((Long as a book chapter, but a self contained story. Still, check the Artists Comments for a link to the previous short.))

     It was a usual night for business at the Half-House tavern; that is, business was as usual amid the mixed crowd. The Half-House, so named because half of the building had always been the tender’s house, was a very, if not the most popular place for Telveria’s adventurers, from the most successful to the least accomplished.
     Such an arrangement suited most everyone. Most, because there were always parties and persons that mixed as well as oil and water; that is to say, not at all. While full-tilt fisticuffs were only frowned upon, and mortal duels strictly forbidden inside, shouting matches between antagonists were encouraged entertainment, as long as all tabs were paid in full before any furniture was thrown.
     Thus every night at the Half-House, one could be treated to the spectacles of dead-beat debtors, unlucky gamblers, cheated party-partners and jilted want-to-be lovers, all for the price of a tight clutched purse and a foaming pitcher of beer. One after the other they came and went with the regularity of familiar faces, and so it went that on this night, two sat at table, heatedly discussing where one was not to be.
     “If I’ve told you no once, I’ve told you a time too many! No man will be bedding me!” This came from the Lady Rianell, apprenticed to the human deity of truth and justice, as pure as her white habit and the water that she drank.
     Across from her sat the target of her ire, the irascible half-elven Taunos, of no certain income and very fixed desire. Red faced with the anger at yet another rejection, he stood so quickly that he upset his tankard, spilling his ale across the tabletop, threatening the bastion of white cloth he so hungrily wanted to breech.
     “Always the cold-hearted witch! Not a man will ever be good enough for you, and why? So to save yourself for the Godhood! It’s a cold graceless life alone Lady, and still you think it justice? Don’t make me laugh.”
     It was hard to tell which made the priestess snarl more, the lustful black haired one before her table, or the trickling dark stain puddling atop it. Her voice could have given ice a lesson in cool. “What you would give,” she told the rogue, “would leave me as cold and lonely.”
     It was a splash of cold water to sober him, and he deflated, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “You don’t know that,” he answered. “Think ye not the heat of your fires would bind me to your side?”
     “No.” The answer as swift as an arrow shot let him know she wasn’t hearing any of it. His smooth manner and slick words slid from impenetrable walls and missed her heart completely.
     His face hardened slightly; He reached into his new coin purse and produced a shining bit of silver. He ignored her sudden hateful stare and dropped the florin on the table. “Say nothing more; your honesty is becoming. I must be myself alone it seems, again. At least this time I made you wet.”
     Her face flushed as crimson as the sunset. “I think not!” She retorted. “It takes more than the sight of you to stir me.”
     Far from expectation, he laughed. “I beg to differ,” he told her, pointing down with a finger, before turning on his heel for the door.
     Her eyes fell hesitantly to the table, to the puddle momentarily forgotten, and his coin tossed with purpose suddenly understood. The florin’s silver weight enough to upset the liquid surface, the alcoholic spill had crested the edge of the table, to dribble a thread of the hated liquid upon her white robed lap. With a cry she leapt backward, stumbling through a foolish dance via robe and still parked chair. “Taunos! You… you infuriating cretin!”
     Wringing her hands, brushing at her lap in vain, she cringed at the sounds of laughter around her, silently wishing a pox upon the nether parts of her tormentor. “Oh fine. Now I’ll smell like a brewery slut. Why do I put up with him?”
     From her blind side and behind the table came a small high pitched, “That’s what I’d like to know.”
     Surprised in the act of righting her chair, Rianell whirled and nearly tripped again. “Oh great truth! You scared the life from me! What do you want from me now you little guttersnipe?”
     Muriel Silverfoot brushed silvery hair from her eyes and gave the priestess a smile, ignoring harsh tone and hurtful words alike. Seemingly sympathetic, she took a white handkerchief from a pocket, mopping up the spilled ale, polishing the silver coin that vanished with a quick flick of the halfling’s fingers.
     Done with that work she dropped the ale soaked square on the table between them and hopped up into the vacated chair. “I believe it’s called an answer.” Placing her elbows on the table, she smiled even sweeter, looking to be settled in for an extended stay. Rianell arched her brow and took a moment to compose herself before asking in reply, “An answer to what?”
     Muriel giggled. “An answer to my question! Why do you put up with Taunos? Why do you hang around him if you really hate him so?”
