Somewhere in the French Campagne; December, 1499...

Snow. That was the first thing the boy saw as his blue eyes slowly blinked open to gaze upward at cloudy skies far above the tall, dead winter tries of the forest. It didn't dawn on him how cold he was until the shivering attacked his entire body. Arms that had been sprawled out to his side were immediately brought around his chest and he rolled over to his side, trying to protecting himself with his own body heat. He didn't remember how he got there, or why he was in a forest to begin with. After rolling over, his ribs cried out in pain and he felt pain all of his back, arms, and legs. There was also an annoying throb on the back of his head. He wanted only to cry but he was so cold that he could have sworn his tears were frozen in his eyes.

How long have I been lying here? he thought. His name... was Jason, or at least that's what he could recall. Jason Aldaine. Or maybe he was not Jason. Perhaps he was someone else. He wasn't sure; but he liked that name, so he chose to address himself by it.

When Jason finally managed to pick himself up, his legs felt weak, and he didn't have the balance to keep standing; so he collapsed back into the snow and pushed himself back to a tree, where he could sit and rest. Every muscle in his back was sore, but he used the cold bark to numb the pain. Now sitting up straight, he took in his surroundings. A hazy fog was laid over the forest floor, and the signs of a camp site could be seen just below the trickling mists. Burned wood indicating a fire, and freshly disturbed dirt where men once lied down. Old logs had been scattered, but arranged around the remnants of the campfires as seats. A few cut ropes, once damp and now frozen, had been left tied around a few trees several yards away. Horses, perhaps?

There was a painful burst in the back of Jason's head and he saw a flash of shady memories come to the front of his thoughts. Laughing, cheerful soldiers, drinking and feasting. The aroma of cooked boar mixed with the stench of body odor and rank, drunken breath. A stinging slap across his face. Then the confusing memory vanished and Jason found himself staring at the falling snow flanks once more. By now, he was growing tired, and he wanted to nap; but he fought to stay awake. He needed to find a way out of this forest and seek some kind of healing for his obvious injuries. He didn't even know if he was bleeding.

As he checked himself, he noticed the strange apparel he had been dressed in. A white overcoat with a stiff collar had been thrown over him, with silver buttons hidden beneath an unusual fold of extra garment down the center line. Silver trim had been stitched around the cuffs of his sleeves and the bottom of the coat. Black boots protected his shins and feet, but he was wearing only a thin pair of short black leggings that stopped at his knees. He wondered why in the world he would wear such a thing in the dead of winter. And why was he wearing a coat of such fine material? The white, now covered in dirt and grime from the damp forest floor, had once been brilliant and shining, that was for sure. As far as the silver trimming... was he of nobility? Or did he steal this?

The snapping of a twig wrought his attention and his shot up to stare into the fog. "Qui est là?! Who's there?!" he demanded. "Montrez-vous! Show yourself!"

There was a ghostly whisp over his shoulder and his head reared as fast as a bird's to see a woman rounding the tree he had been leaning against. He was so startled that he practically jumped up from where he was sitting, but the pain in his side only forced him to topple over into a small rift of snow, burying half of his face in the icy powder.

"You're hurt, boy," the woman said in a sympathetic, soothing voice.

Jason forced himself back up and leaned against the tree again. He only stared at her for a moment with bright blue eyes, like an innocent child seeing a lit candle for the first time. Her golden hair freely swayed in the air, despite no breeze passing through the still forest. Her pale skin was as radiant as the freshly fallen snow, and the white dress she was wearing passed from her breast down to her feet. She was tall, but Jason didn't feel threatened by her for some strange reason. In fact, he welcomed her presence. She wore a smile that was warm enough to stay away the cold.

"I... am," he finally replied. "Who are you?"

"Who I am is of no concern, Sagen. But who you are is what is most important."



March, 1500...

"Jason!" Achille yelled from a distance behind the young teenager. Jason turned to glance back at his companion and saw that the Spirit Sagen was practically out of breath, running as fast as he could to catch up to him.

"Yeah?" Jason replied with an innocent grin.

When his friend had finally arrived to the point in the road where Jason stood, he doubled over and resting his hands on his knees, breathing heavily as he tried to say, "You... really.... outta.... wait up. ... Okay?"

Jason shrugged his shoulders and with a sigh, replied, "Fine. But you're the one who wanted to stop and smell the roses."

