by Regina Watts
“Which one?”
Her eyes were dangerously bright. Not wishing to give her an inroad into getting herself hurt, I neglected the name of the place and instead simply told her, “Let me speak to Fortisto and take care of a few things while I’m in town. If it all goes well, we’ll spend at least an afternoon catching up and celebrating before I have to hurry on again.”
“All right, Rorke.” With a faint smile, pained but not wholly joyless, she pushed her hair from her face and stepped back from me. “Will you promise?”
“I promise.”
Then, though it pained me to leave Elishta behind, I strode quickly up the stairs to embrace Father Fortisto.
“Ah!” The little man laughed and patted me a few fond times, observing on his release that, “You’ve got new armor! Fancy stuff.” He rapped a knuckle against the breastplate I’d not even thought of taking off for as quickly as I’d been moving from Point A to Point B. “The Order Magistrate will complain that it’s not to regulation, but we can get you a new, official set before our induction ceremony…did you bring the Scepter, my boy?”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, Father. Could we sit in your office for a few moments?”
His merry features rearranging to concern, Fortisto ran a hand over his patchy gray beard and said with a wave toward the hall, “Of course, of course. Let’s sit down and have a talk…but, about what?”
“About thieves,” I told him, my voice lowered as we made our way to his office. Each floor of the Temple was a little different than the last; and each, in my opinion, provided jarring contrast to the strange black metal of the hallways and exterior. The level commonly called “the rectory hall” was expansive and elegant, floored not in metal but wood and plush red carpet. Paintings adorned the damask walls, and, somewhere unseen, a fountain bubbled on the other side of someone’s open office door.
Fortisto had left his own empty office open. He ushered me inside, sealing us together. The walls were cramped but the high ceiling permitted some impressive bookshelves, all of which the disorganized priest had filled to the brim. As a consequence, his desk overflowed with poorly sorted stacks of books and paperwork. Among this difficult to interpret collection of objects I counted no fewer than three pairs of reading glasses. Knowing Fortisto, I suspect that he was only really aware of two. I repressed my fond smile as the eccentric priest sat across his desk from me.
“Now,” said Fortisto grimly, hands folded, “what is this about thieves?”
My warm feelings to be home faded into the pressing matter that had brought me here to begin with. Posture mirroring his, I rested my forearms upon the edge of his desk and told him as quickly as I could the story of how I came to be stranded in the Nightlands. For some reason, when imagining this moment, I had imagined massaging the truth somehow, or perhaps outright lying to save face—but I could not look Father Fortisto in the eyes and do such a thing, no more than I could lie to anyone and still think of Weltyr without shame or fear.
Besides…Father Fortisto was among the most gentle-hearted of the priests in the Temple, and, I would wager, the most gentle-hearted of the priests in Weltyr’s entire church. He listened to me with an open heart and mind, no trace of judgement in his face as I described my time of slavery (sparing certain details, of course, such as my willingness, and the particular uses my mistress had for me) and my flight out of the Nightlands. As I went on, though, attempting to explain about Branwen, he paused.
“What was it you were saying about that ring?”
“Some trinket,” I assured him. “An idol. Magical, perhaps, but ultimately the ring’s importance is as a kind of tribal fetish by which the durrow choose their next queen. I must get it back for the woman helping me with all of this, as she sacrificed it to protect my life—but only once the matter of the Scepter is seen to.”
Stroking his beard again, the old man waved his free hand and said, “Continue.”
I did—after explaining Branwen and our time in Soot, I summed it all up. “Hildolfr and Grimalkin must have come here if they are headed to Rhineland with the Scepter. I aim to stop them before they can get anywhere close, but if they board the airship, I’ll be in real trouble.”
“Don’t want to end up in the brig for starting a fight on the ship,” he agreed thoughtfully, his eyes distant. “Do you know to whom they intend to sell the artifact? Did the girl, Branwen, say anything about it?”
