Even now, on the outskirts of a village, this false prophet had dishonored the local Priest by claiming heretics and pagans could be just as honorable and wise as members of the Virtuous. The very gall! Braya, lowering her chin so the sun carved into her forehead was ever prominent, seethed with righteous anger. She and the Inquisitors hung on the peripheries of the Altani’s sermons, waiting and watching for the moment his silvertongue failed him. Too clever to attack, the savage would not risk turning his followers against him by harming the King’s own agents.
“As the Prophet wrote, the virtues are as nothing without love, for love is the ultimate sign of the Creator,” Matthias said out to the crowd. “This is the pact he promised you; that it is through love, not faith, that all other virtues flow, for faith without love is slavery, and never again shall the strong and the virtuous allow themselves to wear the chains of bondage.”
What sentimental tripe, Braya thought. What utter heresy. Faith is slavery? She shook her head violently. In her fury, she saw clearly; she had him. “Teacher,” she called out, approaching the crowd. Some silly peasant girl from Ferrin’s Glade met the Inquisitor’s eye, pulling out a sling. Braya shot her a look, daring her to try before turning back to the monstrous fraud she saw before her. “Surely wisdom demands that all be allowed to ask questions?”
The white wolf ever at the savage’s side unnerved her. Her father, before he had converted, had taught her to fear beasts. But still, Braya tilted her head bravely to face Matthias. “I only wish to learn at your feet.”
“Ask your question,” Matthias said darkly, glowering at the Inquisitor.
“Truly, no slave has love for his master, though he is bound to serve faithfully. But what of those who have no love for their king? Are they released from the laws of their lands if they cannot have faith and love in their divinely appointed leaders?” Braya ended her question with an innocent smile.
Matthias brow furrowed. He knew all too well that these sermons could spiral out of control if he could be accused of citing violence and rebellion. Innocent people would get hurt in the Inquisitors’ zeal to reach him, but Stefan’s words came to him. “Faith goes both ways. You speak of one’s faith owed to his king, but what of the faith a king owes to his people? Whatever their actions, the Virtuous must be judged first by the laws of their land, for this is honorable and wise. But kings are judged by the Creator, and their sins will be weighed no differently than the lowest beggar.”
“You suggest King Cyril, first of the Virtuous and defender of the faith, is sinful?” Braya’s voice cracked with feverish anticipation as she grabbed for her whip.
The response was immediate. Magnus and Irene had their wands trained on the Inquisitor, and the followers from Ferrin’s lands trained their bows and slings upon her.
Matthias grunted, resting his own large hand on the hilt of his sword. “I never said anything about King Cyril, Inquisitor. You did.”
Braya glared darkly at the Altani, then slowly relaxed her hand, backing away. She mounted her horse, and the Inquisitors turned to leave, as the crowd jeered and booed them as they departed.
The leader of the Inquisitors snarled, grabbing at her lieutenant. “Watch that false Prophet every minute of every day. The second he falters, we will drag him and that wretched wolf to Stefanurbem in chains. Our king and the last true disciple demands it.”
Chapter 16
Words of Faith
A cold night had fallen on the Prophet’s encampment, but the growing number of followers traveling with Stefan and Matthias was not without supplies of their own. Some had brought food, others blankets, cloaks, and other clothes to ward against the snow. All was being shared around their many fires that lit up the night, gladly and willingly. There was reason to celebrate, after all; their Prophet, wolf or not, was among them once again.
Around a fire, Magnus, Irene, Derogynes, and Floriana had coaxed Matthias to join them. The warrior was still stone-faced, and outside the sermons he made with Stefan, he spoke as little as they had come to expect.
“Ah,” Magnus thumped his journal when a lull in conversation hung a little too long. “Do you know what I almost forgot? Today’s Sanctilis.”
Matthias arched a brow. “Sanctilis?”
“It’s a celebration,” Floriana explained. “To commemorate the Prophet’s birth; a day for feasting, prayer, and brotherhood.”