Achille stood up straight and with hands proudly on his waste, argued, "Nature is a wonderful thing, kid. You should stop every now and then admire the beauty that God has placed in this world." The two stared at each other for a moment before breaking out in a humble laughter at the blissful idea.

Since waking up in the forest, Jason has learned that he has lost much of his memory. He knew his name at the time, the language he spoke, the fact that he was fourteen years old, a few trivial things about the world, but not much else. To this day, he never found out who the woman was that met him in the forest. She had disappeared shortly before a party of men and women dressed similar to him arrived to treat his wounds and guide him safely to their home in an alternative world they called the Shadow. There, he learned that he was a Sagen; one of several hundred that could control the power of twelve elements. Magic, he thought at first, but he was quickly corrected; told by several scholars among the Sagens that their power was only part of nature, and that magic had nothing to do with any of it.

Unfortunately, he has been unable to recall why he had been left alone in that cold forest in the middle of winter, or why he had awoken in so much pain. The Sagen doctors that had treated him had found several small lacerations and bruises. He had no broken bones or ribs, but several had come close to fracturing. Whether or not he had been mugged and left to die, or targeting for what he was, had remained a mystery. And he has been left feeling frustrated about losing his memory.

Light. That's the only element he knew how to control now. According to the other Sagens, he should know more; but his head hurts when he tries to recall what he had apparently been trained in. Using Light, however, came naturally to him. From what had been explained to Jason, most of the Sagens that exist today were born with their gift. Some were granted the ability to harness the power of the elements. All of them, though, start with one: their signature element. The white coat he was wearing in the forest, and still today, and his uncanny ability to manipulate the Light element with ease indicated that it was his signature element.

In order to unlock his past and reconnect with the other elements he had once learned, Jason took the initiative and went searching outside of the Shadow for answers. He wanted to train in the real world, not in the courtyards of the Citadel, the Sagens’ home. He’d rather face the cruelty of man and seek out who exactly was responsible for his amnesia, leaving him in the forest like they did several months ago. But the Elders of the Sagen Order forbid him from taking on such a challenge alone. “You’re too young,” some said. “Inexperienced and rash,” others argued. “Naive.”

Achille Baldassare, a Spirit Sagen only two years older than him, volunteered to be his companion. The young Italian scholar had been a good friend to Jason throughout the last three months as he recovered from his injuries. Achille was extremely bright, cheerful, and ambitious. A few called him “foolish” and “a dreamer”; but so are all men of the mind. Aside from his mastery of Spirit, Achille is greatly talented in Water and Nature. He has yet to gain a firm grasp of other elements, and he is slightly behind for his age, compared to other Sagens, but his love for knowledge preoccupies his time. In hindsight, he is perfectly comfortable with mastering only a few. He prefers to devote his energy to learning how the world works.

As the two friends continued their walk on down the road they started to see the tops of houses in the distance. They were approaching upon a small village, surrounded by vineyards all around on perfectly fertile lands. They would rest there for the night and continue their journey the following day.

Atticus shivered. The cool air swept through his body as it rushed through the trees, rustling the leaves and branches it touched. For the middle of March, it was cold. Or rather quite cool. His robes offered little protection from the elements and he often found that he would have to warm himself with flames rather than cloth and blankets to keep himself comfortable. He continued on his trek regardless, holding his arms to his chest, clutching onto his robes, the simple robes that marked him as a Father and man of God in the Gregorian Order. As a brother, he had little possessions of his own, all the he had to call his own nestled in a small rucksack or attached to his body. He was close to his destination now. A small village past the hills, surrounded with vine and wine makers. He would go there, offer mass at the church, and stay with the village priest, Père Veroun. He was an elderly priest, and Atticus was to study under him until Veroun's death and Atticus was ready to take over as the village's priest. Atticus was young indeed, but wise in the Dogma of the Church and a practical thinker.

Just a few more miles. Then I will be greeted by the warm faces of my future parish, he thought to himself as he smiled at the thought. The sun in the horizon had started to set so he quickened his pace, eager to reach his destination. He didn't know what to expect at the village. A feast for the him, to welcome him to his new home perhaps? The thought warmed his heart, but not enough to stay the cold from creeping up his robes. He cupped his hands over his mouth and blew some air at them. Warm air. Hot air. Like the heat of a raging bonfire. He clapped them together and sparks flew from his palms, an indicator of his raw, burning power. He didn't know how to explain it, short of a miracle of God of course, but he could control flames. He could make them appear from his hands, he mouth, of manipulate them if they were nearby.

