“Aye.” Grom's eyes held a lively twinkle. “Right now, I'm bigger an’ older lookin', but by the time you get grown I'll still be a teenager, if dwarves used that term. Hell, I didn't even pick up me first hammer ‘til I was past twenty!”
“Why did you leave home?” As soon as he asked, Thomas wondered if he had presumed too much. He didn't mean to make Grom uncomfortable, but it was too late now.
Grom's face grew thoughtful as he chewed over the question, “I suppose I didn't agree with some things that I was taught. You know most dwarves worship Dramig, right?”
Thomas nodded and the dwarf continued, “Well Dramig is a bit different than Delwyn.”
“But he's a good god too. The brothers say that he helped Delwyn when she fought Gravon.” Thomas wasn't sure what else to say, so he trailed off into silence.
“Aye he is,” Grom replied, “But there's one particular difference that's important to me.”
“Well Dramig created the earth, and Delwyn the sun.” For some reason, Thomas knew his remark wasn't anywhere close to the point.
“Dramig is very concerned with the law, and most dwarves live by it, there's right, and there's wrong. My people don't see much in between. They don't see much reason for second chances. Delwyn's followers believe in redemption, and for redemption to have a place, they set much store in mercy, if there's any hope of redemption. Mercy is what brought me here, and redemption is what keeps me.” Grom's deep baritone grew silent.
“Did something happen to cause you to leave?” asked Thomas.
“Aye.” The simple reply made it clear Grom wasn't going to speak further on that topic, and his face held an expression that made Thomas feel bad for asking.
Thomas let the subject drop that day, and he had no more opportunities to question Grom that week, or the week after. His classes kept him busy, and Brother Simon seemed to enjoy giving them writing assignments in the evenings. One particular assignment caused him a bit of trouble.
The essay was supposed to be about the sealing of Gravon, a time when the gods fought together to seal the Devouring Beast in his eternal prison. Thomas felt fairly confident about it, since Sarah had told him the story herself, and he remembered it quite well. As a consequence, he didn't actually pay much attention to the reading they were given to write their essay from.
He arrived to class on time, and things went well from there, until the boys were asked to read their essays. He was rather nervous about reading in front of the class, but luckily Ivan was called first. Whatever that idiot wrote, mine will look better by comparison, he thought to himself, but as Ivan read his essay he found himself surprised by the content. Several parts of the story seemed to be missing, nothing too important, but the ending bothered him.
After he finished, Brother Simon made Ivan wait for a moment. “Does anyone have any comments before we continue?”
Something warned Thomas that this wasn't the time to bring up his questions, but for once he ignored his good sense. “Why did you leave out the part involving Anteriolus?” he asked. The class got quiet for a moment as all eyes turned to him. Thomas felt uncomfortable mentioning the Prince of Darkness, but his part in the story had been completely omitted.
“What do you mean?” Ivan was clearly confused.
“You said that Delwyn defeated Gravon and cast him down into the Pit, where she sealed him away for all eternity, but that's not completely true. She didn't defeat him completely, she just temporarily overpowered him, and she didn't seal him, Anteriolus did, and has the key to Gravon's prison to this day.” Thomas could feel the other boys gaping stares, as if he'd just grown fins and tried to swim in the middle of the classroom.
“Are you daft, or just trying to make a fool of yourself? There’s nothing like that in the reading assignment.” Ivan was sneering now; the disbelief on the other boys’ faces told him he had the upper hand. He was about to move onto a scathing remark about stray dogs in class when Brother Simon interrupted.
“Where did you learn that?” The man's voice was quiet but stern.
Now Thomas knew he was on shaky ground, “Well sir… before I came to the temple, a friend told me the stories, and she seemed very sure of the details.”
“And who was your friend?” Brother Simon seemed genuinely curious, rather than angry.
“Sarah was an orphan, but she was the one who directed me to the temple when I had...,” Thomas stopped himself, he'd been about to say, 'when I had nowhere else to go' but he knew that would only earn him more ridicule. “She knew a lot about history and the gods,” he finished, feeling a bit foolish.
