the same."

Briar remembered her past life visions of being whipped by men who looked like Father Bertram. "A bunch of white-washed tombs," she said. "Painted corpses."

A grinning figure appeared beside Briar. Exclaiming, she jumped off the bed.

"Evening," Nyxia said. "Thought I'd interrupt your nauseating alone time and weigh in."

Talisman beginning to grow warm, Briar stared at the figment of her sister. It was the first time she'd seen the god since the night in the monastery where everything changed. Something old stirred in Briar. An animosity she couldn't explain that didn't feel wholly hers.

A devilish spark gleamed in Nyxia's cherry pit eyes.

Rook sighed, not even turning to look at her. "What do you want, Nyxia?"

"Arousing discourse? A friendly discussion? I feel dreadfully left out." She cast her gaze to Briar, making a fierce cold steal over herskin."You aren't the only one, little Orla, who has been wronged by the Amity."

"What did they ever do to you?" Briar asked in a flat voice.

"Why, they are responsible for my fall from grace, of course. One little moment of anger against my sister and they forgot everything I did for them in the mutiny against our parents. One little curse and they spat all over me."

"I wouldn't call it a little curse," Rook said.

Nyxia waved a dismissive hand. "It's all in how you see it, Rook dear."

"I see it as a terrible, life-ruining curse," Briar said.

"Well, you would. That's something we haven't talked about yet, little sister. How hilarious it is that you managed, after all these long lifetimes, to get tainted with my curse. What sweet, poetic justice." Nyxia cackled for a long moment, wiping pretend tears from her eyes. "What elation."

"I don't feel very elated," Briar said.

"Surely you can imagine how nice it must feel to win one for once after always living in the shadow of a brighter sister."

Briar only glowered. Nyxia's sentiment was similar to what Leith had griped so long ago.

Darling Briar, favorite child, doted on and praised.

Rook began unpacking the contents of his canvas pack, acting uninterested in the conversation. "We need to sleep, Nyxia."

Nyxia arched a brow. "Oh is it sleep that you both want? What kind of sleep? Literal or euphemism?" She patted the bed. "It's big enough for two. Are you going to admit your feelings and get on with it already or what?"

Briar's eyes widened, horrified. Her face grew hot.

"Nyxia. Enough," Rook said. If the words had made him uncomfortable, it didn't show.

The god gave a shrill laugh. "Just trying to help." She shifted into a large raven, hopping off the bed and flying to the mantelpiece. The bird cocked her head at Cerridwen's portrait, then looked at Briar.

Briar clenched her jaw and unlaced her boots. The silence roared now. What could be said after a horrible moment like that? "Well, goodnight then," she decided on, trying to sound cheery.

"Good night, Briar," he said as he unstrapped the sleeping cot from his pack.

He didn't call me Princess this time, Briar thought. She liked the sound of her name on his lips. How the rich timber of his voice curled around the word and held it.

Taking off her outer layers, she climbed into the bed. His bed, smelling like his campfire musk. She imagined the sheets embracing his strong frame. Holding him close. She had to admit she felt envious.

She rolled over to face the wall. Though she couldn't see Rook, his silent presence filled the room, demanding her attention. She listened to him unbuckle his sword and bit the inside of her cheek. She squeezed her eyes shut.

All the air had left the room. It must have. She couldn't take a full breath.

Though Briar was exhausted, it took a long while for sleep to find her. She listened to Rook's breathing. It was even, but not deep enough for him to be asleep.

Did he feel all of this too?

All the while, she felt the piercing eyes of Nyxia. Watching. Waiting.~~~

"Have some errands to run today," Rook said to Briar the next morning as they sat to a breakfast of pancakes in his room. "I'll be gone for awhile, so feel free to take a bath if you want to. Bartholomew will have hot water brought up to you."

Briar looked at the tub with longing. She lost track of how many days it had been since she bathed. The experience with the Consecrated had left her feeling especially grungy. The crawling feeling still hadn't left her skin. "I'd love that," she said. "What errands do you have to run?"

