Chapter 43

Katarina, Aleima, and Indigo travelled south, following the river that led down to Begierde. Katarina had retrieved her cart and they made decent time, but only after Aleima hooked up her own horse to the cart.

"Your horse wasn't bred for pulling carts, Katarina." Aleima explained. "Mine is. Let me drive."

The lands between the tribe's meadow and Begierde were striped with bands of dense forest and grasslands, lumpy hills and short cliffs. Katarina and Aleima spent their days and evenings tutoring Indigo on trailcraft, survival skills, sewing and leatherworking.

Katarina dismantled the coat she'd inherited from her master and stitched in the intricately decorated leather vest she'd taken from the centaur, then took the scraps of leather and made a vest for Indigo, who enjoyed it immensely.

One evening, as Katarina finished the rituals for cleaning her gun, and Aleima spoke up.

"Katarina, I think it's time we talk about what we're going to do when we arrive in Begierde." She offered from across the fire. Katarina eyed her briefly as she reassembled her gun.

"Go on."

"I think it should be wise for you to avoid the Church until after I have had a chance to give my report."

Katarina's hands paused. "Why should I do that?" She asked, and Aleima offered a shrug.

"You explained it pretty succinctly. Their 'requests' for your return to Darnell have grown more and more insistent." She offered, and Katarina nodded. "I would think that by now they have issued an official order for you to return to Darnell." She revealed. "If the orders are there, you will be unable to refuse."

Katarina nodded. "Seems reasonable. You want me to avoid that sort of thing."

Aleima shook her head. "It is not spoken about freely, but," She eyed Indigo for a moment, and then continued, "but Witch Hunters and Inquisitors are allowed to refuse orders under certain circumstances." Katarina nodded. Usually when there was a pre-existing investigation underway, and following those orders would create a conflict of interest with the current task. Katarina would normally be able to refuse under those circumstances, but since Church had frozen her current investigation, she would be unable to refuse, and vulnerable to arrest.

"So you want to 'feel things out' before having me arrive?" Katarina asked, and Aleima nodded.

"Do you have someone in Begierde you could visit?" Aleima asked, and Katarina shrugged.

"Sort of. It's complicated." She replied reluctantly.

"What's this? The Witch Hunter has an old flame?" Aleima teased, and Indigo suddenly became very interested in her needlework.

Katarina shook her head. "I have family there. I haven't spoken with them in a very long time." She added reluctantly. "They might not want to see me." She added.

"Is there bad blood between you?" Aleima asked, concerned. Katarina shook her head. "The last time I saw them, I was six years old." She replied simply.

"They definitely want to see you, then." Aleima encouraged. "Who is your family?" She asked. "You've never spoken of them."

Katarina took a shaky breath and let it out, and then holstered her gun and began putting her cleaning kit away.

"They're the Pavlenkos. An old family that moved from the homeland to Begierde. They're merchants."

Aleima's eyes widened. "Ah. There's bad blood between them and the Church." She advised. Katarina frowned at her. "How do you know this?" She asked, and Aleima smiled.

"Because I lived and worked in the Temple of Begierde, Kat." She replied simply. "When the Church came and took both of their daughters, relations soured." She explained simply, and Katarina nodded.

"That just reinforces my earlier advice. For now, stay away from the Church. Let me deal with them. I'll come visit when I have time." Aleima offered. She gestured at Indigo. "I'll take this one with me."

"You don't have any authority over me, old woman." Indigo immediately retorted.

"I'm still a member of the Church of the Golden Lady." Aleima replied, an edge of steel in her voice. "And while you might be an Initiate, you have no real rank within the Church. You'll submit to my authority." She declared decisively. Indigo rolled her eyes ostentatiously.

By the time the Lady Cardinal Yuriko arrived at Her Grace the Grand Cardinal's apartments, daylight had faded into evening.

The Grand Cardinal's guards stopped her before she reached the apartments, of course.

"Her Grace the Grand Cardinal requested me." She replied to their inquiries. After one ran to get confirmation and returned, Yuriko was permitted to pass.

When Yuriko entered the Grand Cardinal's apartments, she was struck by the opulence. Thick curtains, heavy with gold brocade. Ponderous furniture, deeply carved with whorls and waves, heavily gilded, mounded with thick cushions. The massive fireplace was heavily decorated with ornate detail, bas relief carvings, and rare and priceless artifacts from all five continents that the Anglish Empire had a foothold on.