     Rianell blushed slightly, looking at the ceiling rafters as though praying for a bolstered strength. Finally she coughed. “It’s complicated. Suffice to say there’s a debt I owe.”
     This only made the diminutive woman wriggle atop her chair in anticipation. “Oh! A story! Do tell, please do.”
     “Ah … it’s a long one.”
     “My favorite kind! Oh Miss? A water and a small beer please, oh, and cheese! And some bread for my friend and I. Here’s a silver piece to pay for it!” Her standard obligation fulfilled by request to the serving maid, she turned back to Rianell expectantly, ignoring the Lady’s look of aghast frustration.
     Finally sensing no other alternative, Rianell slumped in her chair. “Oh very well. But you’d better leave me the bread Muriel. After all this time the words still leave me sour…”

~

     “…It was the first morning of my fourteenth year that I made my decision. I decided that I would dedicate myself to Eveanora. Oh yes, the goddess of night and healing. I always had aspirations of service; I felt it my calling, my duty. No, I had not a horrible childhood. My parents are from Lancashire; they run their farm with justified pride and always treated us well.
     ‘Take care of others, do your duty, live right’ … I grew up hearing that mantra, and I knew where the paths to my adulthood lay. I was to mature and marry a farmer’s son … or leave a year before such joining and be something greater still.
     But two weeks travel lay between me and Still Waters Temple. My father could spare no steed or escort; he was ready to let me go just to lose a mouth to feed. So with all I could carry in a shoulder bag and a stout stave I started on my journey. Hunger makes a priest pious; thus they say and I believe, for I learned about keeping faith and being hungry hand in hand. In three days time I was farther from home than I’d ever been. Cold at night, poor and hungry, I knew little of my route and less of survival; everything and everyone was foreign to me.
     Still I made it most of a week before I ran out of provisions. To live by my wits was harder than it sounded the week before. I was hungry enough to eat grass, and my desperation was written across my face as clearly as my determination. Thus he found me. No, not Taunos, but another man. Gregor he called himself, and never had I met such a man. He had a long patched coat and holey breeches, a homespun shirt of no certain color, and the longest unkempt hair on any man I’d ever known. It would rival a dwarf’s for the tangle of complexity.
     I took a good look at our first meeting, and noted every wrinkle and every line. Unwashed, unshaven, with no way to tell where hair and beard began, he stunk to the highest heaven! I expected his lice to cozy to me, sure that I was sweeter game, and thus I attempted to move away, and avoid eye contact for certain.
     But peasant Gregor had different ideas on the matter. He called me to him, and I shied away, until at his insistence I turned and gave him my attention, though I remained safely beyond a lunge.
     “Where are you headed?” He asked me, and seeing no profit in lying I told the truth in answer. When I was done he laughed, his words infuriating me. “A Priestess? That’s quite a big job for such a little girl. Shouldn’t you be home minding your siblings?”
     “Shouldn’t you be home minding your business?” I gave him all the heat in my voice, which he easily ignored.
     “It’s all my home, out here,” he answered, “and you’re a hungry little girl. Come with me,” he added further. “There’s crusty bread and lentil soup at my fire which I’ll share.”
     Oh yes, I needn’t tell you that the sound of such a meal was music in tune with the growl of my gut. But my every instinct told me not to answer. He saw my thought and told me against it, saying, “You aren’t too smart to follow, but just too proud to beg. There’s trouble for girl children on the road ahead missy. You’d best be thinking twice.”
     Twice? I tell you I thought his only intention to get me alone, away and off the road. I thought twice and twice again, and though I was hungry, the only thing I truly felt was fear and disgust of him. He laughed when I told him I preferred the road to take my chances, and I hotly fled his parting words.
     How much fresher the road seemed then, away from his madness and horrible stench. But soon enough my hunger made itself felt with doubled intensity; by nightfall I’d gotten only a few miles further down the road. At the dawning I’d drank heavy from a freshet that crossed the road. Or, the road crossed the freshet … I remember crossing a bridge. I honestly can’t recall, for thinking was as much beyond me as home. But I did hear the horse coming, and of course the rider saw me.
     I had stopped as soon as I heard, but I suppose I hadn’t been paying proper attention. It did not matter; I would have stood at his bridle even had he ridden me down. Tall, blonde, blue eyed and very handsome, the stranger that approached me wore noble raiment, carried himself like a lord, and took some caution as he closed with me.