“It’s your birthday?” Matthias asked, scratching the wolf’s ears.
“I wouldn’t know. We didn’t keep track of birthdays when so many young slaves didn’t live long. But I wouldn’t want to ruin their fun; it is a nice gesture, if nothing else.”
“Well, in Theragos, our celebrations are days to loosen inhibitions. Wine flows like water, grand games are held in the great arenas, and the noble families host massive feasts that last for days.” Derogynes smiled fondly, thinking back on old times.
“Well…” Magnus cleared his throat. “That does sound a little extravagant for our limited resources, but we should still commemorate this day with, perhaps, a prayer vigil, or fasting, or—”
“Oh, for the Creator’s sake, Magnus,” Irene sighed with exasperation. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten how to enjoy yourself. Has my brother’s court become so dour a place? I say we have some music. You play the pan flute, if I’m not mistaken, and you, Derogynes, are proficient with a lyre.”
Derogynes grinned. “A fine idea.”
Picking through the crowd of followers, instruments were found, and Magnus and Derogynes were urged to play. Both were slightly rusty, and trained in two different schools of music, but soon, they formed a jaunty melody that began attracting more people around the fire. Some clapped, and others began to sing, and soon, the music had grown into something that began to move Princess Floriana.
“You dance?” Matthias asked as she began to rise, trying to find the rhythm.
The princess smirked. “I learned at the court of the Satyr king.” After a moment circling around the fire, she offered her hand to the Altani. “Come, Wolfborn. Dance with me.”
“I don’t know how,” came the blunt reply.
“Neither do I; not to this, anyway.” Floriana wrinkled her nose as she grinned; it had been the face she wore to get almost anything out of her father. “Are you afraid, then?”
“For the Creator’s sake, just do it,” Stefan’s words snapped in Matthias’ head. The warrior looked back at the princess’ face, and it was as if he only now realized how fine she looked, with the flames of the fire brightening her red hair, and how her smirk took him back to Leannan coaxing him into her ring. With a glare shot down at the wolf lying innocently by his side, the large man rose. “Very well.”
It was a little awkward at first for both parties, as Matthias’ main concern was not stepping on Floriana, but soon, both found their rhythm, drawing other couples into the circle. The princess grew accustomed to the strong arms of her partner wrapped around her, and noticed how the gold in his green eyes reflected the fire. Matthias, in turn, couldn’t quite get the image of Leannan mixed with Floriana out of his head, but soon found he preferred Floriana’s proud face and the challenging glint in her deep blue eyes.
When Magnus and Derogynes at last tired of their song, Matthias and Floriana lingered for a while.
Floriana was the first to speak, brushing back her hair. “Thank you, Wolfborn, you were overly humble in your ability.”
“No one’s ever accused me of being humble,” the warrior responded.
“I wasn’t even aware you knew what the word meant.”
Matthias felt the urge to scowl, but seeing that smirk on the Princess’ face, his anger melted and he had to stifle a laugh; the first time he had done so since he had been exiled.
“You have nerve.”
“Floriana?” Irene spoke up suddenly. “Be a dear, and fetch some water from the stream nearby. I will need warm water for the morning; our older followers are beginning to complain about stiff joints and aches
with the coming cold.”
“But Aunt Irene, the stream is a good ways away. It’s the middle of the night.”
“An excellent point,” Irene turned her head, nodding to Matthias. “The big one can go with you.”
“What?” Matthias scoffed, before looking around him. Derogynes was wearing a knowing grin, and his father offered no aid at all. “Fine. Very well.”
The two trudged into the snow, Floriana wrapped in a fur-lined cloak, and Matthias, begrudgingly, wearing a wool shirt with the sleeves intact, on Irene’s orders. The Princess finally spoke to break the silence. “I should say that you have gone to great lengths to make amends for Springhead. You showed great honor in Ferrin’s Glade.”
