For Tristan, the only thing worse than horseback riding was swimming. Despite growing up so near to the Uphret river, he had never done more than wade in the shallows. His fear of the turbulent waters kept him from straying further in than his knees. Now he was in the middle of it, tossed about by the whims of the current. After swallowing a stomach full of water while paddling, he turned to floating on his back, taking quick gasps of air to keep his head above water.

  Out of the corners of his eyes he could see the surrounding countryside pass, turning from scraggly fir trees and steep, muddy banks to a thick forest of pine and ash. The shoreline looked peaceful enough, yet he could not gather the courage to make for land. His chest still ached from the sting of Neila’s blade. Not knowing the lengths she would go to retrieve him, he could easily imagine her horse bursting from the trees at any moment with weapon in hand and a manic smile on her face. So he clung to the relative safety of the river, preferring the cold hands of nature to another cut of her vicious sword.

  He tried to conserve his strength, letting his body relax with the flow of the current. With the recent drought, the water was warm and comfortable. With the sun pounding on him from above he closed his eyes to shut out the light, and let his mind wander while the river carried him.

  Like the sun, his father, Tristram i’Lavignal, had looked down at him from one of the fortress’s tower windows while he trained. Being the dutiful son of a Lord, he had worked hard with the children of his father’s liegemen to learn the crafts of war. Though the same age, most of the boys had been twice his size and strength, making them intimidating opponents. Inevitably Tristan would be hit with a practice stick, leaving him double him over and gasping on the cobblestone of the fortress courtyard. He would tearfully look up at his father, only to see the man turn away with a disappointed scowl.

  Bujorn de’Dassir, the weapon master, saw something different. Concerned for his charge, he would go to Tristan’s side and watch as the boy’s blood boiled within his cuts and scrapes, leaving behind a dry crust that would flake away to reveal unmarred skin. He would see ribs move back into place beneath bruises that quickly faded. Bujorn saw what his father did not, that that no matter how serious the fall or how hard the hit, once the pain had passed Tristan always rose to his feet unblemished and whole.

  Whenever he fell, Bujorn would hush the jeers of the other children, return the stick to his charge’s hand, and push him back into the fray.

  One time he pulled Tristan aside. "Tristan, I know what you’re about," the older man said to him in a soft whisper. "You try and hide it, but I know. You can’t be hurt, boy. No matter how bad the pain, you can’t be hurt. Think it a gift, Tris! The gods have blessed you. The other’s are fighting blind, but you’ve been given eyes to see."

  "I don’t understand…" Tristan responded, but Bujorn put a finger on his lip to stop him.

  "It’s your fear, boy. I can see you cringe before the hits come. Even when you’re eyes can’t see it, your body knows. Use that! Stop letting the fear rule you. Better it serve you than you serve it. Trust that feeling. If want to flinch, get out of the bloody way. Then get right back into it. Hit them and never stop until your enemy is down, and then go some more until they can’t get back up. You can do it. I know you can. No matter what they do, nothing can keep you from getting back up.”

  Bujorn grabbed Tristan’s arm and shook him as if making sure he was paying attention. “It may feel like your dying, Tris, but it’s like a dream. Dreams can’t hurt you, so never be afraid of them. Do you hear me?”

  That was the first time Tristan could remember the coldness. After that lecture, the boy he fought came at Tristan with the smug certainty that he was going to beat the Lord’s son into the ground once more. As the boy’s stick rose over him, Tristan could feel the chill churn in his stomach, knowing that the blow contained agony beyond belief. His fear told him that to be in its path was akin to death. Yet in that moment came a calmness, a pause in time where he faced a choice –– he could reflexively shrink away as he always did and receive the blow, or he could step to the side and avoid it.

  His opponent’s stick hit the ground where he had been. The boy looked up in surprise, wondering where Tristan had gone. In that moment, a door had opened. Seizing the opening, Tristan stepped back in and smacked at the boy’s arms and shoulders with his own stick as fast as he could. The poor child never had a chance to fight back. Blow after blow struck true, and with a hit to the gut and an upward strike to the face the boy reeled over backward onto the paving stones of the courtyard.

  Though Tristan barely remembered the shocked gasps of his fellow students, he vividly remembered looking up at his father’s window in triumph, only to see it empty.

  Even now, with Bujorn and his father long dead, that feeling of shame still haunted him. Perhaps it was time to let go of his fears, just as Bujorn had taught him. His circumstances offered the perfect opportunity. High Lord Ulan would believe his Lord Defender dead along with his men, erasing any obligation Tristan may have had to the Southland while putting an end to suspicions regarding his age. Tristan could walk away and make a new life for himself away from battlefields and politics.

