by T. G. Neal
The Paladin answered in unison. “By invocation of necessity, Mikael Uruk requests audience for he and his fellow travelers with The Grace.”
The Priest paused and examined the group carefully, then he sighed. “I shall return.”
Keneya examined his surroundings, considering what he would have to do to get them inside, or perhaps escape if things turned south, though surely it wouldn’t. He looked at the windows, high above the ground, and back to the Paladins who stood and watched him intently. “What?” He asked them, surprised by their gaze.
The Paladins said nothing. Finally, the priest returned. “You may come in.”
As the group stepped forward the priest held up his hand and said “Ah, ah, ah! Only you, Monk.”
Mikael stopped and turned back to the group, then looked back to the priest. “Why not them? They are with me.”
“They are not worthy.”
Keneya laughed and walked away. Aurelia said nothing, but she looked at Vaelen. Vaelen frowned and took the bag that hung around him and handed it over to Mikael. “Good luck. Maker be with you.”
Mikael nodded to him. “And with you.”
While Mikael went inside, Vaelen, Aurelia and Keneya stood in the open square just beyond the gigantic Cathedral under the cast shadow of the giant, lavish spire that blocked the sun. Keneya found a bench and laid down on it, his hands behind his head. While he looked up into the sky, he slowly closed his eyes and allowed himself to doze off.
Vaelen sat down on one of the benches in the square and leaned forward on his elbows. He looked at Aurelia, who moved to sit down next to him. “How do you imagine that conversation will go?”
Aurelia shrugged. “I don’t have the foggiest of ideas.”
Vaelen smirked. “Me either.” He paused for a minute and looked at the giant doors and folded his hands together between his legs. “Seems like I’ve spent the last while doing exactly that. Leaving Drachenara set us on a course where I’ve made the best of guesswork.”
“I think we’ve done alright,” Aurelia said, leaning against Vaelen. “Everything seems to be lining up for us, now. We’ve got work. We’ve got security. We still have each other.” She leaned off Vaelen’s shoulder and let their eyes meet. “I hope we’ll always have each other.”
Vaelen nodded. “Me too.”
Rolyat rode to the Paladaeis, hard and fast. Just inside the city wall, located on the opposite side of the city as the Mreindale Cathedral, was the Paladaeis. Opulent, too, the building was constructed from Golden Onyx, the only one like it in the city. Surrounded by walls to increase its safety, and the trainees inside, the Paladaeis was the central hub for all Paladin. Young men and women would come here from across the Nine to be identified for their abilities with the Nitorae, and their overall holiness. Some were even forced into the Paladaeis and their minds reformed by the Grandmaster’s power – from criminal to hero of the Maker’s Light.
Rolyat tied his horse off at one of the long poles jutting from the ground outside and made his way into the structure. On the shield that hung on his back, he still bore the symbol of the Exemplars as when he left. He walked up the central hallway of the chapel-like main hall, and straight to the Grandmaster, who was standing available. The man, surrounded by other paladins, turned to face Rolyat as he approached. His face was gentle, but somehow very worn and wise in appearance. He had a thick white beard that covered most of his face, and long white hair that was braided down his back, held by golden bands at the base. Sitting beside him on the floor was the hammer of the grandmasters, passed down from grandmaster to grandmaster. He smiled when he saw Rolyat. “My son.” He said softly, but with power.
Rolyat bowed his head. “Grandmaster.”
“I knew you were coming. How fare ye?” The Grandmaster asked, stoic, motionless, almost like a statue.
“Fair, Grandmaster.” Rolyat said, obvious vexation on his features.
“Tell me, son. What is it?” The Grandmaster asked.
Rolyat told him. He excused himself and the Grandmaster to the courtyard, where they walked amongst the statues of the Grandmaster and Heroes of old. As they slowly paced from one statue to the other, Rolyat explained more and more of what they had read. As he finished, he saw the Grandmaster show visible weakness, and he groaned as he sat down on the bench at the far side of the courtyard.
