Ch. 428 - Covering Their Tracks

For a moment, all was chaos. He heard no hooves, but there were raised voices, drawn blades, and once, a crossbow twanging off into the night. Simon quickly outrode the shouts and caught up to the bulk of his strange caravan. Even after the distant fires faded, though, and he couldn’t hear anything over the sound of hooves, he still didn’t relax. 

They might have a dozen horses left inside the walls, he told himself, or a group might have returned just as we were leaving. 

A knight or two he might face down with confidence, but a dozen? Simon’s only choice would be magic, and that would be counterproductive. Not only would he scare off the very women he was trying to save if he wasn’t careful, but he would destroy what remained of his sight.

His sight. He shook his head. He wouldn’t have believed it, but he missed it more than he missed his left hand right now. He could see the luminescent auras of the women spread out across the plains in front of him, but they were faint balls of light that had more in common with will-o'-whisps than with the humans he was used to. 

Simon was used to seeing tomorrow’s weather on the breeze and the secret subtext on the face of everyone he talked to. Now, he felt crippled by it. 

So, the idea of worsening that, and striking himself completely blind in a magical sense, hurt him more than he would have expected after dulling it so much already. He was months, or perhaps even a year, from fixing it as things stood now with real dedication, and he was determined not to push that back even farther. 

Note to self, don’t use magic wands for hours on end to cut through a wall, he told himself. A storage gemstone would have blunted the impact immensely, but sadly, he didn’t have one on hand. 

It was only when they were another hour down the trail, with no signs of pursuit, that Simon relaxed enough for his next problem to come into focus. Where was he going to take so many women? Where would they be able to go such that they wouldn’t be able to be found? While that was something he’d considered before this moment, it hadn’t taken center stage until now. 

Up until this point, he’d had plenty of ideas. He knew a few welcoming villages, and the idea of spending a decade or two helping to build a secret convent appealed to him. Still, if he tried to do that anywhere in Brin, they would probably eventually be found.

The Whitecloaks had been hurt by Simon’s efforts, but it wasn’t a mortal wound. They would be back, and for better or worse, he’d just painted a target on the back of everyone he’d rescued from their magical slavery. Even now, they were probably coming up with crazy theories to tie the two events together. 

“No doubt a latent witch, or something like that,” he mumbled to himself. He had no doubt they’d find a way to make the Grandmaster’s death the fault of a woman rather than his own black deeds.

It was close to dawn before one of the women worked up the courage to inquire about where they were going. “Has the divinity that guides you told us where we will be safe?” she asked, before instantly apologizing for her presumptuousness. “It’s not that I doubt you, of course. No one does after tonight. Many thought escape was impossible, but you found a door where—”

“Soon,” Simon promised her. “First, we focus on finding some cover to make the lives of trackers that much harder, and then we worry about what comes next.”

That was almost true. He’d intentionally picked a southerly direction to start, to throw whoever came after off the trail. As to whether they went east or west after that, he couldn’t say. He planned to send the women off in a single file line, though, and then continue on his own with his tiny herd before doubling back. That would give the sisters he shepherded a head start from any pursuers, but a head start to where? 

That night, Simon didn’t worry about it. He asked for volunteers to keep watch, though this time it wasn’t monsters he feared, and then he drifted off into a deep and dreamless sleep. In the morning, he still didn’t have an answer, but no one else needed to know that, and he kept everyone moving as if he had a plan. 

It wasn’t until that evening when he looked at the simmering cauldron of soup burbling away above the red coals that he had an answer. Hepollyon. It came to him in an instant as a flash of inspiration. One second, he was looking at dinner, and the next, he was looking at the Caldera he’s spent so much time at.

The Oracle’s volcano city could absorb fifty women easily, but would she take them? They didn’t even speak the same language. Simon thought about it for a few minutes and decided that she almost certainly would, if only for their sob stories. Dozens of women who’d had their clarity stolen and forced to wield magic? That seemed right up her alley.

Am I doing this because it's the right choice, though, or because I want to see Zoa again? he asked himself.

When Simon searched his feelings, he found only apprehension at the idea of a reunion, which reassured him. That realization brushed away the anxiety that had been building since the start of this, but he didn’t reveal the plan to the women right away. In fact, when he told the matrons who had found themselves more or less in charge of the group, they practically mutinied. 

“You can’t just abandon us!” the withered Sister Annilese told him. “Who will protect us?”

“This is protecting you,” he insisted. “We will all be safer if those who pursue us are thrown off the scent entirely.”

