Rewards

Taylor was awarded the elemental's core mana stone as a reward for his services. He was also supposed to receive a share of valuable animal skins and other monster parts, and he was happy to take his share, but he had nowhere to put it all. The stone was the real prize, anyway. It was far smaller than expected, only twice as large as Taylor's head. The surface bulged with bright orange lumps of hexagonal crystals. At first, he was afraid to go near it, even though it was offered to him by Proctor Balhadra.

"The stone is yours by right," Balhadra told him. "Take it."

He wasn't sure he wanted it. It was quiet for the moment because it was completely drained, but what would happen when it was filled with mana again? "I had a lot of help."

"Nonetheless, it is yours."

"I have nothing to carry it in."

"Not my problem." The fire spirit left the stone in Taylor's possession and didn't want it back. As he didn't feel safe around the elemental's stone, he put a magic circle around it to keep it drained of mana, and raised an earthen hut around the circle with a warning sign. It read, "House Of The Corrupted Heart. Do Not Enter."

The elemental left a large pit behind when it crawled out from the ground. Taylor spent more than a day reshaping the pit into an oblong dell, a graceful depression in the landscape most people wouldn't look at twice. Mana pooled there from whatever deep reservoir the monster had crawled out from. Multiple spirits who claimed to be sensitive to the "corruption" attribute assured him the mana was clean. Frustratingly, they could not explain what corruption was. They could explain its effects, but not what made some corrupted while other mana wasn't.

With the land reshaped, Taylor was finally able to plant the tree he'd been carrying around for days. Instead of planting the poplar in the center of the dell, he chose a spot at the rim on the theory that, in spring, the dell would fill with snowmelt and turn into a seasonal pool. From the first moment the roots touched new ground, the tree reached for others of its kind. It was a thin connection at first, tenuous but glad. Fed by mana and encouraged by Taylor, the connection thickened and grew.

Saria, who was never far away, watched with amusement as he nurtured the tree to grow as quickly as possible. Soon, it was sending out runners of its own, expanding its grove to encompass the dell.

During all this time, Taylor's main job for the army was to ferry magic bags full of loot across the gate. Several times a day, he had to stop what he was doing, haul a bunch of filled bags into Twilight, and carry empty bags into Aarden. The giant's innards were made of mana crystal, so there were tons of it to haul around.

When Taylor told Genova that the Empire laid claim to all manacrystal, the vine spirit hummed to itself for several moments. Finally, he said, "The Empire is welcome to claim anything it wants in territory it holds."

The day before the army cleared out of the area, Taylor received his payout: two tons of agate from the giant geode, rare materials from Twilight that reacted to various mana attributes, and a magic bag large enough to hold it all with enough room left over for the monster's core.

By that time, his poplar grove extended halfway around the oblong depression that marked the vent's location. Day by day, less mana escaped. Excited, Taylor made sure that nobody was watching and folded himself into the Other Place.

It had grown a lot in the last month. Hundreds of white-barked trees climbed toward a sky that wasn't entirely a gray void. It was definitely a shade of blue, and a sun-like orb shone wanly through the void mist. It was looking good, if somewhat monotonous. He set up a miniature obelisk of agate where his gate to the frontier was, and planted tufts of uncorrupted prairie grass in the strip of bare ground beyond the forest. Then, he went looking for his gate to Midway. It took him longer than he thought it would to find it, because the forest was larger than he realized. Eventually, he found the right spot and emerged onto the hill where he had thrown the glider around with Kasper.

Taylor gathered some deadwood to reshape into a lamp post, then crossed back into the Other Place and installed it to mark the gate's location. A smooth nubbin of sunstone, roughly engraved (how he missed his tools!), served as a light source he could activate from a distance. The next time he wanted to find it, the lamp would light up. He did the same with the obelisk, replacing the top inch of agate with amethyst so its color would be different from the lamp. In a few minutes, he was back on the frontier. He had traveled hundreds of miles away and back again, in less than an hour.

"Where have you been?" Saria wanted to know, a scarce minute after he returned.

"Working on something." Taylor didn't even try not to sound smug.

"That's not suspicious at all." She squinted at him through angular eyes, green on green with flecks of white and yellow glistening like wet riverstones. "Proctor Ramitha wants you."

"Us? Or just me?"

