Artorian's Archives Omnibus

by Dennis Vanderkerken

  Scilla laughed out loud. “That’s not something that can happen?”

  Artorian shot her a look of disbelief. “Sure it can, give me your hand and I’ll show you.”

  The little girl stilled as her face scrunched together in confusion and interest. She didn’t believe him, but wanted proof before she called foul and threw it in his face. Tall people making her feel better with words was worthless. She sat next to him, and gripped his offered palm.

  Access was all the philosopher needed. As a non-cultivator, she didn’t have a veil shielding her Center. It was just like that time under the tree when Blanket had been a little glider with two very injured legs. His Presence wrapped around the five-year-old, and she drowsily collapsed against his side as the sleep Aura coated her. Best she not be awake for this next part.

  With Scilla out of commission, he was freely operating in her optics; performing a detailed scrubbing. Someone had definitely intended some foul play here: her cones and rods were scarred. An intruder had swiftly and rashly slapped an Essence effect over her irises, making them more receptive to… celestial effects? He was knowledgeable about mental effects and Essence means to invoke them. This was one of those.

  She would see what someone wanted her to see. Yet, who? Wrong question. Could he fix this? Right question.

  A few minutes of work said yes. Though… jade wasn’t the variant of green he was hoping for. Dark forest green was the goal, but for some reason he couldn’t affect how light and dark the irises were. Must be a lack of knowledge on his part. Either way, pink to green? Child’s play. Though it was permanent. He was glad she was asleep. Had Scilla been awake she’d have screamed the entire time; this wasn’t a painless process. Artorian had to move particles of corruption around in her eyes to accomplish it.

  Pulling his effects back, he softly tapped her on the cheek. “Scilla. Scilla wake up…”

  The five-year-old blinked, rubbing her sore, dry eyes. “Mm?”

  He smiled at her pleasantly. “You fell asleep and missed the entire trick! I’m afraid your eyes are going to be stuck as green now. I’m sorry.”

  Scilla snorted, pushed herself up, and stamped off. More adults lying to her, as usual. Artorian smiled, counting on his fingers. He arrived at a count of twenty-three before the scream ripped from the inside of the home. He knew she couldn’t resist checking. Artorian could hear the five-year-old run to her mother.

  The mother didn’t believe what she saw. The expected questions occurred. How? When? Why? Followed by the expected answers. Old man. Roof. Just now. So it was that, when the mother burst forth onto the roof, she was expected. “What did you do to my…”

  Unlike Scilla, her mother Shamira saw the chasuble, the robes, and the rank with practiced and ingrained ease. Four vertical stripes. A Head Cleric. One rank below a Friar. If she made a fuss… her face went pale and she bowed. She had never even made it to Initiate after a decade of trying, and her chasuble reflected that. No stripes.

  “My apologies for my behavior, sir. Would… would you do me the kindness to tell me why you blessed my daughter?”

  Artorian played the role, just barely peeking over his shoulder. “Could you sit with me, my child?”

  Scilla was shooed downstairs, her smile stretched all across her face. Her eyes were green! Full meals! No more sleeping on the floor! Shamira did as requested and threw her long hair over her shoulder. Sliding sumptuously into place next to the old man; always angling for profit. “Yes, my Cleric.”

  He waved it off, not interested in her wiles. Artorian spoke with an entirely different kind of longing. “I’m the wrong person, my dear. I just wanted… some distance. Someone I didn’t know that I could speak with. Would you be that person?”

  Shamira dropped her lascivious attempts, and moved right into mother mode. “Of course, Master Cleric.”

  He nodded slowly. “I have been gone… so long. I don’t recognize any of it. I want to perform an inspection without anyone knowing I’m here. Your daughter’s eyes are the fee I pay to make this next request. Would you have a spare spot I could sleep for an evening, before I discover Chasuble all over again? I don’t wish to announce myself, nor barge into… well. You understand.”