Matthias scoffed, crossing his arms as Floriana knelt to the stream with a bucket. “I don’t think I’ve gone very far in making up for things.”
“Really? You speak so eloquently about the virtues in your sermons. I’ve never seen anyone best Braya in a theological discussion.”
“You forget, Princess, they’re not my sermons,” Matthias countered. “I only say what my father asks me to.”
“Oh?” Floriana grinned again. “Then, tell me, great teacher,” she clasped her hands in prayer. “What wisdom would you give to me?”
“Do not mock me,” Matthias growled, snatching up the bucket.
“Wait, wait,” Floriana tugged on his arm. “Please, Matthias, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend. But I am curious. What do you believe?”
“I don’t know.”
“Come now. After all this time at the Prophet’s side?” Floriana dusted off a rock and sat on it. “Let us pretend the Prophet is not with you. What would you say to a crowd of the faithful?”
Matthias rolled his eyes and sighed. “As you wish. I would warn the people to not do as I did. I chased gold and glory. In chasing ever greater amounts of both, I gambled it all away and lost it. If I have learned anything, it is that such things are fleeting. I would tell people that the only legacy I left is how I treated others. My enemies lay dead, and a friend who I wronged paid me in kind.”
“Stefan would probably use more noble language, but it seems you have the right of it.” Floriana rose. “May I ask you something?”
Matthias led the way back to camp. “Go on.”
“You have every right to be angry at my father, more than most. What he did to your family is unspeakable.” Floriana grabbed his free hand, wrapping her slender fingers around his thick ones as best she could. “But if you are the Prophet’s son, then he will have spoken to you of mercy. I know you are a warrior, and your people scoff at such things… but please. Promise me you will show my father mercy.”
Matthias slowly pulled his hand away. “My people are supposed to be yours, Princess.” He sighed. “So, yes. I will listen, and I promise. Your father will come by no harm from me.”
Floriana let out a long sigh of relief, and before he could react, she reached as far as she could around him, embracing him. “Thank you, Matthias.” Their eyes met once more, but before anything else could be said, she took the bucket of water from him and retreated to camp, leaving the warrior flummoxed.
The next morning was a slow trudge through ice and slush, but at least the sun was out. Spirits remained high amongst the Prophet’s followers, but Matthias looked down at the road with a knitted brow.
“What troubles you, my son?” Stefan asked, having trotted up to his side.
The warrior sighed. “Have you ever made a promise you weren’t certain you could keep?”
“No; that would be foolish.”
Matthias shot a glare at the wolf. “You know what I did.”
“Of course. And it is commendable to make such a vow. But it is made, and you cannot unmake such things. This is part of being honorable; standing by your word.” Stefan tilted his head up to meet Matthias’ eyes. “Or do you fear disappointing Floriana?”
The warrior hid his blush with a scowl. “We will speak of something else.” There was a tense pause as Matthias thought. “How many disciples did you have?”
“Oh, just the five. In the days leading up to the liberation, I had Suyi, Irene, Magnus, Cyril, and Alexander. One for each virtue.”
Matthias frowned. “I have never heard of Alexander.”
The wolf looked on fondly. “You would have liked him. He was trained to fight, for his masters’ amusement. A great bear of a man, though not as large as you. He was the disciple of compassion; he never made it to Fosporia. With our new home in sight, a storm caught his ship. He ensured everyone on board made it to shore, until he succumbed to the winds and the waves from sheer exhaustion, trying to save one last freed slave.”
“He sounds like a great man.” Matthias paused, then narrowed his eyes. “I noticed, Father, that you called five to your service this time as well; me, Floriana, Derogynes, Magnus, and Irene.”
“Have I? How marvelous.”
“How long have you had this planned?”
“If it is planned, my son, then it was not I who set it. Such events were set in their place long, long before my time. But our fellowship is not yet complete.”
“Why? We have five.”
“You will see in time, my son.”