"I am curious... what, exactly, did you think to accomplish by attempting to engage the Cultus Sancti at the Basilicus in Rothgar behind my back?" The Grand Cardinal began from her position at a desk. Her back was turned to the Yamato Cardinal.

"Accomplishing my duties as a Lady Cardinal, Your Grace." Yuriko replied smoothly.

"I don't think so." The Grand Cardinal replied, not looking up from her paperwork. "This looks like subversion. Perhaps you weren't aware, but I happen to be a member of the Cultus."

"I'm aware of it, Your Grace." Yuriko replied.

"Then why circumnavigate my authority in this way?" The Grand Cardinal asked curiously.

"To avoid the appearance of bias, Your Grace." Yuriko replied.

The Grand Cardinal turned and regarded the Lady Cardinal.

"Bias?" She asked, and Yuriko nodded. The Grand Cardinal rose to her feet and moved to a recliner near the fire. She gestured to an opposing chair as she eased her ponderous bulk into her chair.

"Well, don't just sit there." The Grand Cardinal snapped after Yuriko sat primly. "Out with it. I have several things to do before I can sleep, and you're holding everything up."

"It started with a request from the Diviner in Aston, Your Grace." Yuriko began. "She reported Katarina Pavlenko's return from the dead."

"Half a dozen stories about that, and not a one worth verifying." The Grand Cardinal scoffed dismissively. Yuriko shook her head.

"The reports are clear, Your Grace." Yuriko replied. "Both from the Chaplain of the Sword stationed there and the Diviner both. She began a meditative trance, and the Chaplain has admitted to using the Crimson Incense on her to provoke it. While in the trance, she spoke the Divine Language." The Grand Cardinal threw a startled glance at Yuriko at that, who nodded.

"An acolyte who was sweeping the Chapel of the Sword was struck dumb upon hearing it." She added quietly. After shifting in her seat uncomfortably, Yuriko pressed onward. "She was in trance for more than a week. She died on the eighth day, and on the eleventh they prepared her for the crematory. She rose from the dead at her funerary ceremonies."

"Like I said, fanciful stories." The Grand Cardinal replied. "Our beloved Golden Lady has never seen fit to grace us with resurrection." She paused, and then added, "Logic dictates then she was likely in some sort of coma, or perhaps those who witnessed it exaggerated. There are many ways something of this nature could be fabricated, and the least likely scenario is that she died and was resurrected."

Yuriko shook her head, and laid her stack of papers down. "These are verified testimonies from witnesses under oath, Grand Cardinal." She insisted.

"So you decided to involve the Cultus." The Grand Cardinal remarked with a sigh.

Yuriko shook her head. "Not then, Your Grace." She replied.

"Then when?" The Grand Cardinal asked.

"When Celeste requested her arrest." Yuriko replied.

The Grand Cardinal burst into laughter at that. "You seek Katarina's canonization as an opposition to Celeste's request for Interrogation?" She asked, and Yuriko frowned, shaking her head.

"I would like to send investigative teams to the places she has visited to catch a measure of her, Your Grace. I would know the character of this Justicar Witch Hunter." She replied. "If she is to undergo Interrogation under the threat of corruption and mutation, then I would like to offer her the possibility of reconciliation with the Church of the Golden Lady under the auspices of 'Servant of the Goddess'."

"You could have come to me with this. I would have approved this without qualm." The Grand Cardinal replied.

Yuriko shook her head. "You have been seen specifically requesting reports on her, Your Grace." She replied.

The Grand Cardinal nodded. "Bias."

Yuriko nodded. "Just so, Your Grace."

The Grand Cardinal nodded and waved her hand. "Go ahead with your requests. With the evidence you presented me, the other members of the Cultus Sancti will have no disagreement and will likely approve the investigation. Have the teams sent as quickly as possible. Let us build a case for that woman."

Katarina awoke with the strange sense that there was someone in bed with her. A feeling, a pressure on the mattress alongside her. Bizarrely, there was no sense of danger.

Her body felt rested, but there was no sense of time that had passed. She could have been asleep for thirty minutes or a month. Perhaps she'd lain there for a thousand years. She existed perfectly in the cusp of sleeping and wakefulness, awake but unmotivated, perfectly in neutral.

