Reaper's Awakening

by Jacob Peppers

  CHAPTER FOUR

  As always, Cameron felt out of place in the temple’s inner sanctum, a mongrel dog who’d snuck in to some lavish mansion and was seconds away from being kicked out. It wasn’t the golden-threaded rug that ran along the corridor’s floor that brought this feeling, nor was it the murals painted on the walls, ones depicting the Divines as they reached down from the heavens and saved the frail, half-starved humans that cowered in their presence.

  The murals were powerful, inspirational, and the golden rug, so finely woven and expertly kept, made it seem as if he were walking in the Halls of the Divines already, but these things weren’t what made him walk quietly for fear of making too much noise and disturbing the stillness, the holiness of the place. They weren’t what kept him from even breathing too hard, lest he mar the sacredness of the place with his own imperfections.

  No, for him, it was what this place, and the other temples like it, represented. The temple was at once a shield protecting the people of Carel and the kingdom of Anamandia, and a knife, cutting away the rot that always sought to overtake it. Here, the High Priests and Priestesses, the holiest of all men and women, communed with the Divines and performed the Holy Rites of Sanctification, extracting the essences of those chosen in the Drawing. With these, the King shaped the ether, holding at bay the ever-present evil that threatened to destroy the city and all its people.

  Slowly, carefully, he made his way past closed doors that led to the chambers of the High Priests and Priestesses until he came to the one belonging to his own spiritual advisor, High Priest Perdeus. He hesitated for a moment then knocked, wincing as the sound—somehow profane in this place—cut through the silence.

  “Please, come in, Cameron,” a familiar voice called from the other side of the door.

  The High Priest’s sanctuary was small and simply furnished, the majority of the room taken up with bookcases upon which sat an unruly cluster of books and scrolls. No paintings or murals covered the walls, and the only furniture was an old wooden desk, piled so high with tomes and papers that it looked as if it might collapse at any moment. In truth, it looked more like the chamber of some lifelong scholar than it did that of one of the High Priests of the Divines. Men and women who—aside from the king and perhaps Marek—were the most powerful people in the city.

  The High Priest sat behind his desk, running a hand through his unruly, thinning gray hair as he huddled over a scroll that was yellowed with age, his brows drawn down in deep concentration. “Please, have a seat,” he said, “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

  Cameron eased himself into the chair in front of the desk. While he waited, he glanced at the books piled on the High Priest’s desk. A Study of Intercontinental Politics in Pre-Fulmination Times, A Treatise Regarding the Preparation and Use of Wild Plants as Curatives, and Social Herd Behavior in Modern Times: Be We Sheep or Lions?

  Cameron blinked. High Priest Perdeus was, perhaps, the wisest person he knew, a man he respected more than any other save Marek himself, but he couldn’t understand what interest the man could have in such material, the last of the three sounding perilously similar to many of the texts that had been banned by the Church. It couldn’t be, of course—to think that the High Priest would read anything illegal was beyond ridiculous. Still, it was strange to him that none of the books seemed to deal with the Divines or the Sacred Rites. He would have suspected the chambers of a High Priest to be littered with religious texts with a reserved space, of course, for The Divine’s Mandate, the Holy Book which contained the writings and teachings of Animandus Parsinian himself, chosen messenger of the Divines.

  “Now, then,” the older man said, jerking Cameron away from his thoughts and placing the scroll to the side of his desk with the care most people reserved for infants, “how are you, my boy?”

  Cameron nodded his head respectfully, “I’m well, High Priest, thank you for asking.”

  The old man raised his thick white eyebrows, amusement shining in his faded blue eyes, “How many years have we known each other now, Cameron?”

  “Twenty three, High Priest. Since I was five years of age, and Commander Marek took me in to be trained for the Harvesters.”

  “And in those years, how many times have I told you that simply Perdeus will do?”

  Cameron shrugged uncomfortably, “Many times, High Priest.”

  “And yet?”

