of the house of refuge, Parvel had told Jesse all about how Lazarus had died, and how Jesus had raised him from the dead.
“And so many people believed in Jesus because of Lazarus that the leaders decided they would have to kill Jesus and Lazarus,” Parvel finished.
Jesse laughed. “That’s ridiculous. How do you kill a man who’s already died?”
“You cut his loudmouth head off with a sword,” Silas snapped from in front of them. Even Parvel looked a little taken aback. It was strange of Silas to be so outspoken, even when joking.
“No more of this story,” Silas said. “We’re coming into the village. From now on, let me do the talking. I’m from this District and know how things are done. Besides, you all have accents.”
Rae sniffed and folded her arms. “I don’t have an accent. Everyone else does.”
Parvel laughed. “I suppose all of us could say that.”
Jesse didn’t mind the silence, just as he didn’t mind hiding their weapons or travelling off the main road. If Silas was overly cautious, at least that was better than rushing blindly into danger. They didn’t want to arouse any suspicions.
Like most houses of refuge, the one in Davior was on the very edge of town, another reason they had chosen to stay there. Jesse knew the reason was to make it more accessible to travelers, but the house of refuge looked lonely on the hill overlooking Davior, as if it had been pushed away from the city along with the outcasts who lived there.
Once they got closer, Jesse could see that the house of refuge was a large, two-story building surrounded by a neat pole fence and marked by a white flag with a red stripe—the symbol of the Order of Amarian priests.
The porch creaked under their collective weight, but other than that there were no signs the house of refuge was dirty or run-down. The floor was swept, the windows clean, and a few flowers poked bravely out of the ground near the wall.
That surprised Jesse, because the tiny chapel in his hometown of Mir was little more than a dirty hut. Then again, he reminded himself, our priest was fat and lazy. There’s no reason to assume that all priests are like him.
Silas’s knock on the door echoed hollowly. They stood there on the porch, waiting.
“What if it’s been abandoned?” Jesse asked. “I’ve heard of that happening. The king has his men inspect the houses of refuge, then shuts down the ones that aren’t run the way he wants.”
“No,” Silas said. “Everything’s too neat for that. Unless they were driven away just a few days ago.” He knocked again.
“That would be just our luck,” Rae muttered.
Then he looked down. A little girl peeped out at the same height as the doorknob. “Who is it?” she asked.
“Travelers seeking a place to stay,” Silas answered, as formally as if he were talking to a grand duke.
“Oh,” she said. She bit her lip, like she was trying to remember what to do. Then she smiled and opened the door. “Come in.”
They followed her into the entryway, which looked to Jesse more like a parlor. It was much more elaborate than the homes he was used to back in Mir. The furnishings were elegant, but faded, as if they had been a part of the house of refuge for many years.
“Wait here, please,” she chirped, darting through a doorway with a dark curtain hanging to the ground. “I’ll get the priests.”
Jesse glanced around. On the cabinet against the far wall was an open book, a velvet ribbon marking the place. “A Song for Divine Peace,” it read in calligraphy at the top of the page, followed by what looked like a poem.
“What do the priests believe, Parvel?” Jesse asked, looking up from the book. “My father never trusted them, so I paid them very little attention.”
“It’s rather complicated,” Parvel admitted. “For most, the Order is a meditative religion. The priests teach from the Book of Prayer, and most see God as a kind of impersonal force present in all of nature and in the good aspects of the world. Others….” He shrugged and glanced around the parlor. There was a chair with cushions, a painting over the fireplace, and a window with real glass, all of them expensive luxuries.
“Others only take the job for the salary and the tax exemptions that come with being part of the Order,” Silas cut in, his voice like ice. “Is that what you were going to say, Parvel?”
He didn’t deny it. “So, which kind of priest was my father?” Silas continued.
“I did not know your father,” Parvel said. “Even then, I would not be able to say for certain. I cannot judge a man’s heart. Only God can.”
“That’s what….” Whatever Silas had been about to say was cut short when two men entered the room. They both wore the traditional red belt of the order, but that was where the resemblance stopped.
The first priest walked with confidence. He was younger, with a strong chin and a stomach enlarged from not a few years of rich living. The other was an old man, small and frail, with simple clothes that had lost nearly all of their color from years of washing and use.
The older priest stepped forward, clearing his throat. “Welcome to our house of refuge,” he said. “Blessings upon you as you enter this place. I am Anton, and this is Harrod.”
“My name is Thomas,” Silas said. They had all agreed that it would be dangerous to use their real names, in case the priests kept any kind of record of their visitors. “My friends and I are traveling together. We need a place to stay for a few nights.”
“Thomas,” the old priest mused, looking up at Silas with serious dark eyes. “An interesting man, that one. So many doubts…but he saw the truth in the end. Yes. In the end.”
“Excuse me?” Silas asked.
“Just an old legend of the Order,” the younger priest said, waving his hand in dismissal. “Anton lives in those musty old books. Sometimes he forgets when he’s in the real world.”
Anton chuckled to himself. “It’s true. Half of the time, I don’t know which stories are true and which were made up by lonely old men like me, dreaming of something that isn’t real.” He shrugged. “But enough of that. We need to find you a room.”
The younger priest crossed his arms and directed his question at Silas. “Can you pay?”
“Harrod,” Anton scolded. “You know we don’t take fees, as if we were a common inn.” Still, he waited for Silas to answer.
“We have no money,” Silas said, keeping his shoulders straight and head up, even though Jesse knew it must be humiliating for him to beg for a place to spend the night.
“Very well,” Anton said, nodding several times in a row like a sparrow. “You can work for your meal. We can always use more help in the kitchen.”
“Telemachus isn’t going to like it,” Harrod said. “You know he likes to keep to himself.”
“Our young friend Telemachus isn’t in charge of
