Chapter 6: Revelations

Vladimir waited until Liesel and Larsen’s footsteps faded into silence, his eyes squeezed shut. When he opened them he became aware that his fists were clenched around clumps of soil and grass that he had unknowingly torn from the turf in his grief. He opened his hands slowly and let the compacted earth fall. He felt hollow. A dull ache gripped his heart. His breath came in hitches. Hot tears welled up in his eyes.

“It’s not the end of the world, you know,” a soothing voice said. Vladimir barely heard it, so wrapped up in his sorrow. His eyes darted about, quickly settling on Father Reichel. Vladimir had forgotten he was there. “I know it feels like you are going to die of heartache now, but trust me, things will get better.”

“What do you know about it?” Vladimir accused through clenched teeth. Anger slowly crept into his mind, filling the empty space that sorrow left. Liesel was gone. She had been taken from him. His only joy, his only refuge from this world.

“My boy, do not for one moment believe that you are the first young Initiate to fall in love,” Reichel replied evenly. His cool manner only fueled Vladimir’s anger. Reichel must have seen Liesel and him in the kitchens this morning. He must have gone to Maximilien with the information. It was the only answer. Vladimir stood, his hands once again tightened into fists.

“So you decided to ruin it for me too?!” Vladimir shouted. It was his fault. Reichel spitefully stole the only thing that mattered from him. Anger turned to rage. Without regard for the consequences, Vladimir launched himself at the startled Adjurator. His fist smashed into Reichel’s face once, then twice before the Adjurator wrapped him up, pinning his arms to his chest. Vladimir struggled with all his might, spurred by his rage, but could not break the older man’s hold. Eventually his struggles subsided. When they did, Reichel released him. He sank to the ground slowly and covered his face with his hands.

Reichel produced a fine silk handkerchief from his robes and dabbed gingerly at the blood on the corner of his mouth. He then folded the handkerchief over and offered it to Vladimir.

“Best get cleaned up before Larsen returns,” he said kindly. Vladimir took the silk cloth and wiped his face and hands. He was surprised to see blood on his knuckles…Reichel’s blood.

“Thank you,” he murmured, ashamed.

“You aren’t going to believe me, but I had nothing to do with this,” Reichel assured. He was right, Vladimir didn’t believe him. Reichel thought that he was doing the right thing by telling Maximilien about Liesel and him. After all, he was a Priest of the Order, and rules were rules. He was puzzled why Reichel would lie to him instead of justifying his actions. Vladimir stood, carefully and deliberately dusting off his robes in silence. He had nothing to say to Reichel. Presently Father Larsen returned, looking stern as ever.

“Thank you, Brother Reichel,” he said curtly. He turned his gaze onto Vladimir, who felt its weight. He gestured for Vladimir to lead the way. “Come, Novice, we have business.”

Once again, Vladimir found himself stripped naked and prone on the floor of Father Larsen’s office. As the doughty priest moved to retrieve the lash that hung over his desk, Vladimir was already calming his mind, trying to reach a meditative state before the first blow fell. If he could just detach his mind, the beating would not be so bad.

His concentration was shattered at the first white hot kiss of the lash. Vladimir did not think it possible, but it felt as if Larsen was beating him even harder than before. The old Warrior Priest probably had the strength to flay the skin from his bones. He struggled to maintain control. He would not cry. He pictured Liesel under the same lash. Despite all of the dreadful things that had happened tonight, he had saved her from this fate, and that gave him courage.

Try as he might, the serenity of meditation eluded him. Every time he felt his mind start to quiet another blow would fall and would send it reeling from the pain. Same as before. When the blow falls, do not resist. Simply yield to it. Like water. Like smoke.

In the haze of pain that had settled over his mind, Vladimir could not discern whether the thoughts were his own, but by the time the next blow fell, he did not care. He struggled to recall the way he eluded the attacks when he was communing with the torc. He pictured the smoke in his mind, suspended in a vast expanse of pure darkness. The lash fell again, a blazing white column that slashed through the blackness. He allowed his thoughts to swirl and curl around the blistering heat of the pain…and he did not feel it. Again the lash fell, and again he evaded the pain. At last, he had found his haven. Where order and structure had failed, freedom and flexibility prevailed.

