fter weeks of hardship and toil, the last thing Mog wanted was to rise from his bed and be parted from Maeve. The precious hours they had drowsed together had been worth all the pain and struggle. It was difficult to push his resentment aside when one of the villagers rapped on the door and requested that he attend a meeting of the elders.

“It will be alright,” Maeve soothed, “These people are simple and honest, and they mean no harm.”

“Of course, they never do,” he grumbled as he lurched to his feet. Maeve sat on the edge of the bed, her face serene in the candle light. Her glossy black hair was disheveled and her loose clothing was rumpled from having slept beside him.

“I will be with you.”

Mog chuckled. Her smile cheered him and he resolved not to behave like an ungrateful prat. He reached out a hand to her and she rose to clasp it tenderly.

“I guess now we find out if we’re going free,” Mog said with a sigh.

“We will. The real question is where we will go from here.”

He felt foolish for not even thinking that far ahead. Until now, all of his thoughts had been for finding Maeve. She laughed softly.

“Home I guess,” Mog stammered.

Maeve leaned against his chest and he curled his arms around her.

“Ascalon?” she murmured, “Why?”

“No… no not Ascalon.”

“We are as orphaned children,” she said, her finger tracing the line of buttons on his simple dun blouse, “The only home we knew no longer exists and without it we are forever lost.”

“Except we are not children any more,” he said, “We can choose our path.”

“For too long I curled around my pain like a precious thing. If you know the way home then I am content to follow.”

Mog squeezed her and kissed her temple, sensing the boundless weight of her grief. If she had seemed cold and distant during their initial reunion it was only because he had awakened the past in her. Her despair masked an unrequited yearning and she was ashamed of it.

“A goddess does not weep,” she whispered, laughing sadly, “She does not want or need anything or anyone.”

“Good thing you are human, then,” Mog replied, kissing her tenderly. Maeve’s resolve wavered and her eyes glistened with barely contained tears. She chided him for nearly making her cry before they were to meet with the elders, “Alright, I’ll make you cry later, then.”

Maeve smirked and slapped him playfully on the rump.

“No you won’t,” she said while Mog laughed, oddly aroused and embarrassed as she hurried out ahead of him. His heart swelled with happiness as he sensed once familiar blaze of her love for him. She was laughing, and when he stepped outside, she took his hand possessively.

“I will not let go until we are home,” she told him.

“Fine by me,” Mog chuckled, “I have a feeling we’ll be taking the long way there.”

Maeve looked askance at him as they walked toward the largest of the mud brick dwellings.

“With a pretty lass beside me I might be compelled to saunter, perhaps even shuffle. We may get lost for days.”

“You are insufferable.”

“So you’re in a hurry, then?”

“No, I never said that,” she replied archly as they approached the wide lintel arch. The odor of roasted meat drifted from the portal. Yet despite his hunger, the one thing he wanted was to be with her, preferably alone with no worries to bog them down. To see her smiling back at him was to rejoice at the sun peering through the clouds after a terrible storm.

“I reckon we could take a portal back to Yak’s Bend from the nearest town,” Mog sighed, relenting, “that is if you’re not averse to calling Ironfast home once more.”

“If that is where you are going, then I am agreeable to that.”

“Yes, I reckon it is. If not, we can decide after that. I promised I’d get my old mate Armand hitched. Then I suppose I should start courting you in earnest.”

Maeve’s face turned an unusual shade of crimson and she looked away as several of the villagers giggled. Annoyance and delight bubbled up within her but she said nothing more as they strode into the little hall to be greeted by a half dozen elderly men and women gathered around a low table. Xian came forth to lead them to a spot that had been reserved for the two of them on a trestle bench. Ronan was already there, seated across from them. He appeared well rested and unusually garrulous as he talked with the old woman on his right. Steaming bowls containing soup, stew, steamed vegetables and roasted meat were interspersed with small baskets of flatbread. Mog was touched by the kindness of his hosts when his bowl was taken up by one of the men and filled with an assortment of what was on offer. Only after he, Ronan and Maeve had food before them did the others take provender for themselves.

