Music is Oakvale, composed by Russell Shaw. Play it! (No, please do.)

******

When I finally manage to crawl into bed, I almost immediately fall asleep. I only realise when I wake up that I'm not exhausted physically, but emotionally. Something that I haven't felt in a long time.

But at least I don't feel as weary as I'd been the night before. I breathe in the fresh morning air, cool and crisp and clear. An unusual chill seeps into my bones. The horses' whickers fill the atmosphere. The idle chatter of the men and the villagers give me an illusion of safety.

"We thank you for your hospitality," says Sir Kendrick, addressing the crowd gathered at the mouth of the road, "but it's time for us to part ways. We are sorry for your losses, and rest assured, it will not go unnoticed."

He takes a moment to pause and rest his eyes on Elentria. She holds her head up proudly, the tip of her nose slightly tinged with pink. Her son clings tightly onto her skirt, his face bewildered. Their eyes are not on the Bane, but on a cage placed inside a large wagon. A dark-eyed man sits within the cage, grinning devilishly, all signs of him being a human gone.

On that same wagon, there is a huge lump covered by a white cloth. Vanryse's corpse. It won't be in a pretty state when it reaches the capital, but at least he'll get the burial he deserves.

As for the other corpses...Well, it's for the villagers to decide how they want to lay their dead to rest.

"So once again, I apologise for everything that you have suffered. I promise, upon my word and upon the name of His Benevolent Majesty King Terrell, that this will never happen again," resumes Sir Kendrick. "May Pst. Manofrey guide you all."

"May Pst. Manofrey watch over you," the villagers chime in unison, returning the blessing they've received.

We take it as our cue to mount the horses. Only five of us will head towards the east now: Sir Kendrick, Gilbert, Sir Isaac, Everest and me. The rest will head back to Cordair, along with the wagon that contains the...experiments. We'd initially been worried that by unevenly splitting our strength—both Gilbert and I together—some of the possessed might be drawn to the travelling party led by Beorn. But Sir Kendrick had theorised that the capital city was only a two day journey away from here; the men should arrive there in no time. I'd frowned at his confidence, the way he was so assured that they wouldn't be attacked, but I'd given in.

"Farewell, all!" cries Sir Kendrick, his last words for the villagers.

We beat fists over our hearts; I catch the eyes of Elentria, nodding at her.

Then we wheel our horses around, and our paths diverge.

We'd already said whatever we wanted to say to each other before leaving, so we continue silently down the beaten road. The party with the wagon automatically take a right turn, back towards Cordair. We take the route leading towards Battein.

We don't cast a single look over our shoulders, a silent indicator that we trust everyone to walk out of any situation alive.

******

The journey itself shouldn't have taken very long, but the weather had decided to take a turn for the worse, showering us with mountains of snow and blasts of frosty wind. It was all we could do to hold out for two days before we finally reach the next village. Thank Pst. Kamira too. Our supplies were alarmingly low.

We'd loved to stay at the quaint place forever, safely huddled under a roof and in front of a roaring hearth, but we had no time to lose. Less than a day later, after replenishing our stocks, we moved on again.

More than once, I wondered how Gilbert had managed to endure the travelling for several months on end. Perhaps he's more suited to this life than me. After all, I can hardly tell north from south and the multitude of constellations from each other.

I sway on the saddle, following the shifting muscle and bone of my steed. It's weary—I can feel it. And it should be. Sir Kendrick is forcing us to push on, claiming that we are already several days behind schedule, and that he wouldn't give the Lorelays any chance to proclaim that we had somehow died and that it was a sign of the Pietists, indicating that the end of the world was near. Probably an exaggeration. Then again, the Lorelays would jump at any chance to spread rumours like a wildfire. There was the time when a Pagan had arrived on their shores—or so they said. Some believed them, some didn't. I certainly didn't. The idea that a Pagan would be willing to defile themselves with our culture was preposterous.

