On the second try, nobody reacted. Artorian decided not to act on the retry and strolled on past; his feet gently pittering against the gleaming temple floor. How does one get wood shiny? He didn’t know, but they’d managed it. When Alhambra caught up and they made their way through the center of the pews, chanting began. A choir was practicing, all men from the sound of it. When the Acolyte attempted to excuse himself, Artorian grabbed him by the wrist and dragged him forward.
“Y… Your Grace! I am not allowed on the chancel, nor anywhere near the space around the altar!” Perhaps he was being dragged to the ambulatory? He swallowed hard as the Head Cleric, undaunted and in full view of everyone, dragged the lad to the front-left of the altar.
“Stand there.” Artorian turned to face the people currently seated in the pews. Some common folk were present and curious. Many Initiates had gathered, not knowing what was happening. A few Acolytes were gathering up since for some reason a Head Cleric was presiding on the chancel, yet there had been no planned event for today. Nothing was on schedule for the moment, so what was this about. Had… had they missed something?
The speed of movement in the church increased to a scramble. If there was an event today, and they’d failed to set up for it… that would be disastrous. The whispers that a Head Cleric was doing an inspection grew in speed, and more Initiates spilled into the temple from their respective work stations. If there was an inspection, and someone was doing a headcount, not being in attendance was paramount to dereliction of duty. They couldn’t risk it.
Artorian smiled as he remained quiet, excluding the moments where he told Alhambra to stay put. The Acolyte was a statue, but beaded heavily with cold, nervous sweat. Abyss. Abyss. Abyss! The old man had heard him, and had just waited to be inside before levering punishment.
The people with three stripes on their chasubles also made a return, hearing that Alhambra was stuck on the chancel with a Head Cleric ominously standing still and keeping him there was prime gossip fuel. Was he being demoted? It wouldn’t be a surprise, given Alha’s behavior and penchant to run his mouth. They filed in and gleefully sat near the front. Why had they ever been worried about this four-striped Cleric? He was on their side!
With the temple at about half capacity, Artorian turned to Alhambra. He spoke in no more than a gentle voice, but everyone stilled to deathly silence to hear it. For the words cut off their chatter swifter than a spear through the neck would.
“Take off your chasuble.”
Alhambra panicked. He immediately fell to his knees, hands clasped and pleading. “Y… Your Grace! Please… not my chasuble. I will be forcibly evicted from the city! My children… they…”
The man was silenced as Artorian reached out his open palm. “Your chasuble, Alhambra.”
Silence was king in the temple. Some smiled in great pleasure, others looked on in great horror. No one had missed the fact that Alhambra’s title was missing. This was the fate of those who underwent inspection: it was gruesome, and resulted in the worst fate. Being revoked from the faith. Artorian kept track of those who were happy about this, as a piece of cloth made it into his hand.
The chasuble was neatly folded and laid upon the altar as Alhambra tried to keep his weeping silent. Children in the audience were forcibly stilled by their mothers after being informed that the person who had given them food was being made to stand at the altar. “Your outer robe, Alhambra.”
People held their breaths as the broken man handed his robe over. It too, was neatly folded and laid upon the altar. Alhambra felt shattered on the inside. He grit his teeth and squeezed his hands as he felt his life fall apart around him. He didn’t react when the entire crowd broke their silence to gasp in disbelief. With his head down and vision cast to the floor, he didn’t see why. Had a blade been produced to sever his head? It might be a relief at—
He felt a soft weight added around the back of his neck. The gasping continued, and became louder. Protests from people he knew to be old classmates picked up. Angry shouts replaced silence, and at the rustling of cloth, a very confused Alhambra looked up through tear filled eyes to see the old man shake off his Head Cleric robe. Hurling it over Alhambra’s shoulders, the robes gently folded around him. Alhambra didn’t understand. He wasn’t being exiled?
“Stand, Head Cleric Alhambra.”
Screams of joy broke from the back pews as the common folk who Alhambra had supported for years went wild at his promotion. It had been years since anything positive had come from the Church, and ages more since it had been something positive for them. The three-stripes were red in the face, furious and forced to keep their silence as they watched their hated, non-corruption-friendly foe rise and lift up the end of the chasuble.
