At dawn, Alexios packed their few possessions, careful to keep from disturbing the children, who were still asleep. Instead, he left the guest dormitory and crossed the courtyard to the infirmary. Isato lay in bed, tended by a pair of novices, plus the sleepless Methodios. She was turning her head back and forth, breathing heavily, gleaming with sweat in the candlelight. Alexios sat beside her, took her hand, and told her he was there. She ignored him.

  “It’s an infection,” said Methodios, guiding Alexios outside. “We’re doing all we can for her.”

  Alexios clutched his head and looked back at Isato through the doorway. “It seems serious.”

  “It is,” Methodios said. “But we have the medicine we need, and we’ve already administered it. God willing, she’ll pull through.”

  Alexios looked back at Methodios. “There’s something we haven’t told you about her. Something you should know.”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s called spirit sickness. That’s what they call it, anyway. I don’t know what it is, or what we’re supposed to call it…”

  Methodios nodded slowly, narrowing his eyes.

  “She had a doctor with her,” Alexios continued. “A great doctor, and they were traveling around from place to place, shrine to shrine, looking for a cure…”

  “Is it possession?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe something like that. It’s hard to explain. She’s a…” Alexios had trouble speaking the next words. Even after so much time in the game world, where all kinds of bizarre things happened, it still sounded ridiculous. She’s a were-hyena. How could anyone take him seriously when he talked like this?

  “Yes?” Methodios said.

  After a moment, Alexios finally forced the words out. “She’s like a werewolf, you know? Do you know what a werewolf is?”

  Methodios kept nodding slowly as if to draw the words out of Alexios. “Continue.”

  “But she’s a little different. With werewolves, they just transform when the moon’s full.”

  “Transform into what?”

  “They’re people, but they turn into wolves. But Isato…she turns into a hyena. Like a big hyena, a dangerous hyena.”

  “I beg your pardon, but what’s a hyena? Do you mean huaina—some kind of sow?”

  Alexios looked at him, and almost laughed in his nervousness. “That’s right, you have no idea what a hyena is…it’s like a huge wild dog.”

  “She becomes a dog?”

  Alexios sighed. “I know it sounds crazy, but it’s true.”

  “Do you mean in the literal sense?”

  “Yes, archimandrite!”

  Alexios’s exclamation startled the novices tending to Isato. They glanced at Alexios and Methodios, then returned to their duties. Isato herself failed to notice.

  “How can this be possible?” Methodios said.

  “I don’t know. But you guys should be aware. When she gets angry, she gets really angry. She turns into a hyena, and then there’s no stopping her. She could kill everyone in this monastery without breaking a sweat, without even realizing it. It’s also getting worse. She angers more easily, and remains a hyena for longer each time.”

  After pausing to think, Methodios spoke. “It seems difficult to believe that someone of such surpassing beauty and loveliness could become something so horrible.”

  “That’s why we’re here in the first place, archimandrite. We ran into David Bagrationi—totally by accident—back in Kutaisi. He wanted to kill us because we have kind of a sordid past, I guess you could say…anyway, Isato didn’t like that. She and I, we argue all the time, actually, but she doesn’t tolerate anyone even looking at me the wrong way. She’s very possessive. And so when Bagrationi—”

  “The eristavi?”

  “Yes, the eristavi, whatever that means, the duke of Georgia, whatever, he wanted to arrest me, and Isato just went nuts. She turned into a hyena and killed half the people in his palace—including David himself. That’s why Adarnase is out there looking for us.”

  Methodios paused to think. Everything Alexios said required time for consideration.

  Finally, he looked at Alexios. “If all of what you tell me is true, perhaps you should have warned us earlier, especially if our lives are in danger?”

  “It’s hard to explain, as you can see,” Alexios said. “You were all so kind, we were so exhausted and scared, we had nowhere else to go. I barely even had time to think about it, but I guess I was worried that if you knew the truth, you would toss us out.”

  “What, then, should we do?”

  Alexios wiped tears from his eyes. “I don’t want anyone here to get hurt. But I also don’t know what’s going on with her. I’m worried she’ll transform, and that this time, it’ll be permanent. She’ll never come back. I’ll never see her again.”

  Methodios rubbed Alexios’s shoulder. “It will be alright.”

  Alexios looked at Methodios, unable to believe this man’s kindness. Several times now, Alexios had found himself in trouble, and each time Methodios had helped him deal with the problem while asking nothing in return. The monk had saved the travelers’ lives.

  Alexios threw up his hands. “I don’t know. You need to chain her up or something, at least until this fever—or whatever it is—ends. I’m worried the infection doesn’t have anything to do with that arrow you pulled out yesterday. It might be something totally different, something much worse.”

  “We have no chains in Alaverdi. Everyone comes and goes as they please.”

