[Burrach’s POV]

Burrach stared at the floor keeping the page’s heels just barely in sight. The long cowl kept his face hidden, but only if he kept his head bowed. The limited vision only added to the terror he felt. He though the priest had intended to hide him in some remote location, instead his carriage had taken them into one of the largest cities in the kingdom. A city ruled by the king’s cousin.

The priest had seemed like an answer to a prayer, quickly became a curse. Not only had he smuggled him into such a dangerous place, the priest clearly had no idea what he was doing. The trip toward the city he seemed so confident. Even when he woke Burrach to let him know they made the city, he seemed to have everything in hand.

The day after they arrived the priest suddenly seemed adrift. The priest barely left the room and spent all his time praying and meditating. It was so bad even his servant could not stand to be around him.

Burrach wanted to run when the saw the priest fall apart, but he was trapped in a city where if anyone saw his face, he was dead. Without the priest to say the carriage did not need to be searched, he would be found and die.

He only realized how deeply he had fallen to despair when the priest's servant brought back word of this meeting. Burrach’s sudden hope was replaced by terror, as he was informed he was coming as well.

Even with the monks robes on, he could not help but imagine the guards lining the corridors. Guards with swords or pikes they would turn on him the instant they saw his face. Hidden in the wide sleeves of the robes he felt his hands clench on the opposite wrists.

He had made it through all of this, only for the priest to fail. Burrach’s small pool of vision had not allowed him to catch even the smallest glimpse of the duke’s man. But he clearly saw more than the priest.

The man wanted a bribe! He had wanted to yell, but after spending so much time in the priest’s company he knew that would have ended poorly. He probably would have been appalled and called for the guards to arrest a corrupt official. Burrach could not think of a way that would not lead to his hood being removed. His head would likely fallowed shortly after.

The page suddenly stopped.

The page called out and the words did not register until Burrach realized they meant the priest had done something. He felt dread climb up his spine, as the page’s feet turned and started quickly away.

“SIR!” the page yelled rushing away and forcing Burrach to jog to keep up. “Where are you going? You cannot go that way.”

Ahead he heard shouting and he faltered for a moment. He had become so caught up in not losing his way, that he had followed without thinking. He slowed to a stop and glanced up. He was in an ornately decorated hallway. Ahead he saw the page slow to a stop in a pool of light from an open doorway.

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The page suddenly bowed deeply. “Your grace, I am so sorry,” he started to apologize only to stop as a woman stared speaking.

Burrach’s felt his stomach clench at the title. The fool priest had done it, he had gotten them killed. I have to get out of here, he thought slowly backing up and dropping his gaze to the floor when the page turned in his direction.

He barely made it more than a step before he ran into something. A second later a pair of rough hands grabbed the loose fabric of his robes and began to force him to his knees.

“Stop,” the page’s voice cut in as Burrach’s knees slammed into the polished marble floor. His eyes watered at the pain and he missed the young boy’s next words.

Whatever he said made the hands stop pushing him down. Instead the felt himself being gently lifted back to his feet. He stood unsteadily his knees not wanting to supporting, but the hands did not let go keeping him upright.

“Her grace has asked these men be escorted to the eastern hall for a private audience,” the page told the men holding him.

The sudden change left him reeling as the guards supported him, and pulled him down a series of halls to a small hall. The far side held a low dais with a pair of chairs. Burrach felt his knees shake. During the walk he felt himself becoming more and more steady on his feet, but the sight of a silver crown etched a the top of the chair’s back took away his strength.

When a door opened to the left of the dais, Burrach collapsed to his knees.

“Your grace,” the priest’s voice said as the hem of his robe came into view beside Burrach. “Thank you for this audience.”

As the priest spoke, Burrach noticed a flicker of a dark green pas to his right, walking toward the dais. He numbly realized that it was likely the duchess. The priest began to speak and Burrach wished he was anywhere but here. The idea of finding sanctuary in Saphire was one thing, but now that he knelt here he wondered if he should have braved the spine.

Burrach was so lost in his terror that he was barely following the conversation occurring around him.

“Are you telling me this man is an exile?” the duke’s voice rose suddenly. “You brought an exile here to beg sanctuary! Only the king can overturn such a sentence.”

Burrach felt tears run down his face, as he knew the next words would likely order his head removed. Part of him wanted to jump to his feet and run for the door, but he body would not move.

“And so the goddess sent me to you,” the priest replied calmly. “Do you fear the path put before you?”

The treason the priest just uttered, shocked Burrach enough that he looked up to stare at him. The man did not even look in his direction, instead looking unblinking at the other end of the hall. Burrach shivered at the large grin on the man’s face and the glint of madness in the man’s eyes.

“You speak treason,” the duke replied softly, though the threat in the words was clear.

“I am the prophet of of the goddess Lac,” the priest replied, tears running down his face as a smile on his face grew. Burrach starred in horror as he noticed a trickle of tears was replaced by blood coming from the man’s ears and eyes. “Rejoice for we stand in the presence of the goddess! Take heed for the goddess makes known the path.”

The priest’s eyes rolled up to show only the whites and Burrach noticed the blood was flowing faster. “Our sister has twisted fate too far,” the prophet said, his voice distorted, but the words seemed to carve themselves into Burrach’s soul. “A crossroads in the path approaches to make all right. Make ready and heed the words of our instrument. The mercy he asks, is justice demanded in our name. A justice that could turn silver to gold, for those who walk the path.”

The room shook in the sudden silence as the priest fell limply to the floor unconscious.