(As recounted by Aurelio)
The old man rose from his chair and walked to the window. The morning sun had climbed higher, casting long shadows across the floor, but he did not seem to notice. His eyes were fixed on something far away; something the Scholar could not see.
"Lyon," he said, the word falling from his lips like a stone dropped into deep water. "The city of silk and sorrow. I had never been there before. I hoped never to go. But Charlotte's letter was a summons I could not ignore."
He turned.
"We left Rome at dawn. Seventeen survivors became twelve before we crossed the Tiber. The plague did not take them. Despair did. They simply... stopped walking. Sat down by the side of the road and waited for death to find them."
He closed his eyes.
"I did not blame them. I almost joined them."
— Memory —
The road to Lyon was a spine of cracked stone and broken dreams.
It wound through the Apennines, across the Po Valley, over the foothills of the Alps. Every step was a negotiation with gravity; every breath a prayer for air that did not taste of ash.
Aurelio walked at the head of the column, his sword across his back, his eyes scanning the horizon. Beside him walked Cecilia, her hand in his, her face pale but her steps steady. Behind them came Liam, his sword drawn, his senses alert. Behind him came Riccio, his bow strung, an arrow nocked but not drawn. Behind him came Donata, her forge hammer tied to her belt, her face a mask of grim determination.
Behind them all, the survivors. Twelve of them now. Farmers, fishermen, soldiers who had lost their armies. People who had nowhere else to go.
"We should have taken horses," Cecilia said, her voice a whisper.
"We could not afford horses. We could not afford food. We could not afford anything but our own stubbornness."
"That is not nothing."
"No." He squeezed her hand. "It is not."
The first village they encountered was empty.
The buildings stood like skeletons, their doors open, their windows dark. The streets were littered with debris; broken pottery, torn clothing, the bones of small animals. The smell of death hung in the air like a shroud.
"I hate these places," Riccio muttered, his eyes darting from shadow to shadow. "They feel... waiting. As if the village itself is holding its breath."
"Perhaps it is," Liam said. "Perhaps the land remembers what happened here. Perhaps it is waiting for us to leave so it can forget."
"Does land forget?"
"Eventually. But it takes a long time."
They searched the village for supplies, moving from building to building with the practiced efficiency of people who had done this a hundred times before. They found a few sacks of grain, a barrel of salted fish, a cask of wine that had not gone completely to vinegar. They found no bodies. No survivors. No signs of struggle.
"They left," Donata said, standing in the doorway of the village church. "They packed their belongings and walked away. But where? There is nowhere left to go."
"Into the hills," Aurelio replied. "Into the forests. Into the caves. Anywhere that is not here."
"And what will they find there?"
"Death. Or survival. The same things we are finding."
They made camp in the village square that night, huddled around a small fire. The stars were bright overhead, unobscured by clouds or smoke, and the air was cold but clear.
"We are being followed," Liam said, not looking up from his sword.
Aurelio's hand went to his blade. "How many?"
"One. Perhaps two. They have been with us since the pass."
"Assassins?"
"Scouts, I think. Godbrand's people. They are watching us. Reporting our movements."
"Then we change our movements. We double back. We lose them in the forests."
"And if they are too skilled to lose?"
"Then we kill them."
Liam looked up. His eyes were calm, but there was something else there. Something that looked like sorrow.
"They are not soldiers, Aurelio. They are farmers. Shepherds. People who have been turned into weapons by fear and desperation."
"Then we disarm them. We question them. We let them go."
"And if they return with an army?"
"Then we fight the army."
Liam nodded slowly. "Very well. I will wake you if they move."
The attack came at midnight.
Not from the scouts; from the shadows of the village itself. Godbrand's followers had been hiding in the cellars, waiting for the survivors to sleep. They emerged with knives and clubs and broken bottles, their eyes wild, their lips pulled back from their teeth.
Aurelio woke to the sound of screaming.
He rolled to his feet, his sword in his hand, his heart pounding. The fire had been scattered, the embers kicking up sparks that illuminated the chaos. Bodies moved in the darkness; some fleeing, some fighting, some already fallen.
"To me!" he shouted. "Form a circle! Protect the center!"
The survivors rallied around him, their backs to each other, their weapons raised. The attackers circled them like wolves, their faces twisted with hatred and fear.
"You are the grove-keeper!" one of them shouted. He was a young man, no older than Riccio, with a scar across his cheek and a knife in his hand. "The Prophet said you would come! He said you would try to stop the cleansing!"
"The Prophet is a liar," Aurelio replied. "He does not speak for God. He speaks for himself."
"The Prophet speaks for the people! The people who have lost everything! The people who have nothing left but their faith!"
"And what of the people you have killed? The people you have burned? The people you have driven into the hills to die?"
The young man hesitated. His knife trembled in his hand.
"They were sacrifices," he said, but his voice wavered. "They were necessary. The Prophet said..."
"The Prophet lies."
Aurelio stepped forward, his sword lowered. "I have seen the Prophet's work. I have walked through villages he burned. I have buried children he slaughtered. I have held the hands of women he left to die. He is not a man of God. He is a man of death."
The young man's face twisted. "You do not understand..."
"Then help me understand. Put down your knife. Talk to me. Tell me why you follow him."
The young man looked at his companions. They were wavering too, their resolve cracking.
"He saved me," the young man said. "My village was dying. The plague had taken everyone. I was alone. I was going to kill myself. And then he came. He gave me purpose. He gave me hope. He gave me a reason to live."
"And now he is asking you to kill. To burn. To destroy."
"He is asking me to cleanse. To purify. To build a new world from the ashes of the old."
"And what will that new world look like? Will it have children? Will it have laughter? Will it have love? Or will it simply be more ashes?"
The young man had no answer.
Aurelio sheathed his sword.
"Go," he said. "Take your companions and go. Tell the Prophet that you saw us. Tell him that we are coming. Tell him that we will not stop until he is dead."
The young man stared at him for a long moment. Then he turned and ran, his followers fleeing after him into the darkness.
Cecilia appeared at Aurelio's side. "You let them go."
"They were not soldiers. They were victims."
"They would have killed us."
"Perhaps. But killing them would not have made us better than Godbrand."
She was silent for a moment. Then she said, "You are a good man, Aurelio."
"I am a tired man. There is a difference."
— Present —
The old man returned to his chair and sat down heavily. The fire had burned low, and the room was cold, but he did not seem to notice.
"We reached Lyon three weeks later," he said. "Twelve survivors became nine. The road took its toll. The plague took its toll. And the guilt... the guilt of letting those people go... it followed me like a shadow."
He looked at the Scholar.
"But we reached Lyon. And in Lyon, we found Charlotte. We found Armand. And we found Godbrand."