When Sam was told they were going to see a priest, Telmo Abbott was not what she'd expected. The clergymen in Haywood were severe, pious men, with long gray beards that signified the wisdom that comes with age; Telmo’s clean-shaven face revealed a man of no more than forty. Whereas most men of the cloth adopted an ascetic lifestyle, Telmo eschewed neither indulgence nor physical vanity. Dressed in fitted trousers that showed off his muscular calves, a pleated tunic embroidered with gold and a velvet overcoat, the priest clearly did not lack for funds.

Even stranger, they’d gone to meet Telmo at his private residence instead of at a temple. The Cissonius Order, explained Tristan, operated more like an exclusive underground network than a religion; its disciples demonstrated their faith by engaging in high stakes information trading rather than traditional prayer.

After Tristan had knocked at the priest’s door--much louder than necessary, thought Sam, as she clutched her pounding head--it took Telmo mere seconds to ascertain his visitors’ identities. “What can I do for you, Paladin Lyons?” He turned to nod in greeting. “Master Braeden, Master Sam.”

Sam wondered for a moment if Tristan had warned the priest they were coming, but answered her own question when she saw that he was as taken aback as she. After he recovered, Tristan said, “I heard you might be able to help us. I’m in need of information. On a somewhat delicate matter.”

Telmo’s eyes gleamed at the word information. “My home is open to all those who bring benefaction.”

“Aye, we would happily leave a generous donation in exchange for your services,” said Tristan.

The priest kept his expression blank. “The Order does not accept coin, Paladin.”

Tristan inclined his head in acknowledgment. “So be it,” Telmo said, and ushered them into his home.

The priest led them to a room that was part chapel, part library. An altar to the Cissonian god was nestled in a stone ledge at the rear of the room, and silver-tasseled pillows lay scattered nearby. The walls were lined with innumerable books, some the latest bestsellers and some ancient tomes that looked as though they would crumble to dust at the lightest touch. The table at the room’s center was covered by a map of Thule, to which someone had pinned scraps of parchment paper with notes.

The priest propped up one of the pillows against the wall and reclined against it, indicating for them to follow suit. After they’d settled themselves comfortably, Telmo said, “So you’re here about the Uriel.” When they gaped at him in shock, he snorted. “Please. My people have eyes and ears everywhere. And you, Paladin, are about as discreet as the town crier.”

When Tristan started to balk at the insult, Telmo shushed him, his eyes shrewd. “I am a priest of Cissonius. I know how the king likes his tea and the High Commander’s favorite bauble.” His eyes locked on Braeden’s. “I know that demons’ blood flows through your veins. I know the reason the people of Yemara were not sad to see you go.” He turned to face Tristan. “And you, Paladin, for all your bluster, I know you suffer still.”

Finally, his knowing gaze fell on Sam. She trembled. How much did the priest know? Could he see through her ruse?

“Sam of Haywood.” The priest cocked his head to the side. “The High Commander has asked the Order about you, you know. But I confess that the reason for his intrigue is beyond me. Insofar as I can tell, you’re a bastard of His Grace, Lord Haywood. You’ve the coloring for it.” The priest didn’t know. Sam held her breath, not daring to speak a word that might betray her.

“But a mystery for another time, eh?” he continued in more jovial tones, oblivious to the upheaval he had wrought with each revelation. Sam stole a look at Tristan. His face was shadowed, the humor she’d grown accustomed to seeing replaced by stark grief. She wondered what Telmo had meant when he’d said that Tristan suffered still.

“You were saying about the Uriel,” said Tristan, a little roughly. “What of them can you tell us?”

Telmo waggled his finger. “Ah ah ah, my dear man. Tit for tat. What will you give me in exchange?”

“What do you want?”

“Hmm.” Telmo drummed his fingers on the hard wood floor, eyes closed as though he were combing for holes in his internal encyclopedia. “Tell me why you are headed to the the Diamond Coast.”

Tristan scratched his head. “I didn’t think it was a secret. It’s common knowledge that the Coast is overrun by demons.”

“Yes, yes, it’s been derelict for years. So why now?”

“Perhaps the High Commander--”

“I’m not interested in perhaps, Paladin,” Telmo interrupted. “Can you think of no other reason beyond the demons?”

Tristan frowned slightly. “Not really. Truly, there’s not much unusual about our quest. Once the area’s deemed safe enough, the High Commander will likely want to establish an encampment out there. Standard fare, if you ask me.”

The priest smiled cryptically. “Consider your obligation to the Cissonius Order paid in full.”

“What did I say?” asked Tristan, bemused.

The priest drew his knees in to his chest. “The Paladins’ network of spies is almost as vast as ours. I find it surprising that the High Commander didn’t warn you that you’d face trouble of the human kind.”