  Green eyes held immense social benefits—their value was not to be underestimated. Scilla could now have an education without cost. Her oldest was in the Paladin Order, perhaps her youngest could… The Choir? It was safer. Housing a Cleric usually came with coin, however, housing a Head Cleric trying to remain hidden might have equally hidden benefits. The choice was easy. “Of course we do, Master Cleric. We’ll find the room for you.”

  “I appreciate it.” He motioned into the distance, then all around him. “So what happened? It’s been… I don’t know. Fifty years? More? What’s going on?”

  Shamira nodded unpleasantly. She crossed her arms and legs, her face nudging over to the northeast. “It was a long time ago, but it all started with the refugees. Do you know of the Ziggurat? Completely populated now, sprawling tent city, and has been for years and years. Some refugees came here and everything got cramped, very cramped. All the people made food availability low. That made public order hurt, which caused safety to become so poor that our graced Vicars had to set up shop here to keep things under control.”

  She pointed back towards the west, where the largest swath of poverty housing was seen sandwiched together. “When the Vicars settled, order was fixed. Chasubles became required, deadly punishments expanded to include petty crime, and those with money were king. Refugees are constant. Crimes didn’t stop. Paying your way out of problems became even more popular, and the rules got even less lax. If you couldn’t help till land, or could not pay your way into the inner wall. You were on your own.”

  Her hand went back in the direction it started. “So refugees gathered in the Ziggurat, and as best as I know, a few people of massive power set up there. Someone calling herself ‘The Mistress’, or some nonsense. More people with power making themselves feel more important. I have an opinion, but I won’t voice blasphemy around you, sir. My apologies.”

  Artorian whispered under his breath. “I promise on my chasuble that I will not hold your words against you, please tell me everything including your personal views.”

  Shamira swallowed nervously. Well… he did promise. “The Ziggurat and Chasuble have a tenuous relationship. Any people Chasuble doesn’t take, Ziggurat does—and I mean everyone. They turn nobody away, because even bodies have a use. For years we’ve thought there would be a war to spill over, and one would usurp the other. Not the case, and word on the street is…”

  He nudged her on to keep speaking. “There’s talk in the dark that the Vicars and the Mistress are friends. That there’s a conspiracy going on between the two, but nobody knows for sure. Everyone is finding a reason to blame someone else. Food is expensive. Cloth is expensive. Everything is expensive, and making due is difficult.”

  Artorian patted Shamira’s back, attempting to give her comfort. It didn’t do anything. “I see. Ambition, desperation, and conflict must have a firm grip here. My thanks for the swift primer. Don’t let me keep you from feeding your family. I’m going to sit up here a few more hours. If I could nap when the sun leaves us, that would be ideal. A little later is fine too…”

  Shamira assented and left the Head Cleric to his musings. Artorian squeezed his chin, overlooking the squished together city. He liked this place less and less the more he heard. Perhaps tomorrow he’d take a quick peek into the temple. If circumstances were as dire and controlled as his landlady had mentioned… lingering even a week was not an option. Someone would catch on.

  He sighed, dismissing the concern. That was tomorrow’s problem.

  Today, it was time to cultivate.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Artorian studied the temple the following day. Both his hands rested on the walking stick while he relaxed on a bench in the sunshine, facing the myriad stairs that led up to the deceivingly old structu
re.

  Deceiving, because it only appeared old. His memories were hazy, but he had been here before. With rough calculation—over half a century ago—when he was a small lad. He’d thought the place would have been much the same, thus the major reason he’d suggested the plan in the first place.

  He’d been sorely mistaken. Nothing was the same. Structures Artorian thought he recognized were but facsimiles of their original. Constructed in their style, but in the wrong place. He knew for certain, as this stone bench was still in the right place. The chestnut tree—which had been a solid, hefty thing the last time—was now a solid ten feet thick and at least four times as tall.

  Neither tree nor bench had moved, yet the structures hadn’t been aligned straight to the cobblestone pathways. They’d been off center, angled away. The church’s structures now faced the tree straight on, so the ruse was clear. His center smoothly rolled along, pulling in Essence in an upwards cone. It was doing as much for him as it was for the tree, the rejected energy seeping right into the soil. Additional clusters kept sprouting as the tree easily took in the high-quality nourishment.

