* * *
Kalan woke to the smell of bacon cooking. He opened his eyes to see Delron humming quietly and watching several strips of bacon sizzle over a grill placed atop the hearth. He moved his arm gingerly and was surprised to feel no pain, only a cramped feeling in his limbs as though he had not moved them for a long time. He threw back the covers with a groan and got out of the bed, walking unsteadily toward his clothes. Delron looked over at him.
“Up, hmm? Breakfast is almost ready. Better get dressed, we’ll be leaving soon.” Delron said.
“Where are we going?” Kalan asked, pulling on his jerkin.
“Why, to see to your wife, of course,” said Delron, as if were the most obvious thing in the world.
Kalan picked up his sword, remembering the events of the night before. “The Shakzan,” he said. “Have they gone?”
“They have.”
Kalan slung his sword belt around his waist, tightening it around his hips. Delron scooped white gravy onto some biscuits and handed Kalan a plate. He picked up the spoon and dug into the meal gratefully, his stomach reminding him how long it had been since his last meal.
As Kalan ate, Delron hummed quietly to himself and began loading jars of herbs in his satchel. Kalan watched the old man out of the corner of his eye. It almost seemed as if the Healer were so preoccupied with the herbs, he had forgotten entirely about Kalan. The old man gingerly loaded jars of mintleaf and clover into his bag, placing cloths in between the jars so they would not clink around.
Kalan watched the old man for a moment longer. Then the question in the back of his mind found voice: “Are you truly a Healer?”
Delron stopped, his hand holding a jar in mid air. He waited so long that Kalan wondered if he had actually heard the question, or if he was just wondering what had knocked him out of his thoughts. He was about to ask the question again when the old man spoke.
“I was once many things. Once a Healer, once a Cleric, once a warrior. There are certain skills that, once learned, cannot be unlearned. In that way, I suppose I still am a Healer.”
The old man straightened and tied the bag shut. He placed the bag on the table and stared into the fireplace for a long moment.
Kalan watched the old man, his plate of food forgotten for the moment. The answer to his question had only created more mysteries. The old man was an enigma. He had spoken of being a Cleric, but in the Northlands the only religion was the Forgotten Beliefs, which required all members to refer to themselves as monks and live a chaste existence. This latter requirement was no doubt why their congregation was withering.
The only religion that ordained Clerics was the Holy Church of Creation. The Holy Church had its roots in the Forgotten Beliefs, but over the last two hundred years it had become a separate entity, answerable only to itself and no other. The Clerics enjoyed a life of wild celebration, bestowing the Creator’s forgiveness and blessings on all who gave them gifts and lands. The result of this was fat, wealthy priests and hungry, poor people who were convinced that their sins were forgiven.
Kalan eyed Delron again, looking at him with a more appraising eye. He certainly did not look like any of the Clerics that Kalan remembered meeting in his younger days. They had all been arrogant, fat men whose lives consisted of sleeping, eating, and fornicating with members of their congregations. Delron did not look to have very much fat on his body, and his eyes betrayed a fierce intelligence that Kalan had rarely seen before, and never in a Clerics eyes.
Delron stopped looking at the flames and picked up his bag. He turned to Kalan and spoke softly. “Let us begin our journey, shall we?”