It's been a week into our resumed journey. The snow has finally decided to stop spreading miserable sheets over our heads. Our vision clears, and all we see are leagues and leagues of flat lands. In the distance, a few small hills. Within the hills, the Cave of Three Souls. The Lorelay clan lives near there, so that's where we're headed.

With our destination nearer in sight, everyone doesn't seem so fatigued anymore. A heaviness empties itself off our shoulders—our eyes are brighter, our postures eager. Even the horses seem to sense this eagerness and ploughing on with enthusiasm.

We keep at a steady pace for about two hours. Then after that, the distant roar of activity reaches my ears: mothers shouting at their children; said children running amok, paying no heed to any of their mother's screeching; and the faint tang of necromancy.

I blink. That can't be. Yet my skin is prickling. I can't sense any magic from so far. I close my eyes, allowing my horse to take the lead as I try to pinpoint the source of the necromancy.

Something in me stirs in approval: Abner. I wall him off and focus.

There's emptiness at first, only the slight tension rippling through the air. Then slowly, threads come together, extending from me and towards the source. They search for each other—like calls to like, after all—interweave.

My eyelids flicker open.

Sir Isaac.

Incredulity washes over my head. I close my eyes again, quickly confirming that I hadn't been mistaken. Open. Still Sir Isaac.

Cold fear grips my tongue. The ease that had settled over me for the day evaporates instantly. Not again. Not Sir Isaac again. Why is he reacting this way? Why do I feel so much necromancy coming from him? Could it be because of the curse Diomedes had inflicted upon him? What if –what if—

No. I shield my mind from considering the possibility. I clench my jaw. There has to be another explanation for everything.

What if there isn't? Abner purrs gently.

I don't answer him.

******

If the Lorelays seem disappointed that we didn't give them a chance to make a hoo-hah over nothing, they don't show it. Rather, they play the role of ever gracious hosts perfectly. Almost too perfectly.

But I won't complain. We've been given nearly all the luxuries we've lacked on the road: warm food, warm clothes, and a warm bed. Emphasis on warm. I've just finished the last course of the night—honey pudding glazed with syrup. Charlatans these people may be, but terrible cooks they're not.

I stifle a contented yawn, trying not to stretch lazily. I settle for observing the people around me instead. All my travelling companions look light-hearted and much more rested than they've been in a long time, despite the heavy bags lining their eyes. We're all seated on the floor, goosefeather pillows supporting our backsides. A strange experience for us. It's always been seen as a barbarian's practice. When questioned, our hosts had claimed that by allowing ourselves to be closer to the earth, we would open ourselves to the Pietists' blessings. Tomfoolery. But we can't afford to offend them.

Soon enough, everyone else finishes up their meal, a glow of satisfaction lighting up their faces. I smile.

If only I'd known that the lack of good food was the reason for your foul mood, says Abner, amused. Might have saved me a lot of trouble from trying to cheer you up.

My smile drops into a scowl. It was bloody freezing the whole time, even for winter, I growl. Did you really think anything could have cheered me up?

Gilbert did.

What? When?

Remember the remark he made about the Pietists pissing from the heavens?

Now I remember. That comment had earned a snort from me, as well as an automatic chiding about how the Pietists wouldn't approve. He'd merely laughed and rode on. As scandalised as I'd been, I couldn't help but grin.

Glad I'm able to assist in refreshing your memory, says Abner.

My scowl deepens. It wasn't required, but thank you, I reply.

You're welcome, he insinuates slyly.

"Rutherland, is the dessert not to your liking?" chimes a deep, yet feminine voice.

My eyes snap towards the woman seated at the head of the table: Grand Seer Fabienne. The head of the clan. Not a single strand of silver hair has escaped from her coiff, even though it's been hours since we've sat here. The light of the candles illuminates her soft, yet strong features. Her dark brown eyes—my mother's and my siblings' eyes—bore into me, as though she can see straight through my lies and expose me to the world.