  It may be easier, but this was not how Tristan wanted to leave. While he had lost people before, losing them to a Neila felt wrong. Though it evaded him, he understood that death was a natural part of life. Death from her, however, felt anything but natural. And if left unchallenged, she would continue to murder and rampage until there was nowhere left for him to hide. She needed to be stopped. His best path to do that was as Lord Defender of the Southlands. For this, his need for vengeance rang more loudly than his need for safety. He did not want his people to have died in vain.

  Unfortunately his need for revenge fled when Tristan hit the rapids. Tossed about like flotsam in a storm, he tumbled, sputtered, and was slammed repeatedly against the rocks of the river bottom until he lost consciousness from pain.

  When Tristan awoke he was in a bed with a tattered blanket tucked beneath his chin. It stank of old sweat, and bits of straw poked up through the mattress like rusted nails. His clothes were gone, the smelly blanket his only cover. Though confused, he did not question the improvement in his circumstances. Old blankets and straw were far better than a bed of river rocks.

  The room was sparsely furnished. Other than the bed, there was a wardrobe made from aged and cracked pine and a single rickety nightstand, both leaning at a slight angle as if ready to fall down. There was a window high up on one of the slatted wood walls, its single pane of glass appearing to sag beneath its own weight. The window let in the morning sun, creating a glowing patch of light in the center of the room. On the other side of that pool of light was a lone door, the boards so loosely fitted that Tristan could see another room peeking in between the slats.

  Feeling vulnerable, Tristan wrapped the blanket around himself for protection. He went to the wardrobe first, hoping some clothes lay within, but all he found within were webs and a startled spider which skittered away from the light.

  Like the spider, Tristan jumped when the door across the room swung open. A man with skin the color of tilled soil poked his head inside, his eyes crinkling beneath the shaved dome of his head.

  "Oh good, you’re up,” he said, seeing his guest awake. His deep voice echoed as he entered the small room. He wore the robes of a monk, the once dark cloth faded to a shade lighter than his skin. His hands were occupied with a bundle of clothing, so he used the knot of his corded belt to push his way through the door. “How are you feeling?”

  "I’m fine, thank you.” Tristan stood with the blanket clutched to himself, feeling vulnerable for reasons that escaped him.

  “Good, good,” the monk said, moving to put the bundle on the bed. “You’ve been asleep for a day. I was worried. Seems I was right to bring these for you,” he said, gesturing to the clothes with his chin. “What little you had was beyond repair, so I took these from our leftovers. If anyone is deserving of them, it would be the likes of you.”

  “The likes of me?” Tristan repeated, feeling sheepish, ready to crawl into the wardrobe to keep the spider company.

  “The living,” the monk said with half a smile. “You were lucky to survive the river. With the rapids, those who fall in do not generally arrive still breathing. Not until you, that is. This is a place for the dead, not the living, so it is rare we are in a position to help.”

  Looking again at the man’s robes, Tristan nodded in understanding. “This is a monastery to Yu.” The goddess, known also as Yush by the Elahn, was the mother of the gods and patron to the dead. Her monks oversaw burial rites, her temples crematoriums and cemeteries. It was little wonder this room appeared disused.

  “Yes,” the monk confirmed. “This is the Holy Order of the All Mother. I am Master Ruel, in service to the Mother Yu and all who live in her shadow.” He bowed his head, passing his hands briefly over his face and then clasping them over his heart before looking up again. “Which at the moment includes you.”

  “How far down river am I?”

  “You’re a league west of the holy city of Nassir. Do you remember where you entered the river?”

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  “Lavignal,” Tristan said, surprised to learn he had floated so far. While still on the border with the Southland, the sacred city of Nassir was the spiritual center of the Vorshan Empire. Major routes north and south would make for easy travel to wherever he needed to go, be it back to his home in the south or the imperial city of Orphir.

  “That is a long way. You truly are blessed to have survived the journey.” The monk studied him, his demeanor calm in the face of Tristan’s nervousness.

  “Yes, I suppose I am. Thank you for your help,” Tristan said in appreciation. “I’m in your debt.” Looking down at himself, he noted the old blanket he still clutched to himself. “I should change. But if there is any way I could repay you, please tell me. Obviously I have little to give in return. I would hate to impose any more than I already have.”

  “You have been no bother at all,” Master Ruel said kindly. “I have done nothing worthy of repayment. I merely gave you a place to sleep, and these clothes are free for the taking. I imagine you are hungry, and while we have few comforts to offer, the one thing we monks have in abundance is good food.” He patted his own robust stomach to emphasize his words. “Please stay and eat with me, and I’ll offer up a bundle to see you off when you’re ready.”