The Grandmaster sighed and looked to Rolyat, before looking at the ground. “Come, sit, boy.”
Rolyat did as he was requested and sat down on the bench next to the Grandmaster, staring forward across the empty courtyard.
“The Archpriest you speak of was a wise man. Grandmaster Farveil, nine grandmasters before me, studied in his tutelage with many other Paladins at the time. The Grandmaster passed down much of what he learned – information only shared with the Grandmasters. Isthrillian had deep studies in the Magus, with magic, with the Nitorae, and some even believed that he once held council with the Maker. We were told how the magic began to toy with his mind and unravel it. Some claimed that it was because he met with the Maker, and it was not something a feeble human mind could handle. Perhaps it was. Farveil tried to return his mind to him, as we sometimes do our recruits. Farveil died, trying to get into Isthrillian’s mind. The Archpriest unintentionally caused the death of the grandmaster of the Paladaeis. He began a self-imposed exile, though where he went, only his disciples knew, it seems, until now.” The Grandmaster sighed heavily again. “And I wish it had stayed hidden.”
“Why?” Rolyat asked.
“Because some secrets, my boy, cause more trouble than they save. Perhaps Isthrillian was mad, as they believed, and his secret writings – now discovered – are going to cause a new wave of turmoil and unbelievers? What if it causes doubt amongst the Exemplars, and the safety of the realm is shaken?” The Grandmaster looked at Rolyat intently. “How do you feel? How do you really feel?”
“I don’t believe that the Banished One has returned. I believe that he remains banished.” Rolyat rose to his feet. “And I believe that the Maker still grants me power to fight if it turns out to be true.”
The Grandmaster smiled. “Even a mountain can doubt that he has the will to stand, Rolyat. But the mountain still stands.”
Rolyat smiled and nodded. “Thank you, Grandmaster.”
“Will you ever return to us, boy?” The Grandmaster said, groaning as he stood to his feet. “I need a replacement, still.”
Rolyat bowed his head to the Grandmaster and turned to walk away. “Maker be with you, Grandmaster.”
“And with you,” the Grandmaster said quietly. As Rolyat rode away, the Grandmaster watched from the steps of the Paladaeis. The large, ornamental pauldrons on the old man’s shoulders heaved as he exhaled. He turned to his second in command who had come to meet him at the door.
“So, he does not return to stay,” said the man, named Fromithe.
The Grandmaster shook his head, “Nay. But he brought troubling news. Come with me.” The Grandmaster led his second up the stairs and into the grand study. There he dug through stack after stack of books, before finally coming to one very old volume that sat somewhere near the bottom of a stack that appeared to have not been touched in years. The dust that fell from it held a mustiness that belied its near-centennial age. The grandmaster placed his hammer down on the ground and sat down to candle light to read. He moved his lips as he silently read the words, dragging his finger across the paper, muttering an occasional word as he went.
“Many, many years ago, we found one who had been passed down the training that Archpriest Isthrillian began many millennia before. When he came to us, he offered to show us something he had learned. Myself and the Protopriest came before him, and he opened the Magus around us, something we still aren’t sure how he did. What he showed us was a world ripped asunder, things you can’t imagine, and a darkness amassing. I remember that I saw what looked a huge storm, darker than oil-smoke, roiling in the distance and a face that came out of it. The boy who show
ed us this informed us that it was evil incarnate, and his name was Ifris—“
“The witches false god?”
“One and the same, and the only other time I’d heard the name mentioned. Now though, Rolyat has told me that Ifris is none other than the Destroyer, though to be banished. When we left the Magus, and it was quick I assure you, The Grace told me to have the one who knew Isthrillian’s teachings mind wiped. He said to make him anew, that his visions were false. Lies.” The Grandmaster seemed to ponder that last line. “Of that, I am no longer sure.”