She's unnerving.

"Oh no, no, Grand Seer," I reply, the title rolling stiltedly off my tongue. "I apologise. I just...thought of something."

"Hmm." Her expression doesn't shift the slightest bit. Well, at least I can confirm that the batty old lady with flying about on a broomstick in the tales aren't true. My great-grandmother looks far from the myth the people have conjured.

Great-grandmother. It feels odd to think of her that way.

"Anyway, we're all finished, I think," interjects Sir Kendrick. Grand Seer Fabienne's eyes flick towards him. I almost melt into my seat, grateful.

"Of course." The elderly woman flicks her wrist. Servants appear out of nowhere, clearing the dishes away and replacing them with small wooden cups. They pour a bitterly sweet-smelling tea into the containers, before disappearing. I peer curiously at the brownish liquid. "Drink this. It'll help to clear your system."

Everyone obliges. I do the same, only realising that the cup has no handle when my fingers grasp at air. No handle! I can scarcely believe that one half of my blood belongs to them.

But I'm the only one who finds this strange here; the rest all immediately wrap their fingers around their cups and raise it to their lips. It's one of the moments that reminds me of how sheltered my life is, despite everything. I quickly imitate them to avoid seeming out of place.

The tea has a quick, calming aroma. Something in me jerks awake: my Deathslayer. I almost spit it out. However, with a suppressed choke, I manage to down everything in one go. When I slam the cup a little too hard on the table, everyone swivels their heads to look at me.

So much for blending in, says Abner.

"Is there something wrong, Rutherland?" Grand Seer Fabienne asks, her tone just as clipped as before.

"I – I apologise. It tastes rather bitter." Excellent. The second time this woman has thrown me off balance. And I have a feeling that it won't be the last either.

A smile tinges the Grand Seer's lips. It contains no warmth. "Interesting you should say that. The tea is mixed with a slight enchantment, evoking prominent memories and their taste," she says. "I wonder what makes it taste so bitter."

Sir Kendrick's body goes rigid. "Grand Seer, are you implying that you've spiked our tea with magic?" he snarls.

The whole area goes silent. The room, spacious it may be, suddenly feels tight. The trophy heads lining the walls look like they're about to devour us alive. Tension fills the atmosphere. I realise that my hands are trembling. I make fists and glue them onto my lap. I fight to school my expression into neutrality.

"I never said I used magic, did I?" the Grand Seer responds, her smile still on her face, still not touching her eyes. "I was implying that the tea is so good, that Squire Rutherland has enjoyed it so much, that he has finished it all so quickly."

I manage a smile of my own. I'm just not sure if it's entirely convincing. "How nice of you to so accurately interpret what I mean," I say.

"Naturally." She flicks her wrist once more. A servant appears by her side, a boy of no more than twelve years old, dressed in shabby but neat clothes. "Bring Squire Rutherland more drink."

The boy bows and scurries away. Before I have a chance to say something, he is pouring more tea into my cup. The same musky scent tickles my nostrils. Grand Seer Fabienne's eyes are resting upon me, alight with challenge.

I take the cup to my lips and sip from it.

Careful, Abner warns.

Now that I'm taking it in small doses, the Deathslayer in me doesn't abruptly rise to burst forth. Instead, she's gradually awakening from her slumber, wanting to meet the world once more, wanting to see the clear skies, taste the wind —wanting to emerge. A butterfly crawling out from its cocoon.

She feels so alive. I feel a pang of regret as I close her off, forcing myself to push her back down. She screams in protest; my heart hardens. I continue to push her.

She stops screaming.

I gently set the cup onto the table, making sure that my motions are neither too fluid nor too stiff. Everyone's eyes are trained on me. I somehow manage to keep my expression cool and not shudder at the lingering bitter taste on my tongue.

I remember the last time I had tasted something like that: when Galennus Asa had given me a concoction in pretense of stimulating my blood circulation, when it was really something to enhance my necromancy.