Eventually the blows ceased to fall. Vladimir was so engrossed in his new discovery that he at first failed to notice. Reluctantly, he allowed the structure of conscious thought to take form once again in his mind. He was immediately greeted by the throbbing heat that radiated from his inflamed back. He raised to his knees, and faced Father Larsen. No tears dampened his cheeks, his face was not flushed, he was the picture of serenity. Father Larsen chuckled and tossed the lash onto his desk.

“It is good to see that you have learned how to take your punishment,” he said, grinning. “I had thought you might have fainted. Now that bad business is behind us, let’s get you to Father Heiler. He has a salve that will work wonders for your back.”

“No thank you,” Vladimir murmured.

“What was that?” Larsen asked incredulously.

“I said no thank you, I will be fine,” Vladimir replied, matter-of-factly.

“Your bravery is commendable, boy, but do not be too proud to accept aid when it is offered,” Larsen counseled. Vladimir wanted to refuse the man’s help again, but thought better of it. Larsen could make his life miserable if he wanted, and after all, the good Father meant well.

“You are right, of course, Father Larsen,” Vladimir said. “I will report to Father Heiler immediately.”

“Good man,” Larsen replied, “then straight to bed with you. You will report here before the first bell tomorrow or I’ll know why.”

The next morning Vladimir waited dutifully if not groggily by Father Larsen’s door. His sleep had been troubled with the pain from his back, nightmares about Liesel in peril, and an incessant whispering. Father Larsen led him down to the kitchens again, where he left him with Pavel. Vladimir dreaded this almost as much as he had the lashes. Pavel was a petty and exceedingly cruel taskmaster, especially when it came to Vladimir. He grinned wickedly after Larsen’s broad back had disappeared through the doorway.

“Well, well, look who is back for another visit,” Pavel sneered. “Did your love of the kitchens draw you back?”

Vladimir gritted his teeth and stared straight ahead. He would not allow Pavel to anger him. He had more important things to worry about. Since the disaster in the arboretum the night before he had been simultaneously deprived of the two things he needed the most. Liesel and his torc. He needed to figure out a way to see both of them, but no scenario he could conceive of would allow either.

Searing pain arced across his already sensitive back. While Vladimir had been lost in thought, Pavel had removed his belt and whipped him across his shoulders.

“Damn it, boy, answer me!” he shouted. Vladimir glared at him and said nothing. He ached to reach out and throttle the wicked kitchen steward, but Pavel outweighed him by as much as fifty pounds, not all of which was fat. Besides, Father Larsen would truly flay him if he fought with Pavel. He would have to swallow his pride for a while, hopefully not a long while. Pavel struck him again.

“Where shall I get started?” Vladimir asked, giving not an inch.

“I have a special place in the scullery just for you, maggot,” Pavel mocked.

Three weeks had passed since Vladimir started his second stretch in the kitchens, although to him it seemed like years. Even more than before, Pavel took great joy in Vladimir’s misery. He would beat him viciously with whatever was handy, and for no reason. Accordingly, Vladimir had become adept at quickly achieving what he termed his ‘free state’ where his mind took refuge in the smoke, to endure most if not all of the pain from the blows. He often assumed the free state simply when Pavel entered the room, knowing abuse was forthcoming.

Often while he was in the free state his thoughts would wander. He would imagine Liesel performing household chores. He saw her spreading feed for some chickens in front of a stone-walled barn with a high peaked thatch roof. He saw her scrubbing dishes, like he was doing. He saw her milking a cow in the barn, and throwing down hay from the loft. He saw her mending a shirt by candlelight. These images comforted Vladimir, because he imagined she was safe and happy. At the same time they reawakened the unbearable sadness he felt that he would never see her again. The images were incredibly vivid and detailed, more like gazing through a window than something he had imagined.

Other times his thoughts would turn to Pavel, thoughts that often turned murderous. Vladimir was shocked at himself for thinking those things. He was a peaceful sort, who never wished harm to anyone. Pavel was mean and cruel, to be sure, but that didn’t warrant death. Certainly not the agonizing and sinister deaths that crept into Vladimir’s head, especially while he was being beaten by the despicable kitchen steward. Try as he might he could not keep the whispered thoughts from insinuating themselves in his mind.