     “What do you out here girl?” He asked me, and as before I saw no use in lying. He appeared impressed at my aspirations and concerned about my state. “Is that all you’ve taken with you? Why, you must be terribly famished.”
     I wanted to deny it; wanted to say that I would be fine. But my mouth wouldn’t work for sudden want of drinking. He noted where fell my eye and offered up his water skin. After a long drink of the sweetest water I’d ever tasted, I gave myself over to his company.
     He was heavenly, polite and so concerned that I thought nothing of his questions. “Was I faint with hunger?” Not I, not anymore, foolishly faint with starry-eyed emotion. He said there was a place ahead we could take a meal, and that I could ride behind him, and I would feel a ‘new woman’ in the morning. I was only too willing, and then he asked me when I was expected at the temple, and I admitted they weren’t expecting me at all. So silly I was, thrilling at the sudden speed of his charger.
     When we stopped that eve I was ready, ravenous with hunger and quite eager for another round of conversation with my handsome rescuer. He’d taken a trail away from the main road, saying something about a shortcut, but I’d not paid it any mind, as for truth I was already hopelessly lost.
     The night’s lodging was an old cottage, and again I hardly paid attention. But for a place so seemingly abandoned there was a bed of rushes, a fire ready for lighting, and a larder of hearty food. While I waited he made a simple repast, apologizing for the poor fare and lodgings, and all I could think was how very wonderful it all seemed.
     I ate before the crackling fire, hardly tasting my meal as I was hanging on his every word. When he paused in his stories to reach for my cheek with a tentative hand, I had sudden visions of a life far removed from Eveanora.  He told me I was beautiful; I blushed at his flattery. And when he gave me his cup I thought nothing of it, drinking deep the draught of mulled spiced wine.
     You see it don’t you, how very foolish I was? But I had no idea, for my childhood education was woefully short on what beasts men could be. I remember feeling as though I’d fallen through a tunnel of fire-hot light, the taste of bile on my tongue. And though I could see and hear the things about me, reaction was sorely missed. I couldn’t move a muscle, save to whisper a cry as weak as a kitten’s.
     I do not think I was out for very long. Waking on the rush bed to his groping about my person, him caught in the act of removing my filthy dress; I will not repeat the things he bespoke of me. But though I could not move, I could cry, and to my horror tears only excited him farther.
     Here was a man that any young woman would have instantly swooned for, able to have anyone he wanted, pressing himself against me, forcing himself upon me, now very much against my will. And I could do nothing but silently beg.
     The feelings I will never forget to this day assault me: his fetid breath, the scratch and slice of sharp edged rushes, and the filth … both that of my body, and his perverse mind. I was so very helpless, and I begged of every spirit I could think of, that I might die before I had to endure that final shame.
     … Obviously I did not die.
     I don’t know how long I lay there soiled, used and unresponsive. Perhaps the night had passed before my fingertips might obey my will. What I would have done if fate had freed me then I do not know. My ‘would be escort’ had risen to breakfast sometime before. He heard the noise as I did, and rose to see what it might be stirring outside the cottage door.
     Before he left he checked upon me, giving my breast a heavy squeeze and my lips yet another noxious kiss. “I’ll be right back for more,” he promised, and then covered me with his heavy horse’s blanket. I waited in stifling darkness, and hearing only the faintest of noises, tried desperately to move.
     I strained so hard, all only for the curling of a finger, and when next the blanket lifted off I screamed in my terror and light blindness, knowing that all it produced from my throat was a terrible moan. I waited for my captor to place his hands upon me, and would have cringed if able at the fuzzy blob of a figure towering above the bed.
     You can imagine how shocked I was to hear, “Looks like you found your trouble missy. But unlike my darling you’ll get to live.” It took me a long minute to recognize Gregor, the peasant I’d run from back on the road. I was ready again to die, afraid that cruel fate had once more abandoned me, and he saw it written upon my features, and calmed me with his words.
     “Leave off it girl,” he said brusquely. “I sent him off with a good beating about his head and shoulders. Broke his pride with a kick below. Here, we’ll wrap you back in this blanket, there’s a poor girl.” And he did just so, plucking me up as pretty as you please, hiding my nakedness, getting me as upright as the boneless got.
     And how did I thank him? What with an ill stomach, drugged body and my self-revulsion, I vomited over his shoulder, down his back. As I did so my face and voice were restored me, and I burst in anguish and anger, bawling the cry of the newly born. And peasant Gregor held me just such, patting my back and shoulder, soothing as he could, his ‘there there’ echoing in memory long after he had gone.”