“Did she think she was royalty too?” Ivan's scorn was etched on his face. “Maybe she thought she was the queen of dogs.”
“No, she wouldn't let anyone address her as royalty, but she seemed...,” Thomas caught himself. He'd been about to describe her to Ivan. The very thought made him ill as he considered what Ivan would do with her memory if he gave him any more information.
“Ivan, please sit down, your behavior isn't what we like to encourage here,” said Brother Simon.
The priest paused while Ivan took his seat, before continuing, “As a matter of fact, Thomas' orphan friend was right; although it surprises me she would know these things. Those details are normally reserved for later training after entering the clergy, they aren't common knowledge.”
That got everyone's attention. The mocking grins turned into confused looks. The moment passed quickly though. Brother Simon ended the class early and took up the rest of the papers. When he took Thomas', he looked at it thoughtfully before returning to his desk. He was still reading it as Thomas filed out with the other students.
***
Father Whitmire heard a light knock on his study door. The hour was late, but it wasn’t unusual for some of the brothers to call on him for advice in the evening. He frequently worked late hours anyway. Looking up he spoke in a firm tone, “Come in.”
Poking his head around the door Brother Simon looked in, “Are you busy Father? If so, I can come back later.”
“No, no, come on in, I was just signing off on some reports.” The older priest’s expression was open as he tried to put the younger man at ease, “You seem like you have something on your mind.”
“Well, yes, it concerns young Thomas, the boy you brought to the temple a few years ago.” Brother Simon paused looking at the older man, but Father Whitmire didn’t seem inclined to interrupt, instead lifting one eyebrow as if to indicate Simon should get on with it. “It seems Thomas has had some prior instruction in religious history, including some things that are not common knowledge outside of clerical circles.” Gaining momentum, he went on to relate the story of the students’ essays. “I find it hard to credit his tale of learning it from an orphan girl.” At last Simon had run out of things to say and waited to see what his superior would say.
While listening, Father Whitmire had taken a thoughtful pose, steepling his fingers and closing his eyes. Opening them, he gazed at Simon intently, “I’m going to show you something. I’d like to know what you think of it, but please remember this is in strictest confidence. Only the inner council has seen this.” He stared at Simon, waiting.
“Of course, Father.”
Moving to a cabinet, Whitmire rifled through several folders until he found what he was looking for, a large square sheet of paper with something drawn on it. Careful not to crease it, he brought it to the desk and laid it flat, motioning Simon over to look. “What do you make of that?”
At first Simon had no idea; it appeared to be a rough sketch of the symbol of Delwyn. What confused him was that it had a rough outline of a human chest drawn around it, as though someone had confused an anatomy textbook with a religious document. “I’m not sure of the context… is this a drawing of a symbol or someone…”
“Both, it’s a drawing of Thomas’ chest that I made myself the night I brought him to the temple,” said the elder priest. He watched Simon carefully, gauging his reaction.
“Why did you draw our Lady’s symbol upon it?”
“Because that’s what’s on his chest, a scar-like birthmark, which bears exact resemblance to the symbol of our order,” explained Whitmire.
“Everyone thought you brought him in out of pity, an act of random kindness, but this!” Brother Simon was flustered and excited. “You didn’t just save a random boy; this is a sign from the goddess herself!”
“I didn’t save him at all, quite the reverse actually,” with that he began to relate his own story, and his own shame. Sometimes honesty in her service was a hard choice, but since that night Father Whitmire had decided never to shirk his duty again.
***
After a week, the commotion surrounding Thomas and his ‘orphan girl’ died down a bit. Particularly refreshing was the way Brother Simon treated him now. The young man was careful to keep an eye on Thomas and frequently intervened whenever he saw Ivan causing him trouble. Of course, this merely served to intensify Ivan’s dislike of him, but Thomas didn’t mind that at all. He was doing well in his classes and beginning to realize that he wouldn’t be a student forever. Such thoughts led him to ponder what path he should choose for the future.
