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offering love to all, only to see it brutally transformed and twisted—obscenely reshaped into a blind, unreasoning hatred—was hard to bear. His thoughts swung to Brother Labberan. The children he had nurtured had turned on him, kicking and screeching.
    Cethelin took a deep breath, and fought for calm.
    Kneeling on the bare boards of the study floor, Cethelin prayed for a while. Then he rose and walked down to the lower levels and sat for an hour at Labberan’s bedside. He spoke soothingly, but the old priest was not comforted.
    Cethelin was tired by the time he climbed again to his own rooms, and he took to his narrow bed. It was still early afternoon, but Cethelin found that short naps at such times helped maintain his vigor. Not so today. He could not sleep; he lay upon his back, his mind unable to relax. Cethelin found himself thinking of Lantern and Braygan, opposites in so many ways. I should have sent Lantern across the water to found an order of the Thirty, he thought. He would have made a fine warrior priest.
    A fine warrior priest.
    A contradiction in terms, thought Cethelin, sadly.
    Unable to take comfort from rest he rose from his bed and made his way to the east wing of the monastery, moving past the kitchens and through the silent weaving rooms. Mounting the circular steps he climbed to the First Library. His right knee was aching by the time he reached the top, and he felt his heart thudding painfully. There were several priests present, studying ancient tomes. They rose as he entered and bowed deeply. He smiled at them, and bade them continue with their reading. Moving through the aisles, he ducked beneath the last arch and entered the Reconstruction Room. Here also there were priests, meticulously copying decaying manuscripts or scrolls. So engrossed were they in their work, they failed to notice him as he continued through to the eastern reading room. Here he found Brother Lantern sitting by a window. He was reading a yellowed parchment.
    He glanced up and Cethelin felt the power in his sapphire gaze. “What are you reading?” asked the abbot, sitting opposite the younger man. He winced as he sat, then rubbed his aching knee. Lantern noticed his pain.
    “The apothecary said he would have some fresh juniper tisane for your arthritis within the month,” Lantern told him, then suddenly smiled and shook his head.
    “We may
yet
have another month,” said Cethelin, sensing the irony that caused the smile. “If the Source wills it.” He pointed to the parchment and repeated his question.
    “It is a listing of little known Datian myths,” replied Lantern.
    “Ah. The Resurrectionists. I recall them. The stories are not Datian in origin. They come from the Elder days, the days of Missael. The hero Enshibar was resurrected after his faithful friend, Kaodas, carried a lock of his hair and a fragment of bone to the Realm of the Dead. There the wizards grew Enshibar a new body and summoned his spirit back from the hall of heroes. It is a fine tale, and has many resonances through many cultures.”
    “Most myths contain a grain of truth,” said Lantern, warily.
    “Indeed they do, Younger Brother. Is that why you carry a lock of hair and a fragment of bone within the locket around your neck?”
    For a moment only, Lantern’s sapphire eyes glinted with anger. “You see a great deal, Elder Brother. You see into men’s dreams, and you see through metal. Perhaps you should be reading the dreams of the townsfolk.”
    “I
know
their dreams, Lantern. They want food for their tables and warmth in the winter. They want their children to have better and safer lives than they can provide. The world is a huge and terrifying place for them. They are desperate for simple answers to life’s problems. They fear the war will come here and take away all that they have. Then they are told that it is all our fault. If we were dead and gone everything would be fine again. The sun will shine on their crops, and all dangers