Day after day he labored in the scullery, interrupted occasionally when Pavel dropped by to beat or ridicule him. Time in the kitchens was measured in pots and pans, those meals that Pavel did not withhold, and his trips to and from his cell, where he would collapse with exhaustion until the next day. The more time passed, the more time Vladimir spent in the free state. His back ached constantly now. His hands were scalded by the hot water and his feet throbbed from standing on the damp floor. What was more, when in the free state, he could not feel his soul ache for the torc. The yearning had gotten increasingly worse.

Early one morning Vladimir was boiling water to use in the scullery. He prodded at the red hot coals to coax more heat from them. It was one of the few times during the day that he could rest. His thoughts, as they often did, turned to Liesel. Instead of kindling even the slightest glimmer of happiness, they brought him only sadness. All of his miseries combined were too much for the beleaguered young novice. He placed his head in his hands and began to shed silent tears. He was too tired even to sob.

“If you have time to cry, you have time to clean,” Pavel’s cruel voice rang out. Vladimir instinctively assumed the free state in his mind, even before opening his eyes. “You can scrub the floors while you wait for the water to boil.” Vladimir did not move. Anger flooded his mind, despite the normally detached nature of the free state. His face hardened, although tears continued to cascade from his eyes.

“You’ll do as I say, maggot, or I’ll make you wish you had,” Pavel sneered. He leapt forward and put his face mere inches from Vladimir’s. “Why are you crying, worm? Is the work too much for you? Do you want to go back to your soft job scribbling at your desk? Or do you miss your girlfriend?”

At those words Vladimir’s concentration broke momentarily. His eyes, burning with hatred, flicked to Pavel’s face before he regained his composure. Pavel’s eyes widened in wicked joy. Vladimir struggled to control the anger that threatened to overcome him. He realized that Pavel was trying to provoke him, and that reacting would be the worst thing he could do. Pavel moved to the side and put his lips close to Vladimir’s ear, his voice a hoarse whisper. “I did you a favor by getting rid of her.”

Vladimir turned to face Pavel, his eyes widened with shock. He could see Pavel’s expression melt into vile satisfaction. “You…” Vladimir couldn’t form the words. His mind staggered, trying to absorb what Pavel said.

“Yes, dungheap, me. I told Father Larsen your dirty little secret.”

“But…how…why?” Vladimir asked, stunned. Pavel stood, taking on an air of smug arrogance.

“You’ll find that not much goes on in this place without me knowing it,” he bragged, puffing out his chest like a rooster. Satisfied, he paced back and forth in front of the kneeling novice. “Were you in love with her? Did you think she loved you? Don’t be a fool, maggot, whores don’t love anyone.”

Vladimir’s anger boiled into rage. He leapt to his feet and charged at Pavel. The larger boy was momentarily taken by surprise. Gnashing his teeth Vladimir launched a flurry of blows to Pavel’s face. The ferocity of the onslaught forced Pavel to turn away and retreat momentarily. Vladimir could hear a low growl from the older boy as he turned back and launched his own attack. Vladimir managed to stave off the first three punches, deflecting them with his arms, but Pavel was just too powerful. He landed a hard blow across Vladimir’s jaw that snapped his head right and back. Vladimir sprawled to the stone floor, blinking and shaking his head to clear the spots in his vision and the ringing in his ears. In an instant Pavel pounced on Vladimir’s back. The older boy’s muscled arm snaked around his neck and cinched down tight. Vladimir found himself hauled to his feet by the throat and wrestled over to the firepit. Pavel forced Vladimir’s face over the pit, so he could feel the fierce heat that radiated from the glowing red coals. Sweat instantly sprang out on his forehead. Pavel once again put his lips by Vladimir’s ear.

“I should tell you, you were not the only man in her life,” he said, so close that Vladimir could smell his rotten breath. “I had her before she left. At first she didn’t like it much, but after a while she moaned like a whore and begged me not to stop. I guess you just weren’t man enough for her.”

Vladimir ground his teeth and struggled to break free of Pavel’s grip, but the older boy was just too strong. Struggling for a way out of Pavel’s vice-like grip, Vladimir saw the iron poker that he had been using to stoke the coals. It lay within reach on the rim of the firepit. Without thinking, he snatched it up and swung blindly with all his might. He heard a satisfying crack as the iron contacted his skull. Pavel’s knees buckled, his grip on Vladimir’s throat loosened. As he sank slowly to the floor Vladimir was turning around to swing the iron again. With his last strength, Pavel shoved Vladimir, catching him mid-turn and off balance. Vladimir’s hip struck the side of the firepit. His momentum forced him over. He instinctively put his left arm out to stop himself, which drove his hand deep into the fiery coals.

