Berthold had received a guest room in the royal castle. It was far grander than any he had seen, with a hand carved bed, a small library in his own room, and a sitting area that had room enough for a dozen people. Even the windows to the outside had handcrafted details, with curtains made of a fabric he had never seen before.

Despite the king’s favor for providing him with information, no news of his actions reached Berthold. And he found himself with nothing to do besides reading books and exploring the foreign castle. On one such trip he overheard a pair of guards chatting while patrolling the empty halls.

“I heard Lightwatcher has been gathering peasants and commanding them to take out raiders,” the younger looking guard told the older one. He also neared him and whispered something in his ear.

“Kard Lightwatcher is a traitor, no matter what he’s doing. Joining forces with the king’s enemies is unacceptable,” the older one curtly responded, pushing the younger one back, “now watch yourself or I’ll report you too.”

“I was only telling you what I heard,” the younger guard chuckled bitterly.

Walking quickly back to his room and hoping they wouldn’t notice him, Berthold became anxious, ‘maybe I was wrong going to Heinrich, do I really trust him more than the man I knighted myself? He was honorable enough to try to understand my father,’ he shook his head. No matter how good a man Kard might or might not have been, Berthold could suffer no more bloodshed.

Two days later, as the sun was setting, he finally heard from the king again. A knight of the guard led Berthold to the king’s court. In it were half a dozen nobles waiting to speak to the king, and far more knights packed the room than he had seen before.

“Lord Borel, it is now that your levy is needed. A rebellion is brewing in the east. They are the remnants of the heresy of my youth, and they are led by a man more capable than before,” the king spoke, politely but in monotone.

“Yes, your own marshall, the same one you sent to take care of the attack on the village of Korhal. Your majesty, with all due respect, we must act with caution, we do not know what other traitors we have among us,” he said it almost sadly, yet he smiled.

“Then who do you suggest I trust?”

“Well, I have a very capable knight of my own who can act as your temporary marshall. Only until a suitable replacement is found, of course.”

“I will happily accept the assistance of your marshall, as long as your levy is recruited in the swiftest possible manner.”

“Thank you my king,” Lord Borel bowed, then left the room with a dozen or so knights.

“Next!” Heinrich said curtly.

“Your majesty, I have brought Berthold, servant of the Comet.”

“Good, captain. I am sending you two along with a contingent of knights to the south to speak with the Comet’s Order. It is important you inform them of the goings on and request their assistance in once again dealing with this heresy!” he looked between Berthold and the knight, with just a bit of emotion in his voice.

“Of course your majesty. We will leave it once,” the knight bowed, and Berthold followed suit. He had no choice, but with every second a creeping suspicion held him.

In hours Berthold was put on a horse, despite him never riding, and was led out of Comet’s Landing with speed. Half a dozen knights followed, along with the captain. A man by the name of Dirk Jager, an old tongue word meaning hunter, the young priest discovered.

Despite their rush, he convinced the knights to pass by the Church of Landing, and Berthold left word for Orzt to await Johannes and Francis’ return, as well as take care of the church. It was probably too much responsibility for him to handle, but Berthold wasn’t left with much choice.

“Johannes sent a letter back, Berthold,” Orzt mentioned before they left for the road.

“Fantastic!” Berthold exclaimed as Orzt dug through another pile of mail and pulled out a letter. Grabbing it as soon as the younger man showed it to him, he continued “thank you for all your work Orzt. Be careful, this is a dangerous time,” the younger apprentice nodded in response.

It was the next morning before Berthold had the piece of mind to read the letter. Dirk had forced them all to ride far harder than he could manage, and Berthold collapsed the previous night. Nevertheless they were making good progress, they had already passed the first villages around the capital. Officially, this was further from the capital than Berthold remembered. His childhood in the east was hazy and mostly forgotten.

“My friend Berthold, it’s good to hear from you, I’ve been missing your letters for the last few weeks. Despite that, I understand your concern, it seems something awful is brewing in this kingdom. Just remember I’m not far away, and if I am needed by you or Francis I will return at once. In either case, I promise I shall visit soon, but I am quite busy with the recovery of the village. Ever since Kard arrived here two months ago the smallfolk have been in a frenzy to rebuild,” the letter read. Berthold worried about how lightly Johannes took it, but perhaps it was for the best. Since he was going south to find Francis, his friend’s skills were probably more at use in Korhal.

Worried but encouraged by Johannes' support, Berthold drifted into the monotony of riding. Every day the weather changed a bit, becoming sunnier and hotter. Despite the winter season. Yet a week later, when they were reaching the border of the capital’s holding. Where the hills, plains and forests turned to valleys flanked by mountains bigger than anything he had seen. With their peaks piercing the heavens themselves and shining white when the clouds did not cover them.