An hour passed, much in the same fashion. He would warm himself with his breath and continue on his road. FInally he reached the top of a hill and he could see the village in the valley below. He smiled. Hello, my new home. He jogged down the hill eagerly, his rosary thumping on his chest, his robes billowing behind him. He entered the village and was greeted warmly. "Bonjour Père!" From all sides. He came to the inn where he would be staying for the night. He was a day early, but he couldn't resist the thought of the new village so he came. He sat down at a small table in a corner and ordered a small meal, which the innkeeper assured him was on the house. Atticus blessed the man for his kindness and offered grace for the meal, the safe journey, and a fresh tomorrow.

From the opposite corner, a man in a cowl watched him. His robes a dark black. He was older. In his early thirties perhaps? It was difficult to tell. He drank a long draught from his mug and grinned. He set his mug down and rose from his table and strode over to Atticus. No one in the room seemed to notice him. It was if he blended into the shadows themselves. He sat down across from Atticus and Atticus paid him no heed. Until the man spoke. "Atticus L'Chatre I hope?"

Atticus dropped the fork he held. Stunned, he looked at the man who spoke. Where did he come from? "Y-yes. Bonjour monsieur. How do you know who I am?" He asked the strange man, puzzled.

"I'm a friend of your father's." The man answered. Atticus was puzzled. He had never met his father. So how did this man know him? His mother had only told him stories. His father was a supposed heathen, an enemy of the church, as was the company he kept. But this man. He didn't know what, why, or how, but he felt a connection to this man.

"I'm listening," he answered.

"I just want to give you this. From your father. He would deliver it to you himself, but he's... indisposed at the moment. That's all. I hope your mass goes well tomorrow." The man handed him a piece of parchment and rose. As he left, he seemed to vanish into the shadows again. Atticus wasn't even sure if this even just happened. But the parchment was in his hand. He opened it. In beautiful handwriting there was ten words. Its time for you to learn what you are, Sagen. For some reason, the word sounded familiar. The man must have been confused, he told himself. He left the inn for some fresh air, to process this event. And in the distance, he saw the man again, and he disappeared into this air, as if the space around the man opened itself up to swallow him. No one seemed to notice this. Strangely worried, Atticus returned to the inn and sat back down and ordered a fresh pint of ale. Something to help him process this, even if alcohol was strangely out of character for him. But he had a feeling that tomorrow there would be great changes awaiting him.

“You can stop this now, you know.” A familiar voice. One that she had imagined her whole life, one she had no way of knowing would sound so, but did. It was the voice of petite Jacques, little Jack.

“I know, brother.” Joanna said, the mists of the dream swirling around her. “Just... not yet.”

“Jo, I have long left this world. You need to let me go. Let me rest.”

“Soon, brother. But not today. Just stay with me a little longer. I need you here.”

Silence answered her, and soon the dream began to fade as reality started to crash around her. A lucid dream if ever she had experienced one, she knew that her eyes would flutter open any moment to a tear stained pillow, and the sounds of birds would be heard outside her window. But for now, there was the hope she could see her brother. Sweet Jack, little Jack. Taken before his time. “I love you.” she said faintly as the morning finally embraced her and pulled her from her slumber.

“I love you too.” came from the pillow beside her. Joanna gave a start, turning over to see a woman next to her. Memories started to return. She was still in town, with one of the nuns. The one she had made batted eyes at for a week straight. Well... She probably wasn't going back to the convent now. The red head snuggled into her arm, and Joanna could only timidly stroke her hair. This was awkward. She had inadvertently told a woman she loved her, and a bit too soon she could add. Joanna felt a blush cross her face, looking out the window where a town sparrow perched, singing his little heart out. There was freedom. How she’d like to go flying out that window out of the awkward situation. For now, an excuse and a pardon would suffice.

Slowly Joanna climbed from the comfort of the feather down mattress and cotton blankets. The former nun (was it Valerie? She had a feeling so) stared longingly, wrapping the quilt around her bare chest, watching the woman cross the room towards her personal belongings. Methodically, she began to wrap her chest up, pulling a vest down and tying it taught.

“You have such a lovely frame. Why bespoil it?”