Keneya didn’t wait around long, like Vaelen and Aurelia, who just sat and talked. Keneya instead made his way into town. As he traversed the cobbled streets of Mreindale, he remembered time here as a member of Subterfuge. Faking his death to get away from the commitment, the feeling that everything he was doing before he wasn’t doing for himself, and he was doing it for the people who made his kind live in a gutter. In most cases, Keneya didn’t like most humans, and whether he wanted to admit it or not, he liked the humans he now fought beside – but the coin did help.
He eventually turned into an alleyway between two buildings and stepped out into the main trade square of Mreindale. This particular area was alive and roiling with shoppers as the day waned toward night. Everything from pauper to the near-royal shopped here, amongst the market stalls, where everything was sold. Keneya made himself aware of his surroundings, the smell of spices and fresh fish, caught only hours before. The smell of fruits and vegetables – that hint of fresh turned dirt, still clinging to the potatoes and carrots. He could discern a metallic smell, that of blood, from a market stall where they were slaughtering a pig. Too, he could smell an herbal and floral scent that wafted from a medicine stall. Truly, Mreindale had it all. He could see why the people flocked here in droves; yet it did not seem to help him want to stay.
Keneya might have been a formidable warrior, but he was also an exquisite thief. He was naturally light on his toes and had the touch of a feather with his hands. Stealing was almost a hobby, though now, and it usually was only relegated to extremely valuable looking items, like the dagger that Aurelia had. Sadly, nothing here caught his eye. He often thought of himself as a small animal, like a crow or a kitten, that would see a shiny object held in high regard and take it and stash it away. It was an act of innocence – compulsion – and it wasn’t such a bad thing. It never was that he in turn sold the item, no, he usually kept it locked away in his personal effects.
The thought of this made him smile, and it wasn’t until he saw one of the King’s heralds climbing a platform that his smile faded. He slinked into the crowd, ready to make an exit, in case someone who knew him spotted him. He hadn’t planned on staying until he heard the herald’s speech.
“—and let it be known that all men of working age, are considered fighting age. Women, too, are asked that if they are not bearing child, to come and volunteer as a warrior, archer, or nurse. Let it be known this day, that the Brendom of Nine will not be unprepared for war, be it now or never. For each new recruit that comes forth, without having to be sought, a payment of one-hundred sovereigns will be made both to the recruit, and to the family from which he or she leaves. Let it too, be known, that your King will be preparing to fight alongside you in the coming months, if war were to come. May the Maker smile upon us all! For King Tivanis!” And only a portion of the crowd, though all were watching with bated breath, returned the shout.
Keneya stopped in a nearby alleyway and considered what he had just heard. After looking around him for a moment, he decided to go back to Aurelia and Vaelen. But after he stepped out into the street he heard a familiar voice call his name. He stopped in his tracks, considering whether or not to answer. He turned to face the red-haired woman in black who stood behind him.
“Keneya of the Elfwood, first of his name, last of his line, as it seems.” Came the voice, belonging to a tall woman dressed in black leathers. She had a short sword hanging from her belt, but it was still very new in appearance. She had a hood, but it was thrown back off her head, and the hilt of two daggers could be seen tucked in sheaths on her hips. She smiled and held her head sideways, belying a hint of disapproval.
“Guinevere.” He answered plainly.
“We were told you were dead. I was told you were dead.” She didn’t take a step, nor did she change her stance. She was firm in not giving Keneya any body language to read, and she stared at him intently.
“I was.”
“And yet here you stand. Was Subterfuge not good enough for you?” She asked, now, the hint of hurt ringing in her words.
Keneya turned to walk away from her now, without even answering her.
Guinevere watched him leave, then looked down at the ground with a hint of sadness on her face. But then she ran after him. When she caught up to him, he was at the edge of the courtyard in front of the Mreindale Cathedral, just out of earshot of Vaelen and Aurelia, when speaking at a normal volume. “Dir’naan.”
Keneya turned to face her sharply. “Do not speak to me in a language you do not understand.”
She didn’t cower, “Fine.” She looked to Vaelen and Aurelia, then back to Keneya. “Be careful, Keneya. War is coming to us all.” With that, she turned and left. Before she was out of sight, she turned to look back at Keneya once. She didn’t smile, or frown, she just disappeared into the crowd.
