The darkness was absolute. The air was putrid and heavy. Petran’s shallow breathing filled the cell. His breath came and went, sometimes too many moments passed between breaths. In the filthy hay strewn floor, Pyre and Uncle Wert lay on either side of Petran trying to give him what warmth they possessed from their bodies. Pyre’s head ached and he couldn’t remember the last time they had been fed.

Petran let out another jagged breath. In a hoarse whisper Uncle Wert said, “Won’t be long now."

The thought of death here in this cell, for Petran Schon angered Pyre. The Council was a sham. Once they had sentenced Petran to death for treason, only for some weird reason he hadn’t died. Now, they were killing him, slowly and painfully. Jerue was evil. Silently Pyre chided himself, How could I have been such a fool? I should have gone back home when Zog told me to. Hell, I never should have left home in the first place. I should have trusted Zog’s advice. I should have been patient with Fand and waited to see if her feeling for me might change. But no, I was an idiot and latched onto the first thing that came my way, just because Fand had rejected me. Honestly, I’m no better than Zog. Dream denied, destroy life for self and those I love. Would any of this be happening if I had just bided my time? It seems impatience is a terrible sin with terrible consequences. Frustration and regret filled Pyre. There was nothing he could do now. It was too late. First Petran would die in this god forsaken cell and then Uncle Wert and then he would die. Bitterly he shook his head.

Too many moments had passed since Petran’s last breath. Pyre stretched out his hand and placed it on the old man’s chest. His heart was still beating, but it was erratic. Pyre knew he should pray, but he couldn’t. What he felt now was beyond words. Death was coming, no it wasn’t just coming, it was already in the room. He could feel it. How could he stop it? He couldn’t. A miracle was needed, but he had lost all faith in miracles.

A rat skittered across the floor. Though Pyre couldn’t see it, he knew it was heading for Petran.

Metal scraped across the stone floor. There was a slight whoosh of air and then Pyre heard their metal dinner plate make contact with the skull of the rodent. It let out a shriek and there was the sound of tiny claws scrapping against the stone floor. The scrapping was brief and then all went still. The rat was dead. Killing that rodent in this pitch dark was a miracle of sorts, though a small one. Uncle Wert growled, “You greedy little bastard. He will be dead soon enough.” He slammed the plate down and a loud ringing sound echoed in the cell.

The smell of fresh blood stung Pyre’s nostrils. It was a clean smell that cut through the rot and damp of the cell. Beyond the door, Pyre thought he heard a soft thud and then another one. After that, something beyond the door scraped on the floor. Was it just another rat or was someone out there? Pyre extended his mind beyond himself and came up with nothing. Still, he felt like there was a presence near by. A small gust of wind swirled into the darkness. The door swung noiselessly open. A dull blue ball of light illumined the small cell. Pyre and Uncle Wert squinted. The silhouette of a man filled the door. The man said, “Praise the Keeper, you are still alive.” It was that Pathfinder, Resen. He came and knelt beside Petran. He listened to his heart. "We must hurry." He passed the blue ball to Pyre and then scooped up Petran. "Follow me."

The blue glow did not burn Pyre’s skin nor produce any warmth. It would have been nice if there was warmth. Weak and unsteady Pyre and Uncle Wert followed behind the Pathfinder. At the tunnel door, two guards lay unconscious. Resen told Pyre, “Open the door.”

When Pyre opened the door it was the first time in he didn’t know how long that he beheld light. The torch on the wall burned brightly. It hurt his eyes.

Resen jerked his head in the direction of the torch and said, “Put that on the floor Apprentice.”

Though he only held the torch briefly before he put it down, its warmth had sunk into his bones.

“Now,” Resen said, “you two, grab hold of my fore arms and hold on as tightly as you can.” Uncle Wert and Pyre did as they were told. All at once a cold wind blew through the tunnel. It smelled of snow and pine. It wrapped around them and pushed them into the flames of he torch. There had not been any holy water or incantation and yet they were traveling through the nether region. A strange feeling overtook Pyre as they passed into the cold nothingness. He felt his body being directed. Who was responsible for this uncanny Transferrance? Someone more powerful than he ever hoped to be was guiding them. They landed in a dark field. A single candle burned at their feet. A woman in dark robes bent low and blew out the flame. She said, “My wagon is in the trees.”

As they made their way to the wagon, Pyre followed behind Resen and Uncle Wert. The woman’s wagon was not an ordinary wagon but a gypsy cart. She opened the back door of the cart. A dim lantern burned within on a shelf. The tiny cart space was chocked full of herbs and remedies. So, she was not just a Gypsy but a witch. Was she the one who was responsible for that uncanny Transferrance? Impossible, she was a woman.

A pallet was spread out on one side of the cart. With gentle care, Resen lay Petran Schon on the pallet. Pyre helped Uncle Wert ascend the steps and then he shut the door behind him. There was a narrow bench beside the door. Uncle Wert sank down on it. He covered his face with his hands. He shoulder’s shook with silent sobs.

The woman turned up the wick of the lantern and the small space brightened. She cast off her robes and put them over Petran. Her body was hugely pregnant and she was not a young woman. In the light Pyre saw the black bruises that covered the Petran’s face and hands. Infected sores oozed puss. Careful to keep Petran as covered as possible the woman examined his body. Ugly black bruises and long dried blood caked his thin body. Pyre couldn’t bear the sight and turned his head. He was going to be sick and now was not a good time.

The woman said, “Apprentice, give me some of that yarrow above your head.”

Pyre looked up. The ceiling was covered with dried herbs. He located the small white flowers of the yarrow and pulled a bunch of it down. Yarrow was a cleansing herb.

The woman pointed at a box on the counter. She said, “Fetch a bowl and pestle out of there and crush the yarrow.” Pyre rummaged through the box of utensils and extracted a small bowl and pestle. The woman said, “Crush the yarrow as finely as possible, and then pour a little water into it to make it into a paste. Pyre did as he was instructed. When he had completed his task he handed her the bowl, careful not to look at Petran.

She said, “Thank you.”

Pyre glanced at her. He was startled to discover her eyes were the same color as Fand’s. Into Pyre's hand the woman put some of the yarrow paste. “Apply it to Mr. Geworden’s sores. It will soothe them.”

Pyre nodded. As he put the stuff on Uncle Wert’s sores, he heard the woman praying. She was praying sacred prayers, prayers that were forbidden to pass through female lips. Her voice became unsteady, then broke off entirely. To Resen she said, “I can’t believe they did this to him again. He was young the first time. Now he is old. What a fool I was.”

Resen lay a hand on her shoulder and said, “Renate, That was so long ago. You have redeemed yourself a thousand times over.”

The woman jerked her shoulder from his grasp. In a tear choked voice she said, “No. I haven’t. Nothing can ever redeem me for what I have done.” She leaned over Petran and stroked his white hair.

Pyre looked from the pregnant woman to Petran. The image seemed familiar. The woman seemed familiar. Then all at once the mural in the Inner Sanctum came clearly to his mind. Specifically the panel of the pregnant girl at the gallows by Petran’s hung body. Had this woman, Renate, been that girl?