“Habit I suppose.” Jo called back, looking in the mirror and catching the redheaded vixen stare at her behind. She wiggled it towards her as she stepped into her pants, pulling them up and tightening a belt around it. She focused on the metal clasps, letting them mesh and tighten better than any buckle could ever work. Grabbing her boots, she slipped them on one at a time, sitting on the bed to do so as the woman gave a soft massage at her shoulders. One last shot at getting her to forsake her responsibilities and return to bed. Such a temptress. “I’m sorry dear. Duty calls.” Joanna gave the girl a quick peck on the forehead, grabbed her sack of supplies, and turned towards the door. “I’ll be back tonight. The room’s rented for the next month, so don’t worry about me skipping town. And don’t you dare go anywhere.” she said in a joking, yet reassuring tone. Valerie showed a playful pout, falling back into bed. Oh if only she weren't responsible.

Lifting up her hood, Joanna walked down the stairs towards the door, hoping to not catch the eyes or attention of the innkeeper. The walk of shame, some scholars in the time of the reader have agreed, stretches back as far as time itself. Joanna was unfortunately not as talented in sneaking out the door. The innkeeper’s wife was by the door tending to the plants when she turned the corner.

“Oh, mademoiselle Decroix! Departez vous avant petit dejeuner? (Oh, miss Decroix! Are you leaving before breakfast?)

“Oui Madame Kramer.” she responded, trying to cut the small talk.

“Your sister, is she staying?” There was a level of hesitancy around the word that it could be cut with a knife. She’d prefer said knife to her throat at the moment.

“Yes. She’ll be in town for the next week on visit.”

“Strange, she seems familiar. I could have sworn to seeing her at the convent before.”

“Yes. Strange. I believe the germans call the term doppelganger.”

“That must be it.” The plump french woman said, with the heaviness of a statement only a gossiping mid thirties mother could say. “Have a good day, dearie.”

“And you too. Au revoir.” And please get run over by a mule cart she added in her mind, her face a deep crimson as she closed the door and headed out into the street. Simple minded people. Any man could have waltzed in here and done that and there’d be a mug of ale passed his way. I claim the diamond in the proverbial rough, and I’m the strange one. I bet they’d burn me at the stake too if they knew I could open the ground or summon metal out of the air.

She could dig her own grave and hide her shame for being caught post coitus. There was that.


Oh well. It was a fresh day. There was to be a newcomer, her mentor had advised (technically, he was probably already here). One to be trained on the start of a new element. A fellow Sagen. A fellow man of the cloth. A different sect, but Joanna was never one for denominations. Grabbing her things, she hurried down the road towards the chapel. It didn't pay to be late.

It was around five o'clock when Atticus arose from his night's sleep. It was rife with images that were both foreign, yet strangely familiar. Images of a world surrounded with shadows, cut off from the rest of existence. A towering structure in its center, gracefully keeping watch of the residents that lived in this world. He saw a man, in beautiful robes, white dressed with gold. His hands were calloused and rough, the hairs on the tip of his beard singed, and flames spilling from his nostrils with every exhalation. Father... He didn't know how he knew, but he did. He saw a multitude of men and women, all dressed in similar robes. Some with black robes, like the man from the night prior, some with blue, gray, green, red, white, and purple. These people were magnificent. Water, metal, shadows, fire, and light seemed to bend and mold to their whims. Atticus realized he was not alone. There were others like him. Others that shared his abilities and others that he belonged too.

Still, he awoke with a shock. These images were unnatural to him. Even if he knew them to be true somehow, he couldn't believe it. He simply could not. Regardless, he had duties to attend to today. He was to offer mass at the chapel today. Père Veroun was going to watch him. Atticus would make him proud. He forced himself out of bed, went over to the bucket of water in the corner of the room and splashed some over his face. The room was small, just the way he liked it and the bed domineered most of the space. Tempted as he was to return to its comfort he went over to the window where he robes hung. The coarse brown material loosely draped over his slender frame and he returned to the center of the room to pray. He dropped to his knees and raised his arms to heaven. "Ave Maria gratia plena Dominus tecum. Benidictus tu in mulieribus et benidictus fructus ventris tu Iesu..."

He finished his morning prayer and litany of saints and matted down his unruly hair with some more of the water in the bucket and descended the stairs. He was greeted by the friendly innkeeper's wife, Madame Kramer.