Four stripes. It had four stripes. The old man had given him his position and his rank. When a speechless Alhambra looked up, the aged Cleric had his arms out. Alhambra threw himself around the man, embracing him in a deep hug. He did not have the heart to ask why the Cleric had exiled himself just to hand over his status. “Thank you…”
Artorian leaned and whispered in his ear, words meant only for him to hear. “They will not accept this. When you leave, venture to the mountain of Skyspear. Seek the celestial scion of combat, and request the path to Dawn. Only when you find the will of fire will you find people truly deserving of your kindness. Seek it, my boy. Seek out the will of fire.”
If there was ever such a thing as prophecy, Alhambra was certain that he’d heard it spoken this day. The old man was right. There was too much personal hate against him here, but with the prophecy he had a direction and a purpose. Gone were the days of aimless wandering, only seeking to do best for the people. He could now actually do his best for the people. Should he take them with? Could he? Could he chance asking? No. He had to ask. He was Head Cleric now. “What… my people. Where?”
He watched as Artorian threw on the Acolyte’s robe, and snuggled his old two-stripe chasuble in place along the back of the neck. The old man just winked at him. “Do what you think is best, my boy. I have seen your heart, and know it to be celestial.”
Artorian decided to show off a little, and cycled Essence to his eyes in a combination that made his irises shine a luminous gold. Copying the Wood Elf pattern to make it sound like multiple voices whispered in cohesion, Artorian spoke. His voice reverberated against everything in the building made of wood, especially the shining floor. “I trust you.”
The alteration was gone before the old man turned to walk down the main aisle, leaving Alha behind on the chancel. Stunned and speechless, Alhambra no longer believed it was a mere Head Cleric he’d been speaking to. What… what had that been? That was no person that had just spoken to him, and he was awestruck as his mind did its best to cope with the glimpse he’d seen. He had just spoken to the heavens, or the heavens had spoken to him, through an elder as their vessel. A strange old man, who even though he’d been feeding children in the square for years, had never before been seen sitting upon that stone bench.
Alhambra staggered distractedly down the aisle. He blinked and looked to see outside the massive temple doors. The old man was gone. His vision ticked up, and where there this morning had been a yellowing chestnut tree, there was now one in full spring bloom. Healthy flowers dotting its rich, dark green canopy.
Alhambra pressed his hands together, said nothing, and bowed deeply. He was going to be the news of the week, and all eyes would be on him. He did not have the luxury to ask the old man why he’d been provided this gift. He only heard the words he’d spoken, again, and again, as Alhambra’s mind raced to construct plans to take him and all his favorite people away from this vile place. It would take a while to gather and convince them all. Yet, he knew who was good, and had excellent motivation to free them from the bonds of Chasuble.
His confidence wavered when classmates roared at him. Yet it didn’t matter. He was of higher rank now, and he was no longer subject to their whims. He needed only to hold onto the last words that had
been spoken to him; an objective truth for his self-worth to keep hold of while he weathered the storm.
“I trust you.” Alhambra would not be daunted. He had people to save.
Chapter Thirty-Five
A Dwarven hand had gripped Artorian’s sleeve the second he’d left the temple, ripping him from public view. Disoriented, the old man saw a familiar bulbous nose belonging to a certain Don. It was partially hidden under a hooded Acolyte robe, clearly several sizes too large.
“Artorian, we got to go. It be worse here than we thought. The plan be drowning in the river and there ain't no reeds for us to gather air. Hurry yerself as swiftly as ye can to the north gate. Dimi already made it out, an’ he be waiting for us. Don’t stop for nuthin’ that won't kill ya. Go. Go!”
The Dwarf-hiding robe fluttered away quickly as a still-finding-his-bearings Artorian wobbled in place. North? Sure. North sounded great. Where’d the Modsognir go? He looked, but did not see. The Dwarf was a swift boy-o when he wanted to be. Then the words had hit home: he was right, this was no place to try and stay. To the north gate it is!