  “Begging your pardon, High Priest, but the forms must be observed. It is these that protect us. You are a Chosen interpreter of the Divines’ will.”

  Perdeus sighed and waved a hand as if batting away a particularly annoying fly, “Yes, yes, the forms must be observed. So Marek has been telling me for thirty five years and more, I need not hear it again. Besides, we are all just men or women, Cameron. None more or less important than any other.”

  “Forgive me, sir, but you and the other High Priests—”

  “Eat and sleep and lie like any other man. We are not perfect, Cameron. We are all just men and women trying to do the best we can.” He held up a hand to silence further argument, “But never mind that, let us leave it. I do not mean to upset you. Tell me, how was your latest mission?” He gestured to Cameron’s golden, glowing eyes, “A success I take it?”

  Cameron wanted to say more, to tell the High Priest that he, and his colleagues, weren’t like other men and women. After all, they had been chosen by the Divines themselves to lead the Church and the people down the path the Divines had laid for them. They were the greatest this world had to offer except King Parsinian himself, but it was not his place to contradict a High Priest, so instead he nodded, “I performed the rites, High Priest.”

  “Yes. And tell me, were there any difficulties?”

  “None to speak of, High Priest.”

  “No troubles from this Memory I hear so much talk of then?”

  Cameron shrugged, “It’s true that the Sacrifice moved quickly after the Drawing, and I suspect he must have had help, but it didn’t matter. In the end, the Divines’ will was served. As for this Memory, Marek says that, even now, the agents of the Church and the King are on the verge of discovering his identity. It is only a matter of time. ”

  “Perhaps,” the High Priest said, “Perhaps. I wonder, Cameron, have I ever told you the story of King Dalsha Evartin?”

  The High Priest was fond of history and most of their visits included a lesson or story from the past, but this one did not sound familiar. “I do not believe so, Holiness.”

  The older man nodded, gripped his cane and, grunting with effort, levered himself to his feet. His good leg shook dangerously as the wooden peg in which the other ended—he’d lost his left leg below the knee in an accident years before Cameron had met him—fought to gain purchase on the floor. Cameron made to rise, but the High Priest waved him away, finally righting himself. He paused to wipe the sleeve of his robe over his now sweaty forehead. “Tell me, Cameron. Do you believe me to be of less worth because I have only one working leg?”

  “Of course not, High Priest,” he said.

  Perdeus nodded, smiling sadly, “And yet, it has not always been so.” He began to root through one of the drawers of his desk as he spoke, “In times past, many rulers have made it their mission to kill such men as myself: the crippled, the dim-witted, the infirm. Dalsha Evartin was one such man.”

  “But why would anyone do such a thing, High Priest?”

  The older man shrugged, “Different reasons, as many as there are stars in the sky. As for King Evartin, well, his was a military society, a country constantly at war with its neighbors. For this reason, able-bodied men and women—warriors—were treasured above all others. Such a society has little use for old, crippled men.”

  “But, forgive me, High Priest, that’s ridiculous. Your wisdom—”

  “My wisdom, such as it is, is inadequate protection against a sword thrust.” He finally produced a clear flask from the drawer. A dark blue, cloudy liquid swirled within it. He also withdrew a tin cup and be
gan to pour some of the liquid. “But never mind that. This story is not about me. You see, what’s interesting about Dalsha Evartin is that, as time went on, he grew increasingly obsessed with creating the perfect army. One consisting of the strongest, fastest, most physically capable of men and women.”

  Cameron frowned, “It seems to me, High Priest, that every kingdom is the same. After all, what good is an army if it cannot fight?”

  “Exactly so,” the High Priest said, nodding, “But, you see, King Evartin was possessed of the belief that such conditions as blindness, lameness, even feeble-mindedness, were passed down from father to son over generations. And so, it was not long before the Cleansings began.”

  Cameron felt a dread building in him. “Cleansings, High Priest?”