"Ah! Père! Bonjour! Como talle vous? Did you sleep well? Here, sit and eat!" She offered, a genuine kindness in her voice.

"No Madame, I cannot. I must fast before the mass. I trust you and your husband will be in attendance? Oui?" He answered with a smile curling over his lips.

"But of course! We wouldn't dare to miss it."

"Excellent! Remember your own fast before the Eucharist."

The woman nodded and ran off back to the back room of the inn. Atticus stepped outside to the fresh morning breeze and cool air of the French countryside. He drew his hood and clutched his rosary. It was about a half mile to the chapel, uphill. He set off at a brisk pace, despite the fact that there was still a good two hours before the mass for the town. But he was a slow walker and he wanted to greet Veroun beforehand. As he set off, he couldn't help but return to the night before and that man, the man in the shadow black robes...

He gasped. He had seen those robes in his dream. These men were... what was the word he used? Sagens. These men were Sagens. He still didn't know what that word meant exactly, but he knew an answer was coming soon. Was he a Sagen? Was that the answer as to why he could control fire? And his father. Was Atticus' father one of these Sagens? Yes, he must be, he thought. He brushed the thoughts from his mind because he could see the chapel. He finished his ascent to the small structure and peered in.

"Père? Are you here?" No answer. Atticus went inside and found a note stuck to the wall. Veroun was out but he would return soon. Regardless, he set himself to work preparing the mass. Setting the altar, lighting the candles, and blessing some water. Eventually people began to enter the church and soon it was time to begin mass. In the back Atticus noticed a woman. She was stunning, yet forbidding for some reason. He would ask her name later, now it was time to begin the mass. As the mass went on, he couldn't help but feel a certain swelling of his thoughts about this woman in the back. Something about her made him want to run over to her and speak to her. To ask her the questions he had burning in his head. But it would all have to wait; he was still giving his sermon.

There was a certain mystery about Jason that attracted Achille's attention. The dark-haired Italian teenager watched from a distance as his companion leaned back against a wooden post at the end of a stall in the town marketplace and stretched his arms high into the air, yawning like a wild animal. Before the boy suddenly lost his memory, Achille remembered seeing him around the Citadel inside the Shadow a number of times. He even recalled them attending the same class while training with the Spirit element at one time. The young scholar found no other words to explain it, but he had a great admiration for Jason Aldaine. Time and again in the past, he wanted to approach him to start a conversation; about what, however, he didn't know. He wanted to befriend him, but he was clueless as to how. None of this is to say that Achille wasn't popular around the Citadel, as he was actually a very talented young Sagen that showed great potential as one of the Order's brightest thinkers. But it seemed as though he was noticed by everyone but Jason.

When the Elders were looking for a Sagen to mentor Jason in relearning what he had forgotten, Achille was the first to step up and say, "I'll go with him!" There was debate, of course, among the Council, about letting a sixteen year old student being a mentor, but when no one else demonstrated themselves to be more eager or willing than he, the Elders approved. This was now his chance to make a friend out of Jason; an opportunity to start over and find the words he had wanted to say before.

"Here you are, monsieur," a woman said from the other side of a the stall counter that Achille had been leaning against. He turned his head to see the stall owner handing him a light gray scarf that went well with his purple and gray Sagen coat.

"Merci, madame," he replied, gently taking the cloth and wrapping it around his neck, leaving it loose around the coat's stiff collar. He handed the woman the requested amount of francs, thanked her a final time, and then turned off to walk toward Jason.

"What do you think?" he asked as he approached the boy, who was now staring off towards the monastery on the far side of town.

Jason turned his eyes up to glance at the scarf and with a childish smile replied, "It's cute."

Achille felt himself blush. "Cute?!”

The young Aldaine laughed and said, “Yeah. It suits you.”

Achille brushed the awkward comment aside and looked off towards the monastery that his friend had been eyeing. “What do you think about that place?” he asked suddenly. “I noticed you were staring at it for a while.”

Jason shrugged his shoulders. “Dunno; but I’m getting a... sense of familiarity. It’s hard to explain.”

