Around the former paladin, gasps of surprise preceded a murmur of dismayed awe. Someone pointed at her. The former paladin glanced at her bound arm and saw that the marks of her devotion to Chivrom were fading, as if the black of them were flowing down and out of her fingertips. Curious, she lifted one hand to see if the black really was flowing out of them but of course, nothing left her fingers.

The God of the Mountains was erasing the marks of her worship, of her slavery to another. The grand master raised his knife again, as high as he could reach, as if seeking to complete the sacrifice before the marks should be gone, but he struggled to lower it again, as if some, unseen force held his wrist aloft. No one moved and the murmurs ceased as the paladin's marks slowly receded.

Finally, when the marks had fully disappeared, the ropes disintegrated as well, charring as if burned by her skin until they fell to the floor. Following an inner urge, the former paladin sat up, then stood from the altar. Not knowing why, she headed at a stately pace for the giant doors.

The crowd parted around her, leaving a bubble of space as if they couldn't stand to be near her and couldn't bear to step away. Finally, only the giant doors remained in front of her. Despite the construction, they creaked and groaned until the former paladin was just a single stride away, and then burst outward as if hit by an unseen battering ram, breaking free of their tracks and leaving a space that was as wide as the bubble previously maintained around the former paladin. In the center of the courtyard, the former paladin halted.

Tell them, urged her new God. Bear witness to the truth.

The former paladin complied. The entire tale of how she'd been chosen and sacrificed, of how she'd been robbed on the field of slaughter and left to die, of how she'd been redeemed by the God of the Mountains poured forth in an orderly torrent of words that could not be silenced. When no one could come close enough to touch her, someone threw a rock and though she recognized that it hit her, the witness felt no pain, nor reacted to the attack in any way as she urged those around her to forsake the evil, bloodthirsty spirit they feared in favor of the loving guidance of the God of the Mountains.

More stones flew, piling around her feet as the throwers' former, fellow paladin bore testimony to the truth. Finally, when the pile of stones around the witness buried her feet and ankles, and there was none in the courtyard to hear her exhortation, the witness stepped free of the rocks around her feet and walked out of the compound. At the citadel's gates, she was met by a small crowd of other residents from the citadel, most of whom bore the marks of chains about their necks or ankles. Clearly, the slaves had made their choice as well.

"We heard your voice, deep in the bowels of the city," one explained as they walked out of the city, "and we have chosen the God of the Mountains as well. Our chains fell away and we left."

Another, who bore the brands of his sorcery in similar measure to what the witness had been delivered of, assisted one of the slaves. "We have regularly sacrificed your kind on the altar," he explained to the one who leaned against him, "yet to demand a full quarter of the faithful as well? What kind of god destroys his best, most faithful servants after they have so carefully obeyed all that was required of them? There is no point in serving a god so insatiable!"

"The God of the Mountains will regard our devotion . . ."

"And return our regard," agreed others. "Thank you, Faithful Witness, for freeing us from the deception of Chivrom!"

The witness only shook her head, denying any credit. "You must thank our God for your deliverance," she insisted, "for He delivered me also, from the very altar of Chivrom!"

"Yes," agreed another bearing brands, "and from under the raised knife at that! When I felt his hatred and saw what he desired of such a respectable paladin, I knew I could not serve him any longer."

"There is a stream," the witness told her band of fellow believers, "that runs along the foot of the mountains. We must wash these, and rinse ourselves clean of the old ways. If you cannot be free of Central Valley, then you must turn back before we reach it." No one turned back. Throughout the evening and dark of night, the small band of converts walked through the falling snow until they reached the stream. It was deep there, and widened into a small pool of water. With a glad cry, a man with ankles scarred by chains and the marks of a whip upon his back ran into the water and ducked himself under, rubbing himself clean of the filth that covered him, of his former life of slavery before he clambered up the opposite bank with a shout of joy and thanksgiving to the God of the Mountains. The witness watched him disappear into the trees as, one by one, his fellow converts followed suit. She marveled at each one who left the water, free of scars, marks and brands that had marked the worship- and slavery- of Chivrom. She did not follow them.

"Aren't you coming, Witness?" called the last convert from across the stream.

"Go in peace," she called back. "The God of the Mountains will guide you from here. There are others who wish to follow."

Prompted by her understanding of what was required of her, the witness turned back, albeit reluctantly. There were, indeed, others who had followed more slowly. When there were no more converts to guide, the witness returned to the citadel, for there were residents who had not yet heard what the witness had to say.