"Take the horses to the farrier. Buy them more grain. Also," he reached into his pack and carefully withdrew a stack of papers wrapped in waxed cloth. "A wealthy old woman here buys Sven's paintings. Have to deliver them to her."

Briar wiped her fingers on her tunic and peeled back the covering to find a beautiful painting of a snowy lake surrounded by jagged mountain peaks. She recognized the place as the view near the Jarl of Vlaskafell's house.

Thorvald hadn't even crossed her mind since the night of the new moon. She wondered how he was doing and if he'd met with Leith yet. Without the promised marriage to bring lasting peace to the two countries, tensions could be running high. Her brother wasn't exactly diplomatic.

Briar thumbed through the others, all of them stunning landscapes. "What does the lady do with them?"

"Hangs them in her manor. Gives them as gifts. She says she's a lover of art but has no skill of her own, so she's always looking for paintings. I showed her one of Sven's and she's been buying them ever since. I told her the paintings are by a friend of mine too humble to sell them himself. I'm the go-between. All the money goes into the Darkholm funds."

Briar slid the paintings back to Rook. "Sybil told me how much better their quality of life became once you started to help them. It was much better up there than I was expecting. Everyone lives well." She paused. "If you ignore the murderous rages everyone goes into once a month."

Rook's mouth curved, deepening the dimple behind his beard. It gave Briar's heart a little ache. She wanted to make him smile more.

"It was the magic," he said. "Couldn't do anything without it. Soon Darkholm won't need me anymore. Everyone will be free to live and travel and make money as they see fit. No more go-between. No more communal coin." Rook sighed heavy. A shadow passed over his face for a moment, making him look spent. "I look forward to that day."

"As do I," Briar said. "For my sake, yes, but also for yours." She fluttered her eyelashes down, using the last bite of her pancake to soak up melted butter. "Especially for yours."

He was quiet for a moment. "I would say the same to you. I don't care about me. I never have. But you deserve better." He cleared his throat, then added quickly, "Like all the people of Darkholm do."

The rest of breakfast was punctuated with furtive glances across the table at each other. They didn't speak of Nyxia's uncomfortable comments the night before, but it hung between them, causing a tension that could have been sliced through with a blunt knife.

"Guess I better get going," Rook said once he drained the last of his coffee. Taking Sven's paintings, he headed for the door. Reached for the doorknob. Paused. Looked over his shoulder. "You know, Briar... I've grown accustomed to being alone all the time. But... it's nice. To not be."

Briar smiled at him. "It is nice. Turns out I actually enjoy being with you. Despite your grumpy disposition and your snoring."

Rook grinned openly and chuckled. "Guess you really are a saint."

Briar laughed. "It can no longer be disputed."

His eyes lingered on her face a moment longer, and then he slipped out.

Briar smiled to herself the rest of the morning, feeling almost giddy. A nice change after feeling like horse shit for so long.

She ordered water to be brought up and soon she was soaking her aching body. Tears of relief pricked her eyelids, eager for all the grime of body and spirit to be washed off and forgotten. She scrubbed her tacky skin until it glowed clean and rosy, then slipped her head under to wash the caked blood from her hair. Once she felt sufficiently scoured, she settled back in the tub and let the weariness of her muscles melt away as she set her thoughts on returning to the castle— her home— tomorrow. What would it be like to be back, but hiding behind a costume? To be back, but as a stranger in her rightful home? What would she feel when she saw her brother, or Fraser and Marguerite? Would she be able to keep her rage in check? Or would she feel like everything was crumbling beneath her all over again?

It will be different this time, Briar said. Rook will be with me. I won't feel so alone.

After her bath, Briar used the water to wash her filthy traveling clothes and hung them to dry by the fire. She made a coffee for herself that was terrible compared to Rook's coffee, then donned her cloak and decided to go for a walk. She knew it wasn't the wisest idea, but she would be discreet about it. She craved a wander on her own.

This day of rest, this time to herself, felt like the hush of calm before a raging storm. She wanted to enjoy it as much as she could.

As she stepped out of the room, she nearly barreled into a woman carrying a stack of clean towels. She was tall, a few years older than Briar, with dark curls pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Briar said.