“And if you don’t return?” another woman asked. Simon was pretty sure that her name was Jarlane. “We don’t even know where we’re supposed to go. You haven’t told us where we’ll be safe.”

“Nor will I now,” Simon answered immediately. Still, it was a fair point. He’d done everything he could to protect them, but he’d broken them free, so they were his responsibility. He couldn’t go wandering off and get himself killed. 

It’s not like he’d leave them defenseless, regardless. He’d procured and distributed knives and spears to the younger women; none of them had any skill with weapons. While that put the onus on him in combat, it also meant that they needed to do their very best to avoid combat wherever possible. He tried to explain that to them, but wasn’t entirely successful, and when word of his decision spread throughout camp, it caused a minor panic. 

In the end, Simon was forced to delegate his plan to another woman, Chesera, who seemed to be an accomplished rider. He spent a few hours showing her what he wanted the following day, going back and forth over the trailing tracks of their caravan before releasing her when they found a likely fork in the road to part ways.

Simon drew a crude map for her that showed where she should meet them by the alignment of distant landmarks and other mountains. Then he sent her on her way with instructions to release the extra horses after a day or so and rejoin them. 

“48 hours, no more,” he told her. “We have limited supplies and won’t be able to wait for you.”

“I’ll keep one good horse as a spare and meet you in 36,” she said with a wink. He’d chosen her for that confidence as much as for her riding skill. She was without a doubt the best whisperer of the group for the task, but even as she set off into the distance, he had a sinking feeling that this would end poorly.

Simon tried to ignore that knot in his stomach as his caravan turned west toward Ionar. You’re just used to taking the risks yourself, he reminded himself. You don’t delegate enough, and it shows. 

Right or wrong, though, Chesera never rejoined them. Simon went to the spot he’d drawn on the map. He even kept the women there half a day longer than planned while he rode to a distant rise and surveyed the scene. From there, the view was scarcely better than it had been by the brook they’d camped at. Even standing in his stirrups on the rise, he saw only tall grasses and scattered copses. There was no evidence of his rider or any stray horses, and they were forced to move on without them, which caused Simon several sleepless nights. 

He tried to tell himself it would have been far worse for the remaining woman if they’d lost their shepherd than for him to lose a single member of his flock, as he buried his oilcloth wrapped books under a large flat stone, but it did no good, and Simon berated himself for a long time.

If only my sight was still strong, I could follow her thread of fate right to her. If only I’d made a better plan. If only. If only. The words haunted him, and he blamed himself even if no one else seemed to. 

“To save even one is all that can be asked,” Sister Annilese told him, citing a well-worn parable from the holy books. “To save everyone is impossible.”

It was a line that he’d heard before, but in that moment, it wasn’t the elderly sister telling him that. It was Helades and his doppelganger. It was the lesson that everyone tried to teach him, but he resisted. You can’t save everyone. That might have been true for someone with one life to live, but it wasn’t true for Simon.

He could live a thousand lives, no, a million lives if needed, until he did everything right. He could save everyone. And he noted as many of the particulars down on his mirror about the day and the place as he could so that one life he could be out there waiting to save Chesera from whatever fate he’d consigned her to.

“I will save everyone,” he told himself that night, curled up in his bedroll. “I’ll save the whole damn world, no matter how many lives it takes.”

Ch. 429 - Crossing the Border

For days, Simon was caught between competing thoughts. He hoped that Chesera would find a way to catch up to them, against all odds, while at the same time, he worried that whatever had taken her would come for them next. Still, anticlimatically, neither of those outcomes happened as the group moved steadily westward, taking one road and then another. 

Thanks to his voluminous map collection, Simon didn’t need to worry about getting lost, nor did he need to worry about supplies. Despite the many mouths to feed, they had plenty to eat, and in this region, rivers weren’t so far apart. 

The bigger problem was that he was the only warrior in the group, and though he spent some time most nights working on the letter he was pretty sure he’d need in the near future, he was up at least once or twice a night when one of the women standing watch found something, or thought she did. It was almost always a false alarm, but twice it was goblins, and once, it was bandits. 

The goblins Simon scared off by charging loudly through the underbrush with a torch, followed by immediately breaking camp, but the bandits didn't frighten so easily. They walked into camp one night as dinner was finishing up like they owned the place,

“In all my years on the road, I never thought I’d see something like this,” the lead bandit said, entering camp and rubbing his hands together greedily. “Women, as far as the eye can see… beautiful women who… well mostly beautiful.”