  Is this how Dawn had felt all the time? Seeing the world pass her by until only ruin and relic remained? He deeply exhaled and shook away the thoughts, resuming his people watching activities. Artorian kept tabs on the new goings on of the people and the movements of their daily lives.

  One could learn much from being still and observing. People passed him by constantly, but none so much as slowed. They were all busy people with busy lives. At worst, he was in the way. As much as one could be in the way while keeping to themselves under a hefty tree that wasn’t in the road.

  Perhaps that wasn’t entirely fair. A staunch person strolling around the temple with empowered steps functioned as some self-appointed peacekeeper; or whatever he might have called himself. Neighborhood watch? It didn’t matter. The lanky figure in fashionable robes came up to him in a straight line, with all the forward momentum of a mother bear on a mission. The walk staggered to a halt as their heels dug into a mixture of cobble and clay dirt; their eyes had caught up to their hubris.

  The peacekeeper, whoever they may have been, had a potent three vertical stripes on his chasuble. When their eyes caught the four stripes on the cloth of the old man, he promptly turned on his heel and veered away awkwardly. He was not making that mistake. Nope. Not today. He could lord his authority over anyone he wanted and stop them for any reason he could conjure up; except those of higher rank. Why a Head Cleric was just sitting on a bench was not his problem, nor his concern.

  Midway back to the temple, the peacekeeper paused. His head shot a glance over his shoulder. Surely not… inspections? The man whisked himself away with great fervor, not to be seen again. Translation: he fled.

  The only person Artorian did want a word with was an individual spending his time with actions rather than words. He had initially noticed the man because of the unique Aura he was coated with. From the general feel, and calm it provided to the surrounding area, it must have been some kind of restorative or regeneration Aura. He’d never seen this before, and was having a difficult time cobbling together the Essence formula. Regeneration Auras must be something specific to Clerics, yet seemed to have features similar to what his starlight Aura did; only more focused in purpose.

  What looked to be an Acolyte with long brown hair in a ponytail came and went from the stairs. Each time he arrived, he held a basket full of bread and cheese. He handed these out to a flock of children that ran up to him, with naught but a smile to pay for it. They received a pat on the head afterwards. The little ones zipped back to their parents, handing over their bounty.

  When the Acolyte was devoid of goods, he assured the kids he’d be back. Sure enough, a short while later he’d return with a lighter coin purse and a heavy basket. What a good lad. Didn’t he have other duties to attend? So many here just about ran over one another to get where they were going.

  It was well into the afternoon when the Acolyte spotted him. The thin man performed a bow, but was beckoned by Artorian’s hand when he rose back up. Upon approach, Artorian could pinpoint the exact moment where the Acolyte noticed the four stripes. His entire body twitched, his step faltering. Artorian just smiled at the lad like only a patient old man could.

  “Head Cleric.” The Acolyte bowed again when he approached within personal greeting distance. His words dropped from confident, to concerned. “You beckoned?”

  “Have a seat, my son. What’s your name? I have a confusion, and require an unspoiled ear. ”

  The Acolyte did as instructed, and took a seat in the shaded portion of the bench. He noticed the elderly Cleric seemed to delight basking in the sun. He folded his hands and answered the question. “Alhambra, Your Grace.”

  “Alhambra?” Artorian tasted the word. It was sonorous, and full of melody. He liked it. A good name for a good lad. “I see many busy souls, but none seeing to the good of all these people. I’ve seen some of the Ecclesiarchy attempt to throw their status around like the scabbard of a sword, and others hustle while not caring who they got in the way of. You feed the people, yet what of your other duties? What happened to you, my boy?”

  Alhambra scritched at the patchy start of a dark beard, though he had but scruff at the moment. His sandy skin matched it well. “I don’t wish to foist my burdens upon you, my grace. It is just the fate of all who get stuck where I am.”