What if Grand Seer Fabienne has already seen through my disguise? Panic claws at my throat. I can only pray she doesn't decide to reveal my secret to everyone.

I lock eyes with her. Her lips spread into a slow, taunting smile. I bare my teeth towards her.

Someone clears his throat. "Seems like everyone has finished their meal," says Sir Kendrick. "So, to business?"

Grand Seer Fabienne nods. "To business." I startle slightly at both their direct, professional tones.

The two leaders get up. Everybody follows suit. Though Grand Seer Fabienne is nearly two heads shorter and far frailer than Sir Kendrick, at this moment, with the candlelights drenching her eyes in gold, she looks oddly more powerful than him. Again, those eyes land on me.

"Come," she says, not peeling her gaze away from my direction.

I do my best to ignore her as she gestures towards an opening towards the left, but doesn't take a single step. No doors here. Something about allowing the spirits to roam as they please.

I trail behind my companions. Still, the Grand Seer doesn't make a move. Drawing a deep breath, I march through the opening. She's just playing games with you, I tell myself. Don't become her playtoy.

Suddenly, as though she were nothing but the whisper of a ghost, she slips her arm through mine. I try to shake her off without seeming too obvious, but she only tightens her grip around me. My face turns into stone. She proceeds to increase her pace, effectively overtaking the others. I sense their overwhelming curiosity, suffocating the air.

I throw a look over my shoulder. Gilbert's amber eyes meet mine. He looks just as confused as the rest of the men, but he nods encouragingly at me, asking me to go along with whatever Grand Seer Fabienne is doing. The knot of unease in the pit of my belly loosens a little. Not much, but better than nothing.

Though my mother's clan has been fairly secluded from the rest of Perinus, they must have somehow conjured a trade that grants them immense wealth. Village this may be officially called, it resembles more of a township, however. The Head's quarters is practically a manor so big it could easily rival any of the smaller lords' abodes. As such, I have no idea of how many dizzying turns we've already taken.

"Here we are," the Seer announces cheerily after a long moment of silence.

We approach a large set of double doors, each carved with exquisite, loving details. As we draw closer, I notice that they depict legends of Pst. Zorah—their patroness. I see her guiding ravens in the night, carrying her messages to her chosen ones; I drink in the sight of her rising at night, coating the earth with darkness, maintaining the balance of nature; my attention lingers on her with a small dagger in hand, a young woman cloaked in shadows kneeling at her feet. The first Deathslayer.

My legacy.

Fingernails bite deep into my flesh. I shake myself awake. A side-glance and Grand Seer Fabienne's smirk tells me that she knows I'm instinctively drawn to the carvings on the door.

I resist the urge to draw Miraterciel out of my boot, feel its comforting weight in my palm. No. Wait. What am I thinking? The athame would only further draw out my necromancy. Wrong. This is wrong—being in this place is wrong. Yet it feels right at the same time.

Go along with it then, advises Abner, tone gentle.

Go along with it. Go along with it. I inhale deeply. Grand Seer Fabienne takes the handle of one door and pushes it open. An unearthly groan rumbles in the ground. I feel like I'm about to walk into the Seventh Hell, awaiting the judgment of the Devil and preparing myself to atone for my sins.

The room is imposing, like the rest of the mansion. The ceiling vaults high towards the Heavens; racks and racks of books line its walls. On any other occasion, I might be thrilling with the urge to scour through the books one by one, but ravens are carved into the bookshelves—flying ravens, perching ravens, eating ravens...They're everywhere. It gives me the illusion of being watched by their millions of beady little eyes. They almost feel alive.

Grand Seer Fabienne steers me towards the table in the centre of the room. It is long, sturdy, with a map of the known world thrown over it. She gestures for me to take a seat; I obey her.

Once all the men are settled, the Grand Seer lifts her chin and says, "What is your purpose here? Two visits from the Bane within a month.  Should I feel flattered?"