  Perdeus slid the cup toward Cameron, “You see, for King Evartin to have the best army possible, such people—the weak, the often-sick—could not be allowed to live and reproduce, thereby weakening the bloodlines of his kingdom. So, one night, the king sent his soldiers through the cities and hamlets of his kingdom. These soldiers rounded up every man or woman possessing such afflictions—drink up, Cameron. It is a foul repast, I know, but necessary.”

  Cameron downed the contents of the glass, winced as the thick liquid traced its turgid, greasy path down his throat. He felt a moment’s dizziness that caused him to waver in his chair and then a cool numbness began to spread through his body.

  “Very good,” Perdeus said. “Where was I? Oh yes. These men and women were rounded up and, for the good of the kingdom, executed.”

  “Tha … that’s terrible,” Cameron said, his voice sounding thick and fuzzy to his own ears, his tongue suddenly feeling as if it was too big for his mouth.

  “Yes, but, you see, King Evartin did not stop there. In the following years, such issues began to show themselves again as new children were born. Well, what was the king to do? He was surrounded by enemies, fighting armies all along his borders. He needed more soldiers to be born, more men and women capable of not just wielding a sword, but wielding it with skill, with speed and strength. So, the soldiers were sent out once more. Only this time, they didn’t take only the physically deformed, the mad or the crippled. This time, they targeted also those who were too small or too fat to fight. These unfortunate souls were dragged out, with the others, and executed.”

  “That’s … evil,” Cameron said.

  The High Priest smiled but there was no joy in it, “Is it? True, it is wrong to murder, but did the king not do all that he did for the good of the kingdom? How can such a thing be wrong?”

  He let Cameron consider that for a moment then finally shrugged, “Wrong or not, another year passed, then another, and once more babies and children were showing signs of weakness or cowardice. So, once more the king sent out his soldiers. This time, they took not only the grossly fat, but the slightly overweight, not just the small, but the average too. After all, the king reasoned, how can an army made up of average men and women hope to be anything but average itself? And so it went, the king growing more desperate with each passing year until, finally, over half of the kingdom’s population—including many of its fighting men and women who had been found wanting—were slain. Not by an invading army, but by their own king, their own brothers and sisters in arms.

  “And so it was that, when next his kingdom was attacked, King Evartin’s army was a shadow of what it once was and had not the strength it needed to defend the kingdom’s borders, for those who would have done so were dead and buried. The best, it turned out, were too few to do anything but die in battle. And die they did until the kingdom was overrun by its enemies, its remaining people put to the sword.”

  Cameron shrugged, surprised, as always, how difficult such a simple gesture was under the influence of the High Priest’s potion. “He was a tyrant.”

  The older man seemed to consider this for a moment then, finally, he nodded. “A tyrant he was. But, then, it is important to understand that no man sets out to become a tyrant. No man is evil in his own eyes.”

  “But … all those people.”

  “Yes. All those people.” The High Priest’s voice seemed to be coming from a long way off now. “Dead and for what? Because their king believed it was the only way to protect them. Ironic, is it not? Ah, but I see the potion is doing its work, so we must set this aside for now. Tell me, what is your name?”

  Cameron swallowed, struggling to speak, “Cameron Shale.”

  “This and no other?”

  “Y-yes.”

  The High Priest nodded and withdrew a small gem the color of dull bronze from his desk, “Very well.” He hobbled to Cameron, breathing hard and leaning heavily on his cane, “Open your hands, my son.”

  Cameron did, his actions feeling clumsy and awkward. The High Priest let the gem fall into them, and Cameron winced at the coldness of it. It was as if he held in his hands a piece of the icebergs that were said to float in the waters of the northern shores. Perdeus pressed Cameron’s hands tighter around the gem, “Concentrate, Cameron,” the priest intoned, his words seeming to come from inside Cameron’s head, “What you hold inside you is not your own, only borrowed. Let it go, let that which does not belong within you flow into the lodestone.”

