by RG Long
Ealrin closed the door quickly and hoped Gorplin’s weapon of choice wasn’t within the dwarf’s arm reach. The light that shone into the room was coming from rickety metal candle holders that hung in the hallway. He was surprised the things didn’t catch fire, being so covered in cobwebs and dust.
Moving quickly, he entered the small common dining area to find breakfast was not well attended. Not that Ealrin found that surprising. If he had a choice, he wouldn’t have made a point to eat at the Green Rose either.
Deep within the grimy heart of Prommus, the Green Rose was a common haunt for thieves, crooks, and otherwise very broke travelers who thought sleeping under any roof was better than no roof at all. The owner, a greasy rat of a man named Deliworth, was a shrewd businessman who cared little for maintenance, the care of his customers, or their general well-being. All he cared much for was for the coins that lined his pocket. And since the Green Rose was so cheap to stay at, he seemed to make sure he kept every single coin he could get for himself and spared none for the upkeep of the building.
Unfortunately, being in the very middle of the most dangerous place their little band could choose to be, they had to rely on Holve’s one and only contact within the city.
Actually, Holve was connected with the son of Deliworth, a man named Fairrus. Holve had spoken so well of him when they had escaped the prison guards who had meant to execute him that Ealrin expected nothing but a wonderful experience at the Green Rose. But Fairrus had been shipped off to the Disputed Lands and hadn’t sent word back to his father since. In the years since he had been gone, his father had turned bitter and greedy. It was this attitude that sank Holve’s spirits when they had entered the inn under cover of darkness.
He had apparently hoped for a much warmer reception than they had received. Deliworth seemed willing to keep them under his roof due to Fairrus owing Holve money for some long forgotten favor. And Silverwolf put a blade to a man’s throat who had tried to rob the old man during their first conversation.
Both being out of debt and promised protection from his own customers seemed to be enough to grant them the blessing of one spare room.
So long as they paid, that is.
When Ealrin made it to Holve’s table, he sat down with a huff and looked warily at the kitchen door. Cook was in there, doing whatever Cook did when he prepared them meals. Ealrin didn’t want to know the specifics, seeing as how what he produced was only close to edible, if not recognizable as food in and of itself.
Holve was busy looking at several different parchments laid out on the table in front of him. A plate of food lay untouched beside him. What appeared to be a lizard’s claw and a pile of brown mush lay in a heap on the beat up metal plate. Ealrin wasn’t sure if it wasn’t disturbed because it had been recently placed or just purposefully neglected.
If it was what he could expect for breakfast himself, he may also choose the latter.
“Patrols were out again this way,” Ealrin said as he looked over Holve’s maps. “They’re getting pretty close to the Green Rose. Think we’ll need to move sometime soon?”
“Probably,” Holve said as he puffed on his pipe and looked over the scrolls.
It was a word he had come to use often in the last two weeks of hiding out in the Green Rose. Several of Ealrin’s questions had been answered with this one reply.
Would they need to find a way back to Irradan from Prommus?
Would it be best to travel at night?
Would the king be sending out more patrols to search for them?
Would the Isolian invasion prevent them from escaping Ladis unharmed?
Each question, every time.
“Probably.”
Whatever Holve had learned from his contact in Grellis, he wasn’t keen to share. At least not with anyone who wasn’t Silverwolf. Ealrin had seen the two talking quietly the first night they made their arrangements at the Green Rose. Ever since, whenever Silverwolf came back from her nightly adventures, she spent just a moment whispering to Holve.
The secrecy bothered Ealrin, even though he trusted Holve. Why wouldn’t he tell everyone what was going on? Why not share the information so they could all contribute?
Ealrin’s thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of Cook at his side with a plate that looked very similar to Holve’s.
Breakfast was served.
“Food,” Cook said as he dropped the plate in front of Ealrin and turned to leave without waiting for a reply. Cook was not a man of many words. This suited Ealrin fine, since he didn’t know what he would say to the man that wouldn’t offend him. He certainly couldn’t talk about his cooking. The large bald man was thumping back to the kitchen, wiping his hands on his greasy apron. The door swung open to let him in and Ealrin averted his eyes.
He didn’t want to know what secrets lay past that door.
Trying to breathe through his mouth, Ealrin grabbed his spoon and took a bite of his food, doing his best not to let the texture disturb him as he rushed to swallow whatever it was he was eating. Another something ran by his foot and he tried not to think about what the kitchen must look like.
He nearly gagged, but managed to chase it down with a gulp of murky water from a dirty mug. Gasping for air, he came up from his first bite and decided it would be his last for this meal.
Hunger drove a man to do whatever was necessary. The company was getting restless and Ealrin could feel it in his bones. He wanted to explore the city. To find out what was going on. He at least hoped to get out and see what possible means of escape there were. But Holve wouldn’t allow it. The only one who could leave was Silverwolf.
That was all.
Ealrin took a breath. He knew it was because most of the city knew what they looked like. They did, after all, bust up an execution right before the king’s own eyes. Half of the guard had been given flyers of hasty sketches of them to carry. Silverwolf had brought one back as a joke.