  “Great, fantastic, wonderful, pat yourself on the back, but you need to think of something, archimandrite, and fast.” He looked back at Isato. “Who knows how much time we have?”

  Methodios shrugged. “A friend in a nearby village might have something, I don’t know…”

  “Can you send someone out to get them?”

  “Perhaps it should be you and me who go—in order to ensure that we find the proper items that you require.”

  Alexios agreed. They walked together to the stables. On the way, they passed one of the outbuildings, which Alexios realized was a school. A monk was holding an ancient book and saying something to sleepy children sitting at desks, staring at him.

  “It’s the village school,” Methodios said, as they kept walking. “I will translate what the teacher is saying for you. He’s saying: ‘cherish books, cherish writing, for a book is both life and soul. Books must be cherished, read, and shared, for a book unread grows stale, withering like an unharvested grape on the vine. If there were no written word, fools would rule the world. Read books loudly for everyone, for not everyone can read. Interpret the text, for not everyone can understand. Ask questions and critique to ensure that everyone knows. Let the ancients speak across the ages.’”

  Alexios smiled at Methodios. “Not so different from our reading groups back in Trebizond.”

  “Oh really?” Methodios said. “May I ask what you read there?”

  “Folk tales,” Alexios said. “The Thousand Nights And A Night. Half-remembered Shakespeare. Homer, Aristophanes, Sophocles, Euripides. Plus Mazdakist literature.”

  “I’m unfamiliar with much of what you say, particularly that last genre of literature.”

  “Mazdakism? It’s mostly about how we’re all connected to each other, and how the contradictions within and without ourselves drive change, itself the only constant.”

  “Is God involved in this change?”

  “Yes and no,” Alexios said. “That’s the answer to every question. God is defined by the universe, the universe by God, as the individual is defined by society, the society by the individual.”

  Methodios paused to think. “I see.”

  “I had to learn that the hard way once,” Alexios added, thinking of his encounter with Hermes Trismegistos.

  “Ah, but don’t we all?” Methodios said. “One day we all face the end. One day we all learn about what happens after death.”

  “I would have assumed that you were pretty certain about what happens after death.”

  “In my good moods,” Methodios said. “And for show. To help the brothers stay strong in their moments of weakness. But it’s only normal to doubt. Even the people who seem so sure about everything must doubt sometimes.”

  Alexios thought about this entire journey—bringing his family into so much danger, away from the safety of Trebizond’s walls.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  “True,” he said.

  They moved on to the stables. Here they found the day’s second major problem: all the travelers’ horses were still too worn out to ride. Even Rakhsh was limping. The sleepy stableboy—named Ivane, whom Methodios roused from his bed of hay—said that all the travelers’ horses needed more rest. Alaverdi only had two other mounts in its stables, both aging draft horses, gigantic and powerful but slow. Alexios and Methodios climbed onto these and cantered through the monastery gate—which a pair of Kyril’s partisans swiftly shut behind them—into the countryside, still twilit in the early morning, the mist rising from the earth, the dew drops pierced on tips of green grass spears. Thankfully there was no sign of Adarnase, though Alexios searched for him carefully.

  Methodios led the way along the dirt paths to the nearby town of Telavi. This consisted of maybe a hundred mud-walled, thatch-roofed houses built on a hill overlooking the farmland and the plains, located only minutes to Alaverdi’s southeast. On the hilltop was a squat, round tower built next to a small church, both made of brick and looking as though they had seen better days. Like most towns in Arran—a region which Georgians called “Kakheti”—Telavi had a blacksmith, a potter, a small mosque with a jade dome curved like a hornet’s stinger, a small rectangular synagogue, and several roosters, each crowing, one after the other. Telavi was built an inconvenient distance from the Alazani River, but had a natural spring bubbling out of the earth’s depths. The town’s only truly unique feature was an enormous plane tree sprawling its huge octopus limbs near the tower and the church. This tree, called “Chadari,” was supposed to be centuries, perhaps even millennia old, and dated back to pagan times, when the folk held hands, danced and sang around trees, and worshipped them as gods. Even today, colorful banners hung from its twisting branches, and a glittering dress of coins was draped around its wide trunk.

  Methodios rode to the tower, and Alexios followed. Telavi’s first waking villagers were scattering feed to their clucking chickens, milking their mooing cows, fetching wellwater that sloshed in wooden buckets, or gathering dried dung for fires. They bowed to the archimandrite as he passed, and he waved to them and nodded. Alexios found this an unusual sight, since it was the lords who rode horses—dismounting only to eat or sleep, and sometimes not even then. But Methodios was an unusual man, an unusual monk. Could he be helping the travelers only out of the goodness of his heart, out of a desire to demonstrate that Christianity could sometimes be good? Or did he have some other motive?

  If he leads by example, maybe he thinks we’ll convert.