While Thomas enjoyed working at the forge with Grom now and then, he didn’t think he had it in him to be a good smith. The boys had also lately begun light training in arms and armor, which could lead to a military career or service with the paladins of Delwyn. Somehow Thomas couldn’t really picture himself spending his life as a warrior, though.
Lost in thought he found himself at Grom’s forge yet again. Luckily the dwarf was close to the end of a long project. Finishing that left the stoic dwarf in a good mood, and of a mind to chat, which was an infrequent occurrence.
After discussing Grom’s plan for his next project Thomas figured he might be ok in asking a few more personal questions, “How long have you lived in Port Weston?”
“’Bout five years,” Grom’s tone was light.
“What did you do before you came here?”
“Wandered around a bit. I had some money, so I just took things as they came for a while, a'fore I found Port Weston and decided to try makin' a living smithing here.”
Emboldened by Grom's easy words, Thomas figured he could keep going, “Why did you come to the temple to smith, wouldn't you make more on your own?”
Grom grimaced, “Aye.” His simple reply made Thomas sure that would probably be the end of the conversation, but after a moment's thought Grom continued, “I had enough when I got to Port Weston, and I did set up a smithy. None of the smith's in town would take me on, probably fearful I'd drive away customers, or outshine them. Even at that age I had more skill and experience than most of the smiths here in town.” Grom paused. “I set up my own place. Despite their rules, I was able to pass the master's test here, and I had the coin to buy tools. Things went pretty well for a year or so, until that business with Alec.”
“Who's Alec?” Thomas had a good idea, but he wanted to hear the story from Grom's perspective.
“Ahh, ye wouldn't know about that would ye?” Grom's face took on a pained expression. “Well there was a young lad, son of one of the merchants, he took up hangin' around the smithy, sorta like you have. But Alec had problems. He didn't get along with his father, maybe that's why he hung around, since we had a bit in common that way. He made a lot of talk of leavin' home, strikin' out on his own. I think I might've been a bad example for him. He was always a bit too interested in hearing how I'd run off on me own.”
“Doesn't sound like you did anything wrong,” Thomas put in.
“Tell that to the magistrate. A few months after I met Alec, he up and run off. Naturally, his parents blamed me. Accused me of spiriting him off, or even killing him and hiding the body. Some nasty rumors got started after that,” Grom sighed and took a deep breath.
“Anyway, the magistrate was all set to send me off as a menial to the mining camp. They didn't have a body so they couldn't charge me with murder, but still, five years workin' as a near slave didn't appeal to me none. That was when Father Whitmire intervened.”
“Father Whitmire?” The mention of his benefactor's name piqued Thomas' interest.
“Yeah, he knew they were givin' me a bad deal, mostly just because they didn't like me beard and short stature. So, he talked the magistrate into giving me parole, in custody of the temple. And here I've been, the past few years, smithing for the temple. Still got a couple of years left before me parole's done.” Remembering their previous conversation, Grom's words made more sense now. Mercy is what brought me here, and redemption is what keeps me. Thomas was not sure that what Grom had said before referred to just this incident though, in fact he had a feeling there was more.
“Did they ever find Alec?” The conversation had grown dark, and Thomas was hoping to find a way to switch topics.
“Aye, they found him. Two towns over, got drunk and hung himself. When word got back, Father Whitmire tried to have my sentence removed, but the magistrate wouldn't hear of it. Said I'd probably urged him to it. He only agreed to clear my record once the parole is done. Right old bastard he is. Makes me no mind anyway, the food’s good here, plenty of work, and the priests are better than most humans.”
“You like smithing don't you?”
“Aye, it’s in me blood.”
“So, this is what you were looking for when you left home then, a place to craft among decent people?” Thomas felt better thinking perhaps Grom's story had a bit of a happy ending.
Grom raised a bushy eyebrow, “I thought so, but all this talkin' has me to thinking perhaps I judged me Dad a bit more harshly than I should've.”
