The Secrets of Lore Seymour

62. Always There

Olere's puzzlement amplifies. His expression appears genuine. I don't know if that's because I want it to be or it truly is.

"I don't know what brought this on, but the answer is the same as it was back then," he explains. "Those who do not wish to stay may leave. They're either sent to live with relatives, foster homes, orphanages, or if they're old enough, the church seeks employment and housing for them."

"Did you relocate some of them? Did you see all that with your own eyes?"

I know I sound suspicious. I know that makes Olere suspicious. His eyes say as such, glossing over me in apparent worry.

"A couple, but that was never my primary job. Typically, the priests saw to relocations. Holy knights and paladins were summoned if long travel time was involved to protect the child," he answers earnestly, then grabs my shoulder. "Why are you asking me all this?"

How am I meant to answer that? Tell him that Cyan managed to turn my world upside down after I went to him in a drunken stupor. Tell him that Lore and his family have made me question everything I've ever known. Admit that I don't know if I trust the church as much as I once did and that--that includes him.

"I just... I was thinking about my trainee days. Those who left, I never saw or heard from them again. Maybe being on this unusual assignment has made me sentimental, but I'd like to speak to them. Is that possible?" I ask.

"I could certainly look into it." Olere hesitates to release my shoulder. He offers a reassuring smile. "You have to remember that some don't want to look back on their years here. We know training is excruciating and not everyone can handle it. However, I will try to get in contact with those from your year. If any are willing to speak to you, I will let you know. How does that sound?"

"Good. That sounds great. Thank--"

"I have a condition," Olere interjects. I bite my lip. He steps closer. The tips of his boots breach my peripheral vision. I raise my gaze to meet his, unsure of what his silent expression means. "You must clue me in on what this is really about," he says.

I almost whimper. He must see the sorrow because his expression softens.

"Seren," he whispers my name like a father would. Like my father did. He presses his hand to my back to push me towards a nearby bench. We sit together. He leans forward, elbows on his knees as he looks towards me. "I know you, son. I know when you're hiding something that's so overwhelming it threatens to consume you. What's on your mind?"

I shake my head, willing him to stop. Praying to the Holy Mothers that he won't ask again. I've been on a roll with not listening today. The truth may spill out and I won't know what to do. Olere cheats by ruffling my hair in that affectionate fatherly fashion and the flood gates open; "Have you ever struggled with your faith?"

His hand stills. My heart stops. I can't do this. I leap to my feet. "It's nothing, forget I asked!"

But Olere grabs my hand so gently that the hold freezes me in place. I dare to look back at him, surprised to find him smiling. "Fear not, this is a talk I am more than willing to have," he says.

"But--"

"I think you will find my answer to be quite surprising." He winks, then rises from the bench. "Why don't we head back? This is a private discussion."

"R-Right..." I follow him like a lost puppy, expecting his raised voice or disappointed scowl to greet me once we're in his home. But all Olere does is sit at his table and insist I do the same. Scurrying to retake my position at the table, I sit with my head lowered and wait for the inevitable shame.