Pain like a thousand strokes from Father Larsen’s lash exploded in his hand. His weight and momentum hindered him from jerking his arm back from the agonizing pain of the burning coals for what seemed like an eternity. His head began to swim from the sheer magnitude of the pain. He held his hand up before his eyes and saw that it was still burning, yellow and orange flames licking his blackening skin. His vision quickly blurred and he knew no more…

Darkness surrounded Vladimir. Darkness so pure and complete that it consumed all light and color. It was beautiful. It reminded Vladimir of the smoky darkness of his free state, and he was instantly immersed in it. Vladimir was thankful for the discovery of his refuge. Not discovered really, he had actually stumbled onto it when he was near the torc.

At that thought the heavy iron talisman hove into view. Vladimir could see it below, encircled by the glyphs and sigils drawn in golden chalks, as if he hovered above it. Vladimir wondered how he had gotten here, in the cellar below his desk. His view quickly shifted up through the oaken beams in the ceiling and over to his desk. He saw his various maps stacked haphazardly on a stool by the brazier. He had left the lid off of his inkpot, which was probably quite dry by now.

Vladimir wondered again how he could be here like this. It occurred to him that he was not really in the library. Although every detail of his scriptorium was in place, everything had a barely perceptible shimmer to it. Vladimir recalled reading about revered Priests of Sigmar who had attained such heights of meditation that their spirits could leave their bodies, allowing them to travel immeasurable distances at will.

As an experiment Vladimir again thought about the torc, and was whisked back down through the floor and into the cellar. He pictured the Arboretum in his mind and before he could register the shift, he was there. He saw the mounds of earth he clawed up in his grief, the mossy hillock where he and Liesel would read to each other.

Hoping against hope, Vladimir pictured Liesel in his mind. He did not move, but he did feel a tugging at his consciousness, like the yearning for the torc, but more gentle. He turned to face it, far away to the south and below. Vladimir glided in that direction, out through the thick stone walls and down the gentle snow blanketed slopes toward one of the many homesteads that dotted the landscape south of Erengrad proper.

It was dawn outside. The weak winter sun had just begun to appear on the horizon, but was filtered even further by the shimmering free state, giving the light a dim bluish tint. He passed through a swath of sparse conifer trees laden with freshly fallen snow and heavy icicles. On the far side was an old wooden fence, badly in need of repair, that enclosed a small parcel of land. Here the snow had been laboriously raked aside to reveal the brown, stunted grass beneath for the animals to graze upon.

At the far end of the pasture was a barn, the same barn Vladimir had seen earlier in his dream…or what he had thought was a dream. Perhaps he was dreaming now. As if in answer, the door of the barn swung slowly open. A slender figure, wrapped tightly in woolen clothing, strained against the weight of the heavy wood. Despite the coarse scarf covering her hair and most of her face, Vladimir immediately recognized her as Liesel. She picked up a shovel that leaned against the barn and used it to break up the ice that had formed in the trough overnight. The animals shambled out into the cold morning air. The cow’s breath misted, as did Liesel’s, a testament to the winter chill, but Vladimir was untouched by it.

He moved closer to her, tried to touch her, but he was unable. The tugging at his mind began again. At first it was subtle, barely perceptible. It grew stronger as Vladimir watched Liesel take up a basket of feed and spread it out for the chickens. It became impossible to ignore. He began to drift away, despite his best efforts to stay near her. He focused on the source of the disturbance. It was far to the north, farther than he could easily recon. He tried to fight against its pull, but to no avail. He tried to wake up, but could not. As he traveled northward he picked up speed, whisking past the monastery and farmland. Genuine fear crept over his heart. Where was he being drawn?

Pain flared up in his hand and the world began to waver. The sun, the sky, the snow-laden fields all blurred and began to streak. The darkness flowed into the streaks, blotting out the world, and surrounded him again.