That last comment was directed at one of the matrons as the man proceeded toward the center of their camp, trailing an entourage in an unhurried way. Simon rushed to meet them, but only after he had one of the whisperers help him fasten his swordbelt. He wasn’t a particularly imposing sight these days, but he’d just been lying down to sleep, and it wouldn’t do to approach such miscreants unarmed. 

When Simon approached them, hand on his hilt, someone said, “So there is a man. Most of one anyway.”

Simon was long past the sting of such insults, though he had to admit that he didn’t look like much. He was over forty now, and he’d probably lost several years to his wand, so he had more gray than usual at this point in his life. Add to that a missing hand, and some slept in clothes, and he was fairly certain that he looked just the opposite of threatening, but that didn’t matter. He was a shepherd who would take the head of any wolves that came to his flock. 

“Look, we don’t want any trouble,” Simon started, but that was met with laughter, as he expected. 

“And we don’t want to have to kill a cripple,” one of the bandits shouted. 

“Yeah, get the hell out of here, and will take care of your lady friends,” another followed up, ignoring the responses of the women in the caravan. Simon noticed that many of them had moved away, either to get armed or get away; he supposed either was a good idea if things went bad here.

“Listen—” Simon started again.

This time, it was the leader of the bandits who interrupted him. “No, you listen. You got one exit, and it’s closing fast, buddy.” 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Simon responded flatly, trying not to get distracted by all the other movement around him. No one had drawn steel yet, but that was only because they saw this as a cakewalk. 

No, not a cakewalk, Simon corrected himself. A game. They’re having fun. 

“No? If I want to cut you down, I’ve got all the help I need,” the man said with an expansive gesture at his threadbare gang. 

“Why would you need help?” Simon asked, loudly enough that everyone nearby could hear. “I’m just a cripple, right? Shouldn’t take more than one able-bodied man to put me in my place.”

That raised the bandit’s hackles even as it obviously injured his pride. None of his men said anything against him, but Simon could see the poisonous smirks spread across the assembled men like a wave. He imagined the sickly yellow-green colors of humor and contempt spreading across them, too, even though he could no longer see them.

“Screw it,” the bandit leader said finally, after a moment, drawing his blade. “I tried to give the poor bastard a chance. Nobody can say I didn’t. I said we only wanted the women, didn’t I?”

There were mutters of agreement, then, as the man pumped himself up, and for once, Simon was glad he hadn’t worn his armor. His opponent was clearly cautious; if he’d shown up to this fight in platemail, the bandit would have definitely found a reason to bow out, but as it was, he seemed content to play Simon’s little game. 

When the fighting finally started half a minute later, it was immediately obvious that the bandit wasn’t taking it seriously. At least, that’s what Simon thought was the case. The truth hit him a few swipes later when the man almost fumbled his blade during a simple feint. 

He’s really not good at this, Simon reflected silently as he pretended to give ground. For a moment, he thought about trying to talk the man out of the fight, but that was pointless. These men were brutes and weren’t going anywhere if women were on offer. So, his best chance was to get everyone invested in this fight, run their leader through, then immediately go on the offensive and take down as many as he could before things got ugly. 

Simon let things linger on for a minute and then two, ensuring that the taunts about his missing limb got louder and louder. He crossed swords with his opponent just enough to get a sense of him. Then, unexpectedly, he parried something with as much force as he could muster with one arm before shoulder-checking the man. This knocked the bandit back just far enough to startle him before bringing his blade down and slicing off the bandit’s hand at the wrist.

“There,” he proclaimed, holding up his stump before his stunned opponent, “we match.”

The man who’d been so hot to duel Simon could only stagger back in shock, leaving his sword on the ground with his hand still holding it, but that didn’t stop his men from moving forward to finish what their boss had started while women screamed somewhere in the background. 

Simon turned to make sure those were merely the noises of shock and fear rather than something more violent. Then he moved forward with a bloodthirsty grin. He was hardly in the best shape for fighting, but at the same time, there was no way he was going to let common criminals with chipped swords and rusted knives stop him from saving these women. He’d put in way too much effort to give up now. 

Still, expecting him to fight half a dozen armed men of any caliber with one good hand and a shield that flopped around halfheartedly might have been asking a bit much, at least until the arrows started. The whisperers weren’t warriors exactly, but all of them had lived lives before the unspoken, and many of those lives had involved hunting. 