Tristan clenched his jaw. “I’m sure he would have had he thought it was relevant. It is of no consequence. What can you tell me of the Uriel?”

“You’re as hot tempered as they say, Paladin Lyons. And I can tell you this: the High Commander should have warned you about the Uriel. They are no laughing matter. At last count, they were nearly five thousand strong.”

“That’s a veritable army,” Tristan breathed. “And they’ve declared the Paladins as their enemy?”

Telmo shook his head. “Not in so many words. They claim their mission is to eradicate demon kind, same as you. But they talk about the spate of demon attacks of late, and they’re telling people to turn to them for protection. You can rely on the Uriel, they say. And of course the implication is that the Paladins cannot be. Soon, the Uriel will expect to be compensated for their troubles. And that raises all sorts of questions. To whom should the people pay their tithes? The Paladins? The Uriel?”

Sam curled her lip at the priest. “That’s so mercenary.”

Telmo laughed. “Great lords, boy, how do you think the Paladins made their riches? They’ve had a monopoly on demon slaying for fifty years. I suspect the High Commander is not pleased at the prospect of a little competition. The man has expensive tastes.”

Tristan scowled. “I could have you brought up on treason charges for less. Besides, should we be expected to risk our lives for our country for free?”

“I see I touched a nerve,” Telmo said, unbothered.

Tristan’s scowl deepened. “You’ve oversimplified, priest. I won’t argue that I’m well-compensated for what I do, but there’s more to it than that. The Paladins have rules, procedures, traditions. We cull our members from the best of the best, and we all swear to follow the same code of honor. Are these Uriel so regulated? Do they put their duty to protect the people of Thule before their own lives? Will they defend a peasant with the same effort they would a lord? And do they have the strength to do our work without getting themselves killed in the process?”

“All good points, Paladin,” Telmo conceded. “I may be a priest of Cissonius, but I’m also a man of Cordoba. For all my posturing, I will be loyal to the Paladins until my dying breath. But I urge you not to underestimate the Uriel. Their leader, Sander Branimir, is a man to be reckoned with.”

Tristan scoffed, “I’ve never heard of this Sander.”

“But you will,” Telmo promised. “Out West, they hold him in as much regard as the High Commander.”

“Who is he?”

Telmo leaned closer, as if he were telling them a state secret. Perhaps he was. “Rumor has it he grew up poor, the son of a farmer from the hamlet of Elmet,” said the priest. “Me? I don’t buy it. The man runs his little group like he’s held a scepter from the cradle. He’s the sort a man would die for.”



It was nearing the noon hour by the time they left Telmo’s home. The priest had taken them to his giant map and pointed out all the strongholds of the Uriel. Tristan had been in a bear of a mood ever since; it was no small area. He’d asked to borrow parchment, and penned a hasty letter to the High Commander. Sam suspected that Tristan was none too pleased he hadn’t been informed of this potential threat. Even Tristan couldn’t really believe that, with all the resources available to him, the High Commander knew nothing of the Uriel. Why had he chosen to leave them in the dark?

Tristan rubbed his face with his hands. “Let’s head back to the inn. I need to think.”

Traversing Cat’s Alley, the side street that led from the priest’s home to the commercial district of Cordoba, proved to be quite the challenge. The narrow, unpaved street was heavy with both horse and foot traffic, and that didn’t account for the pigeons and rats that scavenged for food. Sam winced at the pungent odor that permeated the road, a lethal combination of waste water, refuse and manure.

“Oi, watch where you’re goin’, you halfwit!”

Sam opened her mouth to retort to the burly man who’d insulted her--he’d shoved her, not the other way around--but Tristan put a quelling hand on her shoulder. “Trust me, you don’t want to pick a fight with a Cordobian.” Sam sniffed indignantly, but did as he instructed.

They’d made it halfway down Cat’s Alley when a rider lost control of his horse, rearing onto its hind legs before plunging at a breakneck speed down the congested street. Sam watched in horror as it happened: a woman in heavy skirts, unaware of the danger, wandered into the middle of the road. She was in the direct path of the wayward horse; if she didn’t move, she’d be trampled to death. Sam squeezed her eyes shut, and braced herself for the woman’s screams.

When the screams didn’t come, Sam opened one eye. The woman was gone. “Did you just see that?” she said to Braeden, who was right behind her. Or at least she’s thought he was. Had he fallen behind?

She scanned the street, ignoring the grumblings of the crowd as they jostled passed her. Finally, she spotted him a few yards back, and pushed her way towards him.

Braeden’s silver head was bowed. His hat lay flattened in the road, ruined.

And there was the missing woman, safe in Braeden's arms.

The screaming came after.