She could get out of bed, but she wasn't sure she was ready to expend the effort. Besides, the bed was comfortable. Perhaps she was sleeping, and only dreaming she was awake, lying in a bed the size of a tent. Maybe she was awake and only daydreaming she was asleep. She couldn't even tell if her eyes were open or not.

She shied away from the idea of being awake. So much had happened recently, she wasn't sure that being awake was such a hot idea. Against her will, her mind replayed the salient facts from the past few months.

In Aston she'd learned that the gun she carried was possessed. Her late Master had discovered or found a fragment of mithral somewhere in his travels. He'd stored it in the eagle-carved butt of the gun, wholly unaware that this bit of sacred metal housed at least in part, an Angelic Spirit of the Storm.

Angelic Spirits weren't human. They couldn't be related to in any human context either, except perhaps as bundles of incomprehensible emotion coupled with unfathomable power. Angelic Spirits answered to no one save the Goddess Herself, bringing storm, eruption, tidal waves and earthquakes wherever the whim struck. This one, the Im Adad, had stood in judgement of Katarina, and had refused to allow Katarina's gun to function until she had atoned in the eyes of her Goddess.

Shortly after she had left Aston, Katarina had been given the assignment to hunt down her sister, Alsabet Pavlenko. Katarina was a Witch Hunter, an extensively trained bounty hunter specializing in tracking and disposing of rogue mages.

Upon arrival in the city of Norn, Katarina had been immediately warned off by the local Church, ordered to suspend her hunt scarcely before it had begun. Katarina had ignored such a preposterous order. The Church in Norn was behaving erratically, and Katarina was focused on performing her duties. Shortly after leaving for the forests in pursuit of her sister, Katarina had succumbed to a mysterious ailment comprised of random bouts of dizziness, nausea, hallucinations, and strange physical sensations. Her hair, a flat white, had gradually turned a glossy, silvery shade.

Magic was dangerous. Not only because it could be used as a weapon, but also because magic carried with it a curse of corruption. An unprotected magus that used magic ran the risk of terrible deformities, mutations, demonic possession, and madness. It was her responsibility to track down unsanctioned mages and offer them the choice of becoming sanctioned or a merciful death.

Katarina was no mage, but people could mutate simply as a result of being near magical activity. She was terrified of mutation. She desperately needed to meet with a priestess and subject herself to the Rites of Inspection.

In her trek through the forest, Katarina had been shot by one of her peers, a former Witch Hunter by the name of Morgan Blackhand, a man who had abandoned his faith in the Goddess. It was only by providence and sheer luck that she had managed to strike him down in turn.

Inexplicably, she had been healed, a miraculous form of healing that defied common explanation, even in the face of magical and clerical healing. So, coupled with a Witch Hunter Initiate, and a Pastor of the Church of the Golden Lady, they made their way downriver...

At times it seemed she was laying in a huge, elaborate bed, with decorated canopy, richly-embroidered hanging curtains, and smooth featherbed, at times she seemed wrapped in a cottony indistinct nothing that embraced her whole body. At times it felt as if she were being embraced, or that she were embracing someone else, or perhaps they were embracing each other at the same time. Permeating everything was the comforting feeling of homecoming, of being warm, comfortable, and at peace.

Part of her rebelled at this luxurious indolence. Some small part of her jumped up and down, shouting at her that there were things to do, Witches to hunt. Her list of tasks only grew, the longer she put it off. Katarina wouldn't be dissuaded. She liked this warm feeling of relaxation. This comfortable feeling of sublime bliss.

There was a thin thread of ache in her head; the kind she got after drinking to excess. A pressure in her midsection that reminded her she needed to take a necessary. She needed to wake up. She fought against it with all of her formidable will. This was the first good night's sleep she'd gotten since- her mind couldn't regurgitate the answer.

The headache, the urge to use the restroom, the vague feeling of things left undone suddenly sharpened. There was a sense of something else.

She opened her eyes, taking in the dim interior of the bed. The heavy canopy and bed curtains had been drawn, blocking the light. What time was it? She wondered idly. She glanced around the shrouded expanse of the bed she was in. Her bed was roughly the size of the tent she'd stayed in at Aleima's camp. Katarina couldn't tell what time of day it was. Was it morning? Afternoon? Still night?