Matthias grunted with frustration. “You’re hopeless sometimes.” His eyes turned up to the next village on their slow march to Stefanurbem. “Hierophant Ferrin?” he called to the old man, now in his lordly robes, on horseback. “What village is that?”
“That should be the town of Greenhill,” the Hierophant responded. “One of our older settlements in this region.” Ferrin furrowed his brow. A tall pillar of smoke was wafting into the sky, and a black banner with five white stars was planted in the snow along the village outskirts. “Inquisitors.”
“It could be another book burning,” Derogynes said grimly.
Matthias looked over to the Andrathi. He had been told how such a thing at Faith’s Crossing had shaken the princess, and his hand immediately wrapped around his sword.
“Stay your blade, Matthias.”
“What?” the warrior demanded, looking down at the wolf. “Are we never to stand up to the Inquisitors? Do you not want to protect your people?”
“Books are not people. Keep your mind on a bigger picture; Braya and Cyril are baiting us. They want us to interfere.”
Matthias tensed his arms, squeezing his fists to try to control his temper, but he could not let this slide. These Inquisitors, these raiders in robes, they knew nothing of honor. Even the most vicious of Altani warriors never stooped to such measures just to keep order. “Then they are about to get their wish,” he growled, grabbing his shield.
“Do not do this, my son!” Stefan stood in his path. “Do not put yourself and the rest of our followers in danger by charging in blindly! I will not lose you to some show of bravado and strength.”
“You won’t,” the warrior said bluntly.
“What did he say?” Floriana asked. The rest of the disciples gathered around Matthias, looking toward the fire.
“He says we should not interfere.” There was a pause, then the hulking man pushed aside the others, his eyes fixed on the village. “I disagree.” He stepped over the wolf, and then broke into a run toward the village, blood pumping, and some of the old berserker rage returning to him.
In the village square of Greenhill, the people had gathered with fear and dread as Inquisitors had torn through the village tavern, finding a hidden cache of Qingren books and Altani runes. All would be put to the torch. But to make an example of the Innkeeper who had kept this heretical library, he, too, had been tied to the stake and would burn with his books. Already, his wife had been held back, languishing and howling with grief against the Inquisitors that held her at bay, and the villagers either looked on at their friendly innkeeper with pity, or on their Priest, cowed by the Inquisitors, with disgust. None of them, however, were prepared for Matthias’ bellowing war cry.
The warrior broke the line of Inquisitors effor
tlessly, knocking down two of the black-clad enforcers with a swing of his shield. His sword shattered their spears and the staff of their mage, and his eyes looked about wildly, beating his muscular arm against his chest, challenging any Inquisitor to come near him. Then he beheld the man struggling against his binds at the stake, gasping and shrieking as the flames licked and singed his skin.
Matthias had mere seconds to think, and threw his sword and shield to the ground. Adrenaline fueled his body as he scrambled to the top of the pyre, ignoring the burning pain, and grabbed the stake. Wrenching the wooden post free with a great heaving effort, he lifted the innkeeper overhead, roaring as he leaped down from the pyre. Large, angry burns littered his skin as he snapped the ropes that still bound the innkeeper to the broken stake.
“You dare challenge the justice of the Inquisitors?” the leader of their group shouted in an unsure voice, holding his sword aloft with a shaking hand at Matthias.
“Justice?” Matthias bellowed, stomping over to the man. He had the Inquisitor engulfed in his shadow. “You’re set to burn a man alive as if he were a pig on a spit, and you want to speak of justice?” The warrior grabbed the Inquisitor’s sword, grunting as the blade cut into the flesh of his hand, tensing his arms until the blade snapped, leaving the ruined hilt in his would-be opponent’s hand. The Inquisitor began babbling for mercy, but Matthias clenched him by the throat and, with the last of his berserker’s strength, lifted the man into the air.
“I will teach you justice, you spineless black worm!”
“Matthias!”
Stefan’s call pierced his son’s head, and his fury was dispelled in an instant. The warrior looked up, and pushing their way to the front were the disciples and Stefan.
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