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stand for! And Gold knows it!”
                  Gold, Marcii thought for a moment.
                  They must have been talking about Francis Gold.
    He was the head of the Priesthood.
    “I don’t care what Gold thinks!” The first voice cried again, irritated. “He can think what he likes! Tyran has the power now! Not Francis!”
    “You underestimate him…” Alexander warned, and tense silence followed for a moment.
    “Oh, do I?” The first voice asked, a note of smug menace in his voice.
    Alexander did not reply.
    Marcii could almost feel his hesitation seeping through the air. He may have known something she didn’t, but that was irrelevant; even she could tell he was losing ground, and fast.
    “Francis Gold is an old fool…” The voice of the first man concluded. “And if he doesn’t stop opposing Tyran, if he doesn’t join the hunt for the witches, he’ll find himself closer to God than ever before…”

Chapter Seven
     
     
                  Marcii awoke to the sounds of screaming.
                  Her room was nearly pitch black as she shot bolt upright, sweating and panting heavily.
    At first she couldn’t tell if the screams she had heard were real, or if they had just been part of a dream.
    But then she heard them again, clear as day even in the night.
    They resonated from some ways off in the distance, but still carried far enough in dark of the night to sound much closer than they probably were.
    She rushed to the window of her tiny bedroom and rubbed her hand on the filthy glass to try to wipe a small patch clear enough to see outside.
    Eventually she was just about able to make out a handful of figures racing up and down the streets through the darkness. There weren’t very many of them that she could see, but some carried torches or lanterns, whilst others cried out for help and reached for what looked like pitchforks.
    Having not a clue what was happening, but knowing instinctively that surely it wasn’t good, Marcii crept back into bed and pulled her thin, patchy quilt back up and around her neck.
    She was growing more and more afraid by the day, though her fear seemed to be not entirely rational, for she had not been directly threatened by anyone, or anything.
    She only wished Kaylm could be with her to calm her and to soothe her worry.
    He would have been able to make her see sense.
    He always made her see sense.
    Heavy raindrops began to patter against the dirty window and the night drew on long and cold and wet.
    Morning couldn’t come quickly enough.
    But when it eventually did, it didn’t bring with it solace for young Marcii Dougherty, but instead a whole new meaning for her growing fears.
     
    The ground was sodden underfoot and long deep puddles lined the cobblestoned streets, drenching Marcii’s feet as she paced quickly through Newmarket.
    Her eyes felt heavy and her legs were weary and it took quite some time before the dull ache in her thighs finally subsided.
    She didn’t care however, for her heart still raced after her sleepless night, and something told her that it wasn’t over yet.
    Whatever it was.
    She didn’t even really know where she was going.
    Usually she found herself pacing the streets on seemingly limitless errands for her mother, but this morning Marcii had left of her own accord, and without a word. Undoubtedly she would pay the price for that later, but for reasons unbeknownst to her, the young Dougherty knew this was important.
    Suddenly she became more aware of the water at her feet.
    Her feet were soaked, yes.
    Nonetheless it was not that which drew her attention, but instead the puddles themselves. They were dirty, as everything was; vast quantities clay and mud were traipsed through their streets daily from far and wide, stuck upon the wheels of carts and wagons that ferried goods to and fro.
    Still though, she bent down and peered closer, reaching out with her right hand and dipping her fingers into the