There was idle chatter as they exchanged names and pleasantries. Elder Fione pressed him for information once he revealed that he had been in Lion’s Arch during the past year. All the elders fell silent to hear his response. They were anxious about the progress of the war between the Shining Blade and the White Mantle. In such a remote place they had few opportunities to learn about the happenings of the world beyond the sage lands.

“I’m afraid I’m ignorant about the Mantle and their doings,” Mog muttered, feeling foolish.

“We saw some Mantle on the way here,” Ronan said as if coming to Mog’s rescue, “About a score of them although I wonder if they may have lost a few to the centaur.”

“A score this far south?” Elder Rundu exclaimed, his sharp eyes focused upon Ronan, “I thought the Shining Blade was keeping us safe.”

“Of course,” the monk replied glibly, “and you have our word that we will protect this village. The reason we have come is to take Maeve to another location. We fear the Mantle might be seeking for her and we would hate for your people to face their wrath.”

“Why is he lying?” Maeve asked Mog silently, entering his mind like an idle thought, “Are you in danger?”

Mog squeezed her hand beneath the table.

“I don’t understand the politics of the Shining Blade,” Mog thought, “Ronan has been among them for some time. We have to trust him.”

Maeve leaned against him and he sensed her fear that they might be separated. He drew his arm around her tenderly.

“Before the gods, I swear that I will not leave your side again,” he whispered into her ear. She nodded, gathering herself so that she was able to present a pleasant demeanor to their hosts. Mog realized he was being watched and a few of the elders flashed knowing smiles, for they recognized that there was a bond between him and Maeve.

“Akemi asked us to keep Maeve until she returned here herself to take her away,” Elder Rundu said, still flustered by Ronan’s words, “I know you are among her retinue, but we made a vow.”

Mog sensed Ronan’s panic but the monk’s outward appearance was relaxed and confident.

“My friend Ronan means to say that Akemi will not be able to fetch Maeve for herself. I am afraid she was the victim of a tragic accident.”

“Yes,” Ronan said, his face not reflecting his inner turmoil and now horror at Mog’s words, “I did not want to burden you with this news, but Mog is speaking the truth.”

“And so the Shining Blade has sent you like a pair of begging dogs,” said a formerly silent figure at the end of the table, “Tell me, do the White Mantle stand poised to defeat your people? Is that why you came alone and desperate? Is this why you lie to us?”

“Elder Denae, I meant no disrespect,” Ronan stammered, his composure finally failing as even his shaven pate was engulfed in a blush of shame.

“We have provided this meal to you in the spirit of kindness and respect,” the old woman said bitterly, “Please seek to repay us in kind. It seems I must look to your towering friend for the truth, if only because he fears being separated from Maeve.”

Ronan stood up to proffer an apologetic bow, then lowered his face to hide his shame as he sat back down. Mog instinctively shielded himself against the intense blaze of Denae’s intellect. The old woman’s rheumy gaze locked with his.

“I would speak to you alone when this meal is done,” she said, “Until then, enjoy what is set before you in peace.”

Mog nodded his head politely at Denae despite his misgivings. Now it was Maeve’s turn to offer him the comfort of a clasped hand.

“They have been kind to me,” she said quietly, her voice barely audible among the clatter of crockery and chatter, “Denae has treated me with great respect and deference. I do not believe we have any reason to fear them.”

He hoped she was right. And if she was not, there was little he could do about it. For their part, the villagers passed a jug of date wine and he took a small swallow to show his gratitude before passing it to Maeve. The remainder of the feast was borne away to be shared with the rest of the village now that everyone at the table was satiated. Mog watched anxiously as Ronan was asked to follow Fione outside. Only Denae, Xian, Maeve and Mog remained. One of the villagers urged Maeve to come with him but she refused.

“I will not leave Mog,” she said simply and remained seated beside him.