~

     Muriel sat quietly for some time after the tale appeared to be over. The Lady Rianell seemed as stiff as ever, glass half emptied, bread on the plate before her untouched. But by the wet in her eyes the soul of the girl she once was remained within, still lamenting the manner in which her innocence had been lost.
     Still, time makes changes and heals some wounds doctors cannot touch. When the white robed woman blinked away unshed tears and reached again for her glass, Muriel tried to have her start the story again. “Well,” she said in the brightest tone she could. “That tells me a lot about you. But you said there was a debt you owe. I can see you beholden to the peasant, but what does that have to do with Taunos?”
     Rianell clasped her hands together in her lap and gave the halfling a bittersweet smile. “Much,” she answered. “Much, and nothing at all…”

~

     “Gregor saw me cleaned a little, my pack refilled and my direction replaced. There was little he could do for the hurt in my body and soul, and he didn’t even try. Mostly he left me to my own devices, declining to touch me and offering little conversation. Yet he had touched me by no means physical, teaching me a valuable lesson in judging others by their looks alone.
     He was something else, this crude peasant, and for all I had judged him before; he returned nothing of the sort in kind. As he took his due from the cottage, and followed me back to the main road, his silence provided me solace I needed, allowing me time to think. Though my head was full of questions, I asked nothing. He’d said something of ‘his darling’, and that I at least would live. To what direction could I place my guilt, for surviving my stupidity?
     As we reached the road where we would be parted, he took my attention by clearing his throat. “What are you going to do now girl?” Understanding him better, I knew his question came from no concern or aimless curiosity. And despite what I had gone through, from him, I did not mind. Only having half an answer, I gave him what I could.
     “I’m still bound in my heart to become a priestess,” I told him.
     “Eveanora?” He asked, surprising me with what he chose to remember. I would like to think I surprised him as well, but he probably already knew. How little Eveanora had meant to me when faced with a handsome face and smoldering blue eyes; I was not for the night and healing any longer, if ever I had been.
     “I will not go to Still Waters Temple.”
     “Where then will you go?” When I replied that I did not know, he gave me a soft smile. “A priestess without a mission isn’t much of a priestess. You don’t know what you want to do?”
     I did know, but could only put it in words at that moment. I had wronged a man I did not know, and trusted blindly in yet another. And snared by my innocence, helplessly bound and abused, I’d been saved by a man who owed me nothing, who could have gone on with clear conscience, leaving me to rot in an unmarked grave where none would ever miss me.
     It was a powerful realization, this debt I had acquired, and the ache in me required that I answer. There would be others in my position, helpless souls begging for aid and praying with all their might for rescue. If I could save just one person from someone like my tormentor, I could believe that debt repaid.
     After all of my rambling attempt to explain my newfound self, Gregor held up his hands and gave me a slow smile. “I wonder then missy,” he asked, “if you’ve heard of the priests of Tyre.”
     Tyre, Lord of Light, Truth, Justice, Compassion and Mercy … That was the beginning of my ascension. It was a short week’s walking to Grace Castle, where the priesthood received me with open arms after they measured the truth of my tale. It has been a far longer walk to gain the Lord’s Truth, his answer to my prayers.
     Be patient with me, I am coming to the point that Taunos enters my tale. You see, novices spend their days in instruction and hard work, becoming acolytes only at Tyre’s acceptance and calling. For me most of a year had passed, and though I had never forgotten my trauma forged vows, the riddle of peasant Gregor had turned to gathering dust in the back of my mind.
     Some of those who turn to Tyre never leave the temple. Others there are released from service, to work the holdings and keep the priesthood supplied and fed. Of those that receive the white mantle, some live the majority of their lives in waiting for that special day.
     Thus it was a great surprise to me when the master of novices came to call one late spring evening, with the bishop of the castle in tow. Master Clarkson introduced me to his grace, and he in turn asked of me a few small questions. Upon my answering he turned to Clarkson saying, “And you are sure that she is the one?”