Vladimir awoke to the intense burning in his hand. He squinted and blinked against the morning sun that slanted through the infirmary window. As his eyes adjusted to the light he recognized Father Heiler’s round face, screwed up with concentration and concern. He was unwinding a bandage from around Vladimir’s hand. As more of the bandage was removed, Vladimir was struck by the increasingly rancid smell of charred meat.

When the last of the bandage was removed, Vladimir strained to raise his head and look at his hand. What he saw turned his stomach and brought hot tears to his eyes. His hand had been reduced to a charred claw. The thumb and index finger were hopelessly curled up, and the remaining fingers were fused together. The whole mass was covered by blackened, waxy flesh that continued up past his shriveled wrist and half way up to his elbow. The junction where the blackened flesh turned to red, then to pink is where the majority of the pain emanated. Thankfully, his ruined hand was dead of all feeling. Vladimir tried to move his fingers, which caused a fresh eruption of pain from his arm, yielded nothing from this hand, no movement, no feeling.

“Don’t try to move it, Vladimir,” Father Heiler said. “You will only injure yourself further.”

“I-is it…bad?” Vladimir stammered. The apothecary paused for a moment, taking a deep breath, then exhaled audibly.

“I will not lie to you, Vladimir,” Father Heiler said, grimly. “You were burned very badly. I am applying a salve to keep it moist and aid the healing, but now it is in Sigmar’s hands. If there is no significant improvement in the next few days, I will have to remove it.”

“Remove it?” Vladimir asked. He could not get his mind around the idea.

“Let’s not think about that now,” Heiler said reassuringly. He lifted the lid from an earthenware jar and began applying a thick brown paste, which emitted the pungent smell of herbs, to Vladimir’s withered claw. Vladimir knew that Sigmar would not heal him. Not after what he had done. His consorting with the forces of Chaos alone was enough to damn him, not to mention desecrating his house by dallying with a woman. Vladimir felt wretched and utterly alone. Father Heiler finished coating his hand with the salve and wrapped it in a fresh bandage.

“What of Pavel?” Vladimir asked while Father Heiler replaced the salve and bandages on the tray.

“Oh, he is fine. I treated him for the rap on the head he got when he pulled you out of the fire.”

“Pulled me out?” Vladimir asked incredulously.

“Why, yes,” Heiler said, smiling. “You probably don’t remember. It was he who pulled you out of the fire after you fell in. An iron from the rack hit him in the head and you got a decent knock on your face as well when you hit the ground. You will have to thank him for saving your life.”

Vladimir was shocked. Pavel had lied to them, making himself sound the hero, and they had believed him. With Vladimir conveniently unconscious he was free to fabricate any version of events he wished. Not to mention that after all the trouble Vladimir was in, no one would believe him anyway.

“Get some rest,” Father Heiler said over his shoulder as he got up to leave. “I will see you tomorrow to have another look at that hand.”

The following week was a blur to Vladimir. Father Heiler made his daily visits and examined his charred hand. The Mistress of Kitchens brought his meals personally. She felt partly responsible because he was ‘under her roof’ as she put it, when he was injured. Every time she looked at his bandaged arm she began to cry. Vladimir had to insist that he could feed himself, or she would have spooned the food into his mouth.

The rest of the time Vladimir spent in fitful sleep. His throbbing hand never let him sleep very deep, and on the few occasions he did sleep deeply he was whisked away from his body and traveling north in his ‘dreams’. Something was calling him there. He missed Liesel dreadfully, but no matter how much he tried to visit her farm on his nightly travels he could not force his way back there. On top of it all, his yearning for the torc had returned in full force. He could close his eyes and point to it no matter where he was.

One morning, after Father Heiler and the Mistress had both made their visits, Vladimir was resting quietly reading a book borrowed from the library. A knock on the infirmary door broke the silence. After a brief moment it swung open to reveal Father Reichel. The Adjurator smiled broadly and opened his arms.

“Vladimir, my boy, how good to see you up and about,” he said, entering. “The good doctor said you were recovering well.”

“Good morning, Father Reichel,” Vladimir said abashedly.

“Why the long face?”

“Father, I must apologize for what I said, and for what I did,” Vladimir said, unable to look him in the eye. “It was not you who betrayed my trust. I am sorry.”

“Think nothing of it,” Reichel said, waving his hands dismissively. “A broken heart makes a fool of all of us.”

