Updated 7/24/24

Chapter 1

Rebekah

As the last rays of the setting sun slipped into her rented room through the crack between the shutters, Rebekah poked a fingernail under the edge of her false beard and peeled a bit away from her cheek. She winced as the skin pulled, blowing out a quick breath. She inhaled the pungent aroma and held it, before immersing her face into the bowl of warm vinegar again. Her skin tingled as the mild acid broke down the hardened glue. She came up for air, took another breath, and went under again. Her raw, irritated skin burned as the beard and mustache gradually came away.

Finally, she rinsed her face and began to spread the salve. The fragrant elm bark that she used to heal her skin, had to be reapplied often, but she didn’t mind, as immediately, it eased the burning.

On the sabbath of each week, from sunset to sunset, at one of the inns along her route, the beard came off. This day of rest was the only break, a brief therapy, from the always aggravating glue.

Looking in the hand mirror, she picked up her brush and saw a woman before her, the wife of Jonathan Otual and the mother of David and Sarah. With each stroke through her hair, she smiled wistfully, imagining the little cottage, surrounded by her family, laughing about something little Sarah had said about a castle in the sky.

Jonathan took turns throwing each child up into the air as they laughed breathlessly. They hugged and kissed.

David stood tall with his practice sword, determined to be a Knight of J’shua like his father.

Sarah was three years younger, and as soon as she could speak, she declared that she was a princess, a princess with a sword.

Sarah, where are you? Jon, I need you. Why can’t I find you?

It had been two years since Sarah had been taken and Jonathan was forced to go into hiding. At least David was safe in Esthlanis, the neighboring country to the east, completing his apprenticeship on a horse farm.

Every time she passed a herald’s station, she checked to see if her husband’s poster had been taken down, either because he was no longer wanted or because he was captured. Whenever the painful separation overwhelmed her, she forced herself to think of all that was good and possible for her missing husband and daughter.

When she traveled, the danger of discovery and the focus on every detail of her portrayal kept her from dwelling on it. And each night, exhaustion saved her. But on the sabbath, the long hours of inactivity brought the haunting memories that tormented her—the destruction of their home, the blackened bodies of her parents in the thunderous fire, and the sickening smell of their burnt flesh—and witnessing Sarah stolen away before her eyes. She feared going back to sleep and yearned for Jonathan’s strong arms around her.

A shout from below pierced the bittersweet memories that always started as a daydream. The sing-song voice of the innkeeper’s wife drifted up through the floor as she ordered her daughters about, preparing for the next wave of diners. The familiar sound of logs dropping by the tavern fireplace and laughter from guests reminded Rebekah of what her soul starved for.

She longed for the fellowship of her circle back home. Each sister and brother, their warm friendship and the meals they’d shared, were a soothing balm. Any circle would embrace her and comfort her, but her alter ego, Tommas Bekh, was not a follower of J’shua. He must appear as worldly as anyone else in order to ferret out what the enemy was doing in the land—so attending any circle openly would put Bekh’s reputation in jeopardy.

Still, in private, she read the Writings and prayed, keeping her mind engaged, so she wouldn’t wallow in despair. She never expected an easy life, but it was difficult to find any joy without her family. She prayed fervently in the spirit until the feeling of peace tempered her anguish. She meditated on the Writings that guided her. Her confidence was bolstered by the passages that gave her direction.

[And whatsoever you do in word or deed, do all in the name of J’shua Ha Mashiach, giving thanks to God, the Father, by him.]

***

The next evening, with the sabbath ended and the beard back in place, Rebekah or as her alter ego would have it, Tommas Bekh, tromped downstairs to look for entertainment as any merchant would.

Here in town of Lorness—a most dangerous place, but that provided vital information—she used the Golden Canary, a popular place at the far end of town where the dining room and tavern had an entrance at the rear, as well as from the street. Tonight, the regular bard, Bingdad, was singing a lively tune; the large fireplace, which stood proudly in the center of the room, warmed everyone with dancing yellow and orange flames; and the proprietor’s special blend of ale laced the air with its fruity aroma.

As she entered, one man nodded. “Gooday, Tommas.”

 “Gooday to you, as well, Barnus.” Her eyes crinkled at the corners as she passed him.

Another man lifted his mug. “Tommas, hallo!”

She raised a friendly hand, continuing toward the back, still finding it unnerving that so many knew that name now—but it couldn’t be helped.

Rebekah took a seat at her usual table—happy to see it unoccupied—and waited for Teress, her closest friend and ally. Together, Rebekah, Teress, and Teress’s husband, Vincent, had started Licht Gegen, an underground movement working against the dark machinations of the Order of the Black Robe. They had called it Licht Gegen, because it meant “light against,” and only light can prevail over darkness.

When Teress finally entered, she flung off her cloak and threw it over her arm, revealing a bright blue linen shift, with a navy silk over tunic. She forced a few of her unruly brown curls back under her bright green headscarf.

After ordering two ales, Rebekah pulled out a chair for her. “How are you, dear?”

“Very well, cousin. The music here is always incredible. Don’t you think? Where have your travels taken you? Anything interesting happen?”

Rebekah leaned in and took up her friend’s hand. “Oh, yes. I agree.” Then quietly, she said, “I hoped to find the rumors about the Knights’ School to be untrue, but its buildings were burned to the ground. A remnant continues on the mountain.”

“How many died?”

Rebekah sucked in a breath and shook her head. “Twelve knights and two students. It was a slaughter. I’m afraid that if the soldiers had come at night, they might all be dead. Fortunately, the daikons were on the mountain supervising training with several of the knights and the rest of the students.”

Teress nodded, then let out a tinkling laugh. She leaned closer and whispered, “Two men near the door have been staring.”

Rebekah laughed as though she’d made the funniest joke. “And what did he do then?” she asked loudly. Then lowered her voice. “They could be black-robes. Come to my room in an hour.”

“My dear cousin, I will see you later.” Teress stood, blew a kiss, and sashayed through the door.

Rebekah waited to see if either man followed her. Unconsciously, she touched her dagger, her fingers tracing over the smooth elderwood hilt. Lorness Province, the domain of Earl Melazera, was the hub of black-robe activity with the largest concentration of black-robes, but also potentially provided the most important intelligence.

Officially, the Order of the Black Robe was a group that taught unskilled people a trade, such as scribing or accounting, in order to support the needs of merchant guilds, large houses, and nobles. But unofficially, they were behind much of the darkness that had been slowly spreading across Freislicht. When Rebekkah discovered they were performing child sacrifice, Licht Gegen vowed to expose the depths of their corruption.

Every black-robe wore an expensive black silk tunic, trousers, and hooded cloak. This shielded them somewhat from identification, allowing them to move within others’ shadows, slip on disguises without recognition, and infiltrate gatherings to cause chaos.

Just last week, Rebekah observed a man in a black robe go into a shop and come out dressed as a merchant. When she’d followed him, he caused a commotion in a tavern. Soldiers passing by were sent to put down the uproar. She discovered later that this left a prisoner they were transporting guarded by only the captain. A group dressed as commoners converged on the cage cart and held the officer at sword point. They escaped with the prisoner.

