Chapter 15

Faerson Manor, the Kingdom of Wuthia, 1126

Solomon Laenas (Jared Faerson)

Priest Emerick came often after that first evening, slipping through our gates with the ease of one who carried neither sword nor threat, but knowledge. Each time, Eudora received him politely, though I could sense her careful watch, as though she wondered what business bound priest and noble so often together. Still, she never hindered us. Perhaps she, too, knew that wisdom was worth more than suspicion.

We made the library our sanctum. There, beneath the painted rafters and shelves groaning with old and new tomes, Emerick would spread the leather-bound book between us. His voice, steady as a psalm yet warmer, would weave the past back into being.

He told me of the Elder Days—of the Skyborne, who bent the clouds into citadels; of the Root-Folk, who moved slower than trees yet remembered every age; of the River Lords, half-man, half-water, who bartered with kings for whole kingdoms. He did not flinch from the darker accounts: of beasts fashioned from fire and grief, of temples where men fed their own shadows as sacrifice. All of it, he said, was history, and thus sacred to remember.

“The Church,” he murmured one evening, fingers tracing the old script, “would rather these pages lie locked, for they unsettle faith. But faith without memory is no faith at all—only blind obedience. I choose to remember.”

I kept my silence, for though I longed to confess my truest interest—that I listened not for history’s sake alone, but for any fragment that might ease the curse gnawing at my kin—I dared not. Even an open-handed priest might blanch at such truth. So, I nodded, asked questions where he expected them, and hid the rest behind dutiful eyes.

When one of the Phasionites came to tend the fire or dust the shelves, Emerick greeted them with a smile, as though they were lords and ladies themselves. He asked after their families, their work in the fields, and even their health. I saw the surprise upon their faces—for few priests had shown them more than passing notice—and in their surprise, a kind of quiet gladness.

“You treat them with honor,” I remarked once, when the servants had gone.

“Of course,” he replied simply. “They labor with the same breath the Father granted us all. To deny them dignity is to deny the Maker’s hand in their lives. Does not your heart stir the same?”

It did, though in ways I dared not confess, for my heart stirred most at the thought of Mabel, far away among mountains, and the desire I buried deeper than any ruin. Yet aloud I said only, “Aye. It does.”

Thus, the days passed. He taught, I listened, and the book’s pages grew lighter beneath our hands, though their weight upon my mind only deepened. I felt as though I walked a narrow bridge—one side leading toward wisdom, the other toward peril. And always, beneath it all, the silence of my own secrets pressed close, unyielding.

One evening, as the fire snapped low and the shadows of the shelves lengthened, I thought to test him. The book lay open before us, but my eyes were fixed upon Emerick’s hands, steady upon the vellum. I cleared my throat, forcing casualness.

“Emerick,” I said, tracing a faded sigil with my finger, “the text here—does it speak at all of the Lustilleans? I have heard whispers, though never clear.”

His gaze flickered toward me, sharp beneath his gray brows. Then he shook his head slowly. “Little enough is written of them. Most were burned by the orders of the Church. They were ... abominations, if they were anything more than demons. Pray be blessed not to have come by one.”

I pressed, though careful not to reveal the depth of my curiosity. “So, you know nothing certain? About them existing?”

“Oh, I’m certain that all Lustilleans are gone, wiped from this world,” he replied with a thin smile. “And yet—” He shut the book with deliberate gentleness, as though sealing away the question. “There are other beings whose memory has not yet fled. Let us turn to those.”

His voice gained a new weight, almost reverence. “The Mansse.”

The word itself seemed to thrum in the air, heavy as a war-drum.

“In the Elder Days,” Emerick went on, “they prowled the southern reaches of Wuthia. Imagine, if you will, the strength of a lion, the mass of a bear, the cunning of a tiger, and the swiftness of a stag—all bound into one body. That was the Mansse. No pasture was safe, no shepherd untroubled. They came like raiders, tearing flocks apart, scattering herds, and yet...” He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “ ... they were worshiped. Pagan altars crowned with antlers and manes were raised in their honor. To some, they were deities of the field, guardians of pasture and blood alike.”