Nate Kenyon - The Order

She heard a creak from somewhere down the hall. A faint line of light under her door brightened and then faded again, as if someone was moving around out there with a lantern. She got up and passed silently to the door, pressing her ear against it. Her mother was arguing with herself in a harsh whisper that was getting louder; her creaking steps became faster as she paced back and forth. Again, Leah could feel something building both within her and without, a crackling energy that was so terrifying she could hardly breathe. She shrank away from the door as the light brightened under the crack, climbing up onto the narrow bed, clutching her knees to her chest and rocking.

Gillian shrieked in the hallway, her voice startlingly loud in the quiet house. A small, animal moan escaped Leah’s mouth as the bolt was thrown back and her door swung open, crashing against the wall. Gillian stood framed by the lantern she held up, swaying slightly in her night robes, her hair a wild, ghostly aura around her head. “Come here, child,” she said. When Leah did not move, her voice grew needle-sharp. “You need to listen . I’m talking to you.” Her mother smiled, but there was no warmth in it. It was almost as if her mother wasn’t there at all, as if she had fallen into a trance. “There’s something important we have to do.”

Leah didn’t know exactly what happened next—as Gillian entered the room, the world seemed to stretch and fall away and go dim, as if someone else had taken control of Leah’s senses. The next thing she knew, she was in the hallway, her mother’s sweaty hand on her arm, propelling her ahead, and when the rapping came at the door, she didn’t know whether it was real or inside her head.

Gillian froze halfway into the living room, a haunted look on her face. The remains of the fire crackled in the hearth as a log shifted. The lantern’s flame sputtered and threw shadows that danced across the gray walls.

The rapping came again, louder this time. Gillian sighed, dropping her hand from Leah’s arm, and her entire body sagged as if releasing something she’d been holding tightly inside. Whatever darkness had fallen over them had broken. “S’late,” she muttered. “Who might that be?” Her eyes suddenly focused on Leah’s face, her trembling shoulders. “What’s wrong with you? And what are you doing out of bed? Fetch some water while I get the door.”

She set the lantern down on the table and pulled her robes around her thin frame. Leah did not move, her legs rooted to the floor as her mother reached for the knob and swung the door open.

An old man stood there in a gray, hooded tunic, white hair and beard long and unkempt, a walking staff in his hand and an old, battered pack over his shoulder. For a moment she thought of the crazy old beggar in the streets, but this man was entirely different. His dress was strange, and he seemed to be carrying a heavy burden. But his features were ancient and kind, and his eyes seemed to twinkle like stars in the shadows of his face.

“Gillian,” he said. “I’m sorry to call so late, but I’ve been traveling for days, and I didn’t want to wait.”

Leah’s mother stood absolutely still, seeming to not even breathe for a long moment. Her hand slowly drifted to her mouth. “Deckard? Deckard Cain? Is that really you?”

The old man smiled. “I believe so, although the dust of the road is thick enough to make one question it.” His gaze left her mother and settled on Leah. “It’s been a long time. I wonder if I might come in?”

Gillian said nothing at first, as if struggling to find the right answer. Let him in, Leah thought, please, although she wasn’t sure why. There was something about the old man, something comforting. And anything would be better than being alone with her mother now.

“Of course,” Gillian said finally, stepping aside. “Forgive me. I don’t know where my . . . mind is.”

The old man put his hand on her shoulder. “Thank you,” he said. “We have things to discuss, after all, do we not?”

She nodded, meeting his eyes, and something unspoken seemed to pass between them.

Then he stepped through, and Gillian closed the door softly behind him, shutting out the night and whatever else might be lurking out of sight.

Deckard Cain stepped into the shabby home, looking around at the nearly colorless walls, the chipped and scratched old table, and the filthy hearth, his heart sinking in his chest. The protective spell that Adria had placed over the house and its inhabitants had still been active, and he had found them only because he knew precisely where to look. But everything inside was too tired and worn. There was a tension in the air that was palpable.

He had come to Caldeum because of what had happened at the ruins, but he had also come to visit an old friend and fulfill a promise, and had hoped to find everything well. But Gillian was not the same woman he had left here a few years before. She had aged far more than she should have; formerly young and beautiful, with a laugh that could infect a room, she had gone puffy and soft, her hair graying and brittle as straw. Her eyes had become haunted and bruised, and an air of neglect hovered around her, as if she could barely remember to care for herself.

It was no real surprise, he thought, considering what had happened to her in Tristram. What had happened to all of them. But with guidance from his Horadric texts, he had known better how to manage the madness that threatened them, while those few others who survived the demon’s carnage were left exposed, broken and lost.

“I’ll get you something to drink,” Gillian said, waving at the table. “Please, sit. Leah, did you fetch that water?”

Cain took the opportunity to study the girl as she moved into the tiny kitchen area and took an earthen-fired cup from a dusty shelf, dipping a ladle into a wooden barrel. She was thin, long-limbed, and coltish, as if some parts of her body had begun to outgrow others, her hair was cut short and uneven, and her nightdress was tired and gray. But she had an elegance about her, even beneath her layer of dirt, an inner thrumming of energy, and he could tell she would be a stunning woman someday.

Like her true mother.

This was the real reason he was here tonight. He had neglected it for far too long. He glanced back at Gillian and caught her watching Leah too. He could not tell whether her eyes reflected love, sadness, or fear.

Leah returned to him with the cup, and he took it with a smile that felt awkward and stiff. He had never been good with children—even years ago, when he’d been a much younger man and had run the one-room schoolhouse in Tristram, they had been like foreigners who spoke a different language that he had never bothered to learn.

“Thank you, young lady,” he said. He took a sip of water, which was lukewarm and tasted slightly metallic, but good all the same on his parched throat. “I must say, you are quite different than I imagined you.”

The girl’s eyes widened slightly.

“This is . . . Uncle Deckard,” Gillian said. “We knew each other in—in the town where we grew up.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Leah said, putting out her hand. Cain hesitated, then took it, feeling the small bones in his own, as delicate and light as a bird’s wing. At the same time he felt the strength coiled within her, and he had to bite back a gasp of surprise and refrain from yanking his hand away. This was no ordinary little girl, but he could not tell what sort of magic she held, or what its purpose might be. Still, it unsettled him, the way a glimpse of movement in a dark alleyway at night would make one pause before entering the shadows.