These two guests that frequented this inn could be black-robes as well.

One of them cocked his head, acknowledging Bekh, to which she returned a smile and a nod, before proceeding to the manager’s desk, she retrieved her messages for the day.

The proprietor, Mister Giles, had come on duty and nattered about behind the counter. His thin face sported a short brown goatee, which reminded Rebekah of a caterpillar. His furrowed brows rose as she approached.

“Mister Bekh, it is so good to see you again. How long will you be staying with us this time?

“I will let you know tomorrow morning, Mister Giles.” She held up the messages with a smile. “It depends on how many of these are potential sales. The room is available?”

“Oh, yes, sir.”

“Wonderful,” Rebekah said, as she waved the letters in the air. “I’ll know more after I read all of these.”

She glanced back toward the tavern.

Neither man had followed.

Perhaps, all she had learned over the past two years simply made her paranoid, and yet it was better to be safe than dead, or worse. If any of their group ended up in the earl’s dungeon, their torturer would surely learn of all of them.

She continued carefully up the stairs.

***

The familiar scent of beeswax candles might have soothed her, if she wasn’t worried about Teress. She took too many risks. She was not hidden like Rebekah with a disguise. She roamed all over the country as herself, Teress Donitoro, pretending to be kinswoman to many of the Licht Gegen leaders.

Rebekah sat on the worn leather couch in her room, head in her hands, praying for everyone and everything that came to mind. Passages of the Writings arose, and meditating on them always dispelled her worries.

[Be full of care for nothing; but in every thing by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known unto God.]

[For the God of Truth hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.]

However, no matter what she prayed on or for how long, her words returned again and again to finding the young soldier that had ridden off with her Sarah.

***

Rebekah clenched and unclenched her fists, praying in the spirit, as she paced back and forth across the tattered braided rug.

Where is she? Was she taken? I can’t leave the room. Certainly, she did not come alone. Licht Gegen has procedures.

Finally, the knock was barely audible.

Rebekah's heart pounded in her chest as she opened the door, her hand trembling slightly. The narrow hallway beyond was dimly lit by a flickering candle, casting eerie shadows that danced across the familiar face.

Teress slipped inside, the smile on her lips as disarming as ever. “Hallo, cousin.” she said softly, her voice a blend of relief and mischief.

Rebekah quickly shut the door and turned to her, her eyes scanning Teress's face for any sign of trouble. “You're late, an hour late,” she whispered, though the reprimand was softened by her obvious concern.

Teress shrugged, her smile widening. “A few detours, but nothing I couldn't handle. Besides, the less predictable we are, the safer we'll be.”

Rebekah sighed, rubbing her golden beard. “Every minute you were late, I imagined the worst. Were you followed?”

“No,” Teress said confidently. “I made sure of it.”

Rebekah glanced at the window; its shutters tightly closed against the night. “We can't be too careful,” she murmured, pacing the small room. “The black-robes are everywhere.”

Teress squeezed Rebekah’s shoulders, her eyes glinting in the dim light. “Relax, Rebekah. We’re safe for now.”

Rebekah sighed, nodding and her friend released her and  took a turn around the room, obviously evaluating the barely adequate cleanliness, faded draperies, and dented table. Her eyes stopped on the battered lace of the beard Rebekah had removed earlier. She picked it up and was about to throw it in the waste bucket.

“No!”

Teress froze, her eyes seeking an explanation.

“I cannot leave that behind. It will set anyone who finds it to wondering. I always take it with me and burn it in the first campfire I make.”

“And do you always leave it just lying about?”

“No—just waiting for it to dry out before packing it.”

Teress’s mouth formed an O as she set it down.

“Stop judging my housekeeping. You know I am neater than this, but I’m trying to act like a typical man. We both know most are not fastidious.”

Teress’s easy laughter, set Rebekah at ease, leading Teress to finally share her news. “The council sent word through Major Gonnels.”

“Did Commander Taelor get the information?”

“Yes.” Teress opened one of the window shutters. “He said it proved accurate and most helpful in placing men into the renegade garrisons. He confirmed that they are being given orders by black-robes as we suspected and relayed the intelligence to the king, but he promised not to reveal the existence of the Licht Gegen movement to protect our secrecy.”

Rebekah sighed, nodding at the reassurance.

Her gut told her Earl Gaelib Melazera was behind the growing evil. In his province and surrounding towns, circles were raided and it was his undersecretary who had destroyed her home. However, all the intelligence that she and others had gathered so far had not brought tangible proof. None of it made sense yet.

Is the king aware? Is he involved?

Rebekah smiled at Teress, who sauntered to the table and sat in one of the plain spindle-back chairs.

She always appears so confident and unhurried.

Filling the silence, Rebekah said, “Daikon Crispus of the Knights’ School asked us to transmit messages to the circles. He wants to know if any orphans might wish to become knights. I hadn’t thought of that before.”

Teress smoothed her skirt. “That’s a good idea. We will need their discipline and wisdom for our strategy to stand the test of time.”

“Crispus said they will pray for us and help us when they can.”

“Do you trust him?”

“Yes, completely and without doubt. I’ve known him almost as long as I’ve known my husband. I vouch for his character whole heartedly.” Rebekah paused. “I think we should include them in my regular schedule.”

“Yes, I agree. I’ll pass it on.”

“I’ll be taking David to the school soon. It will be a comfort to see him regularly.”

“You deserve some comfort,” Teress said as she took her hand, giving it a loving squeeze.

“Thank you,” Rebekah said, blinking away tears. “You are a dear friend, Teress. You keep me strong. I don’t know if I could keep doing this without…your support.”

They exchanged knowing smiles, a tremble emerged in Rebekah’s, as she blinked back tears of sorrow and continued as she must, “Since our last meeting, I stopped in Wooster. I heard that many black-robes have duties in the castle and town. This is concerning, since Duke Fredruck is a follower of J’shua. I was going to approach him, but this revelation made me hesitate. These mysterious functionaries are connected to many odd coincidences and to the rash of debt collections that claimed my daughter.”

Teress leaned forward and patted Rebekah’s knee. “You were wise to hold off. I will have someone that lives there, get close to him. He may need our help extricating himself, if the earl has compromised him somehow. Perhaps he will join us. I will let you know what we find.”

Rebekah sighed and closed her eyes, breathing in the scent of beeswax and Teress’s gardenia perfume. “Now, some good news. When I passed through Lexandria, with my two young assistants, I purchased a warehouse on the south-side and began collecting trade goods, as well as items Licht Gegen might need in the coming years. I named the enterprise Bekh’s Bold Bargains. What do you think?”

Teress laughed. “I love the alliteration. This is splendid. I am always uplifted after hearing your updates.”

“Lastly, I have to tell you of the boys I encountered who were living rough in the woods. My lads were gathering kindling and firewood when about thirty boys of all ages stepped into our camp.

“Oh my! I would have been terrified.”

“Perhaps, but hold that thought, I’m not done, I mean, yes, their clothing was in various degrees of neglect, but each boy seemed well otherwise, and it was their leader, James, a tall beardless lad, who addressed me. He was quite confident and they seemed ready for action.

