Riverglen awaited down in a valley in the distance, visible from some of the higher overlooks south of Granite Pass. Calaf hadn’t seen his hometown, the city of his birth, in many months now. He’d left just before the pilgrimage season got underway and returned well after most lay pilgrims had already headed to their home stations.

  Even at this late stage, the trip was not without detours; Calaf had spared a visit to Vault, both to see how the newly converted town was getting along sans Deacon and to ponder the Flagon of the Scout.

  Vaultian dirt farmers adapted as well to the Menu as anyone. Before they would toil through the arid and infertile soil by hand or occasionally with the help of a wrangled dire-ox. Now, armed with Interface-compatible tools, they selected [Item] and then scrolled down to [Backhoe] or [Tiller] and then chose [Use]. Dry, simple, efficient. Labor-saving.

  The Flagon of the Scout was still behind stained and foggy glass. It was still in the same building, but the village pub had been converted into a rudimentary reliquary. Where before the filthy old cup was gawked at by curious yokels, now the converted knelt and prayed before the artifact.

  Even the flagon’s Interface designation had changed:

  Calaf sighed. He observed the flagon now with more skeptical eyes. It had just been a conversation piece before. Interface-compatible primarily because it had been used by the Thief and/or Scout of the Ancient Heroes. The description had been embellished by interim deacons. Glamoured up, both to accentuate its holy significance and to lure in pilgrims to this auxiliary reliquary.

  Before, early in his journey, Calaf had thought his party was helping to integrate this hamlet into the world at large. Now, though, he was not so sure. It had benefits, yes, but

  The detour to Vault had the added, arguably primary, benefit of allowing Calaf’s ‘kiss-stealer’ status to drop off. He could return home with his guilty conscience, but no outward manifestation on his Brand visible to all.

  Jelena’s party had parted ways at a fork in the road, headed northbound into the hinterlands. How they would meet again after all this was not quite clear. Finding Enkidu’s next dire-beast massacre site ought not be too hard, and Jelena promised to stick around the greater Deepwood-Twelfthnight area for a few weeks still.

  And so, many months after leaving Riverglen around mid-Spring as a Shielder, Calaf returned to the first among towns as a Squire towards the opening weeks of Fall.

  It was as if the unpleasantness of the cathedral raid had never happened. Damage to the church’s windows had been repaired. The side entrance along the town’s wall remained collapsed. It would be a periphery goal, for few depended entirely on this specific entrance.

  Before doing anything else, Calaf stopped by the old sewer grating. It was locked up for the season, with Gorman nowhere to be found.

  Calaf let himself in with his Sewer Guard Key (x1). The sewer halls were quiet and empty. There wasn’t even a single Rat King to be found, and the level 1 through 4 rats scurrying around fled rather than face the now level 42 Sewer Grate Guard.

  Yes, he’d advanced so far along the leveling path that he was now overqualified for this job. Some new pair of Shielders would have to take the reins. In better times, Calaf would likely be promoted to a position within the Cathedral. Depending on the results of the conversation he was desperately delaying, it was unlikely he’d be accepting any such role.

  Next, Calaf approached the cathedral. It was quiet and serene in the off-season, with no mass planned for the evening.

  Rather than going straight to the church living quarters, Calaf went for a quiet cathedral cloister off in a western wing.

  Riverglen’s monastery was among the smaller cloisters in the realm. True to the town’s reputation, things were quiet here, with only a few dozen most-faithful monks (and nuns, across a segregated partition) tending to the grounds. They performed various tasks around the cathedral. It was meant to be a way for those of extraordinary faith to better devote themselves to the Interface and its Church.

  Now, though, Calaf wasn’t so sure…

  He took a few unassuming monks, always so quiet, aside. There, Calaf asked them some pointed questions.

  “How did you come to join the cloister?”

  The monk communicated with some hand signals. Menu Basic Sign Language.

  MBSL was not a language Calaf was fluent in. But it did confirm his suspicions that the monastery was under a vow of silence. Calaf saw the monk’s Brand on his neck and noted an extra, winding symbol. This stifled the other, more mundane parallel marks of the standard Brand, wrapping around them like kudzu. Just like in Port Town, this vow of silence was a binding one.

  With a frown, Calaf handed over a Plain Sheet of Monastic Parchment (x1) and accompanying Self-Inking Writing Quill (x1). With pen and parchment in hand, the monk was able to communicate with someone outside the cloister for the first time in who knows how long.

