The Priest

by Rowan McAllister

  How the mighty have fallen. He hid a sardonic smile.

  As they lifted their voices in prayer and thanks, Tasnerek hummed on his chest, and Tas closed his eyes and willed himself to surrender to the comforting embrace of the familiar melody. The music wove its spell, and he could almost forget for a time. These rituals, the ones sung with gratitude and love for all that the gods represented, were mostly unsullied by what he’d found in those journals. The songs and faith brought communities together and gave them a sense of rightness and belonging.

  Why couldn’t all of it be like this?

  Luckily, Tas had sung this hymn enough times he could have probably done it in his sleep, so his momentary lapse in concentration wasn’t noticed, and they finished the last verse before he knew it. Brother Lijen returned the bowl to the altar, and they all moved swiftly toward their promised meal and rest.

  Outside the temple, many of the villagers had already left, presumably returned to their own homes and hearths. Tas sucked in a relieved breath of clean, cool air as the few who were left led the way out of the square. One duty discharged, now all he had to do was survive the next few days and conquer all his doubts long enough to vanquish a monster.

  What could be simpler?

  Elderman Servil’s home boasted two stories and was larger than any other in the village. Still, the man had kept its rooms and furnishings piously plain and serviceable. If he possessed any unseemly or vainglorious ornaments, he’d hidden them well in preparation for their arrival.

  Dinner was a strained, uncomfortable affair. Elderman Servil, his wife, and Brother Lijen all attempted to make polite conversation, but Brother Saldus was tired and therefore even less charming than usual. Ordinarily, Tas could have carried the conversation all on his own. In all his years of traveling the kingdom, he’d charmed his way into many a village elder’s heart, but nothing was ordinary anymore. With impending doom breathing down the back of his neck, he barely had the strength to give one-word answers when spoken to, despite Brother Saldus staring daggers at him.

  Thankfully, Brother Lijen took his terseness for the fatigue it partly was and did not linger over the meal. As soon as her plate was empty, she cleared her throat and said, “Well, we all have much to do tomorrow, so I think I should bid you good night, Elder, Brothers.” She nodded at each of them in turn and pushed away from the table. “I shall see you at morning prayers, Brothers, and we can discuss the ritual and any of your needs in detail then. The villagers have been preparing since we received word from the keep, so I believe all should go smoothly. Gods’ blessings on you, good night.”

  With relief, Tas stood as she did and filed out of the room with everyone else. Elderman Servil directed a timid young girl in a modest brown wool dress and starched apron and cap to lead them up the stairs to their rooms. The girl said nothing and kept her eyes so far downcast, Tas was surprised she could see where she was going, but she didn’t stumble or pause as she opened a door for Brother Saldus and another for Tas farther down the hall before bobbing a curtsy and hurrying off.

  With only a brief nod and a mumbled good night to Brother Saldus, Tas stepped into his room and closed the door behind him. Brother Saldus would no doubt make a record of his behavior, but Tas was too tired and anxious to care. He needed every second of solitude he could manage before tomorrow.

  After throwing the bolt on his door, he glanced longingly at the clean, soft-looking linens that had already been turned down for him. Even with the lingering threat of his nightmares, the bed called to him with promises of a few moments’ respite from the furor inside his head, but the dark lumps of his saddlebags resting in the corner of the room reminded him of his duty. He had to prepare. His ceremonial robe needed to be hung up and brushed clean, and his sacred implements needed to be polished and organized.

  The robe was easy. Despite what it symbolized, it was just a bundle of unornamented fine dark scarlet wool. Tightly packed in oilcloth and untouched since they’d left Blagos Keep, it was still clean, if a little wrinkled from sitting at the bottom of his bags for so long. In the damp Rassan air, it should hang out nicely overnight.

  The tools of his trade were another story altogether, and Tas’s stomach lurched as he reached for the leather cases and small wooden boxes. He began to regret his meal.

  With clenched teeth, he set one of the leather cases and a box on top of the simple wooden chest of drawers along one wall. He slowly untied and unrolled the case. Bronze and steel clamps, rods, blades, and needles reflected the light from the single lantern mounted on the wall as each was revealed. He shivered and closed his eyes. Most of these implements were still as bright and unmarred as the day they’d been given to him, because he’d never actually used them on an Offering. They were for show, to set the mood and increase the fear response of the Offering. But telling himself that didn’t make it any easier. Without looking, he pushed the case to the back of the dresser top and returned to his bags for the other two cases and a second, smaller wooden box.

  He opened this box and poured a small measure of its contents into his palm. One-handed, he flipped open the larger box on the dresser and dumped the writhing mass of barley meal and worms inside before slamming the lid closed again. He grimaced as the clicking noises within the box increased briefly and then fell silent again. Many of the Thirty-Six refused to work with the dagger beetle. The insects were rare, notoriously difficult to keep alive in captivity, and would lash out at their masters as often as at an Offering. Tas had been bitten more than once. But the dagger beetle’s bite was extremely painful without causing any lasting harm to its victims, so it was more than worth the extra effort and suffering, to Tas’s way of thinking. At least the beetles wouldn’t need to be fed again until after the ritual. They were at their most potent and aggressive when they were hungry.