“Still trying to understand why you weren’t terrified.”

“Well, I was startled at first, not hearing their approach, but his affable grin reassured me.”

Rebekah’s lips quirked, thinking of James of the Wood leaning against the tree. “You see, they were seeking information about their parents who’ve been arrested from circles in Lorness and Fairness Crossing, and I’d like to provide something next time I see them. So, what of the names I sent through my southern contact? Do you think any of the boys’ parents can be located?”

“I’m not sure, if I’m to be honest. The council fears it is a trick. Can you prove these boys are genuine?”

“Proof—?” Rebekah rubbed her beard. She had no proof. Only her gut feeling. “Jonathan helped these boys.”

“He did? Are you sure?”

Of course, I saw his handiwork, he taught the boys to make arrows the same way he does. And they described to me what he taught them.”

“That is good. So, you know he is alive.”

“Yes, yes of course.” She forced a smile. “It was very good to see those arrows and see how he helped those boys. But I miss him so much.”

“The council might accept that.”

“But I don’t want that shared because if their affiliation with Jon leaked it could endanger them.”

“What if they provided statements that only their parents would recognize—specific events and such? Then their parents could be sure.”

“That would work. Send several such statements for each.”

Another hour passed in conversation before Teress bid her goodnight. “I will deliver this and bring you any information Licht Gegen can provide when we meet next. Remember, Rebekah, what you are doing is so important, and because of you—we will prevail—and we will find Sarah.”

They hugged for a long time.

“Thank you, sister,” Rebekah whispered.

She watched Teress walk out the door, and down the long hallway past the flickering candle on the wall. Her shadow slowly bobbed as she descended the stairs. Then all was quiet.

Looking out the window, Rebekah kept watch until Teress stepped into a waiting carriage. Licht Gegen hadn’t sent her out alone. Good. She wondered which of the unfamiliar men in the bar could’ve been her Licht Gegen shadow.

Chapter 2

Blackhawk

Steven Blackhawk gnashed his teeth as a shiver trickled down his spine, wrestling with things he couldn’t change or avoid. He tied his curly jet-black hair into a tail as he gazed up at the blue granite parapets reaching many stories above the castle. He now trained the king’s soldiers in the hand-to-hand fighting techniques that had impressed Commander Taelor the first day Steven had arrived at High Keep two years ago.

The commander had not seen the fight in the dining hall, but the story swept across the army section like wildfire. And soon Steven had been called to Taelor’s office to explain how he’d put down Lieutenant Fortuch, a well-known bully and his followers. He had feared a reprimand.

That might have displeased the earl. He didn’t know how many black-robes were planted at this castle or in the town.

He was told to excel, excel at everything, and to never let any know that he knew the earl. He didn’t dare fail at anything, ever.

The earl sent him to North Fort on the frontier for his first four years in the army and attaining the rank of lieutenant, he’d been sent to the capital just as his patron, Earl Gaelib Melazera, had always intended.

Blackhawk was the youngest lieutenant ever and as he walked through the army section on the south side of the fortress, he rubbed his meager beard. It was black and curly, but not very thick yet. Not much of a shield, but he’d grown it to hide his youth. and he thought it might have helped. Indeed, no one teased him anymore.

Once his body had filled out, and he finally looked like a grown man, the commander added him to the rotation of teams patrolling the main roads from High Keep. Blackhawks’s team orders were to continue to patrol the road from High Keep to Fairness Crossing. The soldiers kept law and order. His instructions were to maintain a relaxed pace and avoid alarming travelers as they passed. They were expected to meet with the local officer in charge, in each town or village, for reports, before returning the same way.

Ahead, the commotion around the announcement board caused him to swallow hard. Before he rounded the corner, he prayed that it hadn’t changed. The other soldiers dwindled away, as he pushed his way to the front. He huffed out a breath, relieved to see that he was not assigned to the High-Lorness Road. If he ever was, Earl Gaelib Melazera would expect a regular visit from him. Melazera could make it happen.

 Any involvement of the earl might reveal our relationship, spoiling whatever ultimate plan he has for me.

He touched his breastbone where the tokens lay under his tunic and thought back to when he’d traveled from North Fort to Lorness to report to his patron. When he’d left there, he met a sergeant in a tavern who offered him a short-term job with a debt collection crew. With nothing better to do until he must appear at High Keep, he’d accepted. And that’s where he met Little Soldier.

I was only fifteen then.

She was a curious little thing. Her comical expressions and witty quips caught his interest. He’d found her hiding in the woods under a pile of leaves after she and her mother had run at that last debt collection. Blackhawk scooped her up, and brought her to the camp. But when she comforted that small black-haired boy in the cage—that’s when he realized he liked her. He’d listened as she told the boy about J’shua Ha Mashiach and his Father, the God of Truth.

Blackhawk still could not fathom why he’d taken the risk. He pulled the necklace out from beneath his tunic and rubbed the two seashell buttons she’d given him between his fingers, remembering her. Somehow Little Soldier, the strange blonde girl that he rescued from a future life toiling in a brothel, awakened an ache in his heart, a distant memory that conjured strange dreams. He felt compelled to save her, and he thanked the girl’s God every day for keeping him away from Lorness.

It takes two or three weeks at the most, then the last week of the moon, he’d train soldiers back in High Keep. The only soldier that avoided his training sessions was Lieutenant Fortuch, who had not forgotten about their clash in the dining hall. He’d been unconscious for fourteen hours and his nose had healed even more off-center. Although Fortuch maintained military decorum in public, his private revenges were ongoing: clothes missing from the washer woman, things shuffled around in his shanty, and other minor inconveniences. Despite this harassment, Blackhawk remained unaffected and affable.

When Blackhawk entered after the day’s training, he immediately saw two dust free squares on the wooden floor. He stopped in his tracks, his heart skipping a beat.

His bed had been moved.

Fortuch!

Did he find it?

He rushed to the head of the bed, pushing it aside and knelt. His fingers traced the floorboards. It seemed smooth and undisturbed. Peering at the door, he listened for the sound of boots crunching on the stones he’d spread around his door.

No one approached. All the sounds outside were typical.

As he pushed down on one end of one board, the other lifted up.

He pried it out.

It was still there. The pattern of stones he’d placed on top of the book lay undisturbed. He blew out a breath as his fingers traced over the leather cover. A year ago, he’d found the thick book. What was written in it was oddly comforting and encouraging. He had no time to read now though.

Blackhawk frantically searched his room for any other evidence of Fortuch’s latest intrusion. Could the brute know of his relationship to Melazera? Could he be a black-robe? He was their type... If he was, would he report on him to Caileagh? A sense of doom washed over him. He pushed down the fear though, praying again to Little Soldier’s God of Truth.

His eyes wandered to a scuff in the dust, proving his trunk had been moved. Opening it, he found a silver goblet tucked under his formal uniform. He swallowed hard. Clearly, it was no longer enough for Fortuch to aggravate.

He wanted Blackhawk whipped, thrown out of the Royal Guard in disgrace, or hanged.

