While Calaf wanted nothing more than to continue through the night, the Interface indicated their dire-horses required rest and water. So, the group returned to the nearest settlement of Riverglen.

  They sauntered in through a small southern gate in the early afternoon. There was surprising difficulty finding a place to hitch their horses, for the streets were inundated with low-level initiates and converts.

  Pilgrimage season would begin this weekend.

  Hundreds of unbranded filed in from overseas, or from the few settlements in the church lands where intermarriage hadn’t spread the dominant trait of the Brands through pure attrition. These future converts would typically take the Branding iron upon commencement of the opening pilgrimage festival. They would join of-age initiates born into the church (and their Brands) as equals along the shrines and stations of the pilgrim’s path.

  Years ago, Calaf had been once such initiate, fresh from the Riverglen cathedral’s orphanage. He’d leveraged his first pilgrimage from the glen to Deepwood, with the help of the friendly local deaconess and his foster father, into an assignment at the first station all travelers visit on the road. Jelena, likewise, had converted with the Brand right on her eye at the Japella mission back home and rushed south for her pilgrimage the very next season. Just in time for a happenstance early meetup long before either’d known the other’s name.

  Now they were both out of the church. Calaf still had his Brand, while Jelena was down a Brand, its access to the Interface, and an eye. Still, they walked through the crowds with their fingers intertwined. The once-promising Squire even followed her into a life on the far side of the law (and into bed, but alas, no helping that.)

  Wouldn’t do for Calaf to forsake his Brand. It was present from birth halfway up the forearm on his left hand. His spear hand. Just like his father’s Brand, and his father before him. Going back for as long as anyone could remember. Or until the time of these gnostic gospels, Calaf supposed. For good or ill, the Brand was too tied to his family line—and too integrated into the muscle tendons on his dominant arm—to forsake.

  It took an incredible act of will for Jelena Turandot to wipe the church’s Brand off her body to the point of sacrificing her eye. Calaf admired that about her. But while you could survive in the world with naught but your guts and one eye, it would be harder still to survive with just your off-hand.

  Calaf untangled his fingers from Jelena’s to scratch his Brand on the opposite hand. Ever since reading the testament it had taken to itching at inopportune moments. With the tingling feeling abated with another thorough scratch, he took Jelena’s hand once more.

  A line stretched out of the Riverglen sewers, along the riverside, and across a bridge angling towards the cathedral. Faithful had waited for access to the sewers in the heat of midmorning, and continued to wait patiently in a queue well into late afternoon.

  “Want to beat up some rats?” Jelena asked as they passed.

  Calaf chuckled. “Let’s not. We’re over-leveled. Well, I am. They would wonder why you were participating while unbranded.”

  It was seldom appealing to visit the place of your work on holiday. Calaf was at risk of being recognized already. The group continued onward, past the considerable line.

  “I think Gorman still hasn’t returned to Riverglen,” Calaf said. “He’s over-leveled for sewer guard duty now. But so am I.”

  Calaf looked over the riverside as they walked, approaching the bridge.

  “Never did get to see the line from the outside,” Calaf said. “Was it always so long?”

  “It was longer when I was here,” Jelena said.

  Pilgrimage season proved the perfect cover for a mixed group of Branded and non-Branded. Calaf could play the dutiful caravan guard, escorting travelers along the path. Zilara was a young initiate hoping to take her first pilgrimage early. Enkidu seldom bothered with aliases but if questioned they could say he was in town for conversion. And Jelena was a faithful nun here to renew her vows, her Brand taken from her in a tragic haberdashery accident.

  The path led across the bridge and by the cathedral. Calaf’s heart thumped as he neared the stone fa?ade.

  All evidence of the altercation by which Calaf and Jelena formally met each other last year was gone. The stained glass was replaced, and the scorch marks on the cobblestones and the collapsed gate at the town wall were repaired. Still, drawing this close to the old cathedral could only bring trouble.

  Jelena signaled behind her, to Enkidu. It was a simple hand signal, indicating he should go get fresh dire-horses, then maneuver them towards the north gate for a hasty escape.

  “You still have access to this place, right?” she asked Calaf as Zilara walked up behind them.

  “I should.” Calaf shuddered at the memories of his last visit.

  “Let’s sneak in and check the archives for any evidence of these new gospels.” Jelena tugged at his arm.

  Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

  Calaf gritted his teeth. “Seriously?”

  “Ain’t this where you two met?” Zilara asked, deadpan.

  “Everything should be neatly labeled. It’ll be in and out. Five minutes.”

  “I’ll do it,” Calaf said, resigned. “But you should wait out here.”

  While the anonymity of crowds was to their advantage so far, this good luck wouldn’t possibly last if Jelena entered the Riverglen cathedral. She’d murdered the previous Pryor! While Calaf found it in himself to forgive her for that (before or after sleeping with her was a matter of some debate, natch), the cathedral guards sure didn’t! Really, it was a calculated risk even coming into town.

  “Very well,” Jelena said, grudgingly.

  “Just keep your head down,” Calaf concluded, then motioned for Zilara. “Besides, I’ll have her with me.”

  Branded would have an easier time browsing church archives. They were Interface-compatible, after all.