“That was… noble of you, my Cleric. To rescind your position for the younger generation.” A figure stepped from the side door that veered off from the main temple doorway. Artorian turned, and he immediately wondered if he’d ever seen a man with gaunter cheeks. His gauntness had gauntness, for crying out loud! Did those cheeks cave in and form spatial bag caverns? Dear celestials above! Still, he needed to swiftly make himself scarce. Better think of something.
The old man shrugged softly as he wistfully looked up to the sky, not noticing the rank of who he was talking with. He sighed and leaned on his walking stick like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
“My time is over. The end of my days has come. I returned to see the temple one last time before my long trek north. Where I believe… I will fade away. I merely saw a young man trying his best for the Church. He was merely in the right place, at the right time. I’m not sure if it was noble… I’m only glad I won’t be a burden any longer. It may be difficult to tell, but I can barely even see anymore. I’m of no use to the mighty Church. May I be excused? I’d like to head out while the sun’s bright enough that I may make out some fuzzy details.”
A powerful, thin, spindly hand squeezed onto his shoulder. Artorian didn’t need to look at the man to recognize the feeling; he knew this gentle tingling sensation well. This was a hand made from Mana, and he’d been touched by one enough to tell by mere tactile feeling. “Surely, you would offer a fellow faithful your ear?”
Artorian made sure to squint. His eyes caught the end of the chasuble. A plus symbol, two vertical stripes below it, then another plus symbol below that. Six stripes. A Vicar! He weakly smiled, hunching over as he looked up at the Mage. “I have shamefully removed myself from the Church with my embarrassing display to hand over my chasuble, without the proper… ueh… what was it called again?”
The old man sighed and shook his head. “I would, of course, be delighted to be of service, Your Grace. How may this exiled one be of service to you, Head Cleric?”
The Vicar’s question had been answered before he had a chance to ask. The gaunt man raised his eyebrow. It had been a hundred years since anyone had mistaken him for something as meager as a Head Cleric, yet if the man was on his last legs and barely able to see… he supposed that it was to be expected. Unlike himself, the lesser, mortal Clerics were… fallible. Yet, perhaps there was a boon here.
Ever scheming, the Vicar twisted a sickly smile onto his face. He didn’t correct the man, and walked him down the stairs. None dared interrupt. Not even the three-striped Clerics that ran from the Temple, only to skid to a halt when they saw who the old man was spending time with. The fact that a Vicar walked with the man solidified everything they had just witnessed. Their eyes contracted to points; this wasn’t a joke.
Nothing under the heavens could convince a three-stripe to do as much as greet a Vicar, rather than remaining silently bowed unless addressed. Interrupting one’s affairs? You’d die on the spot. They could, and would, smite you.
“No tithes to the temple?”
Artorian stopped and cupped his hand to his mouth. His whisper turned conspiratorial, and the Vicar bent in delight to hear what awful excuse the old man had ready. “Head Cleric, I wish to warn you. There are villains in your midst!”
Not the answer that had been expected. The Vicar paused in his step as well. His words were sharp and nasal. “Tell me everything, my son.”
Artorian swiftly squinted his eyes and looked around. He grumbled for effect and took a step closer. “I was halted at the west gate. The bannermen there asked for papers, and not having been here a while, I showed them my chasuble. I thought, perhaps there are new rules? They tell me that everyone pays tolls now. The higher one’s station, the higher one’s tolls. I of course do not believe them, and get out of the way of some merchants.
“Then, my ears pick up the sounds of coin. Again, and again the merchants paid hefty tolls. I think, perhaps I am wrong? So I relent. I ask how much my portion is, they say to hand over my coin purse, and they will hand back what’s left when I can prove my station. I give them my pouch, but have entirely forgotten all my hand motions. I remember the Acolyte one, yet because I wear four stripes, they call me a charlatan. A cheat!”