He had to act, or rather… catch the man in his act.

Stashing the goblet in the only place he considered safe, under the loose floorboard next to the Writings, he waited to see how his suspicions would be confirmed.

***

Two hours later, as he sat at the table reviewing maps for his patrol assignment, the stones crunched. At least two men were outside.

They were here; at least two men, maybe more, waiting at his door.

Three rapid thumps followed.

Blackhawk grit his teeth and walked to the door.

A scowling captain pushed his way in, a sergeant trailing behind him. “Lieutenant, there have been reports of pilferage. Your name has come up. Therefore, I need you to stand over there, while we perform a search.” The captain pointed to the farthest corner.

Blackhawk furrowed his brow, then steeled himself against any reaction and did as he was ordered. “Yes, sir.”

The captain crossed his arms, scrutinizing Blackhawk for any hint of guilt.

Despite his calm exterior, sweat ran down Blackhawk’s prickling neck.

I am a stone.

Over the seven years in service to Earl Gaelib Melazera, until he was sent away to the army at eleven, he learned to hide all emotion, to survive.

The sergeant ransacked the room, tossing everything he owned on the floor.

This invasion took him back. He was a four-year-old again, frozen, staring up at the large man leaning over him. Gaelib Melazera, the Earl of Lorness.

I am a stone.

Every drawer was flung open, the trunk emptied, even his bedding overturned.

I am a stone.

The captain’s puzzled expression quickly changed to a glare. “Lieutenant, clean this mess up,” he ordered as he walked out.

Blackhawk blinked. He huffed a sigh only after the sergeant marched away. Running a hand through his hair he sat on his bed and wept.

***

The Merry Fox was Blackhawk and his comrades’ favorite tavern ever since Sergeant Samuel Benutt, caught the eye of the proprietor's daughter, but that ended when she married the local blacksmith only a few moons later. Even so, the ale was good and the prices low, so they kept going there.

The tavern was alive with chatter, laughter, and the clinking of mugs tonight. The warm glow of the fire illuminated the rustic wooden beams and the well-worn tables scattered throughout the room. Amidst this lively scene, three hooligans occupied a corner, their raucous laughter and boisterous shouts cutting through the ambient noise like a knife. The very same hooligans who interrupted their card games twice before. Tonight looked to be no different.

One of the hooligans, a burly man with a scruffy beard and a tankard in one hand, let out a hearty laugh, slapping his companions on the back. “Aye, boys, another round!” he barked, drawing the attention of most of the patrons.

Blackhawk and his friends were huddled over a game of cards. They wore street clothes hoping for a quiet night and tried to focus on their game, but with each shuffle and repeated phrase over the yelling... their patience was wearing thin and their expressions grew increasingly sour with each loud interruption from the neighboring hooligans.

Corporal Donert Maitlan, a towering figure with a broad, muscular build, and dark brown hair tied back in a simple tail, was especially annoyed.

At his friend’s quiet demeanor, Blackhawk looked up and traced Maitlan’s gaze.

Maitlan's sharp blue eyes were currently burrowing into one hooligan’s soul.

Lieutenant Brean Mitchett, a grizzled veteran with a prominent scar running down his left cheek, a memento from a fierce skirmish years ago, and close-cropped, salt-and-pepper hair glanced over at the hooligans and sighed. His stern brown eyes gave him an imposing presence. “Again, are these fools ever going to go away? They’re ruining the game,” he muttered, throwing his cards down on the table in frustration. “I can't concentrate with all that racket.”

Blackhawk’s comrades nodded in agreement, their eyes flicking towards the hooligans. Their laughter had grown even louder, and one of them knocked over a chair in his enthusiasm, causing more disruption as they were now engaged in a loud and exaggerated retelling of a recent escapade.

“That's it,” Blackhawk said, his voice tinged with irritation. “Let's take our game elsewhere. We won't get any peace here.”

Reluctantly, the soldiers gathered their cards and coins, exchanging disgruntled glances as they stood up from their table.

As they began to leave, the bearded hooligan noticed their departure and called out, “Oi, what's the matter, gents? Can't handle a bit of fun?”

Blackhawk shot him a withering look but said nothing, leading his comrades toward the exit.

They stepped out into the cool night air, Blackhawk turned back to look at the tavern, shaking his head. “Let's go to my place,” he said, “where we can enjoy our game without the likes of them.”

The others nodded in agreement, their footsteps echoing down the cobblestone street as they left The Merry Fox behind, its lively interior still reverberating with the hooligans' laughter. When they made it to Blackhawk’s quiet shanty, they played for several hours at his makeshift table.

“Why don’t we keep the game here, Blackhawk?” Benutt asked. His sandy blond hair fell messily around his ears, and his sharp green eyes, which missed little of what was going on around him, made him excellent at his job, “I’m on guard duty at the stable most nights. It’s quite a walk back here from the tavern, and this is really close.”

They all agreed Blackhawk’s shanty was convenient and quiet.

***

The next week during his patrol down the High-Fairness Road, Blackhawk met one of the obnoxious hooligans at a different tavern, who he had paid to sit by their table at The Merry Fox for several nights in a row to be a nuisance, loud, and obnoxious.

“Hallo, ‘Tenant Blackhawk, thanks for da extra ale money, did we do good for ya?”

“Yes, Arno, I appreciate you helping me out.”

“Well, sir, if you had’na saved my sister from that bandit, I may have killed the man, and then I’d 'a been swinging from a rope. I owes ya. You ever need anythin, you just let me know.”

“Thank you, Arno. I will never forget that you helped me with this.”

***

After his return and another game in his shanty, Blackhawk stood in the shadows, his eyes scanning the stable for any signs of eavesdroppers. The dim light of the moon filtered through the gaps in the stable's wooden walls, casting shadows across the hay-strewn floor. The smell of horse and straw permeated the air, mingling with the faint scent of leather and steel from the saddles and bridles hanging on the walls.

Satisfied that they were alone, he turned his attention to the man standing nervously before him.

Edwin, a wiry fellow, shifted uncomfortably on his feet, his eyes darting around the stable before settling on Blackhawk. A year ago, Edwin had bungled a crucial delivery for the High Keep garrison, and Blackhawk covered up the failure, ensuring that Edwin’s error never reached the ears of his master. Now, it was time for Edwin to repay the favor.

“Edwin,” Blackhawk began in a low, authoritative voice, “I need you to do something for me.”

Edwin nodded quickly, eager to prove his loyalty but clearly anxious about what might be asked of him. “Anything, Lieutenant. You saved my skin back then. I owe you.”

Blackhawk took a step closer, his dark eyes locking onto Edwin’s. “There’s a silver goblet. It’s important that it finds its way into an empty shanty within the High Keep garrison. No questions asked. Can you do it?”

Edwin swallowed hard. Planting evidence in the High Keep garrison was no small feat and certainly not without its risks. But he was a man of few means who had proven his resourcefulness when Blackhawk had needed it most and they both knew he couldn’t afford to lose  Blackhawk’s favor.

He nodded again, more firmly this time, licking his lips. “I can do it. Just tell me when and where.”