I shook my head ‘no.’ “That doesn’t mean she doesn’t know…she’s tight-lipped, Branwen. Seeing as she betrayed me once, I wouldn’t put it past her to withhold information or lie to me again. But…”
For a moment I thought of telling him about Gundrygia and the week I lost to a few hours of her passion, but the clock of my soul ticked steadily on. Unable to soften the gravity of my voice, I told him firmly, “The simplest solution is to catch them before they can board, and get the Scepter from them by hook or by crook.”
“I agree wholeheartedly,” said the old man, nodding. “Well, come on—let’s see what we can find with the runes. Sometimes, that’s all we need, but if we have to go deeper I can always see about consulting the Wyrd.”
Fortisto pushed himself from the desk and made his slow way around it, stopping by a board set in the corner nearest the door. After rifling through a collection of maps poorly filed in a nearby rack, he came up with a map of Skythorn that he smoothed into place in the board. To contain all of the city the map was less than detailed, but it would serve our purpose for divination. I rose from my seat to watch as he picked from a shelf above his head the bone container that had captivated me as a young man. He it twisted open, his hand sliding within to rifle through the carved pieces.
“This isn’t a time for use of the seidr?”
“No, my boy…the seidr is used for drawing forth the future. Divining the present is another matter entirely, and far less extraordinary. Excuse me.”
The priest knelt before the board, the container pressed to his forehead. I stepped back to give him space, deliberately turning the attention of my ears away from the contents of his prayer. The Temple Fathers were good men, and good teachers—but, as I had been taught in the battle lessons of the Order, not every method of connection to the Wandering God was meant for every man. Still fewer women. Certain extraordinarily ascetic nuns and women who died in the name of the faith had been granted powers acknowledged to be from Weltyr, but such powers had occurred to them only at peaks of great suffering, and only without their full comprehension.
Yet there was Valeria with her dreams, and that ring with its capacity for extraordinarily perceptive insights among other powers unknown to me—all said to be from Roserpine.
Fortisto threw the runes across the map of Skythorn. As he pondered with the tip of a wand he used to probe them about, I asked, “Is it possible, sire, that Weltyr’s lesser emanations may transmit valid divinatory information in the same way as the All-Father in his purest form?”
Pausing his contemplation, wand frozen mid-prod, kindly Fortisto looked up at me with surprise but twinkling, almost mischievous interest. “Well, now that is a very interesting question! One that not many members of the Order think to ask…or many priests, for that matter.”
“You don’t seem ill-disposed to it, Father.”
“I’m not, of course…in fact, I should think that most of the priests who dwell here in the rectory hall are rather more open to the notion that other gods are, as you say, lesser emanations of Weltyr.”
“I would have thought it to be the opposite case.”
“Only those closest to the master may understand how much his property encompasses. There are two ways to look at the gods revered by heathens in our world. One is controversial. The purpose of the Order, as you were taught, is to stamp out seditious and heretical behavior, and to complete tasks abroad in the name of the Lord. Most members of the Order of Weltyr, therefore—along with most clergy not blessed with interest or insight—believe that all other
gods are inherently false, dangerous constructions that must be destroyed. I, personally, do not always believe that to be the case.”
Fortisto resumed studying the cryptic messages of the runes. While he read, he spoke absently. My attention wandered to the sound of a raven’s hoarse croaking upon the balcony of some office on the other side of the hall. “Some gods are sacred messengers,” the priest was saying, “yes, and deliver good news and secrets in dreams at Weltyr’s behest just as he would. Some have even had Church-confirmed blessings attributed to them—though, of course, one again, these are recognized as being derived from Weltyr, who works through lesser manifestations of his might.”
“Of course,” I said, my ear still caught by external noise. Now not by a raven’s croak, but by a slight scuffle that rang oddly soft. Shaking it off, I struggled to hone my attention in on Fortisto, who continued.
