Chapter 41: The Knights Penitent

A gilded, resplendent hall formed the seat of the Lyon Empire's Ecclesiastical Tribunal. James Watson, editor-in-chief of

Legendary Spellcraft

, sat poring over a stack of reports taller than he was.

His role as editor-in-chief was merely a side job.

James Watson was, first and foremost, High Inquisitor of the Lyon Empire. He provided rulings and judgment on matters of faith.

The Lyon Empire recognized a single lawful faith: that of the Lord of Dawn. Any worship of other gods within imperial borders was heresy.

Recent territorial expansion had stretched that orthodoxy thin. New freemen from annexed lands could not drop their beliefs overnight; old rites and old gods persisted stubbornly in rural villages and hamlets.

Watson believed that these folk erred not by malicious intent, but because they simply didn't know any better. But they could be taught how to think. Rather than have them burn at the stake, he carefully read each report and crafted proposals for spreading the faith of the Lord of Dawn, carefully tailored to the specifics of each region.

Sometimes, this involved gentle words and persuasive conversion; at other times, perhaps the iron hand of discipline.

It seemed like a tedious affair, but James Watson had advanced all the way up the ranks from his original position as a village pastor. He was used to the work, and he was sure that the newly annexed would become steadfast, devout believers of the Lord of Dawn in a few years' time.

Problems that others would have taken days, even weeks, to resolve, James Watson could deal with in the better half of a day. His efficacy was the main reason he had maintained this position for so long.

Only after he had finished his official duties did he permit himself the diversion of editorial work. Among his greatest pleasures was outright rejecting the submissions of non-human species.

After carelessly making up reasons to refuse a few dwarven and elven manuscripts, James Watson found himself looking at a strange essay.

"My Paladin Friend Allen—A Brief Evaluation on the Influence of Faith on Young Minds."

"What nonsense is this?"

The title alone made it clear that this was a submission to one of

Legendary Spellcraft

's popular subsidiaries. Gossip and picaresque tales funded the presses more than serious academic work. James Watson didn't much care about such submissions; regardless of their sales, they could hardly compare to the flagship

Legendary Spellcraft

's articles in impact.

In fact, he would be thrilled if non-humans started to publish in these subsidiaries instead of in

Legendary Spellcraft

, leaving the latter a human-oriented magical journal. As a result, he tended to approve these subsidiary submissions after just a quick skim.

But the title of this submission stopped him cold. A paladin named Allen...

James Watson glanced at the essay's author. He had never heard of a William Harvey before. "Either a pseudonym or some obscure nobody," he thought.

But the opening paragraph alone left James Watson gaping in alarm.

Brows furrowed, he twisted the ring on his finger. A pale panel of light sprang up before his eyes—a visual transmission that should have connected him to his son. But where a clear image should have been, there were only static and hissing sparks.

This ring was meant to be a direct line to Allen. But it no longer worked.

The essay was unlikely to be fiction. The facts it hinted at were simply too specific. His son, Allen Watson, had been taken captive by a lich.

Watson read the piece again, line by line, until his face turned ashen.

On the surface, the essay painted the editor-in-chief as a fanatic: an irrational zealot who had warped the doctrine of the Lord of Dawn and used inhuman methods to brutalize both body and mind. Still, this was nothing compared to what he'd seen over the course of his long tenure. A slanderous essay would not unseat a man who had endured worse.

What made Watson's blood run cold was a subtler, more dangerous claim. The writer, speaking as an observer, had argued that the faith of the Lord of Dawn was not essentially different from those of cults—that its doctrine, its rites, and its hatred of the undead were variations on common themes.

Worse, the article insisted, the followers of the Lord of Dawn were more exclusionary than even the druids. The Empire's form of piety, it argued, breeded needless tragedies and strife. It cast the Lyon Empire's religious policy as a distortion of the Light's teachings and implied that Watson himself had driven many of those tragedies in pursuit of ambition.

It was the sort of conspiracy-tinged rhetoric that spread like wildfire. The argument had little concrete evidence, but this sort of nonsense was exactly what readers devoured and then repeated.

Watson knew the danger: in a season of expansion and war, public opinion mattered. Even if the essay could not sway a battlefield, it could weaken the home front, sow doubt among the annexed provinces, and turn sympathy toward dissent.

And the price of silence, Watson realized, had become personal: if he suppressed the piece, his son Allen might die. If he published it, the Empire would be set against him. There was no safe option.

"Why did he not go to the Court of the Silver Moon as instructed? How did he end up in Alkhemia?" Watson muttered to himself. "Could he have heard about the prophecy too?"

James Watson sighed wearily. He desperately wanted to give his son a thrashing. Allen had been assigned a trial of passage, but he must have had a change of mind. He had run off to Alkhemia on his own.

There'd been whispers of an old prophecy about a divine artifact in Alkhemia's sewers for years. It was all nonsense to a veteran like Watson, of course. But his son wasn't a fool, either. How had Allen been tricked?

Still, there was no point worrying about that now.

Rage and fear bled together until Watson cursed, "That foolish, reckless child!"

The manuscript was clear enough, at least: if he wanted Allen to live, he had to publish it with a comment stating that he was willing to pay a ransom. A few hundred thousand gold would hardly be an issue compared to the article's political fallout. Publishing this essay would make Watson a traitor to the Empire.

He stood for a long moment, grief and duty warring in his eyes. "Forgive me, Allen."

He pressed his palm to the crystal inset in the desk. Holy radiance flared as a paladin in silver-white armor manifested before him, slipping to a knee in reverence.

"Your will is my command, High Inquisitor."

"Pick out ten members of the Knights Penitent and set off to Alkhemia in search of my son, Allen. If he lives, bring him home. Otherwise, destroy the lich that took him captive. Be careful. You may be facing a legendary undead."

The paladin replied with confidence, "My lord, the Knights Penitent exists for this very purpose. We were forged to counter legends. The shame of that old failure will not be repeated on our watch."

Watson's mind drifted, unwillingly, to the "old failure" that the knight had referred to. Long before his birth, the Empire had sent an entire host of paladins to hunt down a certain Dullahan and had been slaughtered almost to a man.

The tale of that catastrophe was a scar in the Empire's memory. It had been the catalyst for forming the Order of Adjudicators, an elite corps trained to do what ordinary knights could not: to hunt legendary undead with methods and magic beyond common men. The paladins who had founded the order had died before they could overcome that shame, but the new generation had spent their lives in that grim apprenticeship, honing their steel and faith for the day in which they might restore their lost honor.

Whether this lich was that same old adversary mattered less to Watson than the chance to strike a decisive blow against a legend.

He imagined the lich's soul offered up as a votive to the Lord of Dawn, an end to evil and a balm for the Empire's wounded honor.

Watson rose, hands clenched until his knuckles turned white. "No matter what, do not accept any terms the enemy offers. The Lyon Empire will not succumb to a threat."

"By your command, High Inquisitor."