     “There can be no doubt,” replied the master. “It is the closure of her ordeal.”  I was so confused, but there was no doubt in my heart when the bishop turned to me and asked if I was ready for my final test. His grace gave to me his blessing and allowance to wear the white. I was placed into Master Clarkson’s keeping, and soon we were on our way, back toward Lancashire. There was to be a trial at the Lord’s manor, for which Tyre’s priests were requested, a standard thing when the expected sentence was that of death. Master Clarkson told me that a commoner had been accused of assaulting the Lord’s son, and that a counter accusation had been levied upon the young nobleman in return.
     It was an unusual test, as only full acolytes and above were called to witness the Truth of Tyre. But the master told me that Tyre himself had indicated to him that I should go, and so my final trial to enter his service would be performed in justice’s name. I was to receive my first blessing of Tyre’s Truth to exonerate or convict this common man.
     When we arrived at the manor we were immediately received and honored. Master Clarkson did not tell them of my status so I was accepted as an honored priestess. When I asked him if this deception went against what Tyre stood for, he told me that “truth is oft a matter of perception, and as I stood at the manor in service of Tyre at His request, was my title important as my function?”
     Faced with this quandary, I took my place at the courtyard on the day of the trial, and walked amid the commoners with my head held high. How could I have guessed what awkward fate walked with me that day? I met the manor guard, the Lord’s hired men, and many peasants, and passed time in pleasantries until a hush descended; the Lord and his son had come out on a portico overlooking the courtyard.
     Lord Lancaster was a stout man, iron gray at the temples, of an honorable line dressed in fine if austere garb. How stern he seemed above the crowd, taking his place to watch the proceedings and see justice dispensed. And behind came his progeny, the Lord-to-be, and my breath quite left me at the sight of his entry. Blonde blue-eyed picture of perfect nobility, the face of my rapist had not changed at all. Standing behind the shield of his father, he wore the smug look of the triumphant, already secure in the knowledge of the benefits of his station. By law, Tyre’s Truth was not to be used on nobility.
     Master Clarkson had to know; by the way I clutched his arm as we turned at the opening of the postern gate. The Lord’s own arms men led a stooped and manacled figure between them, and though he had been sick through the winter, and dunked and trimmed by his captors, I recognized the peasant Gregor right away.
     The arms men took him to the whipping post, the Post of Shame, tying him to it securely after making him face the portico. The crowd in the courtyard was oddly quiet, neither heckling the captive nor pelting him with garbage, as was the common lot. I saw immediately that our presence had been requested to placate the Lord’s subjects.
     Still, the peasantry had no right to justice under the King’s law. The sheriff called out the charge, that one peasant Lucian Gregor had viciously assaulted a nobleman, Chet Lancaster, the Lord’s own son. He turned to us for First Prayer, which Master Clarkson gave, whereupon it was assumed that we were ready to receive the spirit of truth. And knowing none different, I turned to watch the trial, sick at the farce I saw.
     The sheriff asked of Gregor but one question. “Did you do this foul deed?”
     Gregor needed no prompting. He raised his eyes to the Lord above and spit through broken teeth. “Aye, I beat the dog, I did.”
     There came no cheer or catcall from the crowd of good men; I would guess that they knew already the truth of Gregor’s cause. And I saw no sign to confirm or deny his words. If nothing more was said I knew what would be his fate, and I may say that I was shocked and angered, for there could be no justice in such a thing.
     I needed in truth no sign, knowing what I knew, and I began to pray for him, that someone would speak on his behalf. Through fate or faith my prayer was answered from the peasant’s ranks, with a simple cry of “Why?”
     At first it seemed the sheriff had chosen to ignore the question, and when again it was asked from the crowd the keeper of law turned with a frown to signal the manor guards. I was still praying that Gregor could be allowed to answer the question, for if I stepped forth to testify they could hardly accept my role there. Again my plea was answered; again by which I do not know.
     Master Clarkson stepped forward and raised a palm. “Good Sir,” he called the sheriff, “Could we not have the question answered? I myself would like to know why.”
     With a deeper frown and a signal to halt the guardsmen, the sheriff asked in reply, “Is such reason relevant?”
     The Master answered, “I assure you it be so.”
     “Oh…” The Lord gave a slight nod from his point of vantage; I could see the ire rising in the face of his son. The sheriff wrung his hands and addressed Gregor in a disgusted tone. “Very well peasant, by all means tell us why.”
     The hush only grew deeper as Gregor told his tale. He spoke of his village simply, and of maidens gone missing, returning to their homes broken and spoiled. He told of watching helpless, afraid to speak, as the village remained silent, none knowing who hunted the wood. And then of his darling, a daughter that never came home; he broke then, weeping openly at the Post of Shame.
