Barison was awake well before the sun had even considered peeking over the soot-stained horizon of Marchand. He sat in flickering light, body lit by a single candle as his mind relentlessly wove a cruel tapestry of emotions. Fear for the uncertain future; fear for the souls that he could not help. Loathing for what neighbors had become, and how quickly it had happened. Sadness for the lost, and for those who would lose their way and become a mirror of the things that caused fear and loathing.

He breathed out deeply, trying to push the words away. Trying to find solace in the Cantor’s words and songs, but in the darkness the words rang hollow, and for the first time a hint of doubt pushed in. He shut his eyes in an attempt to block out the doubts, knowing the sacred passages that he would quote to his doubting brothers and sisters. But words did not suffice, and Barison turned from his rationalizations, his feeble attempts to defend his faith from his own mind. How could a just God allow such cruelty?

The question from the women in the dungeons beneath the Governor’s palace returned to him then. And he realized with a flush of colour that he had not answered her, he had not faced the hard question. Now, he looked inward, trying to find a passage that would stop the doubts he felt, stave off the turmoil within him, and he could find none.

Barison knew this for what it was; a trial of the soul, a test from the Cantor. But even with the knowledge Barison could not muster the energy to say the words he had preached so often, and instead embraced the darkness, allowing himself a rare moment of selfishness. He turned from it quickly; better to banish all words from his mind then to give into that familiar trap.

Barison turned from his table and gazed out across his quarters, watching his young wards heavy breathing. The girl had finally settled into the deep, fitful sleep of one whose body had reached its limit and could go no longer. Today, for the first time she slept, and that warmed Barison, to see at least one small mercy amidst all the madness. Mercy, how had such a beautiful thing become so hated in the world?

He reached for his stained tankard, seeking the Cantor’s blessed fire, but even as the liquid burned down his throat there was no comfort there. The spirit was thin, its heat unable to reach the cold knot of emotions within him. He could find the divine in grain, in drink, in song, but this morning, he felt no divinity. The worry remained, unabated and sharp. Through a shuttered window the first hints of light tempted Barison, and he suddenly found he could stay contained within the walls of his prison no longer.

He rose quietly, his joints popping like dry kindling. He checked the bundle of rags and bones that made the Governor’s daughter. She remained deep in sleep, and Barison felt relief at that as he slipped silently out of his small abode, locking the door on his way out, a silly gesture in a city where doors were being kicked in with impunity, but in the girl’s shattered state, he doubted she would have the presence of mind to even find the latch should she wake. That thought was enough to stave off his guilt at leaving her alone in a dark place she did not know.

His steps rang loud in a city that had become one of ghosts. The raucous revelry of the first few days following the overthrow had been replaced by something far more unsettling. There were no celebrations now; only the sour smell of a cornered beast in the moment before it lashes out. The quiet was not one of comfort, and Barison hunched his shoulders, drawing his large frame down in a useless attempt to blend into the shadows around him. Barison looked around the darkened streets of the Merchant’s District, one of the few bastions that had been left unsullied by the feverish violence. That would not last - could not last. There was too much wealth to be found, even if it wasn't a district made up of nobles. He could see that fear now around him, echoed in the silhouettes of figures in upper-story windows, the glint of steel or the orange spark of a pipe, men and women standing vigil over their homes, watching for the looters and preparing for the inevitable violence that could not be negotiated with.

So far, the Merchant’s Quarter had been spared the worst of the butchery that had turned the Garden District into a slaughterhouse, but the threat was there, and the tension was palpable. How long would the city's populace be occupied merely with the nobles?

“You got some reason to be out this time of day, Barison? Or did your bottle finally run dry?”

The voice was gruff, and one Barison recognized instantly. He stopped and held his hands wide, palms open to show he carried no steel. He did not turn too quickly. How words came unbidden to his lips even as he turned to face the newcomer. The melancholy dimmed, and he felt a spark of life again within him if only to be in the company of someone who he could return his conversation.

“Brother Frederick, I greet you this fine morning. I find myself unable to sleep, and the air in my rooms has grown quite stale. I don’t think I was made to be a shut in.”

There was a long pause, the sound of flint striking steel, and then a torch sparked to life, casting long, dancing shadows against the brickwork. Frederick, a local shipmaster who had once commanded a fleet of grain haulers and held no small regard in the city’s trade circles, stepped forward. He was haggard, worn, not at all the plump face that Barison had grown to know over their many years working together. While the tenseness of the moment passed, Barison was only barely able to keep from staring at the spiked club that the man held in his offhand as it fell to his side. The ugly tool was not meant for a man such as Fredrick, and Barison felt that deep sadness as they met eyes.

“You and me both,” Frederick grunted, falling into step beside Barison. Barison did not slow his walk, but bowed his head in acknowledgement as they continued.