Blackhawk’s expression remained stern. “Tomorrow night. The goblet will be left for you in the feedbox at the old mill. Make sure it’s in the shanty nearest the great oak by dawn. You know the one?”

“I know it.”

“Once it’s done, we’re square.”

Edwin took a deep breath, his resolve hardening. “And you’ll make sure we’re truly even after this? No more favors, no more debt?”

Blackhawk’s gaze softened slightly, a rare flicker of empathy crossing his features. “You have my word, Edwin. Once this is done, you’re free of any obligation to me.”

Edwin nodded, relief mixing with determination. The man knew the risks, but he also knew the value of a promise from a man like Blackhawk. “Alright, Lieutenant. Consider it done.”

Blackhawk clapped Edwin on the shoulder, a rare gesture of camaraderie. “Good. Remember, discretion is key. No one must see you.”

With that, Blackhawk turned and walked out of the stable, leaving Edwin standing in the fading light, as the moon slipped back behind the clouds.

***

The very next night when the moon hung low in the sky, casting a silver glow over the landscape, Lieutenant Blackhawk prepared for his last clandestine mission. A buzz of excitement hummed through his chest as he donned his disguise—a highwayman's garb of dark oiled leather, complete with a cloak and hood that concealed his identity.

Blackhawk borrowed a horse from a stable in the village, paying the stableman extra coin to ensure his forgetfulness. The horse, a sturdy chestnut mare, was well-suited for the journey ahead. With a final adjustment to his cloak, Blackhawk mounted the horse and rode into the night, the village quickly fading into the distance behind him.

His destination was a black-robe lair he discovered during one of his patrols—a hidden alehouse in a small, out-of-the-way village. He'd stumbled upon it quite by accident while chasing a boy who had stolen his lunch. The memory brought a smirk to his lips; yesteryear's annoyance turned into a valuable discovery he would use tonight.

Blackhawk approached the alehouse, observing the surroundings. The building was nondescript, blending seamlessly with the other structures in the village. Only those in the know recognized it for what it truly was—a den of vice and shadowy dealings.

He dismounted, tying the rented horse to a post outside the alehouse, and made his way to the entrance. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of ale and pipe smoke. Patrons huddled in corners, engaged in hushed conversations, their eyes flicking up momentarily as Blackhawk entered before their wary glares—a quick glance, an assessment for danger—before they returned to their business.

He pulled his hood lower, obscuring his face , as he made his way to the back of the room.

There, in a shadowed corner, sat the man Blackhawk sought. He was a burly figure with a thick beard and cold, calculating eyes. This was Trankin, a man known for arranging all manner of unsavory tasks—for the right price, of course. Blackhawk took a seat opposite him, sliding a small pouch of coins on the table between them. The man knew him only as the high paying Raptor.

“Trankin,” Blackhawk said in a low, gravelly voice, “I need a job done. A fire, to burn down the shanties by the old oak tree in High Keep.”

Trankin's eyes gleamed with interest as he picked up the pouch, weighing its contents in his hand. “Raptor, A fire, you say? Dangerous business, that. High Keep doesn't take kindly to arson.”

Blackhawk leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper, pointing to the pouch. “The risk is figured in the payment. The buildings will be empty. But it must be done on the new moon at third watch. Can you arrange it?”

Trankin opened the pouch, letting the coins spill onto the table. He counted them quickly, then smirked. “This'll do. Consider it done. My man will take care of it.”

Blackhawk nodded, relief washing over him. “Good. Make sure it looks like an accident.”

Trankin’s lips curled up revealing a black eyetooth, gathering the coins back into the pouch. “Discretion is my specialty, Raptor. You have nothing to worry about.”

With their business concluded, Blackhawk stood, giving Trankin a final nod before making his way back to the door. The alehouse patrons barely glanced at him as he left, their attention swiftly returning to their own important matters.

Outside, the night air was cool and crisp, a stark contrast to the murky warmth of the alehouse. Mounting his horse, Blackhawk rode back towards the village, the excitement of the night's dealings still thrumming through his veins. The pieces were in place, and soon, he’d solve two problems at once.

***

Today, Blackhawk was ready. If all went to plan, it would prove to be a very memorable evening. He sat with his friends on spindle back chairs around the wooden board thrown over a barrel just inside his shanty.

“Another hand to you,” Blackhawk lamented as he threw down his cards, taking a long pull of ale, his frown deepening. It was an appalling string of bad fortune.

Brean Mitchett scooped the baden toward him, wagging his head at Samuel and Donert. “I told you his luck couldn’t hold.” His gleeful smile lit up the room.

“Seems everyone’s winning but you tonight, Steven,” Samuel Benutt crowed.

“Finally evening the score,” Donert Maitlan chuckled, looking down at the largest pile of baden he’d ever amassed at one of their games.

“Fire!” came a yell from outside.

Blackhawk and his friends grabbed their gear and baden, dashing outside to see what was going on. Officers barked orders to the militet who passed buckets of water. Shouldering loitering soldiers out of the way, the four tried to get closer, but the heat prevented them. Flames engulfed the nearest row of shanties east of Blackhawk’s.

The officer’s shanties housed lieutenants and captains. Majors and higher had rooms inside the keep. Each row of ten shanties shared adjacent walls. The four rows formed a square with a practice yard in the center. This is where Blackhawk trained soldiers when he was in the garrison.

Karl Fortuch ran into view, then turned on Blackhawk. “You did this! I’ll get you for this. You’ll rue the day that—”

“He’ll rue the day he did what, Lieutenant?” Commander Taelor demanded, striding into view as he cinched tight his sword belt. “I’m waiting, Lieutenant! I won’t ask again.”

Fortuch eyes were alight with fear. “He burned down my quarters!”

Blackhawk wondered what might have been burning in Fortuch’s quarters to make him so scared.

Taelor’s eyebrow rose as he turned to face Blackhawk, but he addressed Maitlan keeping his appraising eyes on Blackhawk. “Is this true…Corporal Maitlan? Did Blackhawk set the fire?”

Blackhawk remained unflinching before Taelor’s stony glare.

“I don’t see how he could, sir. He’s been playing cards with us for the last two hours, maybe longer. He hasn’t even left to take a piss.”

Taelor fixed his gaze on Benutt. “Can you shed any light on this?”

“No, sir. Blackhawk had a lousy run of cards.” Benutt lifted the tattered cards in his hand. “But that’s the only thing he’s done since we came off duty.”

“I…see…” Taelor’s jaw worked back and forth as if chewing a tough piece of meat. He turned back toward Fortuch.

A crash from within the burning officers’ quarters pulled all their eyes away from each other to a wall collapsing and a silver goblet rolling out of the burning structure into their sight.

“Does that belong to you, Lieutenant Fortuch?” asked Taelor.

“No, sir. Never seen it before.”

Taelor walked forward, kneeled, and examined the piece. “Someone stole this from me about a week ago. Which of these quarters,” he pointed to the burning rooms, “is yours?”

Fortuch smirked, pointing to the one next to where the goblet had appeared from.

“And who stays in this one?” Taelor pointed to the goblet’s former hiding place.