She closed her eyes again, but her mind was still awake. She adjusted her position in bed pensively and the girl beside her mewled sleepily, sharpening Katarina's attention immediately. The vague sensation from earlier wasn't wrong. She was half-curled around another woman, or perhaps they were entwined together. A jolt of adrenaline spiked through her heart like a needle of ice. Who was she? Where was she? Her eyes sprang open in the gloom.

As she opened her eyes, there was the scrawling, gnawing sensation of being watched, of not being alone. There was a split second when she thought she spied someone standing at the foot of the bed, a woman with alabaster-pale skin, long black hair that disappeared against her dress. The woman's gaze was studiously intent, smoldering with a barely repressed fury. Katarina jolted upright in an eyeblink, sending the woman she'd been entangled with flying.

In that eyeblink, the woman at the foot of the bed, if she had truly been there at all, was gone in the space between the flicker of her eyelid, revealing shadowy shapes of the thick royal blue drapes of velvet that canopied the bed. The curtains never even stirred, betraying the fact that nobody had been there.

In her terror, Katarina extended her blessed senses, hunting for a hint of magic, a clue that would shed light on that crawling sensation.

But as before, there was nothing. When had that figure begun haunting her? She couldn't remember, nor could she ever pin it down. Reluctantly, as before, Katarina let it go. There were feelings, impressions that had begun growing in her mind, and she was willing to bet that sooner or later she would unlock the mystery.

As it stood, Katarina had several mysteries on her plate already. She had to track down her sister, who had rebelled against the Church and had a head start of literally months. She'd been plagued with a mysterious affliction of nausea, vomiting, and convulsions since she'd arrived in Norn, weeks ago. Worryingly, her hair had started changing color at the same time, suggesting correlation if not causality.

Lastly, she'd been plagued with visions of that voluptuous, fair skinned, dark-haired beauty, appearing in the corner of her eye, standing out in crowds, lurking behind trees and campfires. Always, always it was the same woman, a woman with pale skin, a long waterfall of hair as dark and glossy as a raven's wing that hung free to the waist. The woman was always in a sultry, sleeveless black dress that hung from the shoulders with thin straps, clung lasciviously to her curves, and fell past her figure to hide her feet. Who was she? Further, why did she seem to appear everywhere, always just out of sight? Why was Katarina certain she'd seen the woman before?

She glanced at the woman that actually was in the mammoth bed with her, and placed her immediately. With the realization, she understood what had happened, and how she'd ended up in a massive bed that could comfortably sleep eight with the cheeky brunette with flashing eyes.

Last night's revelry was both hilarious and terrifying. Her only memories of her father were dim and faded, a monstrous bear of a man, with wild, unruly black hair, and a body like that of a dock worker.

When he'd entered the dining hall, Katarina saw him for the first time since she was but a wee slip of a girl. His figure was wasted, much slimmer, his skin was pale and his hair had gone silver. His clothes hung on his frame and he moved with a listlessness that spoke of a long-wearied sense of surrender.

His watery green eyes moved to Bianka, to Kristoff, and then to Katarina with the same sense of disconnection. He paused after eyeing them, and he swung back to eye the strange woman at his table.

Animation flooded his face with new vitality, he seemed to swell in his clothes. He let out a wordless shout and dashed down the length of the table and scooped Katarina out of her chair and whirled her around as if she was still a girl of six.

"Kat!" he shouted as he swung her about. "Oh Kat, how I've missed you!" he shouted as he spun around and enfolded her in a mammoth, bone-breaking hug. After a long moment he finally set her down and wiped his eyes.

"You've gotten so big, Kat." he admired, and she smiled back at him, struggling with her own tears.

"Look at you, tati." She replied, using the childish term for father, and tugged on his beard lightly. "Your hair!"

"Bianka!" he shouted at his wife, his voice breaking. "It's Kat!" He exclaimed.

"Yes dear." Bianka replied quietly. "Kat's come home to us." She added.

"You drink wine, don't you, dear?" He asked, and then shouted for the maids without waiting for her answer. "Paharnic!" He shouted for the steward of the wine, "Bring the best wine! We're celebrating tonight!" He roared, and Bianka smiled. "I've already had the paharnic bring up the best, dear." She replied, and one of the maidservants offered him a goblet. He blinked at the glass. "You brought out the glassware?" He asked Bianka, who nodded and shrugged. He beamed at his wife.