Faithful to the God who'd saved her, the witness slept in the square despite the cold, and when dawn came, she resumed her appointed task, exhorting those she met to turn from evil to embrace the faithful and true. She pointed out the deceptions of her enemy and spoke the truth, telling her tale to anyone who would listen or hear her.

Finally, at nightfall, the witness's mother came out to where her daughter stood in the square. "Come home, my daughter," the older woman urged. "Have something to eat and climb into a warm bed." It was her standard offer for any sort of angst in her children; illness, injury or emotional upset.

Master? questioned the witness in silence, enquiring her Savior's will.

Go, He answered, so she obeyed and ate of the food her mother offered. She saw no one else, neither her father nor brother, nor any of the household slaves she'd known from childhood.

Over dinner, the witness's mother revealed her true purpose in the invitation. "Is it true then, that you have forsaken your service to Chivrom?" she asked, "to whom you have been dedicated since birth?"

The witness nodded. "It's true, Mother. I remembered what happened to me, that I should lose my memory, and why." Gently, she explained what had happened and how she'd come to choose the God of the Mountains, but her mother refused to hear of joining her daughter in doing so.

Instead, she reacted as if her daughter were merely tired or injured from some battle. "I'm sure you'll feel differently in the morning, after you rest and heal yourself." Then she left to go about her business, leaving her daughter alone to finish her meal and take herself off to bed.

Not knowing what else to do, the witness complied. Instead of sleep or a spell designed to heal herself, as her mother expected, the witness knelt on the floor, bowed her head in humble submission and waited for the God she chose to reveal His will for her. As she did so, she reflected on all that He had done for her and all that she'd learned of Him from Teech's example and unintended lessons.

The thought of him, the memories of their time together brought her peace and filled her with a quiet contentment. She remembered the simple pleasure of working alongside him and the sense of satisfaction that came from tasks completed. It was a good life that the mountain folk lived, peaceful and unencumbered by fear or unnecessary concern.

Neighbors respected each other and helped out so that no one was in terrible want. No one was held against his will and everyone was welcome, even an injured enemy. She thought of the converts and smiled, having no doubt that, as soon as their individual tales were told, each would be welcomed and assimilated, would be taught more deeply how to serve the God they'd chosen. Finally, with her heart full of gratitude and devotion for her God, the witness slipped into bed and slept.

The witness's mother woke her near dawn, using urgent tones. "Get up; you have to leave now," the older woman warned. "The old duke heard that you spoke against him and comes to arrest you for treason."

When the witness reached for the door, however, her mother held it shut. "Not that way," she denied with a nod of her head toward the window. "Your brother and father also seek your life for abandoning our god."

The witness looked down at the courtyard with misgivings, for she wasn't on the first, nor even the second level. Her mother nodded encouragement and waved her hand. "Go now!" she urged.

Go, agreed the witness's God. Did I not keep you unharmed when all around you pelted you with stones?

The witness obeyed. She eased herself out the window and down to dangle from the casement by her fingertips, then dropped, allowing herself to crumple and roll when she hit the cobblestones beneath.

"She went out the window!" someone shouted. "Get her! Do not let the traitor escape!"

Hearing the familiar voice, the witness clambered to her feet and sprinted toward the city gates, but from the compound, a horn sounded an alarm. Obedient to the warning, gate guards worked to close off the witness's avenue of escape. The witness ran faster, pushing herself as hard as she could to reach the gate before the opening should disappear entirely.

She wasn't fast enough; the gates closed with a solid thud. Prompted to do so and trusting her God, the witness slowed her pace to a purposeful walk. Her chest heaved from both the exertion of her sprint and with adrenaline, but as she walked, she remembered how the temple doors had been burst impossibly outward to permit her escape.

Still a dozen paces from the gate, the witness felt a pressure in her chest that grew until words burst forth from within. "Be opened in the Name of the Almighty Creator, God of the Mountains and Lord of Heaven and Earth!" Inwardly, the witness marveled over the title and over the commanding tone in which she'd uttered it.

The gate guards only laughed. "Open it yourself!" they mocked her. "The God of the Mountains does not live in the valley!"

Keep walking, the witness was ordered, and say . . ."

"Neither does your king reside in this citadel, yet it belongs to him!" retorted the witness, hiding her surprise- and her amusement- over the answer.

An audible groan and creak of metal sounded just before the massive gates fell flat before the witness, ripped from their settings by an unseen Hand. On either gatepost, the remnant of hinges hung at an odd angle, the metal of them stretched and torn. As a cloud of dust arose from the roadway, the gate guards cried out and fled their post in terror.