“It’s—” Fortuch’s face fell. “It’s empty.”

“How long has it been empty?”

“Four—”

“Days, Lieutenant? Weeks?” Taelor demanded, his tone hardening, eyes narrowing.

“Moons, Commander.”

“Really? How did that come about, Lieutenant? Were these other quarters empty?”

“Yes, sir—”

“How many of them, Fortuch?”

“All of them, sir.”

“Well then, I think that you have explaining to do, Lieutenant. Starting off with why you would accuse a brother officer. Next, there is the matter of your—unique living arrangements in a camp that has little or no space to waste. And, finally, how this goblet appeared from empty quarters next to your own.”

“Sir, I—” Fortuch glared at Blackhawk with murder in his eyes.

“Enough!” Taelor snapped. “If I prove that you’d stolen this goblet, I’ll see you get the maximum number of lashes and a dismissal. As it is, you are demoted. Report to the quartermaster for your new accommodations and to replace your lost gear. Then report to my office within the hour.”

Fortuch threw one more glare at Blackhawk before he trudged off.

Blackhawk suppressed his mirth, remaining stone-faced, standing at attention until the commander turned and marched away.

His expression transformed to perplexion when his smirking friends glanced at him, saying nothing. Only the hint of a smile twitched into play as he turned away.

This was better than he had hoped. The quartermaster never fulfilled such a request this late in the evening or in less than two hours, and that’s assuming the former lieutenant knew which tavern to find him in.

[No weapon that is formed against you shall prosper...]

It will be much harder for him to harass me as a sergeant from the other side of the castle and now the worst quarters at High Keep will be rebuilt.

It was worth every baden he’d spent on the multiple intermediaries for planting the goblet and setting the fire. It was even worth all his losses at the gaming table. However, he could not work out how the goblet rolled into sight as if on cue. He’d expected a lump of silver to be found when the Militet cleared the debris away. For a moment, he thought back to Little Soldier.

We need it when we need it. Perhaps, every once in a while, things just fall into place.

He waved to his friends. “Come on boys, let’s have another hand.”

Chapter 2.2

Owakar

On the waning crescent moon of late summer, in the thirty-first year of King Edal’s reign, all of Owakar’s direct wards were finally asleep or away from Lorness, and the rest of humanity in his jurisdiction was preparing for their time of rest. Finally, the angel, the watcher of Lorness, was off duty

He read about the fire, knew who had reported it, and where they loitered about. Owakar headed to the capital, High Keep, to the tavern on the outskirts of town, the King’s Cup to resolve some niggling questions regarding the incident.

Owakar, when he could, also directed other angels to help those in the Density and on earth. It was tricky to work on their behalf. Any interference might harm them. For example, giving them too much information could lead them to pride, or removing an obstacle might obstruct their character development. The key to any direction was to trust God and walk in love.

Tonight’s journey started when he solidified in the shadows of a clump of trees, before stepping onto the road. Several men looked at him, as he hiked up his breeches, like he had just come from relieving himself. Having lived in the Celestial Sea, named for the chaos unleashed by the Serpent's rebellion, he and the rest of the heavenly host, who lived directly below the realm of God, had no need for such bodily functions. However, he’d learned in recent moons that this was a customary reason for returning from the trees—an experience he had recorded on his luach on more than one occasion.

His luach was a device that connected him to the Book of Life—the chronicle of the God of Truth—their God, who lived far above in the highest heaven. The Book of Life contained all of the people, places, and every event throughout time. Time that had aged since the Serpent’s rebellion. With the gardens destroyed, all that remained were ruins, but as a watcher, he was sent through the barrier, between the sea above, and the atmosphere of the earth, and below to the realm of man to write what he witnessed, adding it to the sacred book’s moments.

In response to his thoughts, the luach began to bubble up passages from the Book of Life that somehow always applied to the situation.

[He that doeth good is of God: but he that doeth evil hath not seen God.]

[But without trust it is impossible to please him: for he that comes to God must believe that he is, and that he is a rewarder of them that diligently seek him.]

He sighed. There was so much to learn about the people of the Density.

***

Having arrived at The King’s Cup, he followed some of its patrons inside. Several roughly dressed men sat at a table, talking in low tones. Owakar recognized them immediately, guardians for the denizens of High Keep. The chair’s leg squeaked across the floor as he pulled it out and joined them.

The one with shaggy brown hair, Reaven, looked up. “Owakar, what brings you here?”

Owakar ran his eyes over the guardians, who appeared as peasants, with dusty cloaks and three-day whiskered faces. Then he looked to Guendal and back to Reaven, smiling. “I’ve observed Steven Blackhawk from the Celestial Sea and read of his doings in the luach. I heard about the fire and how Steven Blackhawk was accused. Is this so, and was anyone hurt?”

“Ah yes, the fire. Blackhawk was behind it, that is true, but one can hardly blame him,” Guendal said with a chuckle. “Our ward, Karl Fortuch, has been tormenting him since the boy arrived. He’s out to ruin him.”

The other guardian, Reaven, shrugged. “But the shacks were about to fall down anyway, and no one was hurt. All in all, it’s an improvement.”

Owakar snorted.

Guendal turned to look at Owakar. “But more curiously, what’s Blackhawk to you, anyway?”

“He’s someone connected to Lorness that I have been following. Granted, I had no compassion for the boy when I first encountered him, seeing him as a loyal pawn of Gaelib Melazera, but I should have remembered that great upheavals often occur due to simple changes of heart. I should have been less cynical.” Owakar sighed. “In my defense, I had a limited view of things as a messenger, with no access to a luach.”

Reaven and Guendal nodded sympathetically.

“I didn’t know how he tragically lost his family, only to be ensnared by the despicable earl and everything he’d gone through there—It wrenches my heart to think of it. He is a man now, and a seeking man at that.”

Guendal leaned toward Owakar. “When we realized what was truly happening between Karl and Blackhawk. We saw an opportunity to teach Karl a lesson. Reaven here,” Guendal said, “tossed the stolen silver goblet into the open so the commander and everyone else saw it.”

 “Did J’shua approve that?” Owakar scanned the luach.

“He didn’t, but when he heard of it, he laughed, then said it was well done,” Reaven said.

The two guardians bumped their cups together.

 Owakar shook his head, but then looking to Guendal with a smirk he said, “I expect after today’s mishap, he might not be coming to the tavern tonight.”

Reaven smiled. “We know. We are cynical about Karl Fortuch, but his aunt continues to pray for him. Even though the man won’t listen to us, we keep trying. We talk to him whenever he’s here, unless something prevents us—or him from coming. Right now it seems to me, Fortuch’s best hope is to be demoted enough times to change his ways. Otherwise, he could face something much worse.”

Owakar nodded in agreement.

Guendal gestured toward himself. “How do you like our disguises?”

“You fit in perfectly. I, on the other hand, should leave. I can’t be seen talking to the likes of you,” Owakar said with a grin. As he turned to the door, he said, “Keep an eye on Blackhawk for me, would you?”

“Our pleasure.” Reaven raised his tin cup.

