Magisterium by Jeff Hirsch

and charred. It was surrounded by wooden pews set in a circle, some of which were little more than ash and black timbers.
    Aamon kicked away pieces of the crumbled pews, making a path to the table. When a pile of debris got in his way, he reached into it with a growl and threw the charred wood over the wall and out into the forest. It echoed as it crashed through the woods. A flight of birds squalled and fled. Aamon dropped to his knees before the table. Glenn moved forward to get a better look, but Kevin held her back. She turned, uncertain, then held up one finger and he grudgingly let go. Glenn continued on and hid behind a closer tree.
    On the base of the stone table, partially gouged away and
    darkened, a perfect circle, divided across the middle by a thick line, had been carved into the stone. Aamon traced the circle with one clawed finger before laying his palm flat against the stone and closing his eyes.
    “Forgive me.”
    He sat for a moment longer, his head down, whispering unheard words beneath his breath in a quiet rhythmic chant.
    Praying , Glenn thought.
    When he was done, Aamon turned his head to the side and
    sniffed the air.
    “I told you both to stay in the house,” he announced, his voice shockingly loud in the hush of the forest.
    “It’s my fault,” Kevin said, striding out into the middle of the clearing. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to, uh …”
    Aamon’s green eyes pierced the space between him and Kevin, immediately cutting off his halting babble. Glenn stepped out of the trees to stand by Kevin’s side.
    “It was both of us.”
    Aamon regarded them for a moment, then turned back to the

    altar.
    “What is this place?” Kevin asked.
    “An abomination,” Aamon rumbled. “It was a temple.”
    Glenn drew closer to the pile of remains. Here and there, small saplings and shoots emerged from the black wreckage. Dry vines curled around the rocks and benches, strangling them. Glenn noticed other dark streaks in places along the ground. On closer inspection, she saw that they were black feathers with silver patches at the tip.
    “I left before dawn,” Aamon said. “Went to Karaman and
    Redfield. The temples are all gone. The monasteries too. The great monument to Kirzal in Karaman … it used to shine for miles in every direction, gold and marble. Now it’s a scorched pile of stone. The people bow and scrape and the Magistra’s soldiers are everywhere.
    This is not the Magisterium I left.”
    “What happened to it?” Glenn asked.
    Aamon looked around the ruins.
    “I did,” he said quietly.
    “What do you mean?” Kevin asked. “Aamon —”
    “Come,” he said, turning his back on the altar. “I have supplies and fast horses for all of us. There’s no time to wait.”
    “Uh, we don’t exactly do a lot of horseback riding at home,”
    Kevin said.
    “Then it’s time to learn.”
    Aamon left them there, striding into the trees. Kevin turned to Glenn after he was gone.
    “What do you think he did?”
    “What?”
    “He was asking forgiveness.”
    Glenn thought of the dead agent lying in the snow, and Aamon’s massive body looming over him with blood on his hands.
    “It’s not what I am,” Aamon had said that night. Whether it was an explanation or another prayer, Glenn didn’t know.
     
    The first thing Glenn and Kevin saw when they returned to the house was three horses tied up around back. There were two small black ones and an enormous beige one with a white mane, which must have been for Aamon. Each was saddled and loaded down with supplies and there was a large sword in a scabbard lashed to Aamon’s.
    Kevin reached for it but Glenn pulled his hand away and led him around to the front of the house. Before they could get there, though, she heard a commotion out front.
    Glenn waved Kevin back and flattened herself against the wall.
    “What?” Kevin asked as he blundered into her.
    “Shh!”
    Glenn eased forward. Standing in the courtyard in front of the house was a small