So in the end, Simon only had to strike down one more, while the sisters left two on the ground. Once the bandits were down to half their number, they fled like dogs, leaving anyone too wounded to run. It turned out that their tough talk didn’t matter at all. 

On some level, Simon wanted to taunt them about being bested by the girls they’d been mocking a few minutes before, but he restrained himself. They’d already won the day, and there was no need to offend any of the sisters. Instead, he basked in their appreciation, and did his best to downplay the scattered outbursts of disgust for the violence when they were a ways down the road. 

“There are better ways to solve problems,” Simon agreed. “But only when those problems involve better people. Today we only had one answer, unfortunately.”

After that they made good time and reached the borderlands at the edge of Ionia. Normally, Simon might have tried to sneak by at night, far from the watchpost, but with so many women in tow, and wagons that might well break a wheel or worse if he tried to leave the roads, he made straight for the watchtower and declared their arrival, along with their permission to pass.

That took time to work out, since for once Simon pretended like he could speak not a word of Ionian, and made his case only through pantomime and carefully enunciated words that the women with him were guests of the queen.

He’d decided days ago that whoever he encountered was less likely to decide his documents were forgeries if he displayed no knowledge of the local tongue. Right or wrong, he’d never know, but he had a great deal of faith in his memory. He still knew precisely how Elthena signed her name and what her seal looked like. While he wasn’t sure he’d ever seen her vizier's signature, Simon could remember the man’s name at least, and name-dropped it in several places while he wrote at length about the importance of dialogue and a cultural exchange between nations. 

Altogether, it was nonsense, but the guards didn’t know that and quickly waved him by. They’d never get anywhere close to Ionar or the palace proper. In fact, the only reason they wouldn’t turn north immediately was that the roads on the far side of the mountains near the ocean were much safer from men and monsters than the landward side, where it would have been charitable to call the roads neglected. 

That meant more run-ins with people, especially patrols who might want to know why he was going north away from the capital when the time came. Fortunately, he’d written other scrolls for that, with the Queen encouraging her guests to visit other holy sites in the northern part of the country. 

Altogether, that part of the plan went better than Simon would have thought. Even with a violence-free transit, though, it was clear that the trip was taking its toll on the older women in the group.

“When will we at last arrive?” was a constant refrain now. While everyone had been very pleased when he’d gotten them across the border without trouble, another week on, their patience was starting to wear thin. Still, in retrospect, waiting until the mountain was in sight to finally tell everyone his plan was probably a mistake. 

“Up there?” Lindra practically yelled, pointing up at the mist-shrouded peak of Mount Elian as he finally leveled with them as they were breaking camp one morning a few days south of Coramon. “What could possibly be waiting for us up there?”

Ch. 430 - A Hepollyon Homecoming

“Sanctuary,” he answered. It was true, but hardly complete. Still, he didn’t want to say, Servants of a competing religion, both because that would have made them even more wary, and because it wasn’t quite true. The Oracle might be a god, or perhaps something adjacent, but she didn’t seem to worship the divine. If anything, she was hostile to it. Still, these women had spent most of their lives being taught to be wary of mystics, and the followers of the Oracle were definitely that. 

“At the peak of Mount Elian is Hepollyon, it’s a place… a city,” he explained. “Honestly, it’s one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever been. The people that live there lead simple lives, and reject magic as much as the Unspoken do, in their own way.”

Simon explained how anyone who followed him to the peak would never be allowed to leave, though he was quick to clarify that the rule was Hepollyon’s, not his. He counterbalanced that point, though, by pointing out that it was the only place that the Unspoken would never find them. 

“Why come all this way if you’re just going to move us from one prison to another?” several women complained, which was fair. 

“If you would rather be free but a stranger in these lands, you’re welcome to leave in any city we happen to find,” Simon answered. “If you’d prefer to take your chances with your former brothers, I can take whoever wants to go back to Ionar with me once everyone else is free, but I assure you there is no nicer prison than the Oracle’s city at the top of the world.”

Most of the women were not won over right away, but that was okay. They had time. Along the way, Simon told them all a little about clarity and how that’s what the people in Hepollyon were cultivating. This went over better; many of the Whisperers and sisters had experienced moments of true sight before they’d been recruited by the Whitecloaks; that was the reason they’d been of interest in the first place, so when he told the women that the experience was real, and it might be possible to regain it, many went from doubtful to enthusiastic about their destination.

