But as I went about the rituals and considered the unbelievable encounter, I began to feel queasy. I came to the verse in the closing chant where you changed the words depending on the outcome of the battle. One phrase if you had emerged victorious. One phrase if you had suffered defeat. One phrase if the Warden had died. One phrase if he had been abandoned, alive in the abyss. For me on that night, there were no words. What had I done?
Fiona would know that I had not killed the demon. The Aife could feel it in her weaving, just as she could sense when the demon left the victim . . . or did not. My guess was Fiona had gone to report the outcome of the encounter to the Mentors Council. To think that she was speaking my name in the same breath with the word treason was unnerving.
Yet, as I stowed the weapon case in the preparation room, drew water from the well near the temple, and washed myself, my moment’s panic was submerged in my wonder at the day’s meeting. How I wished that I could talk to Ysanne about it, or that she could have been the one to experience it with me. Her senses were so keen. A demon who was not drawn to pain and horror, but to art, color, learning, and adventure. A rai-kirah with a sense of humor. I had looked into its depths with my Warden’s sight, and I could not be mistaken. Incomparably strange. I needed to follow Fiona, to tell my mentor and the rest of them, not of treason, but of something extraordinary. Something we had never imagined.
I had violated my oath, yet I could not feel guilty. It would have been wrong to kill him. Wrong to banish him. We had learned that forcing a demon from a human soul damaged the creature, at least for a time. Ezzarian mentors taught that hunger for evil was the nature of all demons, but if the hunger was not there, then how could I justify harming him? Of course it was possible, likely even, that this demon was only an aberration. But whatever he was, we needed to learn more.
And, of course, as the afternoon waned and I pondered these things, yearning for Ysanne, my mind returned to the matter of our dead child. My heart twisted in my breast, and I wanted to push my fist through the stone columns of the temple. But instead I slumped against a fluted pillar, pressed my hands to my aching head, and cried out in an agony of grief that would no longer be denied. What if his demon had been one like this? In a thousand years we had never even considered such possibilities.
CHAPTER 5
Each of the five well-respected men and women on the Council represented one of the special talents used in fighting demons. Catrin represented those who trained Wardens, and at thirty, was by far the youngest. Maire represented the Weavers, those who held the safety of Ezzarian settlements in their care. Talar represented those who trained Aifes, Caddoc the Searchers, and Kenehyr the Comforters.
Seventy-year-old Maire was a wise, sharp-eyed Weaver who had been my mother’s dearest friend. She had known me since I was born and had administered the testing that named me among the valyddar—the power-born. Though she would never do anything to compromise her integrity, she would not doubt me without incontrovertible proof. I trusted Maire’s judgment of me beyond my own.
Kenehyr was a round, cheerful man who had once been a Comforter. His melydda was so strong that he could fell trees with a glance . . . but only if no one distracted him. He had always needed a Searcher partner who was a powerful fighter to keep him safe, for he could never do more than one thing at a time and was so gentle a spirit that he could not see danger were it sitting on his toes. Kenehyr had also known me for most of my life in Ezzaria. As much as Ysanne or Catrin, he had convinced my people that my life was a fulfillment of prophecy and thus no corruption, allowing me to come home. He was also the most liberal-minded of all Ezzarians, and would likely not doubt my word even if he saw demon
Fiona would know that I had not killed the demon. The Aife could feel it in her weaving, just as she could sense when the demon left the victim . . . or did not. My guess was Fiona had gone to report the outcome of the encounter to the Mentors Council. To think that she was speaking my name in the same breath with the word treason was unnerving.
Yet, as I stowed the weapon case in the preparation room, drew water from the well near the temple, and washed myself, my moment’s panic was submerged in my wonder at the day’s meeting. How I wished that I could talk to Ysanne about it, or that she could have been the one to experience it with me. Her senses were so keen. A demon who was not drawn to pain and horror, but to art, color, learning, and adventure. A rai-kirah with a sense of humor. I had looked into its depths with my Warden’s sight, and I could not be mistaken. Incomparably strange. I needed to follow Fiona, to tell my mentor and the rest of them, not of treason, but of something extraordinary. Something we had never imagined.
I had violated my oath, yet I could not feel guilty. It would have been wrong to kill him. Wrong to banish him. We had learned that forcing a demon from a human soul damaged the creature, at least for a time. Ezzarian mentors taught that hunger for evil was the nature of all demons, but if the hunger was not there, then how could I justify harming him? Of course it was possible, likely even, that this demon was only an aberration. But whatever he was, we needed to learn more.
And, of course, as the afternoon waned and I pondered these things, yearning for Ysanne, my mind returned to the matter of our dead child. My heart twisted in my breast, and I wanted to push my fist through the stone columns of the temple. But instead I slumped against a fluted pillar, pressed my hands to my aching head, and cried out in an agony of grief that would no longer be denied. What if his demon had been one like this? In a thousand years we had never even considered such possibilities.
CHAPTER 5
Each of the five well-respected men and women on the Council represented one of the special talents used in fighting demons. Catrin represented those who trained Wardens, and at thirty, was by far the youngest. Maire represented the Weavers, those who held the safety of Ezzarian settlements in their care. Talar represented those who trained Aifes, Caddoc the Searchers, and Kenehyr the Comforters.
Seventy-year-old Maire was a wise, sharp-eyed Weaver who had been my mother’s dearest friend. She had known me since I was born and had administered the testing that named me among the valyddar—the power-born. Though she would never do anything to compromise her integrity, she would not doubt me without incontrovertible proof. I trusted Maire’s judgment of me beyond my own.
Kenehyr was a round, cheerful man who had once been a Comforter. His melydda was so strong that he could fell trees with a glance . . . but only if no one distracted him. He had always needed a Searcher partner who was a powerful fighter to keep him safe, for he could never do more than one thing at a time and was so gentle a spirit that he could not see danger were it sitting on his toes. Kenehyr had also known me for most of my life in Ezzaria. As much as Ysanne or Catrin, he had convinced my people that my life was a fulfillment of prophecy and thus no corruption, allowing me to come home. He was also the most liberal-minded of all Ezzarians, and would likely not doubt my word even if he saw demon
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