  Alexios recalled stories workers and peasants had told him about the crusaders in Trebizond—men draped in chainmail beneath white robes marked with red crosses—snatching crying babies from their parents’ and smashing their skulls against walls or hurling them into bonfires. He shuddered.

  It could have been Basil. Could have been Kassia. I don’t care if Christ himself turns water into wine right before my eyes. I’ll never convert.

  Methodios dismounted near the tower door and wrapped his horse’s reins around a nearby hitching post. Alexios did the same. Then Methodios knocked on the tower door. No answer.

  He knocked again. Still no answer.

  “Batoni Aghsartan Kviriki!” he said, adding something else in whichever dialect of Georgian was spoken here.

  No answer.

  “Batoni means ‘lord’ in Georgian,” Methodios whispered to Alexios.

  Alexios nodded. “Oh.”

  “It’s a useful word to know if you intend to be traveling in our homeland, the great isthmus that lies between the Euxine and Hyrkanian oceans to the east and west and the Greater and Lesser Kaukasos Mountains to the north and south. The lords like when you address them that way. This particular fellow has been interesting. He isn’t quite strong enough to take over Georgia, as you can tell.” Methodios gestured to the sleepy village, where smoke from the first morning cook fires was rising from the holes in the houses. “He’s flirted with the Turks, even hinted at converting to Islam in exchange for recognition of his claim to the Georgian throne. Only Sultan Malik-Shah would be his suzerain.”

  “Good to know,” Alexios said.

  “He also likes to drink,” Methodios added.

  “Who doesn’t?”

  Just then, the door rumbled and creaked open. On the other side stood a stooped figure with a long drooping mustache, his flushed puffy face set beneath heavy black eyebrows, and a long mane of curly black hair. He wore the usual black shirt, pants, and boots found in the Kaukasos, complete with the huge wool cap, without any flashy adornments. Alexios wondered if this man was a lord or a servant. The stale reek of wine that rushed through the doorway was almost strong enough to knock the visitors down.

  “Batoni.” Methodios opened his arms. “Gamarjoba, rogor khar?”

  Kviriki hugged Methodios, then stepped back, shrugged his shoulders, winced, and tilted his head. His response sounded like “ee-say-ra.”

  Methodios and Kviriki then spoke too quickly for Alexios to follow their words. Soon Methodios gestured to Alexios and said his name. Kviriki placed his large right hand over his chest and bowed. Alexios did the same. They then entered the tower. The room they found had a dirt floor and a wooden ceiling with stone steps leading up to a gap connecting to the rounded wall of stone. There was no furniture or decoration here, and the only light came through the doorway and the ceiling gap above the stairs, which was presumably where Kviriki lived. There were, however, several rusted manacles for prisoners chained to big iron nails which had been hammered into the wall.

  Alexios looked at these manacles for a moment and immediately wondered if he was doing the right thing. Chaining up an Afrikan woman reminded him too much of slavery, too much of the carceral state.

  I’m trying to destroy that world, not create it!

  “Wait,” he said to Methodios. “I’m sorry, maybe this was a bad idea.”

  Kviriki and Methodios had been chatting, but both stopped and looked at Alexios.

  “Whatever do you mean?” Methodios said.

  “We can’t do this,” Alexios said. “I didn’t think about it clearly enough.”

  Kviriki asked Methodios something in Georgian, and Methodios answered in the same language.

  “But you said,” Methodios began.

  “I know what I said.” Alexios sighed. “I didn’t think about it clearly enough,” he repeated.

  “You told me the woman was dangerous,” Methodios said.

  “She is,” Alexios said. “But I think the best thing for us to do is just to get out of your monastery so we don’t cause you any more trouble.”

  “You haven’t been any trouble,” Methodios said.

  “That’s kind of you, but we both know that isn’t true.”

  “Your horses also need more rest,” Methodios said. “So you might as well—”

  “We can lock her inside the infirmary. We can be careful and keep people away from her. But I’m not chaining her up. You told me there were no chains in Alaverdi. You were right to say that, right to do that. Now isn’t the time to start chaining people up in your home. It’s so strange that anyone does that, that anyone thinks it’s normal.”

  “Very well.” Methodios turned to Kviriki and spoke to him in Georgian.

  Alexios and Methodios then bid farewell to the confused Kviriki and rode back to the monastery.

  “Sorry about that,” Alexios said. “I know it’s dangerous, but when I saw those chains…”

  “They are rarely used, as you can tell,” Methodios said. “He’s not the most aggressive nobleman. He’s a bit more easygoing than most. Sometimes it’s simpler to live off whatever the peasants give you rather than to squeeze them too hard and risk getting killed.”

  “Where I’m from, somebody once said something like: ‘as long as anyone is in prison, I am not free.’”