“Some heathen gods have even been known to bless artifacts on behalf of Weltyr…there are three in particular that spring to mind, items as coveted as the Scepter of our Lord. The Ring of Roserpine”—a horn in the courtyard indicated the time to be 1700, its brass announcement braying five times while Fortisto thought out loud as much as contemplated the runes and responded to my question—“the Lantern of Hamsunt…and the Casket of Oppenhir.”
“Wait,” I said, struggling to focus above all these noises and, most of all, the rising commotion in the hall outside. “Did you just say the Lantern of—”
“Let go of me, Zweiding!”
Elishta’s voice wrenched my attention out to the hall entirely. Now knowing it was her, her tone had me moving quick as a flash. I threw open the door, Strife drawn by the time I stepped into the hallway. Indeed, I was assailed by the sight of Order Commander Zweiding, his powerful frame filling the hall and Elishta’s narrow wrist clenched in his fist.
“You heard the lady,” I told him. Having been long enough absented from the Temple and since educated in the value of impudence, I did not think twice about threatening a man fundamental in my training and status within the Order—a man who could, by rights, have ordered me to do nearly anything so long as it be in Weltyr’s name.
But I had never thought twice about defending Elishta from cruel teachers when we were children. Now, shocked to be addressed in such a way, Zweiding released her. Elishta-bet scrambled away with her long skirts held around her ankles.
“Why,” he said, a dark laugh on his sneering lips, “Burningsoul! Back at last—with the Scepter, I presume?”
“Not yet.” Seeing as, unarmed, Zweiding wore his black Temple garb, I sheathed Strife and studied Elishta as she rubbed her wrist. “Are you hurt?”
“Oh, please. She’s not made of spun sugar, Burningsoul. The little witch was eavesdropping on your meeting with Father Fortisto…you had ought to thank me, then profusely apologize for your mistake.”
“While it may be out of line to point my weapon at a superior officer, I only heard a woman protest—and, seeing as I did not know the context, I thought it better that I should intervene first and worry about the details later on.”
“Well, now…travel has changed you at least a little, hasn’t it! What happened to the boy who wandered off to find the Scepter? A man now…still empty-handed, though.”
I had never liked Zweiding on a personal level, and after my time abroad he seemed more unpleasant than ever. At the very least, he did no honor to the mark upon his neck.
“Not for long,” I told him. “You remember the report I sent you?”
“Ah, yes—something about the Nightlands, correct? Seeking the Scepter there, in a den of spirit-thieves. How did that go for you?”
“I was captured by some durrow, but—”
“Durrow!” With a noise that was something of a crossbreed between a scoff and a laugh of derision, the steel-haired officer folded his arms. “You were captured by a bunch of elves, you mean?”
“I went with them honorably,” I corrected him, maintaining as calm a tone as I could in the circumstances. “They agreed to heal an otherwise mortal wound if I would consent to come with them as a slave and not to trouble them about it.”
Zweiding’s shock only grew. “And you did it? Surely not.”
“It was the honorable thing,” I repeated, though this seemed to mean next to nothing to him. No more than it did, infuriatingly, when I pointed out, “I sensed it was Weltyr’s will that I should obey. Sure enough, look how soon I was liberated from the bonds of—”
But he had stopped listening and, in fact, had been laughing for some time. “What a fool you are! How less than a man you are, permitting yourself to be captured by a bunch of women…it’s true, isn’t it, that they’re all females? Weltyr’s beard! All this time I’d been worried that you would return home and prove a problem between myself and my intended—but what concern have I that a wretch so unmanly might usurp my right?”
I, baffled, could only help but ask before he carried on, “How do you mean?”
“Ah! You didn’t tell him, Elishta?” His laughter fading, that arrogant sneer returning in full, the Commander glanced at my old friend. Elishta had been cowed into thin-lipped, shame-faced silence. She stared at her feet while Zweiding informed me, “Elishta here is my intended.”
Mouth open, I looked between the two of them and saw very clearly that Elishta-bet had no part in such a decision. “How could that be? Did you not just call her a witch?”
