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it—we chose to avoid this man for as long as we could. In Kale, however, that course was no longer viable. The fae-currents were too strong and too malignant for any of us to Work, which meant we could no longer use the earth-power to locate our enemy. In addition we were unfamiliar with local port customs, which proved a tremendous handicap. In the end we were forced to rely upon Tarrant despite our misgivings, and I must admit that he served us well in those areas.
    Together the four of us traveled to the port of Morgot, where we hoped to be able to find a boat and a captain to suit our purposes. It was there that disaster struck. Our enemies ambushed us, their numbers doubled by reinforcements, and I give thanks to God that we were able to drive them off. But when the dust and the blood had settled, we discovered that the wild energies of Morgot had unleashed a far more deadly adversary, in the person of our dark companion. During the battle Tarrant had turned on Ciani, brutally stripping her of what little strength and memory she had left. When we tried to help her he struck us down, and while we were incapacitated he carried her off: into the wilds of the Forbidden Forest, the lair of the creature called the Hunter.
    Senzei and I followed—wounded, exhausted, but desperate to rescue Ciani before she was given over to the master of the Forest. Into that dark land we rode, where the trees were interwoven so tightly that sunlight never reached the ground, where all living things—and semi-living, and undead—existed only to serve that land’s fearsome tyrant. And at last we reached the citadel at the heart of the Forest, a black keep fashioned after Merentha Castle, home to the Hunter and his servants. There, to our dismay, we discovered our companion’s true identity....
    I wish that I had gentler words for this, Holiness, that could ease the blow of such terrible knowledge. I wish such words existed. But let me say it simply: the creature known to you as the Hunter, who tracks living women like animals for his amusement and designed this brutal realm called the Forbidden Forest, was known in another time by another name: the Neocount of Merentha, Gerald Tarrant. The Prophet of our faith.
    Yes, Reverend Father, the Prophet still lives—if life is not a misnomer for such a corrupted state. The founder of our faith feared death so greatly that in the end he traded his human soul for immortality—and now he is trapped in that nether realm between true death and life, his every waking moment a struggle for balance. What manner of man might survive the ages thus, unable to participate in either death or life, earning his continued survival by practices of such cruelty that legend accorded him the status of a true demon? I sense a spark of humanity still in him, but it is deeply buried. And he believes—perhaps correctly—that to express that humanity is to court true death. The arbiters of Hell are not known for their compassion.
    He had no further need for subterfuge but brandished his corrupted title proudly, glorying in our discomfort. He even claimed that he still served the Church, although in what manner he meant this I could not imagine. He told us that we would be permitted to leave the Forest, along with Ciani, to continue in our quest. And more. Our host announced that he would be joining our party, allying himself with our company until the lady’s assailants were destroyed. He used words like honor and obligation to explain his motives, but the bottom line was this: the Hunter adheres to a code of behavior that is part fear, part vanity, and part Revivalist tradition—and he wields it like a shield to safeguard the last remnants of his human identity. By that code, he explained, he was now bound to us—against his will, it seemed—his dark power allied to our purpose until Ciani was freed. We were given no choice in the matter.
    Alone, I might have defied him. Alone I might have chosen to face our