  The old man raised an eyebrow, a tiny head motion urging the lad to continue regardless. Alhambra tried not to crack a smile, he was speaking with a superior. The crack appeared in the foundations of his face regardless, this burden lay heavy on his heart. “I am an Acolyte because no higher positions are available. The quota on stations is filled, unless the faith gains more land to open new positions. My tasks are diminished, specifically so I cannot seek higher functions even if they do become available. My peers do not look favorably upon me, as they say I squander my wealth on the trivial. As if people are trivial!”

  His tone turned bitter at that last statement, calming as he pulled himself from the emotion. “May I ask what district you field, Master Cleric?”

  Artorian just nodded. “I’m on a little pilgrimage, I came from the Skyspear mountain. There’s a little kerfuffle at the moment, so I decided to come visit while I still could. I intend on entering the temple, but… my heart isn’t ready. I’m not sure if it will be by the time it comes for me to go back. I’m afraid to go alone, you see.”

  The answer seemed to satisfy the Acolyte, if only because of the volume of it. The latter part confused the man, and his minor prodding faded to the wind as his personality came to light. “You should not fear your home, Your Grace. For it is here to welcome you, always. Would you like me to go with you? I am but an Acolyte, but would be blessed to help carry your burdens… for that is the task of the Church.”

  He knew it! A good lad indeed. Artorian couldn’t help but smile as he conspiratorially leaned in for a whisper. “In my old age, I remember there’s… something I had to do to enter? Some ritual… something. I can't recall. I’ve been sitting here trying my best to grasp it, and it just won’t come. Could you cover for me, if we go?”

  Alhambra beamed. “Of course, Your Grace, I would be delighted. I know all the rules and requirements well; I am still fresh from studying!”

  The Acolyte helped the Head Cleric get up. With a hand firmly on Alhambra’s shoulder, the duo slowly walked straight up the stairs to the massive twelve-foot-tall ornate doors. It was even more massive up close! Nearby guards grumbled, and two more men with three stripes on their chasubles came to check up on the approaching pair. Much like the first, they made way and made themselves scarce. There was an awfully large number of shady Clerics here trying to both exert their influence and not get caught.

  His ear perked up when he heard Alhambra chuckle. “Yes, my boy?”

  The Acolyte swiftly regained his composure. “Apologies, Your Grace. Those two that came down and tried to ba
r us from entering were old classmates of mine. Their pride and greed live in excess of their other values, and they came to berate me for approaching so close to their temple. My chasuble only has two stripes, and that means everything here. If they tell me to leave, I must listen. Regardless of the character of those who speak.”

  Alhambra slapped his hand to his mouth with a touch of fear. He’d just insulted those of higher station, and a Head Cleric was literally supporting himself on his shoulder. Abyss! It was exactly this kind of behavior that kept getting him stuck in these precarious positions! He was silent a moment, then a moment longer. The Head Cleric said nothing, nor did he berate him. Odd. That was not how it normally worked.

  Chancing a look, the old man just winked at him, angling his nose towards the open door. His whisper was soft, but the Acolyte caught why he probably hadn’t been berated. “Show me what I forgot, my boy.”

  Artorian released the lad, who strode forth and made complicated hand signals to the guards, the entry men, and a three-striped person seated behind a desk inside a gatehouse one had to pass before the temple could be entered. Artorian quietly followed along, smiling all the way as he kept a solid eye on all of the movements and words. He didn’t try to hide the behavior either.

  He was playing on the assumptions people were making. Artorian was here for an inspection, and the Acolyte was on the chopping block from how scrutinizingly close the old man got to inspect even minor motions. Even the guards could tell the Head Cleric wasn’t trying to hide his attempts to check on every little detail. Artorian only noticed the Acolyte had performed something incorrectly when all the people directly nearby stiffened severely at a certain feebly motioned hand sign.

  “Would you like to do that again… my boy?” Artorian sweetly smiled, copying the exact tone and expression of Gran’mama. His was soft, slow, and patient. On the surface, everything was just dandy. While Artorian was nervous he's guessed the moment wrong, some Initiates whispered sharply. They’d seen the mistake. Alhambra turned fear filled eyes upon the Head Cleric, but Artorian was already rolling his wrist as Tarrean did. The ‘get on with it’ motion.