Page 86 of Prisoner of Darkness and Dreams
That conversation should’ve been a consolation, but as we travel out of Agathyre, I’m not at peace like the forest. I don’t think I can be with Tira gone. Every step we take toward the Trovian border is a step further away from the Filusian one, which she’s going to cross with Phaia.
Whenever we’re separated, bad things happen—the purge, Caledon’s trap for me. I don’t care that I’m being superstitious. It’s not paranoid to be afraid of something going wrong when something isalwaysgoing wrong.
That’s the tone of my thoughts when we cross the border and leave the dryads behind. We head toward Tread, staying off main roads and traveling through farmlands. But then, as our first night back in Trova falls, we spot several fires burning across the horizon.
“Cleansing rituals,” Mal explains. “They light the fires in the villages when they feel particularly threatened by evil. It’s supposed to keep it away, but it usually just means someone’s gotten spooked, and there’s a local heretic hunt.”
Someone has taken a match to my sense of foreboding, setting it alight for all to see. It feels like a warning.
“There’s so many…” I say, swallowing at the thought of all those frightened, angry Trovians, setting their fires in the hope they’ll be spared.
“Yeah, it’s weird,” Mal says, frowning.
Leon holds me close when we camp out under the stars that night. We sleep out in the open rather than stop somewhere overcome with Temple paranoia. But the next day, we’re low on fresh water and supplies and have to stop at a nearby village.
We decide Leon and I will go together—we’re both glamoured, and we figure a couple will seem less conspicuous than a strange man on his own. Particularly if the community is already looking for enemies.
As soon as we enter the village, the atmosphere pressed down on us like a fog. The streets are quiet—we barely see a soul—and when we reach the center, it’s obvious why. A wooden platform sits in the village square beside the sanctuary. It’s a simple structure, with four legs and a flat top, and yet it manages to make my blood run cold.
“Do you think it’s a purge?” I ask Leon, unable to keep the rasp of unease from my voice.
He shakes his head and points. “No. Look at the scorch marks on the edge of the wood. The clerics only execute people with swords in a purge, correct?”
I nod, shuddering at the memory of that day in Otscold when I watched my friend being cut down.
“They used magic here,” Leon continues. “I saw something like this in Newtown. It’s a cleansing—penance for sins, but not a village-wide execution.”
“There’s something on the sanctuary door,” I say, moving closer to try to read the text written on a piece of parchment nailed to the wood. I just catch sight of the wordhereticwhen I feel Leon’s hand on my elbow.
“There’s someone watching,” he mutters without looking at me. “Come on, let’s keep moving before we attract too much attention.”
We soon discover most of the businesses are shut, unfriendlyclosedsigns firmly pressed to their windows. Growing frustrated, Leon eventually bangs on the door of a bakery.
“Open up, please,” he calls through the door. “We’re hungry travelers who just need a loaf of bread. We can pay well.”
Footsteps echo from within the bakery, followed by the squeak of a door being unlocked and opened—just a crack.
A middle-aged man pokes his head through the gap. He glances at us, then looks over our heads to the street beyond.
“How many loaves?” he grunts.
“Two, please,” I answer. “Then we can be on our way.”
He slams the door shut in our faces, only to return a few minutes later with a bag of bread. We hand him our coins, and as he reaches out to pass over the bread, the daylight hits his face. I see the dark circles under his eyes, the haunted look in them.
“If you don’t mind me asking, sir,” I say in my most innocent voice. “What’s going on in the square?”
His eyes widen and he violently shakes his head.
“You said you’d be on your way. Now leave, gods damn you, or you’ll bring all the Gloamlands down upon us.”
And the door slams shut once more.
The fires burn again that night, and then the next, until we decide we need clear answers. We send Alastor into the nearest settlement, agreeing that his sensic magic will help offset any paranoia about him being a man traveling alone. When he returns, his expression is grim.
“It seems Hallowbane isn’t the only place that’s been hit by a sudden influx of clerics.” He sits down on a rock beside the trail, sighing. “Even with my magic, it was hard to get anyone to stand still long enough to get the story out of them. They’re terrified. The Temple’s upped its quota for sacrifices and rituals lately. Traveling groups of clerics have been going around conducting raids on homes and claiming that the gods demand it.”
“But they’re not purging whole towns?” I ask.