  Calaf received back a Monk’s Written Testimony (x1). What it contained was this:

  Testimony of Uther, Pilgrim Originally from Granite’s Pass,

  Aye, I’ve been a monk here for forty-four years. Been unable to talk since shortly after my second pilgrimage. I came back here a few years and levels after my initiation pilgrimage to try a second trip down the path, maybe see if I could make it to Firefield this time.

  Only, this time I joined some sort of extra-ecclesial church study group. We were just supposed to walk the path together, like an alliance of a few parties. The leader was an iterant lay preacher. Everything he said seemed okay to me. Just about loving everyone and doing good deeds. Boilerplate stuff every Pryor along the way says.

  We made it to Plains Junction, then we were taken aside when we went to visit the reliquary. Some inquisitor types said that the movement was apostasy, that it was without approval of the ecclesial council and hereby banned.

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  Never did see that street preacher again, nor anyone else in the party. I was shipped down here, by sea so I didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye to anyone at home.

  Guess I should be lucky, that I at least get this chance to remain marked by the Menu. They could have Scoured me. It was a mercy, really. Bless the Church, for giving me this chance.

  “Who did this?” Calaf traded the paper back. “On whose orders?”

  Again, monk Uther wrote.

  Why, the good Pryor Yordan of course. You know him, right? The whole town does. He always checked the monastery, to ensure everyone was getting along right. Said we were lucky to be allowed this second chance through austerity and prayer.

  Calaf nodded, then tipped the monk some Sealed Flagons of Wine (x3) and some cheese as a tip of sorts.

  It was as he feared. Metzger Cross's actions back in Port Town were corrupt only in that they were self-serving. Forcing dissidents and even clueless pilgrims into a life of monastic isolation, taking their voice, was official church policy.

  And his martyred foster father was an active participant.

  With a nod, Calaf took his leave. He returned to the cathedral’s grand, empty hall.

  It was time for a most uncomfortable conversation that would serve as a crossroads for Calaf’s entire life.

  The upper floors of the Riverglen Cathedral ward were reserved for ranking church personnel. Even Calaf in his day had to make do with a small bunk in the guard quarters not far from his assigned sewer grate.

  The resident Deaconess, however, maintained a spacious suite in a modified belfry. Calaf found that her old suite had been assigned to another church bureaucrat brought in after the death of Pryor Yordan. Deaconess Charlotte had moved into the Pryor’s older, even more spacious, rooms.

  The Pryor’s suite was lined with stained glass that refracted all manner of light at all hours of the day. Not a single corner was in shadow, and candlelight was hardly necessary. Even on the night of a new moon, the stars were sufficient to give the room a fair glow to see by.

  Calaf knocked twice, then entered the room. The furniture at least maintained the church’s austere and humble image. Everything was plain, unfurnished. Only the pane windows and a few fine curtains displayed extravagance common to the cathedral below.

  “Welcome back, dear Calaf.” Charlotte was facing away from the door. She gazed out the windows, which offered a full three-sixty-degree view of Riverglen.

  “What did you tell Karol?” Calaf asked immediately.

  “It’s been at least three weeks since we last met,” said Charlotte. “And that’s the first thing you ask? Who was this person again? The title seems quite familiar.”

  Charlotte turned. Her desk was covered in administrative documents.

  “She’s dead,” Calaf said. “When we left the Battletower she had her Brand. But I met her again at Fort Duran.”

  “Ah, yes. That one,” Charlotte said with a frown. “When she came to the medical tent, she was distraught. I provided her with due guidance for how she could still serve the church.”

  The Deaconess’s lips angled upwards as she recalled her treatment of Karol of the Olde Capital.

  “You scoured her brand,” Calaf said.

  “Well, yes.” Charlotte tilted her head, concerned. “She was lost and distraught. She knew no other family. I simply offered her a path to continue to serve the church. Well, did it not work? Arbiters report that her mission was a success. Was she not able to eradicate heresy, as instructed?”

  Calaf bristled, memories of Cayo and Joan fresh in his mind.

  “Her brand was Scoured. She was cut off from the Interface.”

  Charlotte nodded. “Yes, I struck the Brand myself. All the better to infiltrate the heretical ranks, yes?”

  “And she’d come equipped with Nihilberries.” Calaf scowled. “Who could have traded her those?”