  Going back to his bags, he set to unpacking the rest as swiftly as possible, working hard to keep his mind blank and his heart like stone. But despite his best efforts, the walls seemed to close in on him and the air became thicker with each case he opened and each implement he inspected. He’d never really loved the tools of his trade, but there had been a time when he took a certain satisfaction in cleaning and preparing them. The ritual was not meant to be pleasant, but all parties agreed a sacrifice was necessary and went into it with open eyes and a belief they were ultimately doing something good and meaningful—something Brother and Offering alike could be proud of. The journals had taken that from him. Now all he felt was sick.

  His hands shook as he lifted them to wipe beads of sweat from his brow. Moving to the bed, he sat on the edge and put his face in his palms.

  How am I ever going to survive tomorrow? I can’t even prepare without falling apart.

  Chapter Four

  GIRIK SPLASHED icy water on his face in a vain attempt to wash away the cobwebs of a mostly sleepless night. Bayor lifted his head but settled again when Girik made no move for the door. The cream-colored Offering Robe hung from a peg on the wall of his small cabin, jarring and out of place against the rough wood planks.

  It was just a robe, fine wool, but a simple cut and unadorned as was seemly. Panels had been added to every seam to make it big enough for him—the last time it had been used, he was only fifteen—but the seamstress had worked hard to make it look like part of the original design. Someone had done their duty by the gods and then some.

  Probably Elderwoman Thayer or Mistress Pruvan. Other than Mama, they’re the best in the village with needle and thread.

  Girik rolled his eyes and dunked his face in the basin, splashing some water onto the table and down to the stone floor at his feet. Why was he ruminating on fine tailoring and needlework?

  He was stalling.

  Avoiding glancing at his mama’s empty bed, he moved to the hearth and stirred up the coals from his supper fire the night before. Birds sang loudly in the brittle early-morning sunlight, but the silence inside the cabin was almost deafening. He stayed inside only long enough
to put a kettle over the fire before throwing open the door and marching outside. He didn’t have much time before the bells would ring, announcing the gathering for the procession to the temple.

  His chest tightened at the thought, but he didn’t slow his stride as he headed for the creek behind their cabin. After pulling off his boots, he clambered over the rock-strewn bank until he reached the pool he’d hollowed out years before. He tore his clothes off with more force than necessary before sucking in a quick breath and submerging himself in the frigid mountain runoff. First, he scrubbed his clothes with grit from the bottom. Then he set to scouring every inch of himself with the same vigor. He might not feel the cold like others seemed to, but even his lips were blue and his teeth chattering by the time he surged out of the water, grabbed his wet clothes, and scrabbled for the bank.

  His lower body was numb, but unfortunately it wouldn’t last through the ritual. Feeling would return soon enough. Shaking his head to dislodge some of the water and ignoring the twist in his gut, he pushed on.

  Bayor waited for him at the water’s edge, his tongue lolling and his head cocked to the side, and Girik cracked a smile despite the day that lay ahead of him.

  “I know, boy. Your world is changing too fast for you. First Mama is gone, and now I’m doing strange things instead of our morning routine. I hate to say it, but you’re going to be even more confused when I shut you inside for the day without me. Just do me a favor and don’t break too much of our—my stuff before I can get back to you. Okay?”

  The water in the kettle was hot by the time he returned home, and he made himself some tea and cooked half the eggs he’d gathered from the henhouse before cracking the rest into a bowl for Bayor. After breakfast, he hung his damp clothes on a line strung in front of the hearth to dry. Ordinarily he would’ve simply put them back on damp, but he wouldn’t be needing them the rest of that day. He threw a scowl at the robe on his wall and turned his back on it.

  After rubbing a cloth through the damp dirty-blond thatch on his head and attempting to tame it with a comb, he plopped naked onto one of the sturdy wooden chairs he’d built for him and his mama and set to work wiping his bare feet clean. The air was a bit cool on his slightly damp skin, but he’d rather be naked than wear the ritual robe any longer than absolutely necessary. Resting his elbows on his knees, he hung his head and tried not to think of anything at all.

  Bayor whined and nuzzled his head into Girik’s lap, and Girik cracked another small smile.

  “It’s okay. We’re gonna be just fine,” he murmured as he scratched the big shaggy head. He pressed his face into the wiry fur and closed his eyes, but the faint chiming of bells from the village cut the moment short.