  Methodios nodded. “True words.”

  “I just hope Isato is alright, that everyone back in your monastery is alright.”

  “God will provide,” Methodios said. “Although now that I think about it, I can’t deny that I wouldn’t mind if your companion changed into this beast you speak of, and then took care of our mutual friend, the good brother Kyril.”

  Alexios chuckled. “Are you sure you’re a monk?”

  “I am not just a monk. I am the monk. And Brother Kyril has been a thorn in my side for quite some time. He wasn’t like that when he first came to the monastery, when he was on probation, as it were, but as soon as he took his vows, as soon as we accepted him, he started stirring up trouble, spreading rumors, trying to turn everyone against everyone else.”

  “Assholes are a serious global problem.” Alexios adopted the tone of a newscaster. “Wherever you go, people complain about the same problem: assholes.”

  Methodios laughed. “Indeed.”

  “Do you mind if I ask how long you’ve been a monk?” Alexios said. “Or am I not supposed to—”

  “No, no, it’s alright. You can speak as you please. It’s a typical story, I suppose. I’ve been a monk most of my life. I came from a family of means, a noble family, you understand, but I was the third son, with no chance to inherit, and not much in the way of marriage prospects. My choice was: steal a fief for myself in the Promised Land, or become a monk. I was never given much to spilling blood, so here I am.”

  “How have you lasted so long through all the chaos that’s descended on this place? Everywhere we go, there’s either burned out villages, slave raiders, or marching armies…”

  “Oh, the usual: hard work, study, and prayer. God has blessed us many times with good fortune.” He leaned in close to Alexios. “We live and let live, particularly when it comes to Muslims and Jews. They appreciate this, and let their rulers know. Alaverdi was spared many times from Khazar or Arab incursions because the villagers here spoke up for us. We also save up a great deal of money for bribes, of course. Yet I fear this Prince Adarnase character would not accept any amount of money in payment for the death of his kinsman. He would chase you to the very ends of the Earth in the name of vengeance.”

  “You have to wonder if he has anything better to do.”

  “Apparently not. But it would make a good story, wouldn’t it? For him to thrust the heads of some infamous Trapezuntine criminals on spikes on his castle walls. It is not unheard of. He could even make a drinking cup from your skull, like in the old days of Attila the Scourge of God.”

  “It’s always good to be useful.”

  “For years and years,” Methodios continued, “while supping at his bread and wine before the roaring fires of winter, he could tell and retell the tale of how with wit and will, muscle and skill and tactics and strategy, he overcame the great criminals, the great traitors of Trebizond.”

  “It’s not going to happen,” Alexios said. “I’ve dealt with worse than a petty Georgian noble.”

  “Let us hope so.” Methodios crossed himself and looked to the sky.

  It was still early, with the sun an orange ball of flame rolling up from the blue haze in the east. Because of this, neither Alexios nor Methodios saw the small army camped outside Alaverdi Monastery—not until the two riders were almost running into the enemy horsemen at the rear. Adarnase had returned, just as he’d warned, and right on time. His contingent of warriors had grown to hundreds of men, embracing even greater numbers of Christian and Muslim warriors, plus even a few Mountain Jews as well as pagan steppe nomads. They had also brought a battering ram—a long straight tree they must have cut down the night before—which they had just started slamming against the gate. Nobody was fighting them. Several ladders had also been thrown against the walls, and warriors were just starting to climb up. Because of all this activity, everyone in Adarnase’s army had their backs turned to Alexios and Methodios. Alexios nonetheless drew his green Gedara sword, and was about to urge his old horse to charge, but Methodios pulled him into a pomegranate and apricot orchard, where they dismounted and hid behind a massive tree.

  “You cannot fight them,” Methodios whispered. “It is suicide!”

  Boom! The battering ram crashed against the gate.

  “You can’t tell me what to do,” Alexios said. “My kids are in there. Isato’s in there—”

  “What hope will they have without a father? Without a husband?”

  Boom! came another crash, this one with the sickening sound of splintering wood. Adarnase’s men cheered as the bravest warriors came close to reaching the tops of the ladders.

  “They’ll kill them!” Alexios growled. “Or take them hostage!”

  “You asked me how we have survived so long through all these dark days,” Methodios said. “This is how. By avoiding violence at all costs. By doing what we can to deal with our enemies as men, not as demons or monsters to be slaughtered—”

  “Yeah, well if only they treated us the same way.” Alexios pulled free from Methodios, got back on his old draft horse, and—as he pointed the green shining Gedara blade at Adarnase’s host—urged the beast to charge.

  “Alexios!” Methodios shouted.

  Some men in Adarnase’s army turned at the sound of the galloping horse and the shouting monk. They yelled warnings at each other, wheeled their own horses around, and drew their weapons as Alexios flung himself into their ranks.