"I'm sure you've heard of the infection spreading throughout the land?" Sir Kendrick starts slowly.

"Yes, yes. Of course! You told me that in your report!" Grand Seer Fabienne flaps an impatient hand in Sir Kendrick's face. "What does this have to do with us? I'm sure you don't intend on employing our Seers anytime soon. Or do you?"

"Charlatans," grumbles Everest, too low for anyone save for me and Gilbert to hear.

"Unfortunately, we don't, Grand Seer." A wry smile twists the Bane's lips. "What we want, however, is information."

"Of what sort? I'm afraid we've little to offer besides our Seers."

Everest mutters a prayer under his breath, something about Pst. Kamira give him patience to deal with these superstitious idiots.

"You have a map here," remarks Sir Kendrick off-handedly, rising to his feet. The rest of us follow suit. "We were here a few days ago." He taps a finger against a spot near Little Klasin, where it branches from the River Klasin.

Grand Seer Fabienne raises a brow, but doesn't say anything.

"A few weeks back, we'd encountered our first possessed here"—the finger jumps on a crossroads, where the road north leads to Hallicus, our port city; and the eastern road, Battein—"as you already know of when we'd dropped by your village."

"Hmm," the Grand Seer says noncomitally.

"All of them are somehow connected to the River Klasin...which is fed by the hills near the Cave of Three Souls."

He pauses for a bit. We all wait for the moment where Sir Kendrick attempts to connect everything with the Lorelay clan.

His fingers slowly trails along the river line, before finally stopping on a small circle of houses, clustered on the northeast corner of Perinus. Close to the border between our country and Thiruthia. Battein. Beyond, the Cave of Three Souls.

"The last time I was here," Sir Kendrick resumes quietly, "you told me something about the Prophecy of Far'hellan unravelling. There were more things, but I won't mention them now. After we left though, we'd encountered those possessed humans at the crossroads. Now, before coming here, we'd been attacked at the main crossroads of Perinus. We'd tracked the possessed origins to that of a small village situated near the river. Correct me if I'm wrong, but this is too much of a coincidence to be ignored."

My eyes flit towards the Grand Seer. The corner of her lips tilt upwards in a queer, knowing smile. In it, I see the ghost of my mother.

"I've managed to convince a sceptic of the prophecy!" she exclaims. "This is indeed an accomplishment for us."

"I didn't say I was convinced yet," the Bane counters neatly. "What I do like to know is what the prophecy entails for everyone."

"Besides the usual death, tragedies and evil?"

"This is no time for games," snarls Sir Kendrick.

"On the contrary, I'm quite serious here. Prophecies are never a game."

Sir Kendrick folds his arms across his chest. "I'm listening."

"The Prophecy of Far'hellan is an older, more ancient form of the Song of Prophecy, before the Manuscript had been corrupted by mortal men."

My companions' hackles rise; Gilbert's hand flies to his sword. But they can't do anything here. This is their land—we can't do anything that violates their customs, no matter how blasphemous they seem. An unspoken code that keeps the peace between the provinces. Even if Grand Seer Fabienne plans to preach against the Pietists in front of us, there's nothing we can do about it.

I feel strangely calm at this.

"Let me take a guess: it's in the Ancient Cambirian language."

The witch's smile grows wider. "Our Bane truly deserves his title."

"Even a child could guess that. Get to the point now."

"Very well." Then with ridiculous casualness, she says, "Far'hellan means Blood of the Devil."

Her smile is still there, but there's an icy quality to it. She soaks in the silence, drinking in the effect of her words, eyes roving over the faces of the men.

They hold mine in the end.

******

A/N: We finally arrive at our destination. Whew! That was one hell of a road trip. Anyway, Constantine meets the not-so-noble side of her bloodline for the first time in her life. What do you make of the Grand Seer so far? And I don't know about you, but Constantine looks like she's in a bit of a spot there.

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