"Qohorik?" Sparrow hissed. "How do you know?"
"The banner," the captured novice sobbed. "A black goat with bloody horns. Thomas told us to hide."
The boy wrenched free and bolted for the cellars.
"Heathens," Sparrow spat. "They don't fear the Seven hells. Come."
They reached the gatehouse. Brother Matthew, the acting abbot, stood on the battlements, his voice trembling but loud.
"Lord Vargo! St. Maurus is loyal to the Crown! We sent twenty casks of Arbor Gold to King's Landing! The High Septon himself praises our piety! Please, accept our greetings to Lord Tywin!"
From below, a wet, lisping voice answered. "Greetingths? You greet Tywin, but not Vargo Hoat? Do you mock me, old man?"
Sparrow peered through a crenel.
Below sat Vargo Hoat on a zorse—a striped beast from the east. The mercenary captain was tall and gaunt, with a goat-helm and a necklace of coins from every land he had pillaged.
Behind him were the Brave Companions. The Bloody Mummers.
They were a nightmare carnival. A copper-skinned Dothraki with bells in his braid. A fool in motley. A man in a cloak of human skins. Men with painted faces, filed teeth, and weapons that looked like torture instruments.
"Beasts," John whispered.
"Worse," Sparrow murmured. "I saw their handiwork in the Riverlands. They chopped off a septon's limbs and hung him in his own sept. Just because they could."
Brother Matthew tried again. "Lord Vargo, we are protected by the Holy Faith..."
"Thilence!" Vargo roared. "Open the gate, or we thkin you all!"
Then, his tone shifted. A sudden, terrifying joviality. "But... my men are thirhty. Give uth wine. Good wine. And maybe we ride on."
Matthew hesitated. "We have ten casks of the new vintage..."
"Five!" Vargo demanded. "Lower them down!"
"It's a trap," Sparrow whispered to Matthew. "They won't leave for five casks."
"We won't open the gate," Matthew whispered back. "We'll lower them on ropes. It's the only way."
The casks were lowered. Vargo Hoat pried one open, drank, and spat it out. "Pig thwill!"
He signaled his men. They dragged a dozen bound peasants from the shadows—men and women from the monastery's lands.
"Do you know thith one?" Vargo grabbed a woman by her hair.
"Laura!" Matthew gasped. "She's innocent!"
Vargo grinned and slit her throat. Blood sprayed the zorse's flanks.
"Open the gate!" Vargo shrieked. "Or they all die!"
He signaled again. His men began to butcher the peasants one by one.
"Stop!" Matthew screamed. "Open the gate! Bring them in! We must help the wounded!"
"No!" Sparrow shouted. "Keep it shut!"
Too late. The heavy oak doors groaned open. Monks rushed out to drag the "wounded" peasants inside.
Suddenly, five of the "corpses" leaped up. They drew concealed daggers and stabbed the monks, jamming their bodies into the gate mechanism.
A whistle blew. The thunder of hooves shook the ground.
"Run!" Sparrow grabbed John. "It's over!"
The Bloody Mummers poured into the courtyard, howling like demons.
Sparrow didn't head for the sanctuary. He ran for the wall. "Jump!"
It was a fifteen-foot drop. Sparrow leaped without hesitation. He landed badly, a sickening crack echoing in the darkness.
John followed, rolling as he hit the ground. He scrambled to Sparrow. The old man's leg was twisted at an unnatural angle.
"Go," Sparrow gritted out, face pale. "Leave me."
"No." John hauled the old man up. "There's a boat. The fishing skiff."
He dragged Sparrow through the vineyard, the screams of his dying brothers fading behind them. They reached the skiff hidden in the reeds. John shoved it into the water, rowing until his muscles burned, rowing until the burning monastery was just a spark in the distance.
Dawn found them on a secluded shore of the Gods Eye.
Sparrow lay on the grass, his leg swollen to the size of a log. He looked at the sunrise, his face calm.
"This is a good place to die," he said softly. "Leave me here, John. You have a path to walk."
"You're not dying," John said. He pulled out the dagger Aldric had given him and slit Sparrow's trouser leg. The bone was pressing against the skin.
"It's gangrene waiting to happen," Sparrow said clinically. "Without a maester, I'm dead."
John looked at the sun rising over the lake. He thought of Aldric. He thought of the golden light.
"Sparrow," John said. "My friend... he serves a god called An'she. But he told me... An'she and the Seven are one. The Sun is just the Father's face."
Sparrow looked at him. "Heresy."
"Maybe," John said. "But if it works... it's truth."
He placed his hands over the broken leg. He closed his eyes and reached for the warmth he had felt in the tent at Riverrun.
Father, Smith, Warrior... An'she... whoever you are. Heal him.
"Great Seven," John prayed aloud, his voice trembling. "Aspects of the Sun. Grant me your fire. Burn away the injury. Mend the bone."
He felt it. A surge of heat in his belly. A river of gold flowing down his arms.
"Light," John whispered.
His hands glowed. Not a reflection, but a source. Golden light poured into Sparrow's leg.
The old man gasped. The swelling vanished. The bone knit with an audible snap. The pain evaporated.
John sat back, panting, the light fading from his eyes.
Sparrow stared at his leg. He moved it. He stood up.
Silence stretched between them, heavy and profound.
"Whose power was that?" Sparrow asked quietly. "The Seven? Or the Sun?"
"Both," John said firmly. "They are the same."
Sparrow looked at John. The fanaticism in his eyes was replaced by something colder, sharper. Calculation.
"It is heresy," Sparrow said. "But... it is a valuable heresy."
He looked at John. "Take me to your friend."