"Just you," she claimed, but she led him to the command tent as if he couldn't find it on his own. Not all of the magic bags he had hauled from Twilight were empty, and a good chunk of the encampment at post nineteen had relocated to Aarden. The same two bear-like spirits guarded the command tent, but only Proctor Ramitha was inside, sitting behind the camp desk, looking too small for her post. Her arc form and diminutive horns belied her combat ability. There was no other place to sit, so Taylor stood.

"How are you getting along with everyone?" It seemed like an odd question to ask.

"Fine, I think. If there's anyone who doesn't like me, they've been staying away. To be honest, I'm not used to so much positive attention."

"Give it time. You might get to like it." She smiled, and Taylor understood why Ramitha was the proctor having this conversation with him. Of the three he was familiar with, she was the most approachable. "And, are you satisfied with your share? Any second thoughts about converting so much of it to other materials?"

"No regrets here," he assured the proctor. "I'm studying attributes, and I have limited bag space. Rare materials work best for me, assuming I can still pay for food somehow, while I'm in Twilight."

"I doubt that will be a problem. Nobody is going to let you pay for meals anytime soon."

"Or eat alone." Taylor gave the proctor a wry smile. "It takes some getting used to, but I don't hate it."

"Good." Ramitha nodded, "That's good. Has Saria explained Twilight's territories to you?"

"A little. Lords are greater spirits who protect the lesser spirits in their regions. I assume there's some system of taxation and governance to go with that."

"Of a sort, but there's less governance than you might think. We don't view ourselves as being separate from each other, like the mortal races do. Even the bloodiest, most frightening spirits have a place and purpose. Don't ever steal from a spirit, or attack one, and you shouldn't have any serious trouble."

"Thanks for the advice." Taylor didn't see yet where this meeting was going. Did it matter to them so much that he was happy? "Can I take that to mean I'm allowed to stick around?"

"More than that. You're welcome here."

She took on a more business-like tone. "You are currently in the domain of Wen-Ra-Turi, and he wishes to thank you for your efforts. Usually, we hold out as long as we can until the corruption has eaten its fill, or the Empire shows up and solves the problem on its side. In this case, help was never going to arrive. By solving the source of the corruption and siphoning off the mana," she winked at him, "for who-knows-for-what-purpose, and discovering a vast trove of crystal, your actions have profoundly benefitted the domain, and the lord is obligated to reward you appropriately."

Ramitha produced two packages from her desk. "Lord Wen-Ra-Turi offers you these gifts." Taylor was about to tell her that more payment wasn't necessary, but she interrupted him. "Saria says you want to avoid major entanglements with great powers. These gifts were chosen with that in mind. Declining would … tighten your relationship. A spirit would know this intuitively. Mortals need it explained, apparently."

"Can I look at them first?"

"That's only proper."

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The first gift was a square, flat box containing a robe: proper, high-quality, wizard robes that fit close to the torso with a double row of buttons, and flared out over the legs. The weave was a subtle pattern of a school of fish. It had a short, detachable cape and cowl for the back. The material felt almost alive in his hands.

"Those are Battlesage's Robes. They increase your mental abilities and reflexes. They can also take on whatever color scheme you desire. There's extra material in the hems, since you're a growing boy."

The second box was longer than he was, as was its contents: a two-handed sword. It was a combination of sword and polearm, and not terribly useful in enclosed spaces, but useful against large enemies.

"Mithril?" Taylor touched the hilt hopefully.

"Rank-A magisteel. It contains mithril, adamantine, a touch of oricalcum, and a few other secret ingredients. Saria said you favor weapons you can channel with. This is a proper monster-slayer's weapon, able to strike deep and handle almost any type of energy without harming the blade."

The long grip took up a quarter of its length, followed by a sturdy crossbar, and an equal amount of unsharpened steel. The second half of the sword was edged. Taylor pulled the sword partway from its scabbard. The metal was unadorned, a weapon intended for use in the field rather than a showpiece. He would need to revise his training to use it well. "This is … a lot. Please tell your lord that I accept."

"He will be pleased to hear it." Ramitha sounded relieved. "That closes several matters and brings me to our next topic. How would you feel about doing all of this again?"

"I'm willing," said Taylor, while trying not to sound one tenth as eager as he was. "But I need to stop by a town first."