  Riverglen’s archives were modest, located in a wing between the adjacent monastery and the orphanage. While this was the first town on the pilgrimage route, it was hardly the most important. They would have to add a trip to the grand archives at Deepwood to their ever-growing to-do list.

  Calaf started at one end of the archives and Zilara at the other. They scanned each shelf with the power of the Menu, then doubled back to take the most promising books into their Inventory.

  “Hold the messenger dire-pigeon,” Zilara said. “Think I’ve got something.”

  The holy child produced a document:

  “Church docs often get lost in the shuffle,” Zilara said. “Looks like this item hasn’t been used in a while. Probably forgotten about.”

  Just then, Zilara’s ears piqued up.

  “Hmmm? Sensing a bit of flowing magic from just outside the cathedral. Other Hoss, we might want to go investigate”

  With great trepidation and an uneasy feeling in Calaf’s gut, he agreed to investigate. They took the forgotten tome with them for later perusal.

  Outside, a modest crowd gathered at the cathedral gates. Many were tourists in town for the pilgrimage, but many still were locals.

  “You fiendish, craven, unMenuly cyclops!” came a seething voice from the bottom of the cathedral steps.

  Calaf recognized the voice immediately.

  A woman with well-kempt blonde hair kept daintily in a gold-trimmed circlet held a death grip on a woman who was clearly trying to dodge away from the altercation. The Deaconess attempted a withering ring-hand slap upon Jelena's eyepatch, which the nimble desert nomad skillfully ducked under.

  Of course, it was going to wind up like this, Calaf thought.

  “I’m but a novice pilgrim here to convert,” said the world-infamous relic thief. “Let me go.”

  Jelena should have stayed behind the back of the cathedral, keeping an eye on their escape route. Too late now.

  Charlotte tried dragging Jelena up the stairs, but the Deaconess’s more voluminously-haired counterpart managed to wriggle away. She rubbed at her forearm, where the churchmarm had managed to dig her nails in through a traveler’s guise, then took some time to stylishly adjust her eyepatch.

  “Return to the scene of the crime, did you?” Deaconess Charlotte asked, teeth bared.

  “You’ve been stalking me from the far end of the cathedral ward to the other!” Jelena said.

  Notably, Charlotte did not summon the guards, perhaps wanting to settle things personally. Neither did she seem to notice Calaf approach from the cathedral doors.

  Murmurs spread throughout the crowd.

  “Isn’t that the woman who murdered the Pryor!?"

  "To think she'd return to the scene of the crime!"

  “Fiancé stealer!” Charlotte scowled, concerned with more personal slights. “Where is he now? Led him astray just to dispose of him already, have you!? Typical.”

  Calaf slowed his approach. Everyone back home truly didn’t know anything about his whereabouts.

  “Lady, I’m not the one who went casting charms on him.” Jelena’s good eye glanced about, remembering something. “Er, willingly, rather. You scared him away yourself.”

  Some amid the crowd went to seek out guards since the cathedral deaconess was too disheveled to do so. From the bottom of the stairs, Jelena looked up and saw Calaf. The Squire nodded.

  It was time to go.

  “Enough, foul harlot. This will leave you as but a shadow on the staircase.” Charlotte raised her hands.

  Precious seconds remained to react. Calaf took a leap down the stairs, formulating a plan as he fell. Without proper lightning resistance, this was going to hurt.

  Calaf held his shield aloft, still falling. The arcing light of Holy Smite struck the shield. Every muscle in Calaf’s body convulsed. And yet, his health had yet to plummet. Momentum stopped in midair as the Interface calculated the lightning hit on an ungrounded target. His shield was aglow with holy light, just like when he set his melee implements alight with the fire spell, Flaming Sword of Faith.

  It would not last long. And in metal armor, the damage was going to smart. Thinking quickly, Calaf summoned his spear right out of Inventory and thrust it up and to the right. Lightning flew from the spear tip and struck the cathedral’s eastern belfry with a thunderous crash.

  Crowds scattered. For his part, Calaf landed on the second-to-bottom step, static crackle in the air but having suffered only a point or two of scratch damage.

  “You…” Charlotte said, her assault forgotten. “There you are. Well, I missed you. Now, come along.”

  Charlotte stomped her foot as if expecting Calaf to fall in line. A steady galloping din rose above the cries of the still-shocked crowd. Enkidu arrived, ridding one dire-horse and carrying another by a lead.

  “Hoss, we are leaving!” Zilara said and then hopped onto the spare horse.

  Jelena wasted no time hopping onto the horse behind Enkidu. Calaf moved to take the reins of Zilara’s horse and take over. Enkidu brandished a sword with his now-free hand, though no guards ever came to stop them.

  ‘Resisted!” notifications filled Calaf’s Interface. Charlotte was attempting to bring him back to her with Charm. Luckily, resisting a Charm spell once diluted Effect Hit Rate on similar spells from the same source.

  Calaf cast a piteous look back at a disheveled Charlotte. Then, he leapt up on the dire-horse and rode off, Zilara behind him and clinging for dear life. Enkidu and Jelena rounded the cathedral, heading north.

  “Cathedral vandals! Thieves! Murderer!” Charlotte cried in their wake. “Temptress! Heretic. Fiancé stealer!”

  The bevy of insults echoed on into the coming evening, carrying far even as the posse rushed out Riverglen's wide north gate.