The woman's brow furrowed. She looked from Briar, to Rook's door, and then back again. Her expression fell. "Ah," she said, pushing her shoulders back. "So a woman has finally melted the man's ice heart."

"I don't know what you—"

She rolled her brown eyes. "Rook never has women in his room. I know you're not a whore. Rook is against them on principle. And he would never let just any woman stay with him. He'd sooner pay the coin to put you up in your own room, or a different inn entirely, if he didn't care about you." She gave Briar a flat look. "Trust me. I would know. I've been trying to get him to notice me for years."

Briar blinked, too shocked to know what to say. Apparently Esmae isn't the only one, she thought. Rook is quite the heart breaker.

"I hope you're proud of yourself," she continued. "You've succeeded where every other woman has failed."

"I'm not... I wasn't..." Briar stuttered. "Please, I'm just trying to leave." She gestured to the stairwell.

The woman bobbed a quick, sour curtsy, then stepped out of the way. "My apologies." Her tone was poisonous.

Briar sidestepped to get away from her and hurried down the stairs, feeling her narrowed eyes the whole way.

Once out in the cool autumn air, Briar let out out a heavy breath. She couldn't help but feel a bit triumphant. Had she been the one to finally melt Rook's ice heart?

You have more pressing things to think about, she reminded herself as she began a brisk walk.

She flipped her hood up, heading down a quiet side road away from the main part of town. The road led her through rolling meadows, all still within Alysgard's enormous wall, the grass pale yellow with the autumn cold. Cottages and farms dotted the landscape. Patches of yesterday's snow still covered spots of shade, the rest of it melting into mud that Briar's boots sunk into. 

Eventually, the road veered back towards the busier part of the city.

Going further, she saw the Amity's chief cathedral.

Briar stared at the grandiose building of sandstone and iron, almost finer than even the castle. Decorated arched windows gaped at her like black eyes and black mouths rimmed with teeth, the high turrets sharp like the horned spikes down a fire drake's spine.

Deep memories trapped in her soul sent her a warning to stay far away. In the same breath she imagined striding into the cathedral and claiming her power. Her voice would echo from the arched ceilings and her light would spill from the dark windows. She imagined Father Bertram trembling before her. Would they venerate her? Worship her? Would they sing hymns to her name? Beg her to save them from their earthly woes?

The memory of Orla's chained skeleton snapped her out of the fantasy. You know what they would do.

Six statues were erected around the entrance of the cathedral, portraying the figures of two men and three women. Six of the seven half-gods— all of them except Nyxia, who the Amity had of course wiped from their canon. Some of the statues were crumbling, missing fingers or hands or parts of their faces. Even from afar, Briar could see their chiseled faces were downcast, drawn in a demure kind of sorrow.

The Amity would probably prefer their saints to be turned to stone like those ones. Kept in place. Locked in time. Manageable and behaved. Safe.

The sight filled Briar with a bitter rage.

How many other saints had the Amity found and locked up?

A cold emptiness caved her chest in. She tore her gaze away.

A commotion rattled the dense crowd she was in. Shouts of distaste grew louder. Briar looked over her shoulder to see a long line of white cloaked people cutting through the crowd— solemn acolytes of the Amity, their hands folded in reverence, led by Father Bertram. The priest's red hands cradled a deep silver bowl filled with water. As he walked, he dipped a hand in to violently sprinkle passersby who were minding their own business. Folk cast him looks of affront as the droplets splattered across their faces.

His voice carried through the crowd. "We must purge the evil from our midst!"

Gasping, Briar stepped out of the way. A drop of water landed on her woolen sleeve, luckily avoiding the exposed skin of her wrist and hand.

A startled cry of pain punctured the angry dirge.

As though avoiding a ghastly rodent, the crowd abruptly dissipated to the sides to reveal a woman on her knees. She shielded her face while the sunken, wrathful eyes of Father Bertram gleamed down at her. He took another step toward her, dipped his hand in the holy water, and cast it down on her.

The woman screamed. Briar recognized the sound. It was the same desperate shriek that had escaped her own mouth at her coronation.