~ Cadmius ~

There were more important things in life than skills and levels. Cadmius knew that, and he said as much to the squires he trained all the time. "You are more than your levels." But he had been a paladin for most of his life, and it got stripped from him as quickly as changing shirts. No warning. No fanfare. Just a few quick notifications, and it was over. In his case, class had defined everything about him.

And he was tagged with Oathbreaker. The title didn't do anything to his class. It didn't even have a description. But it couldn't be hidden, either. Anyone with a good enough Appraise skill to see his name and class would see he was an Oathbreaker and assume he was the kind of person who went around making solemn promises and breaking them. He hadn't even known about the compact.

Cadmius was confined, shut into a stone-walled cloister cell, the same size as a jail cell but cleaner. The priory had dozens more just like it, where novices, squires, pilgrims, and priests could stay for free in an environment of quiet contemplation, marked by communal meals and daily chants of devotion. Each came equipped with a simple bed, a small wardrobe, a scribe's desk, and an alcove with a statue of Knexenk. She stood in her place, hands spread wide as if offering him the world. But his world ended at the door he didn't dare open. It wasn't locked; it didn't need to be. If he left the cell before he was dismissed, they could throw him out of the church. He wasn't a paladin anymore. He wasn't important. The church could go on without him.

Taylor had asked him, "What, exactly, are you a paladin of?" As of now, he wasn't a paladin of anything anymore. Knexenk wasn't giving him any quests, let alone the redeeming kind. Scripture didn't ease his mind. He tried prayer, but it felt futile. He was alone in his cell with an accusing title and no one to talk to about it. Meal trays came and went. Daylight shone through the high window above his cot, then dimmed until Cadmius had to burn candles to read, because he lacked even a basic Light skill.

A knock on the door signaled a mealtime. After a suitable pause, the door opened, and a cowled novice entered with a tray and placed it on the desk. Soup and bread. Normally, that would be all. But today's lunch included a sheaf of papers. After the novice withdrew, Cadmius ignored the food and chose to read instead.

It was all there: everything he should have known before attempting to talk to Taylor, starting with Midway's report. The boy's lineage, his curse, the brief stint as legate, the victories over men and monsters, his expulsion from his family, and the recent name change. Anger flushed Cadmius's skin. If the bishop had simply waited for Midway's statement instead of bending to the Augberg woman, he wouldn't be in this mess. It was the bishop's fault.

Except it wasn't only the bishop's fault, was it? The boy had warned him, had tried to reason with him even after losing a hand. Cadmius's papers included an outline of the church's contract – the church didn't have its original because that had been taken into the Divine House by Chowgami Himself – and there was no way to conclude he hadn't violated every important stipulation when he maimed the kid and then tried to arrest him. Cadmius had made mistakes before, but never one like this.

Keeva Augburg, never one to let a moment of confusion go to waste, filed a complaint with the city's wardens, claiming Cadmius hounded and abused her dearest great-grandson, Bilius d'Mourne. She was petitioning the court for custody. Like everybody else, she wanted to control the boy and his money. Fortunately, Taylor had Dwergbank lawyers on retainer. Cadmius decided that his first task should be to visit Taylor's lawyers, tell them how Keeva set up the situation, and confess to his role in the mess. It might help Taylor fend off the Augbergs.

Cadmius ate his dinner cold, lit a candle, and tried to sleep. If the monsters bothered him tonight, he'd tell them he had bigger problems. He said one prayer before going to bed, and that was for the boy's safety. He prayed Taylor wasn't dead, or alone in the wild.

It was Yaonoch who broke the news to him, starting with the oracles' visions. Unknowingly, he had threatened the very existence of the church, and it would not forgive him this trespass. Add to that the judgment of Knexenk, and the severity of his guilt was never in doubt.

It didn't help that he had enemies inside the walls, bishops and high bishops, whose patronage greased the cogs of Empire, even if their schemes were several hundredweight shy of legal. Paladins were supposed to hate injustice, but it was remarkable how often the halls of power, any power, reeked of it. Now, the body of the holy church would finally expel a long-hated irritant.

"I'm sorry," said Yaonoch. His was the only face Cadmius had seen in days, and the good bishop looked older than he remembered. He sat on the only chair, while Cadmius took the bed. "I chose not to publish a circular about him, because I didn't want to focus more attention on him. And we didn't know about the name change. I should have kept a closer watch."