  “Ah, the better to avoid capture, yes?” Charlotte tilted her head, unable even to determine why Calaf was so upset. “Surely death would be preferable to imprisonment and torture by those honorless, apostate fiends.”

  Midday sun turned the room into a technicolor kaleidoscope display. Charlotte’s face was marked diagonally, descending left-right along the nose, green on the lower right, and a bluish tint on the upper left.

  “She’s dead,” Calaf said, louder than he meant. “Dead. Fled from Fort Duran after assassinating a reformist bishop in cold blood. Then died trying, desperately, to achieve martyrdom.”

  “Martyrdom?” Charlotte’s soft smile contorted as if she was no longer able to recall Karol’s face. “Well, that’s fortunate. For someone whose Brand has been Scoured, dying in service to the Church is the best they can hope for.”

  Calaf took two steps back. “That’s not… You’re the one who Scoured her Brand! She’s denied consecration because of you, Charlotte! She needed help, and-”

  “-and the Church needed an assassin,” Charlotte spoke as if admonishing a young initiate at Sunday school. “What has gotten into you, my betrothed?”

  “That innocent woman was promised internment in the crypts. She was promised resurrection.”

  Again, Charlotte frowned. “The wants of any individual must be subservient to the needs of the Church. Why, without the church, there would be no crypts! What’s one soul lost if it preserves the institution itself?”

  “I don’t know,” Calaf said, glancing away.

  “What is this about, my love?” Charlotte’s eyes narrowed.

  A faint blue glow penetrated Charlotte’s Ornate Head Deaconess’s Robe +2 (x1). The glow was matched in her eyes, temporarily winning out over the tint of the windowpanes. Charlotte read through Calaf’s interface. When she didn’t find anything, she searched through Calaf’s history.

  Calaf let out a frustrated ‘tsk’, feeling all at once exposed.

  “Ah, so that’s it,” she said, The Interface was still open on his history of status effects and titles. “You’ve been influenced by her.”

  Jelena. Of course, the Deaconess would immediately make the connection.

  “Charlotte, I’m sorry,” Calaf clambered out. “Given how we’ve changed, I simply no longer feel that we can continue with this betrothal.”

  Plenty of people changed on the pilgrimage. Plenty of couples drifted apart. They were not yet wed. It ought not be a major scandal for the pair to go their separate ways.”

  “Ah, yes, some degree of fooling around is inevitable on the pilgrimage route,” said Charlotte. “It’s why we have Firefield right where the level delta between pilgrim and dire-beast grows so wide, yes? So that lonely pilgrims can let off some steam, so far from their homes and loved ones. Everyone does it.”

  Calaf froze. “Wait, what?”

  “Well, I see no broken oath on your status, at least. So, you seem to have avoided the Firefield brothels at least. But it won’t do to let you fall under her horrible, heretical influence. Not at all.”

  “What do you mean, everyone does it?”

  Rather than continue an argument, Calaf pulled up Charlotte’s Interface this time and began to root through her history. This was a common aspect of lovers’ quarrels under the Menu. Charlotte’s title and status histories were extensive, however, and before he could scroll through to her last pilgrimage, Charlotte countered with:

  “Wh-wha?” Calaf began.

  Resist! The Shielder's prodigious effect resistance held true – but only thus. He received the message in his Interface.

  Charlotte frowned, truly disappointed this time. “Your Endurance has increased prodigiously over your journey. It’s quite impressive.”

  Those stat requirements. A mere Cleric ought to have trouble gaining Charisma that high. To say nothing of the sky-high Arcane stat.

  “Stay back.” Calaf took several steps towards the door.

  “Let’s try this again…”

  Again, Charlotte cast her Charm (Enhanced). This time, there was no ‘Resist’ message. Calaf’s vision blurred, and the room began to spin. The ornate windows colored Charlotte’s face in divine coloration like a depiction of the Holy Cleric of Yore.

  Calaf’s interface changed.

  Deaconess Charlotte closed the distance with Calaf. She delivered a kiss to his lips, breaking off only for air. A line of spittle ran from Calaf’s lips to her tongue.

  “Much better.” Charlotte’s smile returned. “There we go. Can’t have that vile seductress stealing away such a valuable asset to the church. Can we? Now, dear Calaf, let us spend the afternoon and evening discussing how best to utilize your relationship with this heretical relic thief for the good of the Church.”

  Calaf leaned forward and kissed his betrothed. No ‘kiss-stealer’ status appeared on his Interface, as his will was no longer his own.