og arrived at the Temple of the Sacred Twins near midnight exhausted both physically and mentally. For two years he had not stepped inside its ornate gates and it was like a blow to his gut when the pair of guards did not recognize him and step aside. With crossed staves they glared down at him through the slits of their eerily beatific masks.

“Please may I speak to Cantor Nuine? It is urgent.”

The chaotic energies of their staves cast a soft magenta glow upon the metal-work of the gate behind them. Temple guardians did not speak while on duty and he felt the sharp focus of their minds blaring down on him. They seemed to be indicating that he would have to come back during daylight hours. Mog lowered his face and sighed. Now that the heat of rage had left him, he felt inconsolably sad and alone. He had been looking forward to seeing Nuine again, knowing somehow she would be able to draw him back from the brink of despair. Being denied now while he was so exhausted and needful was too much.

“This is my home,” he said quietly, meeting their eyes and laying his mind open to their scrutiny, “I am Cantor Mog Ruith newly returned from Nolani and I have no where else to go.”

Their perusal scorched him and he bit back a cry at their harshness. If he were lying, they had every right to be angry; it was blasphemy to impersonate a holy person. When they relented, he bowed his head to await their judgment. Silently the two austere figures withdrew their staves and the gate opened. He nodded respectfully before moving wearily up the steps until he reached the richly ornamented plaza. The firefly glow of lanterns revealed the familiar lattice of woodwork and stone. As he traced his way back through the warren of corridors and screens, he breathed deep the sweet muskiness of incense and autumn flowers clustered in the dozens of little shrines until he came at last to the secluded wing of buildings where the Cantors and newly ordained resided.

“Mog?”

When he sensed the warmth of her spirit it was as if he had finally found a familiar signpost after months of wandering lost. Nuine stood groggily in the shadows of the covered walkway in a shapeless cotton gown outside the door to her little apartment.

“Hello,” he said, trying to remain calm even as conflicting emotions rippled through him and threatened his composure. She held open her arms and he rushed to her as tears streamed down his face in relief and joy, “I’ve missed you.”

“Come inside, sweetheart,” she murmured, sensing something was amiss, “It’s late and since you never came home, your room was given to Cantor Elias. I’ll make a bed for you here and then we’ll find quarters for you in the morning.”

“I can stay in the pilgrim’s hostel,” he said and she sighed and guided him to an old tapestry chair. He dropped into the chair, relieved to be looking upon her at eye-level.

“I was told you had no where to stay and I don’t think being alone is good for you right now,” she soothed, then sensing his anguish, “It’s alright to cry, Mog, you need to.”

He felt very small and childlike as she drew close to him and placed her arms around his shoulders. Yet the grief that came over him was harsh and unremitting. He hardly heard her soothing words as he released his sorrow. Nuine knew about his family. Sharing and releasing the past was part of the process of becoming a Cantor. It was easy to grieve in front of her and it was not the first time. The darkness lifted a little and he began to feel more himself. She brought him a blanket and propped his feet on a battered old footstool so that she could remove the ugly boots. She frowned when she saw the state of his feet and he cried out in pain as she peeled his pus and blood stained stockings off.

“No money for a coach? How far did you walk in these boots? Did you have no opportunity to break them in?”

“I came from my father’s house. I’ll take care of it in the morning.”

“You walked seven leagues?”

He could not talk about it, not now. He opened his mouth and all that came out was a miserable sob.

“Relax, son, and I’ll clean this up.”

He was so tired that once she had attended to his blistered feet, he immediately succumbed to sleep. It seemed he had barely shut his eyes when Nuine nudged him awake. The thin golden light of dawn poured through the high window of the little room and he gazed up numbly into High Priestess Vivane’s face.

“A pair of men wearing the livery of House Simagh arrived this morning. They are requesting that you accompany them to the Simagh estate. They claim you have behaved dishonorably.”

Mog gazed down at his hands clasped on his lap.

“I claim sanctuary.”

Vivane’s face grew grim and the two women departed. Nuine returned alone a short time later with a bowl of steaming barley porridge and a flagon of spring water. The mealy odor of the food made his stomach rumble and she left him alone to eat while she attended morning song. He closed his eyes and listened to the twins singing across the temple grounds from their towers, their voices sweet and alluring as birdsong. It was as if he had never left and he knew more than ever this was where he belonged.

Vivane restored him to his place in the temple with Nuine as his mentor. Within a week he was once more attuned to the rhythms of devotion and grateful for his spiritual family. The old songs and rites came back to him and a feeling of calm replaced the grief that had lodged in his heart.

His cedar chest arrived and with it his old cantor robes, his pipes and his books. There was also a letter from his mother inside of it. While alone in his room, he fingered the fine-grained paper and the blue wax seal that bore the rosette of House Leyoness. She had kept her maiden name, which he had never considered odd since her family was older and more widely known. He set it aside, resolving to read it later. No doubt it would be just another of her dry ramblings, a detached attempt to fulfill her motherly duties. There was a rap at his door and he sensed Nuine’s warm spirit but also her urgency. When he opened it she swept inside.

“Your father claims you attacked him and he has witnesses.”

“He held me against my will and then sought to test me in an arena.”

“No one here doubts your veracity, but the king’s inquisitors are here at your father’s behest.”

His gut knotted. Why did his father have to involve the king’s men in a family quarrel? He glanced at the letter and the chest.

“Who delivered my chest to the temple? Did you see it arrive?”

Nuine shook her head, looking mildly annoyed that he was not taking the threat more seriously and had concerned himself with something as mundane as an old battered chest. On a hunch, he picked up the letter and nodded to his mentor, indicating that he was ready to face whatever scrutiny the inquisitors had arranged for him.

A grim pair of men awaited them in a small study that lurked beyond the towering shelves of the temple library. They wore bright red surcoats emblazoned with the stylized sword and flame of the crown over their darkly mailed forms.

“This is Lictor Arun and Justiciar Cymbris,” said Vivane once he had taken a seat opposite the two grim figures at the table. She alone remained standing. The sacred writ ensured that holy people were subject to no one while within the boundaries of hallowed ground. They could not harm him nor seize him except by Vivane’s will, “State your business, gentlemen. The one you seek is present.”

“Mog Ruith, son of Lord Phineas Simagh and Lady Imbriene Leyoness, you are required to attend a formal hearing and inquiry…” began Lictor Arun. He paused when Vivane help up her hand.

“He has requested sanctuary and I have granted it. Mog will not be leaving the temple grounds unless he wills it.”

“Justice must be served. If such an insult is allowed to stand against a respected noble…”

“Lord Simagh is respected?” Vivane nearly laughed, her pale eyes harsh as she met the man’s gaze, “He took Lady Imbriene by force of arms and befouled the sacred bond of love by marrying against her will. When the injustice of that act is addressed, I will release Mog into your custody. Until then, do not come to my door and demand anything in the name of your foolish notions of honor.”

There was an awkward silence. Mog was equally shocked.

“With all due respect, Holiness, the events you described happened during a chaotic time.”

Hands trembling, Mog broke the seal on his mother’s letter.

“To whom it concerns in the matter of my son, Mog Ruith ne Simagh. I attest and swear before the Five Gods that my son was held against his will for 21 days and made to face Lord Simagh in honorable combat. If his lordship continues to make cowardly and spurious claims against my son, I will testify in person.”