Denae waved the man away then fixed her rheumy gaze upon Mog once more. Her bent form was wrapped in loose folds of once brightly dyed linens. The constant blaze of the sun and long use had turned the fabric a soft pink speckled with darker blobs of magenta and blue. In youth, Mog imagined she must have been comely for her features were delicate despite the assault of age.

“I am going to speak of a dream I had,” the old woman began, pausing as Xian poured date wine into four small bowls and passed one to each of them. She rose stiffly from her seat at the end of the table with the vessel clasped in her hand. She waddled slowly toward the hearth at the far end of dim chamber. The candles fluttered ominously in their clay jars as a stray draft curled in through the small windows that perforated mud brick walls.

No fire dwelt in the hearth that night, but Mog saw that there were figures set in three niches above it, one each for Melandru, Lyssa and Dwayna. Balthazar and Grenth would be enshrined elsewhere, probably warding the entrance to the village rather than privy to delicate discussions. He realized this place probably doubled as the village temple when the old woman slowly poured a libation of date wine into a bowl at the base of Melandru’s figure. Denae waited patiently for Xian to bring her one of the candles and she lit a bundle of sage and laid it on the plate before Dwayna, the goddess at the center. On Dwayna’s left the figurine of Lyssa was veiled with a square of faded purple silk. The cloth was drawn aside and folded carefully at the feet of the embracing twins. Denae shuffled back to her seat and sat down tiredly. Instinctively Mog rose and knelt before her, knowing her for a priestess.

“Be at peace,” she murmured, her expression unchanged. He sat down beside Maeve and waited, his heart pounding in his breast.

“When the moon was full, I had an odd dream,” Denae said after a while, “I was standing in one of the magnificent old temples I remembered from my youth. I saw Akemi and I saw you beside her although I had never seen you before now. I saw Maeve as well.”

Maeve’s hand tightened over Mog’s fingers. She lowered her face. She was afraid.

“You were asleep and your hands were bound,” Denae continued, “I saw Maeve take a mask and a dagger from Akemi.”

“Please stop,” Maeve stammered.

“She thrust the dagger through the eye of the mask and Akemi died,” Denae said grimly, “Does this resemble her tragic accident?”

Maeve grew ashen and she looked away from Mog. Time and breath were suspended as Xian and Denae stared first at him, then at Maeve sitting stiffly beside him.

“Yes,” Mog said finally as the implications sank in.

“The Dire Working, the Rite of Midnight,” Denae said, “Where did you two come from?”

Mog lowered his face. There was no point in lying and he could no more run from his past than he could from his own shadow.

“The Temple of the Sacred Twins,” he said, his voice cracking. Denae’s expression finally changed and now it was she who rose and bowed, her old knees cracking loudly as she knelt before Maeve.

“You are She?” Denae sighed, emotion catching in her throat, “The Maeve?”

“Please… no, I am not,” Maeve replied, her voice betraying panic and regret.

“But you manifested Lyssa’s vengeance,” Denae persisted, almost pleading, her old voice thin with awe, “Surely you are her servant, still? O Darksome Visage, Queen of Midnight, long have I sought for you.”

“No!” Maeve cried, “I beg of you, do not do this.”

Mog took Maeve into his arms and held her as she sought him, her mind a confusion of misery and denial. He was at a loss for words.

“I just wanted to save you,” she wept, “I was desperate; I didn’t know what else to do.”

“I know,” he whispered, deeply touched by her words and what she had done on his behalf.

“I just wanted you to be free,” she sighed miserably. Mog rocked her gently, at once grateful and horrified. Such workings were perilous. She had risked madness and possibly death to destroy Akemi.

“l will take you home,” Mog said to her, “I promise.”

“They won’t let me leave,” Maeve sobbed, “They have seen what I am. If Lyssa has delivered me here…”

“Lyssa allowed you to set me free,” Mog said, hushing her, “and I am now taking you home.”

He did not care that Denae and Xian heard his declaration. At that moment nothing short of death was going to part them.