“I struck you in anger, and without cause,” Vladimir said, ashamedly. “Can you forgive me?”

“It is already forgiven,” Reichel said, waggling his finger. “I want to hear no more about it.”

“Yes Father.”

“Are you hungry?” the Adjurator asked, producing a basket from the doorstep. He took a seat on a nearby bench with his customary flourish. It just seemed second nature to him.

“Thank you, Father, but not an hour has passed since breakfast,” Vladimir replied.

“Yes, I am famished too. You can never have too much nourishment when healing. It is hungry work, and thirsty too,” he said, pouring two cups of steaming spiced wine. Despite his protests, Vladimir tore off a hunk of warm bread and drank the spicy wine. They ate a while in silence, then Reichel spoke.

“Bless that woman, but she sets a fine table,” he said, dabbing at the corners of his mouth with his handkerchief. “I really must thank you for introducing me to Gerde.”

“To whom?” Vladimir asked, perplexed.

“Why the Mistress of Kitchens, of course! Gerde is her given name. A wonderful woman, always eager to help out. Just between us, I think she is sweet on me,” Reichel said, tipping him a wink. Vladimir smiled. Father Reichel had an uncanny way of making him feel better, no matter what his misery. “It was she that provided us this hearty feast. I must remember to do something nice for her, she has been such help lately, what with all my late hours.”

“Late hours, doing what?” Vladimir asked, completely at ease. The bread was good, the company was good, and the wine was even better. Reichel paused for a moment, then took on a conspiratorial tone.

“Vladimir, can I trust you to keep a secret?” he asked in hushed words.

“Yes, of course, Father,” Vladimir replied.

“You are aware that I am a member of the Order of Adjurators.”

“Yes,” Vladimir said, leaning in close.

“Well, one of the duties of my Order is to investigate rumors of corruption,” Reichel said. “We are dedicated to the eradication of the Ruinous Powers from this world.”

Vladimir nearly choked on his bread. He took a swallow of wine to wash it down and tried to look innocently interested in what the Adjurator had to say, all the while wishing he was a thousand miles away.

“Recently, a talisman of Chaos was brought into this place. It was recovered in a battle far to the north. The warriors who captured it brought it here, to the closest Temple of Sigmar.” Reichel leaned in close, lowering his voice even further. “I am beginning to believe that it was no accident, that the talisman was captured and brought here to serve a purpose.”

Despite his almost unbearable fear, Vladimir was riveted by Reichel’s words. Maybe the Adjurator had the answers to the questions that had been plaguing him all these weeks.

“What purpose?” he whispered.

“Of that I am not certain,” Reichel replied dourly, annoyed by his lack of answers, “but I am certain of this. Someone here in this Monastery has been in communion with it.”

Dread filled Vladimir. He knew he was caught, but he kept up the charade anyway.

“Have you captured anyone, or seen them?” he asked.

“No, whoever is using this talisman can do it from afar. They may not even know what it is they are doing. They may, in fact, have no choice in the matter.”

“How can you tell when it is being…used?” Vladimir asked. He was genuinely interested, and determined to play this out until the end. Reichel shrugged.

“I have a sense for these things. It is one of the reasons I was selected for the Order. We Adjurators learn to hone our senses, to make them sensitive to the corruption brought about by Chaos. It was that sense that led me here…to you.” And there it was. Reichel had tactfully let Vladimir know that his secret was no more. The young novice expected Fathers Maximilien and Larsen to come around the corner and clap him in irons. He waited for Reichel to curse him for an infidel and cast him down. Neither occurred.

“What happens now?” Vladimir asked quietly. All pretense was dropped. He had just admitted to a Priest of Sigmar that he was in league with the forces of Chaos. It felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

“That, my young friend, is an excellent question,” Reichel said, refilling his cup. “The truth of the matter is, I just don’t know. There are those in my Order whose first action would be to burn every shred of corruption before it has a chance to spread.”

Vladimir held his breath. Reichel assumed an academic tone.

“There are few others, myself included, who take a more…enlightened approach to the pursuit of our goals. The cleansing of Chaos does not necessarily require a scourge. Do not mistake me, Vladimir, I am dogged and unflinching in my duties, and I intend to see this relic of Chaos destroyed. However, it is my opinion that the destruction of the talisman may do you harm. In such close proximity, it might even kill you.” Reichel paused.