Keneya furrowed his brow and he watched her as she left, every step of the way. Once she was finally out of his vision, he turned back to look at Aurelia and Vaelen, who both stared at him. As he neared his previous bench, where he sat before, Rolyat stepped into the courtyard on horseback.
Rolyat looked at the three of them, noting the absence of Mikael, “Where’s Mikael?”
Vaelen looked at Keneya, who remained silent, then looked up at Rolyat from where he sat. “He went in by himself and has yet to come out.”
Rolyat, who turned around and released a deep exhale, sat down beside Keneya, looking toward the Cathedral.
The inside of the Mreindale Cathedral was every bit as opulent as the outside. Mikael had been led by the Priest all the way in the deep center of the building, where the Protopriest worshipped and meditated on his thoughts and scripture. Mikael had been here many years before, and it had changed little since he left. The walls were as white as the wisps of a summer cloud, and they were cleaned by the Holiness’ staff daily.
The path just inside the main entrance stood thirty feet tall, at least, and was adorned on the sides by monolithic statues, gold leafed around the base, each with its own mounted platform, bearing a mass of pillar candles, whose wax collected in a giant brim that could be interchanged as it was cleaned.
The scent of the grand building was old, like the pages of stored books, but with the hint of juniper incense wafting occasionally down the hallways. Chanters would sing their songs day and night in service to the Maker, and even now, their songs could hauntingly be heard emanating from the many tucked away channels that were hidden behind the gargantuan pillars.
Where Mikael now stood, there in the center of the massive building, was just beyond the massive library of Andursh, a comprehensive collection of all writings ever collected regarding the Maker, including a selection of books considered off limits to all but the Protopriest and his right hand, the Subfactorae. Mikael bowed his head before the Protopriest, who sat in a velvet-backed chair, facing the entrance. In his hand, the Protopriest held a quill, and he wrote, looking up with a gentle gaze as he saw Mikael. “The Grace, it is my honor to again see you.”
The Protopriest stood for a moment, struggling to do so, but waved his hand to a chair. “My child, please, sit.” And he sat back down in the large-backed chair.
Mikael looked to the Priest who had shown him the way and allowed himself to be shown to the chair and sat down. “Thank you, sir,” Mikael said, head still bowed.
“What have you come to speak to me about, child?” Asked the Protopriest, easily in his upper eighties, yet
still seeming clear of mind, perhaps not of function.
Mikael looked to the priest, and then back to the Protopriest. “I’ve found an ancient text regarding the Maker…” Mikael trailed. It was common that ancient scripts were found, perhaps simple journals by travelers, or Seers, or any number of things. In this case, however, he felt the need to hold out the important detail for just a moment longer. “This script was penned by Archpriest Isthrillian.”
The Protopriest’s smile deteriorated fast, into a hard-pressed line without emotion. His lips were pressed so firmly together all of a sudden, that they became white-edged as the blood left them. He slowly moved his gaze to the priest who had led Mikael in and waved his hand toward him. “Leave us.” He rose from his seat now, using his hands to push himself out and to his feet. He grunted and walked to a large fireplace that was situated ten feet to the left of where Mikael stood. “Do you have this text with you, child?”
Mikael nodded. He stood up and stepped toward the Protopriest, withdrawing the journal from the bag that hung at his side. The pungent odor of the room the journal had been in was still prevalent on the book. “I do.”
“Bring that lectern to me.” The Protopriest said, pointing.
Mikael placed the journal atop the intricately-carved lectern and slid it in front of the Protopriest and stepped away remaining silent.
As the Protopriest opened the book up, he turned a page at a time, slowly reading. Occasionally he would make a sound feigning interest “Hm.” Or he would make no sound at all. His finger scanned the words, one by one, until he finally reached the end. There, he paused a moment and took in a deep breath, then slammed the cover closed. “Heresy.” He said, clearly.
“But my Gr—“ Mikael started.