  The High Priest placed a hand on Cameron’s shoulder and began to recite what sounded like an incantation but in a language Cameron did not know. Slowly—it could have been minutes or hours his sluggish mind had no way to tell—the lump of ice he held in his hands grew warmer then warmer still. As it did, Cameron felt something being drawn, being pulled out of him. With each word the High Priest spoke, the lodestone grew warmer until finally it felt as if he held a live coal in his hands. In that moment, the gradual tugging became a cruel, savage jerk, and he gasped, his back arching and his head snapping back as he felt a piece of him being ripped away.

  Then, in an instant, the pressure vanished altogether, and the High Priest opened his hands and retrieved the lodestone, the gem now glowing a bright gold. He placed it in a glass vessel that sat on his desk, and Cameron slumped wearily in his chair, his eyelids far too heavy to keep open.

  “You have done well, Cameron.” The High Priest’s voice was a distant thing, little more than a whisper in the darkness. “Now, drink this and rest.” A goblet was pressed against his lips, and Cameron drank, the cool liquid streaming down his parched throat. It brought with it calm, peace and, in another moment, oblivion.

  Perdeus watched the younger man for several seconds until he was satisfied he was unconscious. Then he placed the goblet on his desk, wiping sweat from his brow with one shaky hand. He had performed the Ritual of Sanctification many times over the years, yet he never got used to it, never got used to the way the lodestones—gifts from the Divines, it was said—drank so greedily of the essence the Harvesters carried. And had this essence belonged to a man or a woman? Had they been young or old, kind or cruel? There was no way to tell, for in the taking that person had, to the world, ceased to exist. Whatever the person had been, a mother, a son, a father or brother, they were gone now, leaving not even a memory of their passing. No, he never had grown used to it.

  He sat on the edge of his desk, rubbing at his bad leg where the muscles of his thigh ached and burned. “You’re stalling, old man,” he scolded himself, “Just get it done.” He glanced at Cameron once more, watched the slow rise and fall of his chest as he breathed the nearly imperceptible breaths of the unconscious. A quick look at the door, ensuring that it was closed, and Perdeus reached into the drawer of his desk, removed its false bottom, and took from the small hidden compartment a black cloth bag. The contents of the bag shone a bright, fierce gold that was visible even through the dark cloth.

  Taking a deep breath in an effort to slow his racing heart, he reached into the bag and removed a golden lodestone, similar in appearance, though far brighter and vivid than the one he’d placed in the glass vial on his desk. He had never exactly discovered the reason for that. Was it a person’s will
to live that made some lodestones shine more brightly than others? Or was there simply more of them? He did not know, and it did not matter, not for the moment. What matters is that you’re stalling again.

  He placed the empty bag on his desk and glanced once more at the door, sure that someone would be standing there, would ask him what it was he was about. But, there was no one, and he wiped a robed arm across his forehead—sweating profusely now, the cold, sour sweat of fear—and made his way slowly, carefully to the Harvester, leaning heavily on his cane.

  Once there, he looked closely at the unconscious man before him. Strong features, though not blunt or coarse as so many warriors’ were. A man women would think handsome. More than just handsome, maybe, if not for the tortured visage that always seemed to lurk just beneath the surface. And have we put that pain there, my friend? That torture? He is so like you, he thought with a pang of sadness. Sometimes, I think ignorance is the greatest gift a man can be given. I wonder if it would not be better … but no. He always had such thoughts, but he had made a promise, a promise to the only true friend he’d ever had, a man who had known his cowardice and trusted him anyway. I will not fail in this, he thought, leaning toward the Harvester, I will not fail this time.

  Ever so gently, he opened the Harvester’s palms and placed the stone in them. The younger man’s response was instant. Although he remained unconscious, his muscles tensed at once, and he let out a low, tortured moan, the sound of some dying animal in its last moments.

  Perdeus felt a pang of grief at the sound, and he slumped against his desk, exhausted. Ah, my friend, he thought, I pray that you were right. I pray that he does not suffer to no purpose. And so, he sat in silence, praying to gods he’d long since stopped believing in to watch over the young man before him, to give him strength for what was to come. He would need it.