“I do not know how you came to be involved with this relic, but although the force of Chaos is all around you, I sense no corruption in you. I want to help you, Vladimir, but before I can do so, you must tell me everything you know, everything that has happened from the first time you came in contact with the talisman.”

Vladimir started talking. The words flowed out of him in an uncontrollable flood. He told the story of that stormy night when the torc arrived, he told about his discovery in the stables, he told about the yearning, about his connivance in moving his desk, about his trips into the cellar bringing the guards food. He even told about his affair with Liesel. Although he didn’t think it had any bearing on the subject at hand, it felt good to talk to someone about it. Vladimir spoke in great detail about the ‘free state’ and his bouts with Reichel in the torc. Reichel questioned him closely on this, nodding in several places.

Vladimir glossed over the parts Reichel already knew, the breakfast, Pavel’s betrayal, and the confrontation in the Arboretum. Reichel’s lip curled in anger and he slammed his fist on the table in a rare show of wrath when Vladimir told him about the way Pavel treated him, and their brawl by the firepit.

“That despicable cur!” Reichel said through clenched teeth. “He should have the flesh boiled from his rotten carcass. Unfortunately, as you said, it is your word against his. Your recent adventures put you at a decided disadvantage. I think it would be best to keep shut about it and let Sigmar deal with that one. One thing I believe wholeheartedly, Vladimir, is that everyone gets their comeuppance.”

Vladimir smiled at the Adjurator’s words. He appreciated the sentiment, but Pavel getting punished in some distant future was hardly comforting to the young Novice, who was cradling a crippled arm. Nevertheless he continued, telling Reichel about his trips to Liesel’s farm, and the pull that he felt to the north.

Reichel sat silently for a long while after the tale was finished, deep in thought, tapping his steepled fingers absently on his lips. Vladimir felt empty and exhausted, but at the same time more free than he had felt in a long while. He ate some more bread quietly, reluctant to disturb the meditating Adjurator. He tried to ignore the persistent pull of the torc from below in the library basement.

“I have made a decision,” Reichel announced at long last. Vladimir, startled at his sudden proclamation, focused on the Adjurator. “I find you blameless in this most lamentable of situations. I cannot discern whether the talisman was sent for you specifically or if you were a random victim, but nonetheless you are its victim. I believe your contact with Liesel shielded you from the talisman’s most insidious snares, and you have resisted a relentless attack on your mind, body, and soul much longer than most grown men could. Your good and loving heart has saved you, Vladimir. Liesel has saved you.”

“Despite all this, I believe that the talisman’s continued proximity will eventually conquer your spirit, however strong it may be. As I stated earlier, although I am still unable to comprehend the bond between you and the talisman, I believe that its destruction in this vicinity will do you irreparable harm. This leaves me but one choice. I must take the talisman far away, to Altdorf, where my brethren and I can unmake this foul relic. I can only hope that the distance will spare you any harm.”

Vladimir took a moment to absorb all that Reichel had said. He felt both hope of being free from the torc’s unmerciful grasp, and despair at never experiencing the freedom he felt when he traveled in the ‘free state’.

“So, if you take the torc away, I will be cured?” Vladimir asked at long last.

“Vladimir, I would like to tell you that everything will be all right, but the fact is, I don’t know that for certain. I would like to spend more time studying your interaction with the torc, perhaps to better understand how to sever the bonds it has on you, but I fear that you have already been exposed for too long. I must act quickly, and unfortunately that does not leave time for surety. I leave tonight.”

Vladimir was speechless. Just this morning he was resigned to torture and death at the hands of the Sigmarites for his transgressions. Now this man was going to save him from both the Law and Chaos. The gratitude he felt was undermined by his anxiety about being separated from his torc. Reichel stood and finished off his wine with a grimace, for it had gone cold.

“Now I go to the unenviable task of convincing the High Theogonist that I must take the talisman away without destroying it. And I must do this without any reason that I may reveal to him. Wish me luck.”

“Good luck.” Vladimir smiled. He did not envy Reichel his meeting with Maximilien. With his customary flourish, Reichel swept out of the infirmary. Vladimir chewed absently at some hard crusts of bread while he digested all that had occurred that morning.

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