It was well known that the brothers of the Unspoken could see into the hearts of people. That was in the scriptures and the teachings. The women had been taught that their power was something else, though, something wicked, and when it was gone, it was a sign of purity, so the more Simon explained how the two were one, the angrier they got. They didn’t want to believe it, but Simon answered every challenge with rock-solid rebuttals, and soon, at least on this point. When he was finished there were still a few doubters, but they had no other options. 

Some of the older women, like Sister Annilese, had always harbored such suspicions, but there was a difference between suspecting and knowing. The revelations made for some very quiet days, but as bad as Simon felt, he was glad for the silence. As they approached the mountain, the only distraction was the occasional patrols that stopped them and demanded to see the Queen’s writ until they finally reached the edge of civilization.

They couldn’t bring their wagons any further. They even left most of the horses behind, distributing them to the monastery at the base of the mountain where Simon had stayed on previous treks. While grateful for the unexpected bounty, they looked on in wonder at the procession as it left them behind and ascended. 

“Any animal we bring to the top will have to be butchered,” Simon explained. There was little in the way of forage at the peak, and though the residents of Hepollyon would be glad for something besides goat, he saw no reason to kill more animals than were strictly necessary to get their oldest women to the top. Everyone else would have to climb. 

Then, they were past all of that and ascended the Path of Kings. The women with Simon hadn’t been able to see the path until he physically guided them to it, which added more mystery to the strange mountain road, but he didn’t have time to think about that just now. It took almost four days because they had to wait out an unseasonal storm in the wake of some cliffs. It was a miserable half-week. He hadn’t climbed a mountain in a long time, but he hadn’t done it with anyone who was unwilling before, let alone several dozen of them. Every day was filled with complaints, and each night he shut his eyes, he thought they might finally mutiny and kill him in his sleep. 

He didn’t really care. If they decided that was the preferable answer, well, he’d done his best, hadn’t he?

Still, each morning he woke up cold and stiff to endure another day up the mountain. Many of the women slept together out of the need for sheer warmth, but he slept alone. He wanted no misunderstandings. 

When they were finally close, he raced ahead to be the first one to the door, but that did little good, for the gates were closed to him. Simon knocked once, with the giant brass knocker, and then sat in a meditative posture and waited. He lacked a white robe, or even an off-white one, but he wrapped his white cloak around himself just the same. 

By the time the first woman began to arrive several minutes later, the door cracked open, and he saw Diara. She was the woman who’d greeted him on his first visit to this place, and the girl who’d grown up as he’d lived here on his longest stays.

She obviously recognized him, but moved past him to greet the other women and ask them the reason for their visit. Unfortunately, the group spoke only Brinnish, and the white-robbed guard of the gate spoke only Ionian. Simon didn’t try to help, not right away; instead, he waited to be asked for help, which he dutifully provided.

“We don't usually get foreigners here,” the woman admitted with an uncertain smile.

“Usually,” Simon agreed, before going on to translate for the next sister. 

He was a dutiful translator, and only bent what the women were saying slightly to put it in the best possible light, and not just because he knew that Diara would likely be able to read his intent. It was because later he’d have to explain himself to the Oracle. 

For the next couple of hours, that process repeated dozens of times. Simon knew for a fact that so many people hadn’t shown up at once in centuries. With the exception of royal ascents like the one Elthena had done in another life, groups almost never arrived together. There weren’t enough people willing to brave the normally rugged climb, and those who had urgent enough questions to ask were invariably alone. 

Still, today Simon taxed every rule of hospitality that they had, and he was sure there would be a price to pay for that, in this and future lives. While no one was promised that they’d be allowed to stay forever, each woman was invited inside for food and rest, and by the time the sun set, only Simon was still outside the gates. 

He didn’t even bother to ask when he’d be allowed in. He knew that answer. He’d be allowed in when she said so, and since he almost never saw the oracle while the sun was up, he knew it would be a bit. 

As he settled into his waiting game, he noted how much harder it was to hold the now-unfamiliar meditative posture than it had been several years before, when he sat like that for hours without complaint. It was enough to make his old bones creak as he reminded himself that he wasn’t that old yet.

Still, he got used to it, and sometime after he’d mastered his shivering, he started to fall into the old meditative groove. Hours melted by then, and he existed in a sort of fugue state, searching for stars that came in and went through the cloud cover. 

There were no auras to be found in the heavens, even when his vision was sharpest. Still, in the right mindset, he sometimes thought that if he stared hard enough at the constellations, he could see fate written in the stars. 

Tonight, there were no constellations. No whole ones anyway. The best he could do was pick out a shape or two, and that continued until the doors opened to reveal the cloaked figure of the oracle, along with her honor guard. 