“And I meant it. You are one, aren’t you, Elishta?”
My heart was pained while my friend clenched her hands in fists of impotent rage. Now I could feel Fortisto in the doorway behind me, wondering perhaps if he had ought to intervene. I silently willed him to stay out of it while Zweiding went on in a mocking tone, “This wretched girl was thrown out of the convent for practicing profane magical arts not permitted to members of the Church. She’s lucky she wasn’t killed! But, owing to her ties to the Temple, we have deigned to reform her. In such a case as this, part of the reformation process involves the engagement of the witch in as many sacraments as possible…Matrimony and Extreme Unction being foremost among them. Seeing as I have always found Elishta-bet to be incredibly lovely, I volunteered for the former. Hopefully it will not yet come to the latter.”
Trembling, Elishta burst into the motion of a startled bird. I nearly cried out as she darted between me and Zweiding on her way back down the passage to the curling stairs. Fury burning in my breast, I told my Commander, “Can’t you see she wants no part in this?”
“The pairing has already been approved by the administrative board.”
“But surely, Commander, you could examine your conscience and—”
“My conscience tells me that the world has no room for another dangerous heretic driven mad by magical powers she has not earned…and that, if I want to see such danger stamped out, I had ought to commit to the task of her reformation. If you were any suitable fit to the Order, you would agree with me—just as you, rather than consenting to come along with them as their chattel, you would have eradicated the durrow who helped you for their own benefit.”
You are being lied to, Eradicator.
My eyes squeezed shut.
“I won’t let you do this,” I told him, pushing to the back of my mind all the consequences that surely awaited me for this.
A scoff rose from Zweiding’s chest. He now looked at me not with derision but stern displeasure. “Oh?”
“I can’t stand idly by and permit even you, Commander, to force a woman into a marriage against her will.” My stomach tightened as I went on, but I had no choice. “Not even if the Church says that is what is necessary. Weltyr himself would consider such a union a woeful sin—I’m sure of it.”
Speaking as though unable to control my tongue, (and certainly not able to hear the priest behind me, who softly uttered my name as though to plead that I stop), I placed my hand upon Strife’s pommel.
“Commander Zweiding, I challenge you to a duel for the sake of Elishta-bet.”
“If I win, you must release Elishta-bet from her obligation to marry you.”
“And if you lose?”
“Then I will never set eyes on her again. I will mind my own business and say nothing of the union, which must, in the case of my loss, be for the benefit of Weltyr…but I do not believe that will prove to be the case.”
The raven from before hacked out a laugh that carried through the rectory. Ignoring it, Zweiding responded coolly.
“That will be the very least of your forfeits. A place in the Order will be among them, Burningsoul. Are you sure you wish to challenge me?”
I had the feeling my place in the Order would be dubious regardless of whether I won or lost. Certainly, unless I acquired the Scepter soon, it already was.
“Yes,” I told him, knowing only the deep fury that filled me to think of Elishta-bet conscripted into this loathsome arrangement. “The challenge stands. Choose the time and place and you will find me there.”
“You always were a foolhardy boy, Burningsoul. Very well. I’ll give you…three full days to come to your senses. Should you still wish to throw your years of training—your whole life—into the gutter for the sake of a heretical woman, I will meet you in the gardens before our Temple on the dawn of the fourth day.”
“Then you will see me there, Commander,” I told him. “And I pray to Weltyr that you will not bear the burden of ill feelings if the All-Father should prove my cause more just than yours.”
With a snort, Zweiding looked hard into my face and, saying nothing, exited in the same direction as Elishta-bet. I struggled to avoid following him. Thankfully, Fortisto was there to place his hand upon my shoulder.
“I hope you know what you’re doing, Rorke,” said the old man, his expression grim. “I dislike the idea of Elishta’s reformation as much as you, but—”
Outraged, I said, “I’ve never heard of such a thing! How could the clergy ordain practice so barbaric?”