The assassin said the city was crawling with the King’s Guard, though all of them old and none of them really able to do much damage to her or them. What they really were concerned about was the priests' own companies: women who were dressed in the colors of Ladism and patrolled the streets with heavy flails and whips.
These were the real police of the city now, especially since all of the men had been shipped off to war.
Ealrin gave up on his plate after considering a second bite. He pushed the food away just as the door to the inn opened. Both he and Holve instinctively looked around to see who it was and grabbed their weapons.
Holve let out a huff and Ealrin a sigh, before they both turned back to the table. It was only Silverwolf.
“Nice to see you, too,” she said as she dropped a bag of coins on the counter by the door. From out of sight, Deliworth came and grabbed the jingling bag without a word. She was financing their stay at the inn with bounty money and whatever she stole from bandits who tried to waylay her in the night. It wasn’t exactly right to do, but their options were limited.
Deliworth told them that they could work in the inn, and they did so willingly. But the problem was that whenever real customers came in, which was most every night, they couldn’t be seen.
So they did dishes, folded linens, fixed old beds, and did whatever else Deliworth told them to. And for their efforts they were told that they had earned one night of board for two people. And so Silverwolf went out to satisfy Deliworth’s greed and enable their safe stay at the Green Rose.
The whole thing was frustrating to Ealrin. He wanted a change, but he kept his thoughts to himself. Instead, he let out another sigh.
“Don't’ be depressed,” Silverwolf said, taking something out of her coat and throwing it in Ealrin’s direction. He caught it and it felt warm in his hands.
Bread!
Real, warm, edible bread!
He bit into it with a satisfying crunch.
“You’re welcome,” Silverwolf said, taking another loaf from her coat and biting into it herself.
>
Holve looked up from his papers, then from Silverwolf to Ealrin.
“I didn’t get you one,” she said through a mouthful of bread and a half smile. “I got you something better.”
She swallowed and Ealrin saw Holve’s eyebrows go up.
“What’s that?” he said, looking down at his plate mournfully.
“Information,” Silverwolf said with a grin.
4: The King’s Priest
Jerius sulked through the grand palace hallways, careful that he did not run into the king. Things had not gone according to the grand plan he had imagined and he was suffering for it. Others who walked by him in the halls gave him a wide berth.
He had managed to bring Holve Bravestead to the capital in order to be executed for his crimes against the Theocracy. It was to be Jerius’ crowning moment and perfect reason to let the king know he was the man to take over for his ailing superior priest.
Now, with Holve and his friends having escaped and now hiding somewhere in the city, the Isolian nation making their way closer to the heart of their empire, and the death of Farnus taking its toll on the ailing king, Jerius was not receiving any type of welcome at all. Then again, with the king’s mood what it was, this was probably for the best.
The king was not a man to be tested or tried. He was a vicious ruler who had spent his life ensuring that the Isolian rebels were kept in their place and his subjects serving him faithfully, even under the eye of the Ladism Temple.
King though he be, Gravis was not the sole ruler of the Theocracy. He was one of three, though a powerful arm of the government. It was he who could command the troops of the empire. It was the king’s duty to raise and lower taxes and to oversee each prince he appointed to rule the nine countries that made up their nation.
But High Priest Regis was charged with the equal distribution of food, the construction of temples, Theocracy buildings and defensive walls, and placement of priests to rule beside their princes.
Though they were brothers, it was well known that they did not see eye to eye with one another. The Castle and the Temple were often at odds. Perhaps it was because Gravis had felt slighted at being High Priest, while his brother was given the title of king. Jerius had heard rumors of the death of the last king and the naming of the brothers to their positions. It had been no small scandal that one family should rule two thirds of Ladis.
Yet the controversy didn't last long. There was always "The Voice" to balance things.
The last component of the Theocracy's rule was “the Voice,” and it was the goverment's attempt to let the people bring their concerns to the powers that ruled them. A member of the Voice was elected only once. They then served that role until death greeted them at the door to the beyond.
Which meant that, sometimes in more politically unstable times, positions for membership of the Voice were both plentiful and hard to fill. But each of the nine countries had ten elected members to speak for them. Whatever good that did for them.
Jerius had not yet seen the chamber where they met, though he had heard the shouting that came from the ninety man council. He had better things to do with his time.
Currently, he was making his way to the chambers of the high priest. He still held the summons in his hand. He wasn’t concerned about the call, but the thought of speaking to the High Priest of all Ladis did make him take deeper breaths and more careful steps.
The hall he was walking down had a high vaulted ceiling with many tapestries that hung down to cover the walls. Several of them had depictions of their deities, especially that of Decolos casting out the magic heathen of ancient times.
He wished he could stop and contemplate the grandeur of the craftsmanship, but he quickened his pace. Jerius did not want the high priest to think him lazy or unreliable.
“Come, Luca!” he demanded over his shoulder as he passed the tapestry and headed further down the hall. His guard who had followed him all the way from Arranus nodded her reply and continued walking just behind his right hand. He was impressed with her, but would never say it. She was a faithful servant to him. She had done his bidding and helped bring Holve to Prommus. Such service was expected of a Prophet’s guard. He smiled to himself.
