“That would be just our luck,” Rae muttered.
Then he looked down. A little girl peeped out at the same height as the doorknob. “Who is it?” she asked.
“Travelers seeking a place to stay,” Silas answered, as formally as if he were talking to a grand duke.
“Oh,” she said. She bit her lip, like she was trying to remember what to do. Then she smiled and opened the door. “Come in.”
They followed her into the entryway, which looked to Jesse more like a parlor. It was much more elaborate than the homes he was used to back in Mir. The furnishings were elegant, but faded, as if they had been a part of the house of refuge for many years.
“Wait here, please,” she chirped, darting through a doorway with a dark curtain hanging to the ground. “I’ll get the priests.”
Jesse glanced around. On the cabinet against the far wall was an open book, a velvet ribbon marking the place. “A Song for Divine Peace,” it read in calligraphy at the top of the page, followed by what looked like a poem.
“What do the priests believe, Parvel?” Jesse asked, looking up from the book. “My father never trusted them, so I paid them very little attention.”
“It’s rather complicated,” Parvel admitted. “For most, the Order is a meditative religion. The priests teach from the Book of Prayer, and most see God as a kind of impersonal force present in all of nature and in the good aspects of the world. Others….” He shrugged and glanced around the parlor. There was a chair with cushions, a painting over the fireplace, and a window with real glass, all of them expensive luxuries.
“Others only take the job for the salary and the tax exemptions that come with being part of the Order,” Silas cut in, his voice like ice. “Is that what you were going to say, Parvel?”
He didn’t deny it. “So, which kind of priest was my father?” Silas continued.
“I did not know your father,” Parvel said. “Even then, I would not be able to say for certain. I cannot judge a man’s heart. Only God can.”
“That’s what….” Whatever Silas had been about to say was cut short when two men entered the room. They both wore the traditional red belt of the order, but that was where the resemblance stopped.
The first priest walked with confidence. He was younger, with a strong chin and a stomach enlarged from not a few years of rich living. The other was an old man, small and frail, with simple clothes that had lost nearly all of their color from years of washing and use.
The older priest stepped forward, clearing his throat. “Welcome to our house of refuge,” he said. “Blessings upon you as you enter this place. I am Anton, and this is Harrod.”
“My name is Thomas,” Silas said. They had all agreed that it would be dangerous to use their real names, in case the priests kept any kind of record of their visitors. “My friends and I are traveling together. We need a place to stay for a few nights.”
“Thomas,” the old priest mused, looking up at Silas with serious dark eyes. “An interesting man, that one. So many doubts…but he saw the truth in the end. Yes. In the end.”
“Excuse me?” Silas asked.
“Just an old legend of the Order,” the younger priest said, waving his hand in dismissal. “Anton lives in those musty old books. Sometimes he forgets when he’s in the real world.”
Anton chuckled to himself. “It’s true. Half of the time, I don’t know which stories are true and which were made up by lonely old men like me, dreaming of something that isn’t real.” He shrugged. “But enough of that. We need to find you a room.”
The younger priest crossed his arms and directed his question at Silas. “Can you pay?”
“Harrod,” Anton scolded. “You know we don’t take fees, as if we were a common inn.” Still, he waited for Silas to answer.
“We have no money,” Silas said, keeping his shoulders straight and head up, even though Jesse knew it must be humiliating for him to beg for a place to spend the night.
“Very well,” Anton said, nodding several times in a row like a sparrow. “You can work for your meal. We can always use more help in the kitchen.”
“Telemachus isn’t going to like it,” Harrod said. “You know he likes to keep to himself.”
“Our young friend Telemachus isn’t in charge of this house,” Anton said, a trace of determination coming into his voice. “And, besides, it will do him good to be around young people closer to his own age.” He turned to Silas. “Come with me. I’ll show you your room.”
The room was more like a closet, with straw mattresses wedged five across. “The young lady, of course, will sleep in a different room,” Anton said, indicating a larger room across the hall. “With the orphan girls, I’m afraid. There is only room for so many here, you understand.”
“Never mind,” Parvel said graciously. “I’m sure Rae would love to spend time with the young children.”
Rae looked at him doubtfully.
“Yes,” Anton said, his sagging face brightening. “It would do them good to have a motherly figure around, even if it is just for a short time.”
Jesse nearly laughed. Yes, a mother figure who can kill a man in one stroke, fight off wild beasts, and climb up sheer mountain cliffs.
They set down their packs. Jesse rubbed his stiff shoulders. It was good to be free of the burden for once, although he hoped none of the orphans would dig through his possessions.
As they descended the weathered staircase, Jesse tried to decide what was creaking most, the steps or Anton’s old joints.
“Are you followers of the Order?” Anton asked, breaking the silence.
Jesse glanced at Parvel. Could they really say they followed the priests’ watered-down religion? “We are seekers of the one true God,” Parvel said firmly.
“Some of us,” Silas muttered, so quietly that Jesse was sure Anton hadn’t heard.
Anton turned around at that and tilted his head curiously. “Seekers of the one true God. Interesting,” he said vaguely. “Well, I’m glad to hear it. You’ll need Him for your work in the kitchen.”
At first, Jesse laughed, until he realized that Anton’s face was serious. “What are we going to be doing?” he demanded.
Anton’s dark, solemn eyes never blinked. “Peeling potatoes.”
Chapter 3
Jesse had never seen so many potatoes in his life. They poured out of three burlap bags like a rockslide in the mountains. He wondered if the house of refuge was home to more orphans than soldiers in a regiment of King Selen’s army. If not, they’re going to be eating leftovers for months.
“Welcome to our kitchen,” Anton said, his wrinkled face beaming with pride. “We take great care to keep things neat and orderly around here, as I’m sure you can see. And here’s your supervisor.”
He pointed to a young man in the corner of the kitchen, hunched over as he peeled one of the potatoes. One of his burly arms was completely wrapped in ragged bandages, turned gray from washing. “Who’re they?” he grunted, barely glancing up.
“Travelers working for their supper,” Anton said. He turned to them. “This is Telemachus.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Parvel said, extending his hand. Telemachus ignored it. Instead, he stood and slumped over to the cabinet on the far wall. That’s when Jesse realized that his back was permanently hunched, making him walk with a stooping gait.
“Grab a root or get out of my kitchen,” Telemachus ordered.