"Only the best for my little girl!" he declared, and hoisted his glass.

The night had only grown more hectic and frantic, and was only marred by the increasingly taciturn responses from her little brother, who clamped his lips together thinly, said little, drank little, and ate little.

What was she going to do? She wondered as she lay in bed. Her head was filled with a growing list of nearly impossible tasks.

First, she should check in with Aleima, she decided. She needed to find out why her assignment was suspended. She should also consult with a priestess about the changes that had happened to her, namely her hair color. The thought of mutation terrified her. Before she did that, however, she'd try once more to mend the rift between her and her little brother.

She adjusted her position in bed pensively and the girl beside her mewled sleepily.

The maid that Bianka had assigned her at some impossibly early our, both of them exhausted and bleary-eyed, was a saucy girl with flashing eyes and a daring grin. When the girl told her that Katarina could order anything with a suggestive wink and a laugh, Katarina had drunkenly pounced on her.

Katarina shied away from that. Up until very recently, she hadn't been aware of her sexuality in any real way, focusing all of her efforts and energies into her responsibilities. So far as she could tell, her own forays hadn't yet given her problems, but if she was irresponsible, she would end up getting herself into trouble. She was reasonably certain that she hadn't broken any rules with The Lily of the Dawn, but she felt like she was moving in a gray area that could be described as "that which is not forbidden is permitted" which was ever a place to stumble and fall. The Goddess herself had not forbidden any sort of union provided that it was consensual on both sides. She hadn't much to say on the nature or value of sexual trysts, though the Church itself had volumes on what was permitted and what was not.

What had led to the almost frantic, urgent celebration? Why had her younger brother glared at her bitterly over the rim of his glass? The only conclusion Katarina could draw was that he wasn't at all happy to discover that he had been left completely in the dark, unknowing that he had not one, but two older sisters. That revelation hadn't gone well at all.

Begierde had the dubious honor of being the third-oldest city on the continent of Hesperia, but only if you counted cities that were still inhabited. Hesperia was filled with the remains of countries and empires that had risen and fallen and disappeared into dust long before the Anglish Empire had moved in.

One empire that had declined, but had not fallen to dust was Nauders, who at the height of their power five hundred years ago had followed the Great Mother River south and founded Tannit, Begierde, and finally Einsamkeit in the broad delta that formed when the river emptied itself into the Gulf of Mirras. Nauders lost authority quickly, and when the Anglish encountered the city nearly seventy years ago, they found it divided and controlled by various factions. The Anglish faith swept through the city almost overnight, and the city became another city for the Empire.

The city of Begierde was wholly managed by the twenty-seven Merchant Lords, noble families that plotted and schemed and maneuvered with and against each other for authority. One of the families was the House of Edelfeld, a failing house that the aristocratic Anglish family Pavlenko married into during the occupation. The other houses resented this infusion of "new money" but were powerless to resist.

With the influx of money and a stream of trade goods from the continent of Rothgar to the south, the House of Pavlenko rose to enviable heights in just sixty years.

Kristoff Pavlenko never questioned any of this. He never questioned a great many things. He didn't question his family's home, which was as ancient as the city itself, he didn't question the small number of servants in the house, he didn't question his standing in the city, or even the fact that his parents were eager for him to take over the business as the third-generation family head. If left to his own devices he would have happily spent his days composing poetry and painting, but his mother and father had told him, in each their own way, that he was to take over, and he went along with it, without question.

There was one thing that he did question however, and had never received any worthwhile answers. The question of course had been, "What happened?"

His mother and father had been known as people of passion and laughter and expansive kindness, filled with life and fire and spit. He couldn't see that now. Shortly before his birth, they had changed, and he was certain that those who knew refused to tell him.

His mother was cold and somewhat acerbic; there was a brittle hardness to her. Her affections as a mother were distant and infrequent. In some ways, his father was worse. His father was depressed and disconnected from everything he did, as if he was turned inward, gazing internally at some dark mental abyss. Everything he did was done vaguely, as if going through the motions.

Try as he could though, Kristoff couldn't find out what had changed them so. Being an only child was rough.