     When at last he could manage again to speak, he told the court how he had left his home in the village, in mind to hunt the hunter, and force an accounting that the monster would pay. There was the cottage in the wood, the casks of ton-berry wine, and the devil’s root hanging to dry. But most damning of all were the ribbons and baubles, trophies collected, and among them the bracelets that belonged to his darling.
     Gregor told us of his tracking, unable to catch the monster, until the final day. I knew whom it was that he was caught with; whom it was he left off the beating to turn back into the cottage to save. This I knew with mine body’s conviction, but though I willed it, though I prayed, the light of Tyre’s Truth showed not at all.
     I looked above to the portico, where Chet’s father held fast to the rail in white knuckled rage. The sheriff turned up to him, and not us, for to see Tyre’s Truth would declare his master’s boy a criminal lower than the peasant he’d thought to hang. The courtyard was whisper silent; “Is it true?” was all we heard Lord Lancaster say.
     “Lies Father! I told you what happened; he lies!” Chet denied everything of course, and there Gregor’s life might have ended, but for the crowd of peasantry. The noble Lancaster looked out upon the faces of his people and knew from their manner what was thought. He stood at the railing to give verdict, so I believed, and the glow on the face of his son was a burning mockery in my heart.
     Which of us was surprised more, when instead we heard; “I adjourn this court until the morrow, to consider the words of this man. If there be any to speak on his behalf, let them come forward then, to be judged by the Truth of Tyre.”

     My night was long and sleepless, spent in contemplation and prayer. Why had I been chosen? Whatever could I do? To step forward would invalidate my position; to be silent would invalidate my faith. I could do nothing but pray for something to happen, someone to come forth, for justice to be done.
     When morning dawned we were already gathered; the peasantry and hired guards, to watch Gregor again be marched to the place of punishment, and for the Lord and his son to appear. When all were settled the elder Lancaster stood to the hush of the assembled, and called out clear and strong. “Are there any to stand in defense of the accused?”
     I waited what seemed an eternity, my eyes closed in the silence, begging for someone to step forth. As the watching priestess I could not do it… I could not. I was ready to faint, so awful did I feel, and I could not bear to see Gregor convicted. But no one called out, and no one stepped forward, and the Lord started to settle, when there came a call from the rear of the crowd.
     “I will speak for the wretched.”
     “Who speaks so?” The sheriff sounded surprised but did his duty, and the crowd of people parted, all eyes on a man dressed in white and black merchant leathers. It was this stranger that had dared to cry out.
     “Mikalos Moren,” came the man’s reply.
     “And you speak for the peasant Gregor?”
     “Yes my Lord. I was walking the road from Besacanon when I chanced upon a pair I took to be lovers, riding hard in the opposite direction. I’d left the road to answer the call of nature, having a delicate constitution, so they hadn’t seen me as they passed, but I saw them turn off the road and reasoned there to be a little farmer’s path.
     Because of the late hour I decided to follow and ask for shelter at the little cottage there was to come to, but as I approached the door I heard the most private of conversation. Not wanting to interrupt a tryst between the most handsome noble and a girl that appeared quite common, I ducked away from the door, proposing to wait until they had at least grown quiet again.
     However it wasn’t to be so easy, for the young man stepped out upon the stoop and busied himself with a cask of wine. As I peered around the corner I saw he was stirring at a cup, and I heard him say quite clear, “drink this down and you’ll sleep so well, you’ll wake a new woman in the morning.”
     Well my Lord, it was his tone what scared me, and I thought, ‘The poor lass has gotten herself taken by a monster’. But I knew not what to do. I waited till I could be sure I wouldn’t be heard, and thought to take my leave and tell my tale at the first village that I came to. But before I could leave my hiding place I was stopped yet again in my tracks.
     ‘Twas a wild man that had come up the track to the front door. He made a mess of noise, so I figured him to be the girl’s relation, and sure enough he took his ire out upon the young lord in a fight fairer than had been given to the girl. I thought sure the old would kill the younger, but something made him stop and go inside.
     When he did the young lord ran off and I saw this man here carry the girl out of that den of evil things. She was all sickly and he took care of her hurts, never saying more than a few words. I tell you I just cut my loss and spent the night in the woods, rather than be mistaken for the young lord’s crony.”