“Think the times of restful sleep and security are over for the likes of us, Barison. The world’s turned upside down, and the mud is rising to the top, and its going to drown us all out in the end.”

The shipmaster turned to examine Barison more closely, his brow furrowed with a genuine, if blunt, curiosity. “Are you sober? Truly? I figured you’d be even more useless than ever given all that’s going on. I half expected someone to have already found you facedown in a gutter finally killed by your damn addiction.”

Frederick’s words were harsh to Barison’s ears, but spoken without the usual bite. Barison did not feel the need to be defensive. He was a man who lived by the archaic manuscripts of the south, texts that celebrated the holiness of God’s creations, food, drink, and the joy they brought, as a form of radical worship.

“To indulge in the gifts of the earth is to acknowledge the generosity of the Cantor, Frederick,” Barison said softly, quoting a long-tread passage from the Holy Book. How often had he spoken the words to those who could not understand his drink? Today, those same words felt like an accusation, and Barison could not meet the other man’s eyes as he continued, his own thoughts running to his self doubts.

“The Cantor created the grape to gladden the heart of man, and the grain to sustain his spirit. To deny these things is to deny the beauty of the world. It would be akin to denying the beauty of song, or the miracle of love. Who am I to deny words as old as time itself?”

Frederick did not argue, and Barison was thankful for it. The man simply lapsed into a grim silence as they turned a corner, aimlessly wandering toward the docks. The smell of the river grew stronger here, the scent of salt, rotting wood, and the damp, cloying mud of the banks. It was usually a comforting smell, but today Barison could only smell the underlying rot.

“I grant, you are a preacher, in your own twisted way,” Frederick said.

“How do you make sense of this? The waste. The violence. I’ve seen neighbors who’ve shared bread for twenty years dragging each other to the gallows over a whisper. This isn't a riot, Barison. It’s a sickness.”

Barison considered the question, feeling the weight of his own fears spoken loud by another. Frederick wanted to be told it would be alright, that the world would cease its cruel march towards oblivion. But Barison could not find the lie in his throat, could not speak the falsity into existence.

He pondered a long moment, watching the misshapen bricks beneath his feet give way to wood planks. Then Barison knew, and he felt a warmth spread within him as the words he could not find in the darkness of his own home, but found in then in the city of dashed dreams. The doubts remained, but he felt a calm within him take hold.

“The Cantor allows us to be tested, Frederick, but he does not fire the arrows of burden that strike us. Men do that well enough on their own,” Barison responded, his tone slow at first, but picking up as his mind considered the words he spoke to Fredrick, embraced them.

“The Cantor is more akin to a shield, one that lets through the trials that will temper us, make us stronger, while blocking the blows that would utterly shatter our souls. As the Holy Book says, ‘The testing of faith produces perseverance.’ We are being refined in a very hot fire, my brother.”

Frederick laughed, a sharp bark that held no mirth. “You think it’s a test we can bear when it kills us? Your god sounds like either a cruel sadist or an apathetic drunk, Barison. Tell me, do you ever doubt it? Truly? Do you ever look at a pile of corpses and think your so-called just God is a long-time fraud?”

Barison felt naked, and he wondered if his doubts had been so apparent, and he felt guilty then at his own doubts, but he would not deny. He would not lie, not in this moment.

“It is the nature of humankind to feel doubt, Frederick. I am only a man, as flawed and frightened as any other. Even tonight, the silence of the heavens feels like a slap in the face. The stilling of the Cantor’s songs in these cruel days feels like something from a nightmare, but I am always drawn back to the texts. Either through conversation, like with you now, or through the small mercies that are shown when there is no gain to be had. Do you know? Through these tribulations, we are given the chance to become something better than the animals we were yesterday. With each trial, the faith that survives is harder, purer. With each breath you and I have an opportunity to be something better, to show the world a better way. I think that is something beautiful, and we should not give up hope. Not yet, not when the Cantor has held the world together since the beginning of time, far longer than you or I have graced it.”

Frederick stopped abruptly then in front of the skeletal hull of a ship moored at the far end of the pier. Barison didn't recognize it at first, so complete was the destruction. The man pointed a calloused finger at the ruin, his bitterness finally breaking through his gruff exterior.

“This is Vaasco Lopo’s ship. Or what’s left of it. Don’t know if you can tell, but someone torched it last week, snuck in during the dead of night and turned it into a pyre. Vaasco had been making noise about leaving, saying he’d take his chances in the Northern Kingdoms rather than wait for the mob to decide he was too rich to live. You see that?”

Frederick gestured toward the dock boards in front of the boat. Scrawled in a dark brown, that Barison realized with a jolt was dried blood, were the words: DEATH TO NORTHERN SPIES. The handwriting was shaky, the spelling a mess of phonetic desperation, but the words woke something in Barison, and he realized with a start that Syril had been more right than she had any right to be about the danger he was putting them all in. The Merchant’s District were not the bastion that he thought them to be; the darkness had already come.