“She is the Maeve,” Denae repeated solemnly, “She must be venerated, she must walk upon consecrated ground.”

“Then she can bloody well do that when we get home,” Mog snarled, making Xian and Denae jump.

A hiccoughing sound burst from Maeve and he realized that she was laughing through her tears. She squeezed him around the ribs and he melted, his outrage forgotten.

“If that is the will of the goddess, so be it,” Denae replied.

“I’m sorry,” Mog said, trying to smooth over the tensions, “You must understand, our journey has been difficult. We do not mean to be ungrateful, but we long to be among friends and loved ones.”

“You misunderstand me,” Denae replied, the grimness leaving her face, “Sometimes when I awaken in the night I have seen Grenth standing at my threshold beckoning to me. I have always refused even though at times I would happily go to my rest. Now I can go knowing my prayer has been answered.”

Xian looked askance at Denae as she climbed unsteadily back to her feet.

“Come,” she said.

Mog rose and offered Maeve his hand, his spirit soaring when she smiled up at him. She leaned against him as they followed Denae across the beaten earth of the dusty yard into a squat dwelling whose plank door was chalked with protective sigils. She drew it aside and gestured within. The cramped chamber was festooned with old temple tapestries depicting the dual nature of the goddess. The untidy bed with its mound of old blankets seemed out of place amid folded sandalwood screens whose fine details had once gleamed under gold foil. There were intricate censers, cracked ivory and leather scroll tubes sleeping under a layer of red dust that had drifted in through the windows. Denae had clearly cared for each item well in her youth but now the chore was becoming too much for her.

“Before the Shining Blade found the old temple, I knew of it,” Denae said wistfully, “I was the last priestess ordained of that order, knowledge passed from mother to daughter long after anyone remembered why it had fallen.”

Mog watched as she nudged open a heavy chest. He saw the gleam of gold cloth and his breath caught in his throat.

“I have protected the sacred texts these many years, it is my sacred charge,” she continued, “but I had no children, and none appeared to take my place.”

He watched as Denae drew aside the cloth, revealing the bejeweled bindings of a large tome. It was old, possibly the last remaining of its kind: the Liturgy of the Sacred Hours. It was said that the original was etched on ivory and that the words had appeared on the pages as Lyssa’s song awakened sentience in the minds of humankind.

Each temple had such a volume at its heart, a sign that the goddess herself had consecrated it with her sacred texts. Maeve gasped softly beside him, her eyes wide with wonder as she glimpsed the holy relics that lay within the chest. There were golden hair ornaments, jewelry fit to adorn a queen, sacred masks and a delicate chalice made of paper thin gold embossed with delicate sigils.

“We cannot take this,” Maeve murmured.

“If you do not take it, who will?” Denae asked, “I was charged with passing it on to another priestess so that eventually it might find its rightful place. Perhaps you know where that is.”

“Might I have a word with Maeve?” Mog asked. Denae nodded and he took Maeve’s hand and led her outside beneath the stars.

“Well?” she asked, meeting his gaze.

“After the Searing I roamed from Tyria to Cantha, then to Elona and back again. I was certain I would find what I was looking for but I never did.”

“What were you looking for?”

“The temple we will build together.”

“You’re mad,” she sighed, “That part of our lives is over, there will never be another Sacred Twins…”

“I know,” Mog said quickly, trying to stop her from saying no. He knew this was right and if he could only convince her, she would see it was as well, “but I’m not suggesting that. This is our temple, a new temple, the last sanctuary of our people’s hopes and dreams.”

“I don’t know,” Maeve said, but he sensed her resolve was wavering, “A temple? Are you out of your mind?”

“Probably.”

Maeve sighed and pressed her cheek against his chest as he curled his arms around her.

“Our lives were never meant to be simple, were they?” she asked after a time.

“No. I think the door closed on that route after we said our vows.”

“Do you really want to do this?”

“Yeah.”

Maeve sighed and squeezed him, her arms locked around his waist.

“Me, too.”