     “And neither man nor girl ever saw you?”
     This ‘Mikalos’ answered the sheriff, “Not to my knowledge, Lord.”  It was at that moment I realized, having been spell bound by the merchant’s tale, that I had been listening to a lie. My Lord Tyre had shown me from the moment the man had spoken, that not a word of his story was true. Only when he stated that we had not seen him did his aura change from liar’s red to the truth of gold.
     If I had been allowed to speak at that moment, I might have said… but the Lord’s son exploded in rage. “The man lies!” He screamed, leaning against the rail and pointing wildly with one hand. “They conspire against me; I’ve done no such things to anybody!”
     Sharp silence cut the courtyard at the end of his outburst. The Lord gripped his son’s hand at the rail, hard enough to produce pain in both of their faces. Lord Lancaster was staring directly at me. I heard Chet mumble “Father…” and trembled myself with fear.
     When the Lord asked, it was with a quiet strength that gave me no clue of what it was he hoped to hear. “Does he speak true?”
     If perhaps I had been his only victim, could I have told what Tyre had shown to me? Was my need for revenge so just? For what else was it that motivated me to answer as I did? I know not what the Master saw, which words were false or true. I only knew how I had lived, and I steeled my nerve by looking at Chet’s sweating face, as I told the courtyard, “The merchant Mikalos speaks true.”
     “Father! No, it isn’t…” Chet had doubtless meant to speak farther, but the crack of his father’s backhand sent him silent to the floor of the portico.
     “You damned rabid dog! Be silent!” The Lord was shaking in his anger, rounding on his only son. “You have turned against me, turned against your people, and worst of all, turned against your King! You have desecrated the trust between Lord and Subject, and injured me with your filthy worthless life! You are no child of mine!”
     He ordered his personal guards to seize Chet then, and had them stand their prisoner upright, and made him face the people. As he ordered Gregor released he gave his sentence, and a terrible thing it was.
     “The penalty for striking a noble is disfigurement; the punishment for beating the same is death! A man must be brought to justice for this, and justice demands it be Chet. Because of what was done in my name, the sentence will be certain death.”
     All color drained from his cheeks, but Chet wasn’t allowed the mercy of fainting; a blow to the gut removed the possibility of speech. His father continued in fury. “By your own devices do I sentence thee hung. You will swallow your own concoction, tied to the Post of Shame, and be whipped until your body may take no more, upon which you will be left to conscious will, taken down to be beheaded, and buried in unmarked grave. By my will, this be done, to reclaim honor upon my family name.”

     Unbelievable, but I swear it true. None of us there had ever heard a punishment so terrible. None I think have heard such since. We were thanked for our service before the court and paid for our time, after which the Master and I left the Manor.
     Master Clarkson made no judgments. He spoke no thoughts of me. He simply gave me half of Lancaster’s payment and told me I had passed my test. I was free to go and do my Lord Tyre’s will. But I felt no such readiness. How I wondered, had I passed when I had told half-truths and falsehoods myself?  Had ‘Mikalos’ had real knowledge of what Chet had done to me? There was only one way I knew to get the answer.
     I tracked the man to FarReach, where I found him at the village’s only inn. Surprised to see me at his table, he asked if he could help me, obviously hoping that I would say no. But since I did not care about his favor, I breeched privacy and went straight for the heart of the matter.
     “Who are you?” I asked him, and when he looked at me with ignorance I asked him once again. “Who are you to lie at trial? Your story condemned a man.”
     “Oh…” The light of comprehension dawned upon him, and he sat back in his seat and gave me the silliest grin. “…That. I notice you did not call him an innocent man.”
     When I did not answer, he took a shrewd expression and leaned forward, drink in hand. “I always wondered about you Tyre types… seemed quite a racket to me.” I became defensive and when he saw my sudden ire he raised his free hand, telling me to calm down. I was about to ask him what he meant, but he told me while steering the topic back to my question at hand.
     “Tell me if you will, if Chet Lancaster’s life meant so much, why did you not speak out about me then?”
     Why did I not? I had thought upon the answer long and hard, and could not but to self admit the truth. I wanted him to answer for what he had done to me. But to the liar Mikalos, I said, “I believed the truth that Gregor had to tell.”
     “So you did,” said the liar. “And so did I. You did the world a favor, backing me,” and I could see how yet he lied again. But he took no note of my expression, carrying on instead.
