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him and wondered, each thought a step further away from all paths.
    "A Mentor," the man said once again, shaking his head, and even though his voice was soft again, Dominick had not been a Mentor for two years for nothing. Amongst these people, " Mentor " was perhaps the second worst title to claim, the first being " Ber, " and the man, this outwardly friendly man, had made sure to utter it several times—had made sure people knew.
    As a man, as a human, Dominick wanted to fight him, to oppose him. As a Mentor, as the one here to gather the wayward back from the dark forest, he knew that he should not. He watched and listened carefully, instead.
    They watched him, expecting him to speak, and a minute or two passed in uncomfortable silence. Uncomfortable for them, at least. People had always dreaded Mentor Dominick's silences. They preferred Nigel with his furrowed brows and loud, stern voice, or Oliver with his thin face and nasal muttering. Or Ardelia, who screamed their transgressions while she whipped—anyone who gave a sign of what he or she felt, be it sheer boredom or righteous anger—anyone who, despite being a Mentor, showed signs of being also a human.
    Then, when Dominick expected someone to finally speak up, attack him, do something, they seemingly forgot about him as a woman wavered, slid down the wall on which she had been leaning, and fainted. They forgot basic common sense, too. Some screamed, some pulled back, others crowded around her so tightly that they would probably suffocate her.
    Fear, uncertainty, and doubt. So often did these three overwhelm the minds and quintessences of those confused and wandering, so often did they lead to grave mistakes with unrepairable consequences.
    Dominick did not doubt. He strode towards the fallen woman, and perhaps because of a lifelong habit, most people pulled away so that he could pass, despite him now lacking a brown robe. Only a younger woman with the same wispy brown hair as the one on the floor stood before him.
    "Stay away from my mother, Mentor!" she hissed, her face twisted in desperation.
    Dominick said nothing, wasted no time. He only gripped the young woman's collar and shoved her to the side, drawing his knife with the other hand. The young woman gasped as the knife shot down towards her mother—and then the mother gasped, too, for Dominick had cut her tight shirt and she had started breathing again.
    "Bring me cold water," Dominick ordered as he checked her weak heartbeat, "and food. When, in the name of the Master, has this woman last eaten?"
    "Long ago, in the name of the Master. And not too recently in anyone else's name, either, I am afraid."
    Dominick did not turn towards this new voice, for his patient's heart fluttered and he concentrated on massaging it. This was as much as he could do. A Mentor knew some of the workings of a body but was not a healer. He might have just saved the woman from her death, but he could not fix her further. "Is there a healer here?"
    "Not today, I am afraid, my son. But today the Mother has blessed us with food, at least. We will have to rely on it, and on the Mother's mercy."
    " My son. " No one called him that but Maxim. No one else had the right. He turned now, towards a thin, white-haired woman with watery eyes. She should have looked old and fragile, but despite the wrinkles and thin limbs she emitted vitality that made her seem much younger. She looked tall, too, even though her head barely reached his shoulder. She knelt on the floor beside him, ignoring the fact that her fine dress wiped the mud someone's boots had brought in, and waved an ammonia-drenched handkerchief beneath the woman's nose.
    "There, Amanda, dear. There, it is all fine now. You shall have some hot soup and then we shall see if you can walk, dear."
    Amanda raised her head as the door to the hall where they were all gathered opened and a maid stepped inside, pushing a cart laden with a steaming cauldron.
    "Mistress Hannelore," she whispered,