"You made mistakes," Cadmius agreed with a crooked smile. "Everybody made mistakes. But I was the one holding the steel. I was so convinced he was a monster." He remembered the familiar touch of steel at the end of a perfect swing of his sword. A streamer of blood. A child's severed hand on the street.

"It wasn't your fault."

"Knexenk does not agree, Lord High Bishop." Cadmius glanced at her in her little alcove, offering gifts all day, every day, until the world's end. But she could take her gifts away, too.

"What will you do?"

"I don't know. I'm sure I'll think of something." The ex-paladin summoned a measure of his battlefield bravado. "I can do anything I want."

He said that like it was a good thing, but his hands trembled. What would he do? What would anyone let him do, as an Oathbreaker?

His door was open when he awoke. He got out of bed and, for a while, stared at the gaping portal, willing it to close, hoping it was a mistake, that they'd keep him for a little while longer. He edged forward on sandled feet and looked outside. Nobody was there. The other cell doors in his hall were closed. Cadmius could be obstinate and try to stay, but they wouldn't feed him. They wouldn't speak to him. They would raise their cowls and pretend he wasn't there.

As far as Bostkirk Priory was concerned, Cadmius didn't exist.

His guts felt loose and quivering. He took small steps, one hand on the wall like an old man who needed support. The first person to see him was someone he knew well, a priest who hurriedly turned his back and raised his hood. He might as well have stabbed Cadmius in the chest.

As he entered the main quad, bordered by its colonnade, others came into view. He didn't want to cross that distance, but it was too late. Novices and priests, acolytes and candidates, pilgrims and missionaries all saw him coming and turned. There were dozens of people in the quad, and not a single face to be seen. Backs and hoods everywhere.

The looseness in his belly turned into painful knots as he shuffled across the quad. The priory was separated from the city by a wall, and there, by the gate, were the remains of a fire. He approached the heap of ashes like it was an injured animal, something to be afraid of. A small amount of residual heat drifted against his skin.

With aching, unsure hands, Cadmius pulled the simple robe over his head and laid it on the ground. He pulled his heavy feet from the sandals and pushed them aside. Finally, he pulled off his undershorts. He squatted by last night's fire and extended trembling hands into the weightless ash, taking a double handful. He raised his hands over his head and let the ash fall.

Not the usual ash. It smelled of resin, of winter pine and mint. In scripture, the old scripture before Wynefrede the Evangel, when arcs and beastkin wrote all the histories, darudanu wood seasoned the pyres of fallen heroes. It was said to smell like this.

He scooped more ashes from the fire and rubbed them on his arms, on his chest, over his legs. He bathed his face and back with them. When he was fully covered, he moved toward the gate. A single robe of homespun hung on a hook. His arms weren't working right, and he couldn't see through his mud-streaked eyes. Eventually, he pulled on the robe.

Now he was an ashen man. He was in the street beyond the gate, and he turned just in time to hear the heavy, brass-fitted wood chunk close. He didn't belong inside, nor could he remember leaving. He stared incredulously at the doors, as if their betrayal was the most incomprehensible of all. There hadn't been a time in all his life when the priory's doors weren't open to him, until now.

The hour was early, well before first post, and most people were still in their homes. He was alone in the street except for the early tradesmen and delivery wagons. He made slow progress across the city. Maybe it was the lost stats, or maybe it was something else, but he felt so heavy. Every direction went uphill, except the way he came, the one way he could not go.

The city slowly came alive while he, an ashen man, pulled himself forward and left ashen footprints behind him. People called their morning greetings to each other, but quieted when they saw him. The smell of baking bread turned into burnt offerings in his nose. People pointed at him, a man in ashes and a thin robe, one of those crazies who gave the city color. Few of them understood what the ashes meant.

It didn't get any easier. The farther away he went, the more he wanted to go back. He crossed Green Field and its median parkland into the palace district, under the watchful walls of the province's secular power. His street was still there. The ashen man dragged his feet past the homes of neighbors whose names he didn't know. He let himself into his house with its three covered trunks in the front room. A long time ago, in a fit of new homeowner pride, a young man had purchased housewares he didn't know how to display or use. That person didn't exist anymore, but his junk was still here.

He looked around his empty house. What was he going to do now?

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