He deserved guards such as this.
Finally, Jerius turned a corner and saw, down another long stretch of hall, the door that would lead to the Temple attached to the Imperial Palace. The two buildings were connected by this hall and had been since the beginning of the Theocracy. The hope was to show the people that they were led by a unified government.
Jerius sniffed at this thought.
It couldn’t be further from the truth.
Large and intricately carved doors marked the entrance to the Temple. On one side of the hallway stood the King’s Guard. They held their swords at their sides and eyed him curiously as he made his way away from them. On the other side stood the Temple guards. These women kept their flails at their shoulders and nodded at the Prophet as he approached them.
Even the position of the two different factions reminded Jerius of just how divided they were.
He held out his summons for both parties to see. The king's guards nodded, and the Temple guards moved to push open the giant wooden doors. Carved into it was the likeness of Decolos, with a great pantheon of Ladis gods underneath him. At the very top, the symbol of Ladism was engraved above the god: a skull with three marks across its brow.
Jerius and Luca passed through the doors and into the Temple without a word. The lighting was immediately different. Where the palace was open and allowed natural sunlight to stream into it, the Temple of Ladis was lit only by candles. This meant that the entire place had a darker feel to it. Jerius found it familiar and comforting as opposed to the threatening columns of the King’s court.
He hurried down the hall and made his way quickly into the main chamber, where the high priest was attended by several Prophets at his feet.
Everything in the room was made of stone. Four pairs of columns lead to a stone dais where the high priest was seated in a simple stone chair. His rank was not made known by elaborate carvings or a decorative place to sit. The power he held with his words were enough ornament for his position.
The priest was a middle-aged man, gray hairs speckling his otherwise bright blonde streaks. His face was long and his features pointed. If Prince Farnus resembled a lion, the high priest was a wolf.
He looked down his long nose at Jerius as he approached and the Prophet took the proper stance of his position: kneeling with his forehead touching the ground. Luca had not come into the chamber, but rather waited for him outside. Jerius held his head to the cool stone floor as he heard the high priest shoo away many of the other Prophets and scribes who were attending him.
“Arise, Priest of Arranus,” came Regis’ booming voice.
Jerius hesitated for a moment. Was the high priest speaking to him? Or was the High Priest from Arranus here? Had the old man traveled so far in order to speak more doom down upon Jerius?
Had his sins finally caught up with him?
Or...
“I said rise, Priest of Arranus,” the voice said again. It echoed through the chamber and Jerius realized there was no one else in the room except for the two of them. Slowly, he lifted his head and saw that, indeed, the old man was indicating him. He got up from his position, bowed low, and approached the stone steps.
“I am, I see, the one to bring you the news of Priest Pallus’ passing on through the gateway of death?” the high priest said. “Well it must come as no surprise. The man was well into his ninetieth year. Death came too slowly for him. He was well past his prime and his usefulness as Priest. I hope I will not repeat myself when I now speak of the new Priest of Arranus. You join a very small circle of Prophets who have ever attained this high honor.”
Jerius’ mouth was dry. Priest? Him? Could all of this suffering have finally paid off? Could he now see the fruits of his labor? And what of the high priest?
Of course
, Jerius had thought everything he was saying, but he had never dared to say them out loud. Was the man of so high a station that he spoke of dwindling priests like they were to be cast aside?
The thought of being Priest himself caused these doubtful thoughts to be cast away without second thought.
He was now a priest. His chest swelled as he thought about what this would mean for him and his state of life. He was a priest.
“Of course,” High Priest continued. “I have been watching your career for some time now. And with all of these recent events, well, I think we can begin to form a relationship that will help the both of us!”
With these words he stood from his chair and came down the dais. Jerius felt the need to bow low again, in order to treat the high priest as he ought to be treated. When he began to do so, however, the high priest waved at him.
“Come now,” he said, putting a hand out to Jerius’ shoulder. “You have shown your deference. Let us walk together.”
The high priest motioned for Jerius to walk down a hallway that was different from the one he had come in through. He had a thought to summon Luca, but it passed. The stone hallway they walked through was lower and less decorated. Only a few small statues of the various gods adorned their walkway. They stood silently with disapproving stares, looking at the two priests as they passed. Jerius wondered if they knew who watched them in life, or if they would only truly know them in death.
“The failed execution of Holve was regrettable,” the high priest said as he clasped his hands behind his back.
Jerius winced and felt a pang of guilt. Was it going to be here, away from the main throne of the high priest, that he would receive his punishment?
“Yes, My Lord,” he said. They were the first words he had spoken to the man.
“The priest has a voice after all,” Regis said, not glancing over at Jerius but continuing to walk forward.
He turned into another hall and opened a wooden door before motioning that Jerius should go first. Hesitating for only a moment, he walked inside the dimly lit room and tried to allow his eyes a chance to adjust. There were two chairs that were ornate and made of a shiny, black material. A bookshelf lined one of the walls, while a desk sat opposite it with a quill, parchment, and small wooden stool.