     “I met the young lord only once, and you want to know not where. But take my word or the peasants’. Chet Lancaster was the lowest sort of man. Hiding behind his family name, gambling, whoring, knocking heads… The kind that replaces the father and ruins the manor and stead… I don’t know in truth if he raped those young women, but it’s an idea I wouldn’t be surprised to have found in his head… Why, whatever is the matter with you?”
     I’d had enough of his pleasantries, empty words to fill my head, and taking on my sternest expression, with narrowed eyes I stared. “Who are you really? And why did you testify falsely?”
     Seeing I would not be put off, he took a hearty drink and shrugged, blowing the air of his ale toward me. “You may call me Taunos Half-Elven, if it pleases you to do so. And if it doesn’t, I don’t really care. You want the real reason I spoke for the peasant? Fine. I lost to the lordling at gambling; a debt for which I am no longer required to pay, which suits me well, for the bastard cheated anyway.”
     It came together then, as truth, and I was horrified as could be. “You had him killed for a gambling debt? How… How…” I was trying to ask how he could do such a thing, but Taunos took my stutter another way.
     “About … thirty florin I’d say…”
     It was outrageous, and I told him so. “You sold a man out for thirty pieces of silver? Is that all a man’s life is worth to you?”
     But Taunos was older and wiser than I. He remained unflustered, and said over his drink, “You lied about the matter too, Priestess. Don’t forget that when you throw your little fit. It was one or the other and you were paid, as I recall. How do you measure the value of a man? Myself, I measure myself, then do the best that I can.”

~

     Muriel sat with her chin cupped in her hands, a curious expression running over her features. When at last she spoke it was with a tone of wonder. “Well, who would have thought it? That he could do something nice unintending. And still you travel with him? Is your debt for his saving Gregor really still unpaid?”
     Rianell rolled her eyes to heaven but smiled lightly anyway. “It goes beyond that issue, but you would say it started there. We have each saved the other several times, and fate it is keeps throwing us together. I would not travel with the man otherwise, but as Tyre wills it, so I’ll go again.”
     “Even though he keeps trying to…”
     “Don’t say it! I could not bear to be beneath him, and how would I be measured if he knew that I’d been so had?”
     Muriel smirked, then smiled sympathetically. “Would it matter if he did?”
     The priestess answered, “Of course it matters! He is barely civil to me now!”
     Failing to rise to expectation, the halfling did not laugh. Instead, she popped the last of the bread into her smiling mouth, slowly chewing before she said, “I’m not so sure you learned your lesson. But I suspect it’s difficult, judging the worth of anyone. Why, of all the times they’ve sold me short … well my purse’s always thanked them for it.
     But Taunos could be right you know.”
     “Whatever do you mean?”
     “Simple Lady. We all need someone eventually. You, me, even Taunos, and he’s but one proud man; so proud he’s got to appear dumb and indestructible, yet still he tries to ask for your hand… never quite gives up on you. That kind of loyalty is a rare thing. And how do you measure his worth?”
     The lady flushed crimson and declined to answer, but Muriel already knew. Rianell now had something to think about, and the little woman was glad. “Thank you for the lovely story,” she told her, jumping from the stool. “I’ve got to see a man about a horse, but I’m sure we’ll meet again soon.”
     Remembering a previous evening, Rianell blinked and gave the halfling a stare. “You don’t mean to tell me…” She started, and Muriel gave her a wholehearted laugh.
     “Oh no,” she assured the priestess. “I’ve only borrowed this one, to carry some things I’ve packed.”
    With a sigh of good humor Rianell relaxed, taking note of the handkerchief still on the table. “Muriel?” she called after the halfling. “I believe you’ve forgotten our mess.”
     With a look over her departing shoulder, she waved a hand to dismiss her companion’s concern. “That grubby old thing?” Muriel said. “It’s really not mine; do as you think best!” And then with a skip she was out the front door, leaving poor Rianell to wonder.
     The priestess took a final drink and moved the square cloth with the base of her glass. And as she did so her eyes widened, gasp followed immediately by a strangled shout. “Muriel!” For embossed on the cloth in fine thread were the letters “R.O.T.”, which of course stood for the words “Rianell of Tyre”.
     “Why that little snippet!” She said as she rose to retire. “Of all the many…” followed, but as she paused at the door the priestess broke into a smile.
     “Maybe she isn’t so little. She certainly knows how to measure a man…”