Steam rose from the woman's scalp where patches of her hair burned away. Her body shook. She crouched with her head to her knees, trying to shield her head.

The priest splattered water on her again, this time all over her hands and the back of her neck. Her shoulders heaved with terrified sobs of pain while he looked on, heartless and gloating.

Fury welled up in Briar. She was about to run in front of the woman, to demand the priest stop his torture of her, when she caught herself short.

What could she say that wouldn't draw suspicion to herself? Father Bertram knew her as the werewolf hunter's wife. Expressing any angered sympathy toward the woman— the werewolf— would look strange, suspect. Not to mention that a stray droplet might catch on her skin. On top of that, drawing attention to herself in such a large crowd meant there was a chance of her being recognized as the princess.

Being rash, like she usually was, would only bode ill for her and Rook. Especially when they were so close to finding Nyxia.

She watched through a veil of tears.

"How does that feel, you monster?" Father Bertram shouted as he repeatedly splattered the woman. Her sobs were broken. "The wrath of Saint Orla has fallen upon you. She is displeased."

Briar nearly forgot herself and shouted at him for that. How dare he speak for her. Her fingers twitched for the topaz at her hip. Maybe she should prove who she was after all, and cast judgment on him for his torture of an innocent women.

Instead she bit down on her cheek until she tasted blood.

"Please," the woman wept. "Please, have mercy. I will go to Darkholm. I will."

"It's too late for that now, isn't it? You've proved who you really are. A selfish monster who cares not for the wellbeing of her neighbors." Just as the priest was about to tip the bowl and douse her with the rest, a stern voice stopped him short.

"That's quite enough, Father Bertram."

Briar's stomach dipped at the sound of Rook's voice. Every eye turned to him from where he stood behind the priest, his mouth a stern line.

Father Bertram gaped at Rook over his shoulder. "Master Hunter? What is the meaning of this interruption?"

"Werewolf or no, torture is not acceptable," Rook said.

Father Bertram's face turned redder as he looked down at the shaking woman. "But this woman is a monster," he insisted. "I am doing us all a favor. I am putting a monster in its place." His wiry, untamed brows came together in anger. "You should be thanking me. I'm helping you do your job."

Rook stared at him coolly. "Torturing an innocent woman in the streets is not my job. If you think that, then you have sorely misjudged me."

"But... but she's a monster, sir," he sputtered. "A werewolf! She cannot be innocent. Her very existence is offensive to the saints. You must know that."

"Don't know much about the opinions of saints. All I know is what you're doing is highly inappropriate." Rook turned to the ogling crowds. "All of you, be on your way," he said in a voice that cut. "Nothing to see here."

Slowly and uncertainly, the people began to disperse, leaving only a few stragglers like Briar and the acolytes surrounding the scene.Father Bertram looked like he would burst. "But, Master Rook, surely you can't mean to let her go."

"She has agreed to go to Darkholm, so I see no reason why she must be humiliated in front of her friends," Rook said. "And there is no need for bloodshed, either."

"But sir, a new moon approaches. You cannot suffer a monster to live, surely."

"I hunt monsters," Rook said. "Monsters. This is a woman. If she were attacking the city in her wolf form, that would be a different story. But she was peacefully going about her day until you accosted her."

The woman lifted her burned, tear-stained face to Rook like he was the sun itself. He walked over to her and offered his hand. Mouth twisting with tears, she took it and he pulled her to her feet. As he did so, he whispered something quick in her ear. Her eyes widened and she nodded before picking up her overturned basket and running off.

Father Bertram stood there, clutching his nearly empty bowl, wide mouth gone slack. Rook took the bowl with his gloved hand and dumped the water out onto the cobblestones. He shoved it into the priest's chest, making him stagger back. "No more of this," Rook said. "Look for true monsters on the new moon if you wish to, but otherwise leave the people of Alysgard alone. Hurting a defenseless woman in the streets is the sign of a weak coward."

Father Bertram, looking equal parts stunned and outraged, said nothing as he and his cohorts watched Rook stride off.

Rook didn't notice Briar. Her eyes followed him, her heart giving a pang of longing.