“You know the worst part? Before they burned the ship, they got to Vaasco,” Frederick continued, his voice shaking.

“They took him and his family, his wife, his two daughters, and locked them in the brig. We think they were alive when the oil was poured. There was no way to be sure when we finally got the fires out. Just a pile of burnt flesh and charcoal fused to the timber. You couldn't even recognize them as people anymore.”

Barison closed his eyes, a silent prayer for the departed rising unbidden to his lips.

“The winds are blowing a different way now,” Frederick said, looking over his shoulder at the dark windows of the city. “Vaasco was the wake-up call. You know, he wasn't a bad man, didn’t even want anything unreasonable. Just a chance to live, to survive this hell. And now? Now his old friends are the first to denounce him. They say he was a traitor all along. Even I’ve done it, Barison. I’ve stood in the tavern and nodded when they called him a spy. I’ve got my own family to think about, and a man with a clear conscience doesn't last long in Marchand these days. Not with the stakes we have now. It’s easy to be a good man when the winds are blowing your way, but now? We’re going to chew each other apart before the end of this.”

Barison listened, his heart aching.

“They’re forming a new coalition to replace the City Council. Headed by that opportunistic bastard from the smithy, Asator Falana. They’ve been holding speeches in the palace courtyard. You think that the Governor’s hangings were bad? Well they’ve started in earnest now. Lynchings, really. Right now, it’s the Governor’s old cronies, the ones who didn't run fast enough. But Asator... he’s run out of loyalists to kill. He’s started talking about Northern sympathizers. He’s looking for the 'hidden rot' in the Merchant’s Quarter, rattling his sword about Brock’s legacy or some such filth.”

Barison didn't need Frederick to spell it out. Everyone knew Barison sourced his finest furs from the Northern Kingdoms. A few older residents even remembered that his deceased wife had been a daughter of the North. Suddenly Syrul’s unexpected visit the night before after more than two weeks of her knowing about Ester made sense.

“I think you best be leaving, Barison,” Frederick said, his eyes hard and urgent. “You have friends here, but friendship is a fickle thing when the noose is being prepared. People will say anything to save themselves, and I don't blame them. I won't be able to stay silent if they ask me about you.”

Barison nodded, a deep, hollow sadness welling up inside him. He thought of the girl, Ester, rocking in the dark of his room. “It’s already decided, Brother. I’ll be gone by morning.”

“Good. Good,” Frederick muttered, visibly relieved. He looked around once more, before leaning in close. “You’ve been a decent man, Barison, despite the drinking and the useless preaching. I want you to take one of my carriages. It’s a rickety thing, hidden in the back of my stables, and I can only give you two of my older horses, the ones the 'committees' haven't requisitioned yet. Won’t be pretty, but it’ll hold. You should be able to pack up enough of your wares to make a fresh start somewhere else. Just... don't go North by the main road. I’ve heard they’ve set up watches looking for Northern spies trying to escape. Not even offering anyone an excuse if they’re caught, just stringing them up.”

Barison did not protest the kindness. He reached out, clutching Frederick’s shoulder. “To show kindness to the needy is a holy deed, Frederick. I would be a fool to reject the help of a brother. God will remember this.”

Frederick nodded briskly, uncomfortable with the sentiment. They began walking back toward the Merchant’s Quarter, the silence between them now filled with the weight of a final farewell.

“We’re square now, Barison,” Frederick said as they reached a crossroads. “I won't be able to help you if they catch you on the road. You’ll be on your own. You’ll find the carriage out the back of my stables, hitched and ready. I'll send the stablemaster home for the night with a bottle of something strong enough to make him forget. But all the same, don't waste time.”

The shipmaster turned away then, angling toward a narrow stone path that wound between two warehouses, his torch flickering and then vanishing into the gloom without even a chance to say goodbye to his longtime friend. Barison stood alone feeling the cold river air lashing at his face. There was nothing for him here, not anymore. He turned and walked back toward his quarters, his pace quickening.

He entered his room quietly, the lock clicking home. Ester hadn't moved; she was still a silent ghost in the corner. Barison didn't light a candle. He moved through the darkness by touch and memory, packing his few earthly belongings into small crates. He packed the manuscripts first, wrapping them in oilcloth to protect them from the road. Then his remaining spirits, and finally, a few pelts to trade for coin.

He was no longer a resident of Marchand. He was a fugitive, a shepherd to a broken girl, embarking on a journey through a world that had forgotten the meaning of mercy. But as he worked, he felt a strange, cold peace. The test had arrived, and he would not be found wanting. He would not doubt the words of the Cantor, not this night.