In the centered state that he was in, Simon’s sight was just strong enough to make her glow like a beacon, and he thought about how she might have looked had he been able to truly appreciate her. It would be enough to blind me all on its own, he mused as she moved toward him in a measured way. 

She sat across from him on the cold stone silently and made no move to speak until one of her assistants had poured two cups of tea. Then she said, “I knew you’d return soon, Simon. I knew it; Zoa did too, if you’re interested.”

“I hope she’s well,” Simon answered, not reaching for the tea despite his thirst. He’d hoped that the guardian of the gate would have brought him a meal, or at least a skin of goat's milk, but she hadn’t, which was fair. He’d strained Hepollyon’s hospitality as much as anyone ever had before.

“Tell her, not me,” the Oracle chastised him. “If you still care about her, that is. For her, you’ve only been gone a few years, but for you? How long has it been, Simon? A decade?”

“Longer,” he admitted. “I’ve been gone a long time.”

He didn’t bother to defend himself. He just took the abuse as he took a sip of his tea. Scalding his tongue was worth it to ease his thirst, even a little, which said something about his life as a whole in that moment.

She didn’t ask him about the time he’d been gone any longer than that. From the way she seemed to look at him through her veil, she probably didn’t need to. Instead, they sat in amiable silence, drinking their tea while the wind howled. 

When she was done, she finally asked. “Why should I accept the women you’ve tried to saddle me with? We are a refuge for a very specific kind of person, ”

“You took me in,” Simon answered. “Several times.”

“Well, you are a very, very particular kind of person,” she agreed. “You are, of course, welcome to stay once more, if only for Zoa’s sake, but that doesn’t answer my question.”

“Because they, more than anyone else, need your teachings,” Simon said smoothly. “In a way, they are ideal students.”

“Explain,” she answered curtly. “An ideal student would be able to speak our language.”

“And they’ll learn,” Simon agreed, before explaining exactly how the Unspoken chose talented, sighted women to work for their order, and how they blinded them with a word and used up their whole lives in a handful of years.

While he was sure that a woman who could see the future knew all of this already, it still deeply affected her. Even with her veil, he could hear it in her voice as she asked follow-up questions, and see it in the single tear that trailed down her pale skin and dried on her cheek. 

In the end, getting her to agree that they should stay and renew their clarity was child's play, but then Simon had always known that. They drank a second round of tea once that business was done, and once their palates were cleansed of that unpleasantness, she used the opportunity to lighten the mood by poking fun at him and hinting at her knowledge of his antics. 

“I can see you from here,” she said, “wherever you are. Swirls of chaos follow in your wake from the other side of the world.”

“I’m saving lives and making the world a better place,” he argued. “You’re not saying I should stop, are you? Just because it changes the pattern on your tapestry?”

“Of course not,” she clarified with a shake of her head that gave him a glimpse of her full lips. “They were very dark threads, but you pluck enough of them, and eventually the whole thing starts to unravel. Between this and what you did with the Murani, well, it’s going to take some time for the new weave of the world to clarify, won’t it?”

“I’d love to see it,” Simon answered.

“You will,” she answered, after a short silence, “but probably not this life.”

“I can still see,” Simon answered, more vociferous this time. “I didn’t speak a word, or even use a gesture. It was just a wand. Clarity is months away, not years, so…”

His words trailed off as he realized the implications of what she’d just said. He wasn’t speaking to someone who was guessing. He was speaking to someone who knew the future, at least this future, until he changed it with another unexpected life on another level.

“You’re saying I don’t have as long as I think, aren’t you?” he asked, trying and failing to read something into her sphinx-like smile, which was the only part of her face he could see. However, windblown his white cape was, her veil stayed almost perfectly still. “Is it… Do I leave immediately, or…”

“You know I won’t answer that, Simon,” she answered, rising. He moved to rise with her, and she motioned for him to stay there.

“Morning,” she answered. “I should make you stay out here until you’re too weak to sit upright, but making you wait until sunrise so you can be born anew makes my point well enough. Consider it penance for this lovely surprise you’ve brought to my doorstep.”

Simon didn’t argue. Instead, he bowed low to the stone in genuine gratitude. She didn’t have to help him, the whisperers, or even the Sisters of Silence. That she did said more about her character than anything on his previous visits. As she walked back into the city, and the doors slammed shut behind her, he spent far more time thinking about that than the idea of his own impending demise. How he died this life didn’t really matter; he’d already won.