Now that Achille’s attention was focused on the same thing, he could feel it, too. But what Jason didn’t understand was what he was feeling was actually the nearby energy of another Sagen. Two, in fact. Both emanating energies seemed to be coming from monastery. This keen perception is common among Sagens that are well trained in Spirit. At first, Spirit Sagens are able to sense the presence of elementals, and then later on, when they have mastered it, are able to use short-ranged telepathy, transferring their thoughts and voice into the mind of another. Two or more nearby Sagens that have mastered Spirit are fully capable of having an entire conversation through telepathy.

The very fact that Jason is able to pick up the presence of the nearby Sagens is a sign of relief to Achille; telling him that the boy, indeed, used to have a firm grasp of Spirit. It will be much easier now for Achille to mentor Jason back into a full comprehension of the element.

“Let’s go check it out,” Achille said as he lead the way toward the church.




Heavy beats from the hooves of a horse thumped through the tall grass behind the dark-eyed man adorned in glistening iron armor. A cape of violet silk draped downward from his shoulder guards, flowing in the light breeze that whispered over the towering hill beyond a small village in the campagne.

“Mi señor,” a voice said behind the man, coming from the mount of the horse. “Orders, sir?”

Manuel Delavega, the Cesare Borgia’s “guard dog” stood with one heavy plated foot perched on the top of a boulder in the hillside, with a hand on the hilt of his longsword. Tucked in the other arm was his helm of iron and gold. Sweat-laden hair dropped down to just above his silk cape and he reached up with the gloved hand that had been resting atop his sword to wipe his forehead dry. He had been sent to France to quite simply disrupt their peace of mind, forcing King Charles to reroute troops from the front lines in Italy in order to secure his own lands.

Delavega was a Spaniard, and he kept his relations with the Borgia family a secret so as to complicated things further between the French and the Papal States. Regardless, he was loyal to Cesare and the St. Peter’s Throne. Though he was not religious by any means, and knew fully well that, if what the Church preaches is true, he would burn in the fires of hell for an eternity for his sins.

“Let our forces rest,” he commanded. “I’ll allow these fools to enjoy one last Sunday of ignorance before we attack at dawn tomorrow.”

“Si, señor. I shall inform the men.”




“I’ve never really set foot in an actual church before,” Jason said as the two boys entered through the main doors of the monastery. The humble architecture of stone and wood bracings had a gloomy appeal to them, and the atmosphere seemed cold and quiet. Rays of morning sun broke through the slit windows in the stone walls high above the foyer’s floor and perfectly illuminated a font half full of clear water in the center of the room.

“Never? What about the sanctuary at the Citadel?” Achille asked.

Jason shook his head. “I wouldn’t remember, now would I? What’s that?” he pointed toward the vassen of water.

“That,” Achille said, guiding Jason over to the basin, “is holy water. It’s a Catholic tradition where those entering the a chapel or sanctuary dip their fingers in water blessed by a priest and make the sign of the cross. It known as sanctificatio, sanctification. It helps repel evil spirits as well as cleanse venial sin.”

Jason held a skeptical look. “It sounds silly, to me.”

Achille chuckled before gently grasping Jason’s hand. He didn’t know why, but he simply felt like touching him. He guiding Jason’s hand over to the basin and delicately braced the boy’s index and middle fingers, dipping them down to lightly touch the surface of the cold water.

“And now we just...,” Achille gently whispered as he made the sign of the cross in front of Jason while still holding onto the boy’s hand, letting go shortly after to conduct the rite for himself. “Come on,” he said afterward, “I think Mass is about to start.”

His sermon was going well. Atticus made sure to speak about a modern interpretation of the Gospel's message and how Christ's teachings were still a way to live one's life by. But then, his head started buzzing again. He felt his attention being drawn to two young men in the back. They were there the whole time, yes, but suddenly it was if they were calling out to him. Three of these people in the church now. Who were they? Sagens, yes, they must be. He wondered how he knew. It was almost instinctive. He pushed the thoughts out of his head for the moment. He raised his arms to heaven, the Eucharist in his hands and he blessed it. He did the same with the Blood of Christ and the laymen came up to receive.

An hour later, the mass had ended. "May the Spirit of the Lord be with you all." He said to the people.

"And with your Spirit." The replied. He smiled. His mass had gone well. Then the buzzing in his head returned. He quickly dismissed himself and retreated to the Vestry. He calmed himself, splashing some water on his face and returned to the main hall, where there were many parishioners still gathered. He searched the room for those three. The woman and the two young men. He needed answers. For some reason, he was sure those three could provide them.