"Keep working." Kristoff's mother's voice cracked out, as harsh and cutting as ever. From time to time her voice was brittle and acidic, as if on the verge of hysterics, but today it was only hard and sharp.

Kristoff was struggling with the books again. 'Again' was too polite a word. Math was his worst subject. All the numbers and figures squirmed around in his brain until he had a headache. He much preferred poetry. That at least made sense. His mother insisted he learn, however.

"We are part of the Merchant Lords of Begierde!", she would say acidly. "And you have to do your part to make sure we stay that way."

She was adamant that he succeed the trade business. There was a severity to her that refused negotiation, like a chunk of iron lodged in her heart. There was a lot his mother refused to tell him, but one thing was oft repeated: he was to get his head out of the clouds and be prepared to take over the business.

He spent his time moving through the various departments, learning each and how they fit together into the organization that his parents had forged. This season he was reviewing the accounts in the main building under his mother's supervision.

His father was perhaps worse, in a way. He worked as if in a fog, listless and easily distracted. He'd always seemed that way, for as long as Kristoff could remember. He was always lackadaisical, morose and defeated, eyes clouded. He always looked as if the fire had been taken out of him.

So he sat in front of a ponderous desk in the main office whose surface was set with a thin sheet of deeply polished aventurine, struggling with long pages filled with a dizzying array of numbers while his mother worked at another desk. Both desks were set at an angle to each other and were on an elevated dais as well; those that brought business before the House of Pavlenko would do so framed by the house representatives.

His mother raised her head from her documents, distracting him from his agonies. "What was that?" She asked, and he snapped back to himself. It sounded like there was a commotion in the other room.

"Just open the door you fat fuck." A woman's voice called out from beyond the room angrily. "I reckon I have more right to be here than you do, so move!" This was punctuated by a solid thud, as if whoever owned that voice had slammed the fat Rudi into the door.

There was another tussle, and the woman's voice rose from beyond the door again.

"By the Goddess, if you're not going to open the door-" The voice growled, and Kristoff glanced at his mother, who had taken a short dagger from her desk. She glared at him. "What're you doing?" She hissed furiously. "Arm yourself!"

He gave her a stunned, baffled look. With what? He carried no weapon. He'd never had to.

The double doors flew open and Rudi stumbled backwards into the room before falling over. His short sword was stuck halfway in his scabbard; the price of owning a bronze weapon.

The most beautiful woman Kristoff had ever seen strode in, bootheels clocking on the marble floor. She was tall, unbelievably tall. He guessed he maybe had only a couple of inches on her, probably less. Her hair was a glossy pearl with a streak of gold and her eyes, her eyes were the deepest, most vibrant green he'd ever seen. She was statuesque, striking, with a magnificent bust that strained against her vest. Her face was well-defined and noble, her lips perfect and bow-shaped. He was stunned and shocked by her beauty, moreso by her dress. From the waist up, she dressed like an itinerant nobleman, with a silk shirt spotted with travel stains and a gray silk vest that was stitched and patched. From the waist down was another matter entirely.

She wore tight-fitting leather pants that clung to her hips obscenely, fringed chaps on her legs and her spurs jingled. To top it all off, she wore a huge man's duster and cattleman's hat. A steel sword hung at her hip. Poor Rudi never had a chance.

She gave him a once-over with a dismissive eye and an imperious nod and focused her attention on his mother.

"Who are you?" His mother demanded, the hand holding the knife shaking. "What do you want?" Her voice was cracking, shrill. He noticed the holy symbol of the Church of the Golden lady hanging indifferently from the woman's belt. He was probably going to need to rescue the situation.

"I want you to answer a question for me." The woman replied instead, tugging off her gloves and tucking them behind her belt in the manner of the cattle drovers. Her voice was beautiful and smooth. "Are you Bianka Pavlenko?" She asked curiously.

"I am." His mother replied severely. "What do you want?!" She shouted at the taller woman, who raised an eyebrow and strangely, blushed.

"I want you to hit me." The woman replied apologetically.

Silence greeted her request. "Wh-what?" his mother stammered. The woman clamped her lips together, and then shrugged out of her coat and dropped it on the floor. Her hat joined it. The woman unbuckled her sword belt and tossed that on to her coat as well. She took off another belt and Kristoff goggled with a sudden, startled realization; the woman carried a gun. His mind added everything up: the woman was a Witch Hunter. Ice froze his heart to his chest. There were no witches here, but who knew what went through the minds of those zealots?