Owakar listened for the latch of the tavern door to click behind him as he left the tavern and continued walking down the empty road, not a soul in sight. Only a few rare candles burned inside windows across the road. When he passed into the shadow of a tree, he disappeared.

He hadn’t mentioned it was Steven Blackhawk’s Little Soldier, Sarah Otual, the daughter of Jonathan and Rebekah Otual, who set him on this path of questions. Then again, why would he? She was a secret, an important secret.

[For every one that asks receives; and he that seeks finds; and to him that knocks it shall be opened.]

Chapter 3

Jonathan

As was their custom, he should have returned home for good by now, started a circle with his family, and established a community but having spent five years training at the Knight school and an additional twelve years after, in service as a Knight of J’shua, he couldn’t resist the calling to stay. Besides, his wife and daughter were still missing. His home burned to ash. There was no home without them? These thoughts and many others plagued his mind as he reached the halfway point, the Tarin Inn, after many days of travel. Perhaps this would be a good place to stop for the night.

Inside the tavern, he was greeted with a tempting aroma of a bubbling hearty stew resting atop well-nurtured coals in a fireplace that reminded him of home. The murmurs of dozens of conversations humming set him further at ease—a feeling he had not experience at his last inn stop, when all conversation had ceased at his arrival. Perhaps this is why he couldn’t completely relax.

His mind couldn’t help but cast back to the memory of the previous inn. How the back of his neck prickled at the hush as his eyes darted around the room analyzing for threats. How he thought he would lose his stomach right there. How he thought too, that it was just his blasted light hair. At thirty years old, he guessed it would more likely turn white before it ever darkened. He tried not washing it in his travels from there to here, which did make it slightly darker, but he really preferred it clean.

Thoughts of hygiene eased his worries, but despite the different location, those other memories hung over him like a dark cloud, while biting the inside of his cheek, he walked in uneven strides to a table near the back of the tavern. He scanned the room again. The back door was only a few steps away, so he arranged his chair for the best view of the front door, before unstringing his bow, placing his pack behind his chair, and sitting down thereafter.

He felt his heart rate slowing, as he continued a vigilant and discrete scan over the room.

“Hallo, traveler, yah wish to eat somethin? Or drink?” A cute girl, perhaps ten years old, pushed a lock of brown hair behind her ear, smiling.

She reminded him of Sarah, and Jonathan felt a wince flicker across his face as a pang of regret filled him, but he tried to hide it with a smile and a wink.

“Yes, please, that stew smells wonderful. An ale too.”

“Yes sir, two baden for the stew and one baden for a pitcher of ale. It’s only another two baden for a pigeon if ya like?” she asked with raised eyebrows.

Jonathan rummaged in a pouch, and pulled out an Esthlani duhrn. The gold coin was thin and small with a hole in the center. It was worth five baden. A mohrn looked just like it except it was bigger and thicker, with two stallions engraved upon it. He’d only seen one like it once.

“I’ll have the pigeon as well if this will do?”

Her eyes went wide. “Yes, sir, my da prefers them.”

He tossed her the coin.

As he relaxed, enjoying the warm fire crackling pleasantly, a quiet argument caught his ear.

“I tell you the Knights are finished. Their school in the south just burned to the ground.” An old man drawing on a pipe, puffed out each word.

Another waved the smoke away and said, “I heard they all died in their sleep.”

“I thought they were wiser than everyone,” a third added.

Jonathan, alerted to the words as if they punched him in the gut. Standing, he approached the men clutching the back of an empty chair. “Tell me all you know about the fire. My son might be there.”

They reassured him it was just a rumor, surely his son was safe.

But Jonathan didn’t feel reassured. His face mirrored his anguished thoughts, as they stared at him in awkward silence.

The room seemed darker now.

The fire felt hotter.

“We’re sorry. It’s just a rumor,” one said as they left, but he was still gripping the chair in disbelief, when they took their leave.

Unsure of how much time had passed before he moved, he went to pay for the room, gathered his belongings, and left the meal waiting at his table untouched. When he found his bed, he laid on the straw tick pallet, tossing and turning, sleeping only a few hours when his anxiety allowed. Finding no comfort in prayer, he left in the early dawn, making headway for the school.

***

Two days later, as the sun sank to the horizon, Jonathan’s heart lifted. Despite the anxious rumors echoing through his mind, he saw the signs that told him he’d be at the school soon. Spurring his horse, he broke out of the woods—

He pulled his horse up short. His hands, cold and clammy, touched his face as his head swam. His gut clenched. If there was any sound left in the world, he could not hear it, not while the image of the burnt ruins of his home and the corpses of his family surged over him again.

The school’s chimney and a few teetering upright timbers were all that remained.

He plodded past grave markers. Tributes left by loved ones littered the ground.

Did anyone survive?

He dismounted and fell to his knees.

His fists dredged his face.

Thoughts raced to comprehend the dreadful scene.

His forehead creased in worry as he thought of his son, the boys, their teachers, and his own destroyed home.

Why do others attack us? What could I do to end such evil?

It was hopeless.

David.

He’d last seen him at the Agon Gorum’s horse farm, after the trail of his wife and daughter went cold. David was only nine. So brave. The boy wanted to leave immediately to find his mother and sister. Perhaps that would have been better—

Argh. Now, I regret leaving him. It seems impossible to choose the right path. If I had taken him along, would he be alive?He hung his head, praying.

Forgive me Father. Tell me David is alive. Show me what to do.

A blue jay screeched overhead.

He looked up.

Amidst his tumultuous thoughts he heard the words Bowing Sister. They pierced through his icy heart, and he felt a peace that transcended understanding.

He ran to his horse. Clutching the reins, he pulled her head away from the grass and mounted. Despite the failing light, he galloped through the moon-dappled trail toward the mountain. He stopped only when the trees became too thick for any light to penetrate. Studying the ground and the familiar hills ahead, he could see the changes.

He sucked in a breath through his teeth.

It was unsafe to proceed further. The terrain of Easy Slope changed each rainy season. A rockslide to his left hinted at that.  After the rains, fifth years and knights would have remapped the area. He scanned for newly uncovered crevasses, but he would never see these chasms in the dark. There was no other choice, but to stop and wait for dawn.

After tending to his horse, he tried to eat, but he had no appetite. He attempted to sleep, but managed only snatches between worry and thoughts that denied him rest, so he prayed while he waited for the light of day.

***

At first light, he left his horse to graze, while he ran toward the Kneeling Queen’s Skirt, a wide ledge at the base of the Watchers, a formation of dozens of vertical stones huddled close together that seemed to guard the mountain. From this view, he could see the thin black line in the distance formed by their shadows.

Sprinting across Easy Slope, the sun rose from behind the hills of Tarinland in the east, blanketing the grey mountain in red. He veered west of God’s Thumb, a huge boulder. It was said to be all that was left of a giant, a Nephilim, who ruled this land in times long gone. Like a fist gesturing his success over a bloody battlefield, it marked the end of Easy Slope.

From here the trail was rougher.

The terrain grew steeper.

The rocks were sharper.