The old man threw a hand in the air. “Robbery I say! Yet, several younger lads with three stripes on their chasubles pull me through the gate and told me not to make a fuss. I’m staining my office with uncouth behavior, they murmur. Damage not the image of the Church, they said. I’m being an embarrassment, they whisper. I know this was my last trip, and I know I’m… faltering. My memory is… well I’d love to say it’s slipping. But it’s gone. I remember none of the chants. None of the motions… they still have my entire pouch. Yet… you are correct Head Cleric. I should have fought to bring a tithe. It’s my beloved Church, after all.”
Artorian stuck a finger into the air, like he’d had a thought. “Perhaps… perhaps I still can? With my life fading, and no living heirs, I should donate my life savings to the Church! What do you think, Your Grace? I could donate it to the temple, or perhaps to one of my favorite Vicars? I know it might be a pittance to them, but I respect them so. Even if the Church loses this small tool, the guiding light of my Vicars shall remain strong and vigilant. Heavens bless them, for they keep faith strong in my heart.”
The Vicar with his hand on Artorian’s shoulder was all smiles. “An excellent and faithful act, my son. Such a wise and gracious gift. I encourage such endeavors.”
Artorian nodded, and patted his pockets for something as he emphasized words while he spoke. “I should write this down. The northern gatehouse will be my last chance to have a parcel sent. Perhaps I can… oh. No. I’m not a Cleric in good standing anymore. Heavens, how will I make them listen to me when I request them to send a letter to have my goods delivered to the temple? Head Cleric, have you any ideas to make them see to my needs? If they are anything like the western way gate, they will strongarm me into sending them my savings instead! What should I do?”
The Vicar lost himself in thought. He was… aware that the toll demands of the gatehouses had risen to pad their coffers. Yet he very much wanted the little treasure for himself. If he sent the old man off, he wouldn’t see a single electrum of it. “Lend me your back, my son. I’ll scribe a swift message for the north way gate to assist you. We do not want the affairs of the gate to interrupt the affairs of the Church.”
Using Artorian’s back as a table, the Vicar procured a perfect piece of embroidery edged paper from his spatial pouch. He scribbled down the following. ‘See to this man’s needs. Signed, Vicar Karthus’. He dated the document so it could only be used today, and neatly folded it before handing it to Artorian with a smile. “Provide this to the bannermen, and they will give you no difficulties. The Church thanks you for your years of service, my son.”
Artorian took the missive and bow
ed the same fashion he’d seen Alhambra bow to him at the bench. The bow for a Head Cleric. He did not rise until the self-satisfied Vicar had walked away at least twenty paces. Then, he hummed to himself and checked the note’s contents. Smiling, he slid the writ into his spatial pouch while skipping off to the north, walking stick abandoned next to the stone bench. It had served its purpose, and he needed it no further. Unbeknownst to him, a sneaky Scilla absconded with it minutes later.
The northern way gate was half of what he expected on arrival. Half, because there was a large merchant caravan stuck in place, and that’s as far as his guesses had taken him. He could not have been prepared to see Chiffon again, this time in a bannerman captain uniform. Arguing with… Don? Yes, that upset scowl was definitely Don.
He’d planned to use the writ from the Vicar to safely squeeze his way through the gatehouse. Now… a more involved plan started to take form. He’d bluffed his way through Chasuble the entire time he’d been here. What was some icing on the cake?
Artorian mused pleasantly, fiddling with the end of his chasuble as he interrupted the conversation between the two heated children. They must have been children, given the type and amount of insults present in their conversation.
“Hello again.”
“Don’t interrupt me, and wait in line! I don’t have time for-” Chiffon paled as he came face to face with a smiling Head Cleric, who was most certainly not wearing the clothes they’d provided him at a different gate maybe a day earlier. Deagle had told him about the inspection. Abyss!
The sudden silence made the seething Modsognir snap his gaze across the shoulder. He knew the tall, long bearded bloke. Looking back, he no longer knew the quiet, significantly paler gatekeeper that had been making a right mess of them leaving. The old man had been here a day, why was some random little weasel gate guardian scared? What in pyrite did this man do in a day? He decided to stay out of it as Artorian procured the nicest piece of paper he’d ever seen.
Artorian's Archives Omnibus Page 102