“What do you mean?” asked Thomas.
“I come from warrior stock; the axe is in me blood as much as the hammer, though I've forsaken it since I left home.”
“Why?” Thomas was getting confused, but felt certain there was some deep meaning.
“Mercy. There was no mercy for foes at home, be they dwarf or orc. ‘Twas only the hard rules of iron. But here, here maybe I can temper the axe's edge.” Left unspoken were the words, with mercy.
Chapter 4
Punishment
A few days later Thomas’ routine was interrupted when he was called out of his first class to report to Father Whitmire’s office. Ordinarily this wouldn’t have bothered him too much, but it was odd to be called out of class. As he walked out Ivan caught his eye and gave him a knowing smile, which made him wonder what the other boy knew.
Stepping into the hallway he was surprised to find one of the temple paladins. Dressed in full armor and carrying a scimitar, he cut an intimidating figure. Thomas didn't even know his name. Without a word the man fell in beside him and walked with him to the high priest's office. He had the distinct impression that he was being escorted. Once he arrived he knocked once, and then hearing a voice he entered the room.
Father Whitmire looked up, his expression was grim, “I see you're here. Thomas listen to me carefully.” His voice had a strange edge to it, as though each word were deadly serious.
“Yes sir,” said Thomas somberly.
“In a few minutes that door will open again and you will be escorted to the justice chamber. Don't argue, don't question, just do as you're told and keep your mouth shut. When you get to the chamber they'll take you in, and you'll meet Father Tremmond, he will be presiding over the hearing...”
“But what's going on?” Thomas interjected.
“I'm not allowed to discuss it with you beforehand. Now pay attention.” His eyes made it clear that he wouldn't entertain any more questions. “Speak only when spoken to, answer any question put to you truthfully and without dawdling. Do not volunteer anything,” finished, the high priest rose and left the room without looking back.
Sitting in the room, Thomas felt incredibly alone. He knew something terrible had happened, and he had a suspicion that for some reason blame was about to fall squarely on his shoulders. He remembered the loo
k on Ivan's face as he left the classroom. What does he know? What do they think I did? For a moment, he was paralyzed by the thought. In his life prior to the temple he had often been accused of things, usually theft of food. In every case, whether guilty or not, he'd been soundly thrashed. If they got their hands on me.
As he sat cudgeling his brain for an answer he thought of Grom's story, how he'd been falsely accused of killing a young man. Panic rose in his mind, and he fought to stay calm. If he was blamed for something like that, what would happen to him? Would he be cast out? Sent to the town jail? His mind was spinning with ever more fantastic and terrifying thoughts, until at last it went blank.
Relax. In his mind, he could hear Sarah's voice, full of confidence as it ever was. You shall ever be sheltered by us and given succor in time of need. Was that a memory? Or had he really heard her speaking those words again? Thomas felt sure he was beginning to lose his mind. He shook his head, as if to clear it, but nevertheless he felt much calmer now. “I'm a fool,” he said to himself, “in trouble up to my ears, and my first thought is that a girl not much older than myself is gonna come and save me. And now I'm talking to myself as well.”
About then the paladin from before opened the door, “It is time, please come with me.”
Thomas rose and followed him along the corridor to the temple's small justice chamber. The room was rarely used and was sparsely appointed, housing a small desk and a couple of chairs. The accused was expected to stand throughout the proceedings. As he entered the room Thomas felt the tingle of magic on his face. A strange compulsion began to take hold, and he knew that it meant to bind his tongue, forcing him to speak nothing but the truth. Wordlessly he resisted, and after a moment he felt the tingle fade away.
Father Tremmond sat behind the desk and held an air of gravity about him. He wasted no time getting to the matter at hand, “As some of you are aware, we are here today to address a matter of theft. In particular, the theft of the silver censer and candlesticks used at the ancillary altar. Brother Jenkins if you would give us the details surrounding their disappearance.”
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