From there the road only got harder, Berthold was told it would still take them a month at best to reach the Order. His body wasn’t looking forward to it, yet the sights entranced him. At first they rode up the mountains, using half paved roads and routes. But soon enough every road was covered with debris, and Berthold found himself having a hard time keeping his breath. He even had to ask one of the knights for a surcoat, his clothes not being sufficient for the sheer cold.

Villages were sparse, but all of them were friendly. With even the smallest one having a grand church. Each one he visited had papers nailed to the gates and walls. Francis’ thesis. Hundreds of pages, half torn up and half read to the fraying of their edges.

“It’s heresy!” most of the priests said, refusing to engage Berthold on its argumentation when further pressed in the small time he had. In those same villages, when one of the townsfolk could read, he saw them group in front of the pages. Reading it as if for a ceremony.

Further south, as they descended from the mountain and the knights told him they were nearing the southern sea, bigger towns were dotted around. Even some cities, though most were east of their route. In those towns some priests agreed to argue, And he even found a scribe or two that decided to write down Francis' thesis. They spoke of a “press” that could write a single copy in a day. Berthold looked forward to seeing it himself.

It was only another week before they reached the first city on their route. It was a coastal city by the name of Venedig. The floating city they called it. Over the horizon Berthold could see it for the first time. On the shore were marble bridges and houses of such beauty he had never seen. Despite clearly being old enough that damage has reached them. While further away there were buildings simply floating on the water. Blocky squares of beautiful stone capped with sloped red roofs and pot-like chimneys. And hundreds, maybe thousands of small wooden ships floated between the different sections of this city.

Beyond that he could see the sea, something even more amazing. It was far more blue than he imagined. With small white waves he could see even from this distance. It seemed to stretch out forever, into the horizon and beyond it.

“It’s amazing to see for the first time, is it not?” Dirk asked Berthold, seeing him stop at the front of their line.

“Nothing could have prepared me for beauty like this. Is this how all the cities in the south are?” Berthold asked, his curiosity having been piqued, and for a second not worrying about Francis.

Dirk laughed before answering, “unfortunately not, but they are majestic in their own ways,” he looked back to the other knights, “but we should start riding again, there’s somebody we need to meet there.”

Only a couple hours of riding later they reached the low ground where the city had been built. Despite its unique position the city was well defended, Dirk pointed out to Berthold. Only one bridge led inside the city’s main quarter. And it was guarded by a gate house and archer towers. While the water around the city was so shallow and full of different tide structures that only their own ships could reach the outside ports intact.

They easily passed the bridge gate, owing to Dirk showing the royal seal Heinrich had provided them. Inside the city were scores of people, mostly merchants and common folk, all trading for or buying various items in floating markets. Stone bricks gave way for wood struts as they edged over the water. Parts of the wood were green, as if damaged by the sea, and some more were covered in white crystals. Having made their way to a small port, Dirk called for one of the small boats dotting the channels of water. Berthold was convinced he had been there before.

“Who are we going to meet exactly?” he asked, while trying to fight the nausea he felt from the wobbling of the small elongated boat.

“Can’t you take some time to enjoy the scenery?” Dirk laughed. “We’re going to meet a priest here. He’ll serve as our ambassador and escort to the Order. And from what I’ve heard he may also know where Francis is,” Berthold was surprised, though not enough to stop himself from coughing badly as his stomach almost heaved.

“How do you know about him?” he swallowed as best he could.

“Despite his majesty’s relative ignorance to the goings on in the realm, part of my duty is to keep informed. I have heard his journey to dispute the Order’s actions. Of course I have no opinion but I am sure you wish to see him,” Berthold nodded respectfully.

“I appreciate that.”

It was almost a palace, far less grand than the royal castle. But no less beautiful. Marble stood on wooden struts built up of darkened wood that Berthold had never seen. Gold dominated the inside of a thousand carvings, made of such fine detail that he thought impossible. A painting adored the front of the church, one of the comet touching ground as thousands flocked around it. Including an image of what Berthold believed was the prophet.

As they entered beyond the grand metal doors, which were a dirty golden color, a man approached them. The hall behind it was far bigger than the Church of the Landing, yet it was also eerily empty. Only two men were there, and not a soul sat in the pews.

“I’m very sorry but the cathedral is not open to the public today, it is the chaplain’s day of rest,” he was graceful, but Berthold sensed a bit of hostility. The further figure, standing near the altar looked to them, and after a glance walked towards them.

“Do not worry child, they were sent by the king,” he said, and when he got closer, he looked at their faces before catching Berthold’s eyes, “it’s good to meet you Berthold. Francis told me of you when he passed here not long ago, though his thesis was taken down, as unfortunate as that is.”