Still, he rushed, pulling hard on every handhold to keep his pace. He had to know if David survived. If anyone survived. Bowing Sister lay ahead, beyond another ridge, and at midday, he crested the last ridge.

Coming out of shadow into the bright sunlight, he squinted at the silhouette of a man. His hair flounced around his head like dandelion fuzz.

Is that Daikon Crispus?

“Jonathan!” The old man threw his arms wide, waiting at the end of the path.

A dozen students rushed into view behind the old man.

Seeing his teacher before him, Jonathan sighed. He bowed,  “Is-is David here? Is he— alright?”

“David has not arrived yet.” Crispus squeezed Jonathan’s shoulder.

Jonathan let out a sigh. “What happened? How many were harmed?”

The daikon’s brows furrowed as he told the story, while they walked up the path.

Am I the cause of this? Did my taunting Greysun bring what followed?

Jonathan remembered the knights that laid among the dead. Knights whose only sin was taking care of the students, like Kotchy, the cook. He was cranky, but always gave him goodly portions, and more whenever he asked.

“I am so sorry, Daikon Crispus. I may have caused this terrible slaughter.” He balled his fists. “I taunted Commandant Greysun when I encountered him. He was already angry that he could not arrest me because of the King’s pass I carried, but I rubbed it in his face.”

Jonathan turned his wet eyes on Crispus. “It was impulsive. It was wrong. I am so sorry. I-I—”

Daikon Crispus guided him to a cave behind one of the Watcher’s.

Jonathan ducked his head as he followed, placing his hand against the rock face. The familiar stone of the mountain felt cool under his rough hand. The hidden opening expanded into a warm room. A small fire near the opening produced almost no smoke yet kept the dampness out of the room. Three crude stools sat beside the fire. Behind them, a pallet of dried grass and herbs lay against the cave wall.

“Sit, dear boy, sit.” The daikon stood over him.

Jonathan sat, slumped, wringing his hands, hoping for the chastisement he felt he deserved, and the punishment that would absolve himself.

Instead, the old man placed his warm hand on his head. “Dear boy, nothing we do can make another do anything they don’t want to do. Selfish desires are in us all. You had no way to know that the Serpent would use him this way.”

Daikon Crispus patted his head as if he were eleven years old again.

Jonathan’s chest shuddered as he sucked in a breath.

His old master continued, “It’s been many moons since that atrocity. We have mourned, but we have the hope of J’shua. Many others have no hope.”

Crispus sighed. “We’ve encountered Greysun before. No, son, you did not cause this. He has been a boiling pot for a long time. This has made us even more determined to train young knights to do the Father’s will and follow J’shua.”

The stool creaked as the old man sat down. “Now, tell me what else has happened to you.”

Jonathan let out a long, relieved breath and began to tell him his tale of woes. “Two years ago, while I was away, soldiers came to the farm demanding Rebekah’s father pay his loan in full or give up his daughter and granddaughter in lieu of payment. I imagine Rebekah and Sarah ran and hid as I had taught them. Rebekah escaped, I heard she stole a horse. You know she would only do that if she had to pursue someone.” He sighed. “So, I believe they took Sarah.”

He looked down, running his hands through his hair. “I cannot find them. The Father and J’shua have not told me where they are.” He held his breath to hold back tears, “I fear they are—dead.”

He groaned. “But I can’t accept that. Rebekah must be hiding somewhere. She must be looking for Sarah as well.”

Crispus squeezed his shoulder. “Your wife was here.”

Jonathan’s head jerked up. He inhaled a raspy breath.

“She looked well.”

The daikon’s kind smile made him break, tears streamed down his cheeks in relief.

“And what of Sarah?” he asked, daring to hope.

“She’s not found Sarah but she’s learned your daughter did escape her captors. Rebekah believes she’s safe. Until J’shua reveals it, trust she’s in his care.”

Jonathan nodded, feeling a hint of relief, but not enough to stifle his groan or the pain in his chest. He gritted his teeth.

I have to do something. I have to find them.

“Where is Rebekah? I will go to her.”

Crispus gripped Jonathan’s shoulder. “That would be unwise. You must remember, her quest is no less important than yours, but—” He left Jonathan’s side to rummage through his leather bag. Returning to the knight’s side, the old man said, “She left a message for you.”

The daikon handed over the parchment, and Jonathan was quick to open it.

Jonathan, My Heart,

The world conspires to keep us apart, yet my spirit soars with the hope of our reunion. It is why I look for your whereabouts constantly, just as much as I continue to search for our Sarah. She is as brave as her father, and I know in my spirit that she is well. As I journey, every step I take is a prayer for each of us.  

Know too that our Lord J’shua has given me a mission. This means I am closer than you think, working in the shadows to protect our family and our country. But it’s why I cannot come to you directly. I fear I would refuse to be parted from you again, regardless of my calling.

Please do not try to find me. Please understand that my role is crucial. Many others will be in danger, if I’m found, so I cannot risk meeting you, though I wish it with all my heart. Also, I know that you are hunted as well, and we both know that if those who look for you caught me, they would use me to coerce you. This I cannot allow.

Be safe, my love. We will be together again, and I look for that day to come soon. Fear not. We are bound not only by our love, but our faith. I know this because I know you are holding fast to the Faith and doing as J’shua directs as am I, and J’shua will see us through these dark times. The way is clear when it is needed.

Stay strong, my knight. My love for you is undying.

Yours Forever,

Rebekah

Although relieved to know she was well, at least recently, he feared he’d never find her. Pressing her letter to his chest, he prayed. The God of Truth alone knew how to end the evil that kept them apart. All he knew was to follow J’shua.

Jonathan wiped tears from his eyes and placed the letter smoothly under the lining of his pack near the bottom.

A long night of fellowship soothed his battered soul. He pulled his cloak tighter around him against the cool breezes as they all sang the old psalms, each note a healing balm. Many prayed for family, friends, and the nobles who led the country. Jonathan prayed for the king.

He knew the king. When Jonathan was six, he’d lived under the King’s care and was made companion to his six-year-old son, Prince Sagen.

He is a good man and so is Sagen, my friend.

The young student knights and old teachers listened in silence as he told his tale and confessed his encounter with Commandant Greysun. Acceptance and the comfortable familiarity of the men and boys around the fire warmed him. Many embraced him and gave him good wishes.

As he gazed around the circle, he saw no judgment, only sorrow—the same sorrow he felt at the loss of men and boys at the school. This pain they shared was a bond between them.

When the fire burned down to glowing coals and they all had drifted off to bed, he slept alone with his troubled thoughts in a small cave he had outfitted years ago. Prayers, long into the night, finally gave way to sleep.

***

The following morning, after thanking each of them for soothing his soul, he gave Crispus a letter for Rebekah should he see her again.

Returning to his horse, he rode down into the foothills, guided by the still, small voice telling him to go westward toward Mestelina. The sun warmed him, and he felt at peace. Yes, buildings had been destroyed, and good men died, but it was a grave error for the Serpent, which the God of Truth had turned into a beacon.

Finally, he had some news of Rebekah. He would continue to search for her, for Sarah, and together, with his son soon to become a knight too, they would be stronger. He vowed it.