  Hearing his stomach growl, Tristan nodded in acceptance. “Yes, some food would be wonderful. Thank you.”

  Ruel turned to the door. “I’ll go and retrieve a platter for us. If you are still in need of giving thanks, feel free to visit the shrine. It is just down the hall to the left. It would be good for the Mother and her children to have someone other than us monks asking after them. I will meet you there shortly.”

  Taking his leave, the monk left Tristan to dress. The clothes were what a farmer might wear, simple hand stitched linen pants, a rough tunic, and a simple belt. They were well worn but clean and serviceable. As he put them on, Tristan suppressed a shiver, trying not to think much on where they came from. The dead were buried naked, leaving this world as they entered it. It made sense than a monastery to Yu would have extra clothing in abundance.

  Stepping out of the room in his bare feet, Tristan made his way gingerly down the hallway. The center of the floor had been worn smooth with the rubbing of countless footsteps, creating a glossy trail for him to follow. It felt cool on the soles of his feet, easing his steps. It was like walking on a shoreline in the heat of summer, the sand firm but refreshing to the touch.

  At the end was the central chamber of the monetary, a long room containing a handful of pews that lead up to semicircular alcove commonly known as the Arms of the Mother. The ceiling over the alcove was a dome that traced out the full circle started by the alcove, creating a pocket of shadows in the space above.

  Tristan was surprised by the size of the shrine. Normally this would be the largest part of the temple, but the alcove here was no wider than twice his arm span. In comparison, the temples of Nassir were massive, with marble columns and echoing halls seating hundred of parishioners. This space, however, was intimate and personal, meant for no more than a handful of faithful worshipers.

  While the rest of the monastery looked cobbled together from driftwood and rusted nails, the wood of the alcove was burnished and oiled till it shown with a dark oaken glow. It was as if the shrine had once belonged to a much older building, the current temple built around it to keep the sacred space safe from the rest of the world. Overhead, the ebony of the dome was inlaid with chips of azurite and white granite, mimicking the evening sky. Such detail would be lost in a larger space, but here it was like being wrapped and held by the night.

  There was no altar or lectern before the shrine, only a bare floor of inlaid brown and blue tiles looking like the earth as seen from the tallest mountain peeks. Inside the shrine, however, were the children of Yu, their statues evenly spaced against the walls of the semicircle. Each was carved in an ancient style, human figures made from wood or stone with heads possessing two faces with pairs of eyes looking off in opposing directions. Each icon had one hand pointing upward, urging the gaze of worshipers to look toward something greater than themselves.

  On the far right was Emperor Vor, patron of the Vorshan Empire, made from ebony with gold gilding. Each face represented an aspect of the god, the left being the face of Ambition, known as Vor the Conqueror, and the right Compassion, called Vor the Merciful. Ambition’s expression was stern while the other gentle, his nature conflicted.

  To the left of Vor was Hir the Lady, Vor’s mother and the daughter of Yu. Her statue was made from white marble with silver inlay. The face of Wisdom, known as the Prophet, looked toward her son on the right, and that of Knowledge, the Keeper of Secrets, turned to her husband on the left. The Prophet’s gaze was open and ecstatic, the Keeper’s mouth pursed, eyes conspiratorial. While the right hand pointed to the dome above, the hand of the Prophet was raised to her mouth, one finger touching her lips in a gesture of silence.

  Hir’s husband, formed in red marble and copper, was Kurn the Warrior. The Defender, the face of Need, looked toward his wife Hir with an expression of sadness and longing. The self-gratifying visage of Desire, known as the Destroyer, smiled widely with a deformed grin, tongue sticking out to taunt onlookers.

  Of the three statues, Vor's appeared more recent than the others. Its metal held a gloss the others lacked, and the style of carving reminded him of statues seen elsewhere in the Empire. It was an artistic blend of old and new. Tristan could see scrapes on the floor near it’s pedestal as if the others had been moved to make room.

  Tristan raised his gaze up to the dome where Yu the Mother looked down from the darkness of the night sky. There was no face there, though his imagination could make out her eyes in the pattern of inlaid stars above.

  These four were the pillars of the Vorshan Empire. Though he had heard of other gods and goddesses, none were venerated more highly than these. It was said that Vor himself had appeared to the first Emperor to give his blessing, and that Kurn had personally lead the Vorshan army against the Dragons of the North in the first imperial war. From a single city state the Empire had grown over a thousand seasons to spread over half a continent. It was a testament to the power of their divinity.

  Tristan was mesmerized by the beauty of the shrine as he tried to take in every curve and texture of stone and wood. Light filtered in from windows at the back of the hall, setting the alcove aflame in metallic silver and gold which faded to pinpoints of light in the shadows overhead and sparkling over crafted armor and robes. It reminded Tristan of his family’s shrine in the upper tower of Lavignal Fortress. His father would take him up there every tenth day to ask the gods for guidance and strength. Feeling homesick, it seemed like he could use some of that strength now.