She tossed her gun to the floor as well, and she shook her head, tossing her hair back like a majestic horse.

"What're you doing?!" his mother yelled shrilly.

"My name..." The woman paused, and her eyes cast about as she looked down. "I'm Katarina Pavlenko." She replied, and Kristoff stared at her, mouth slack. He had no relatives that looked like her. Who was she?

There was a clatter, and he glanced at his mother, who had dropped her dagger. Her thin hands rose to cover her face.

"Kat-" She whispered, and the woman nodded. "I'm your Kat." She replied simply.

"How-" his mother began, and shook her head. "It can't be!" She cried, tears streaming down her face.

"It is, mother." the woman that called herself Katarina replied, hands outstretched. Kristoff jolted at that. Mother?

"You're alive?" his mother asked, and Katarina nodded.

"You've changed so much..." her mother whispered, and Katarina nodded again. "So have you." She replied, and moved towards the older woman.

"But why would you ask me to hit you?" Bianka asked her daughter.

"I've been a fool, mother." Katarina replied. "I should have visited you sooner." Katarina replied as she ascended the dais and embraced his mother.

"Mother..." He began, confusion and shock warring within him. "Who is this woman?" He asked, as she sobbed in the woman's arms. His mother didn't answer the question, she just sobbed in Katarina's embrace for some time. As the minutes stretched out, Kristoff grew more and more uncomfortable and impatient. Just as he was about to interrupt them, his mother pulled away from Katarina's embrace and wiped her eyes.

A jolt ran through Kristoff again. His mother had changed in just a few minutes. Whenever he'd seen her, she was always looking harried, tired, worn down, and on the verge of breaking down. He'd always tried to do what he could to ease her burdens, but in just a few minutes of crying with Katarina it seemed as though her years had been rolled back. She looked almost youthful.

"Kristoff, this is your older sister, Katarina." She introduced in a tear-clogged voice.

He shook his head at that and gestured at her vaguely. "You told me I was an only child."

Katarina eyed him, and glanced at their mother. She spoke up, then. "You're not an only child." She chuckled a little, and added, "You're the youngest. You have two older sisters."

"Two?" He blurted angrily. "Two?!" He demanded. Katarina nodded. "But you don't need to throw a temper tantrum." Katarina added. "One sister is a mage, and the other is a Witch Hunter." She explained calmly. "I'm not going to start imposing on you or start taking anything away from you." She finished.

"Then why couldn't you stay gone?" He argued, confused. He advanced on them slowly.

"Because I haven't seen my mother since I was six years old." Katarina replied. He drew up short.

Katarina eyed her mother and glanced at Kristoff again. "And judging your reactions, Alsabet hasn't come through here." She decided. Bianka's head snapped up at that.

"What? Is she coming here?" She asked, and Katarina shook her head. "I-" She started, and then shook her head. "If she does come here..." She trailed off. "I'm sure we'll all regret that choice." She finished.

"Has she..." Bianka began, and Katarina nodded. "She has forsaken the Goddess and gone rogue."

"And that monstrous church likely forced you to chase after." Bianka snarled, her old bitterness returning. Katarina shrugged helplessly. "I'm the only Witch Hunter remaining. Well, until the next class of new Witch Hunters graduates." Katarina added.

"So... what?" Kristoff offered. "Did you come here to, I don't know, lay in wait for her? Use the House of Pavlenko as a staging ground to kill her?" Kristoff demanded, and Katarina shook her head.

"Why would I do that?" She argued. "Like I said: I came here to see my mother." She replied simply.

"You're welcome to stay as long as you like, Kat." Bianka spoke up gently. "What do you need? Anything, anything you need." She offered.

Katarina sighed. "I feel like I'm being dragged this way and that, mother." Katarina said quietly. "The Church is behaving oddly." She stopped, and let out a breath. "And now it seems as though I have to choose between killing my sister and disobeying the Church. Lately I've been having dreams-" She cut herself off, then. "I just want a couple of days where nobody asks anything of me and I can think about what I should do next." She finished, and Bianka nodded solemnly.