  Dropping to his knees, he closed his eyes and prayed. "To Vor I give my honor, to Hir I give my life, to Kurn I give my strength. In the shadow of the mother Yu I beseech thee, please show me the way for I am lost." Reciting the traditional prayer, the words conveyed the ache he feels within himself.

  Yet he knew he needed more than well wishes. What he really needed were answers. "I want to know why I’m here,” he continued. “My life has gone on far longer than it should have, and though I should be grateful, I’m not. It has brought me nothing but misery. I used to pray for an end, but time and again that has been denied me. Not even Neila could kill me.”

  Tristan paused, considering his words. “I no longer want to die,” he admitted. “What I need are answers. I need to know why I’m here, why I cannot die. I need to know if I’m here for a reason. Please tell me. I’m begging you to tell me.”

  "You have everything you need to go on." answered a voice. Startled, Tristan opened his eyes to look around, but no one else was there. Behind him were only empty pews. The voice had been male but was nothing like the sonorous tones of the monk. He must have imagined it, he thought. Just his desperation telling him what he wanted to hear.

  Turning back to the shrine, however, he could see that something was amiss. Kurn’s head was turned, the tarnished green pupils of Need piercing him with its intense gaze.

  Tristan felt like he should be surprised, yet somehow was not. A calmness came over him, a feeling that all was as it should be. Though his mind told him he should be afraid, panic eluded him. ”No, I don’t,” he answered back. “I have nothing I need, nothing I want. If I have a reason for being, I do not know what it is.”

  The copper lips and marble flecked skin shifted into a subtle smile. Yet the eyes remained sad, as if the god understood the nature of his suffering all too well. "You have need. That gives you strength. Without need, you would have nothing."

  Tristan did not know what to say to that. Kurn was supposed to give strength to those in need, yet despite his need the god refused. That left but one question to ask."Why?"

  The face stared at him a moment longer, as coldly as only stone could, before replying. "For you, because it is what you are. Know what you need, and you will know yourself.”

  A clattering sound behind Tristan startled him from his conversation with the god. Instinctively whipping his head around, he found Master Ruel gaping at him and the statue with eyes wide, the remains of lunch scattered across the tiles. Amid the fallen bread, cheese, and fruit, clay cups leaked wine between the pews. Tristan looked back to Kurn, but the statue had returned to its original position, faces turned to either side. The conversation was over.

  Tristan rose to his feet to face the monk. The unusual calmness still lingered, making him feel more at ease than he probably should. “What did you see?”

  "He talked to you.” the monk answered, bewildered.

  "Yes, he did.” Tristan rubbed his eyes, feeling suddenly tired from his talk with Kurn. It was if he had been riding his horse all day, wondering how he could feel so drained and exhausted from simply sitting.

  “I was left here as an orphan and was raised in this monastery,” said Master Rule, his tone filled with frustration. “I have lived my entire life here, and spent every season praying to the Mother and her children for a reason to believe. And not just me. Countless monks before me have done the same for over a thousand seasons. None of the gods have ever spoken.”

  Tristan sympathized greatly, knowing all too well what it was like to spend a lifetime asking questions and never getting answers.

  “Why did he talk to you?” the monk asked.

  “That is a good question,” said Tristan. “There is something different about me. I just don’t know why. I was hoping he would tell me.”

  Ruel looked down at the tray he dropped, frowning as he realized what he had done. He knelt and started retrieving the remains of food and returning them the tray. The monk kept his face down, refusing to look at Tristan. Then, part way through his cleanup, he stopped. “You said you don’t know the why.” His gaze remained focused on the tiles as he spoke. “But you do know the what. Tell me. What is your reason for questioning the gods?” The monk’s deep voice gave his words the weight of judgement.

  A part of Tristan wanted to keep his secrets, but the calmness that infected him reduced his inhibitions. “I was born Tristan i’Lavignal, son of Lord Tristram i’Lavignal. I have been alive for nearly a hundred winters, and though every wound pains me greatly, none can kill me. I cannot die.”

  The monk looked up, an expression of awe on his face. “Then you are a living miracle, blessed by the gods.”

  “No, not blessed,” Tristan growled. “Cursed.”

  “You may believe so, but a god says otherwise. He said that you already have what you need. Your very life tells you are here for a reason. That is the answer you need.”

  Tristan shook his head. “No. It may be the answer I need, but it is not the one I want.” Turning his back the shrine, Tristan knelt to help the monk clean the floor.