  Girik jerked to his feet, dislodging Bayor from his lap. Bayor gave him a reproachful look that Girik barely registered. Trying not to think about what he was rushing toward, he quickly pulled on the boots he’d left by the door and tugged the robe over his head. He couldn’t meet Bayor’s soft golden eyes without losing his nerve, so he rushed out the door without a backward glance and slammed it behind him. He was halfway across Elderman Whyle’s back fields before he heard Bayor’s mournful howl. He broke into a jog, trying to outrun the sound and the fear inside him, but he failed on both counts. Whether real or imagined, Bayor’s cries still echoed in his ears as he reached the edge of the crowd assembled in the village square.

  All eyes turned in his direction at his awkward and unseemly arrival, but Girik didn’t give them a second thought. His attention was riveted on the trio of scarlet-robed figures near the center of the milling throng—or more specifically on the man with the glowing holy relic strung around his neck. He’d been too far away to truly get a good look the day before. That wasn’t a problem now.

  The man was beautiful, but in the way a fine blade was beautiful, dangerous. Taller than everyone around him, his sharp black eyes and air of authority commanded attention despite the lean frame only partly obscured by the scarlet robes. Girik couldn’t take his eyes off him as he forced his legs to carry him forward through the crowd. The brother’s eyes bored into him in return, though his angular face remained haughtily blank and unreadable.

  Girik’s feet brought him within a few yards of the brothers before he stopped and couldn’t budge another inch. That close, he realized the priest’s eyes were a dark brown rather than black, and the stone around his neck didn’t glow, it merely caught and reflected the sunlight. Beads of sweat had formed at the brother’s temples as well, darkening his close-cropped brown hair to black in places. That single sign of humanity, of nerves, despite the man’s otherwise unruffled demeanor, caused something to unknot in Girik’s stomach.

  The pain priest was human. He was young too, probably younger than Girik. Perhaps he hadn’t been a member of the Thirty-Six long. Perhaps he hadn’t gotten a taste for the job yet.

  Of course, inexperience could be a bad thing too. He could be clumsy or careless. He could do more damage rather than less.

  Before his imagination could take him too far down that road, Girik clamped down on it and broke eye contact with the man.

  What will be, will be.

  He just had to endure the next few hours and his part would be done. He didn’t have to think at all. All he had to do was go where he was led and do as he was bid.

  Dropping his gaze to his feet, he sent a silent prayer to Vodi, god of farmers and livestock—seeing as how he was a lamb to the slaughter—and clasped his hands in front of him.

  “Good, the Offering is present. We may begin,” Brother Lijen intoned.

  All the quiet murmuring behind Girik abruptly stopped at the brother’s words, and Girik could feel the crowd shuffling to take their proper positions around him. As the chosen village elders began strumming their singing bowls in front of him, memories of that day nearly thirteen years ago tried to flood his mind, but he ruthlessly shoved them away. The ritual might be the same, but he wasn’t. He had to hold on to that.

  The brothers took their positions at the head of the procession, in front of the chosen elders, and Girik could feel the rest of the village fall in line, like an enormous rope and anchor, at his back. Brother Lijen began the Offering Ritual Hymn, and the two other brothers joined her for the first verse as the procession began to move. Girik kept his head down and followed silently as they took the first of the three circuits around the village square.

  All three priests sang to the gods above the humming of the bowls, asking for their presence and blessings for the ritual, but the only voice Girik could hear was the tall brother’s. It was as beautiful as his face, smooth like honey or a ray of warm sunlight, flowing over Girik’s raw nerves. Under any other circumstances, he would’ve gladly succumbed to that voice and done anything it asked of him, but each passing note brought him closer to the part of the ritual that all this pageantry was meant to distract from.

  The villagers at his back began the second verse right on cue with the beginning of the second circuit around the square. Their voices nearly overwhelmed the priests and the bowls, singing their praises to the gods and then to the Offering, thanking him for his sacrifice. Girik was tempted to scowl and roll his eyes. The same people who barely acknowledged his and his mama’s existence, who barely tolerated their presence and had treated them like outsiders his entire life, were now singing his praises.

  The third and final verse was devoted to Harot for bringing them the wisdom of the gods and the power to protect them from the monsters of the Rift. At the mention of the sacred stones blessed Harot brought back with him to Rassa, Girik lifted his head and fixed his gaze on the tall brother’s back. Girik could catch glimpses of the holy relic swinging from the man’s neck as they climbed the steps to the temple. The stone really was glowing now, a soft light that actually reassured him. This man had the power of the gods around his neck, the power to destroy monsters. Girik’s sacrifice wouldn’t just help his mama, it would protect the old and the young too. It would keep the few who had been
kind to him safe, and many others besides—people beyond this little village, people he’d never met.

  For one day, he would be a part of something greater than himself, something magical. All he remembered from his first time had been pain and nightmares. He’d been too young to think much beyond himself. If he could only hold on to that feeling of connectedness and wonder this time, it might help with the rest.

  At least this brother was a hell of a lot prettier to look at than the one who’d come last time. Girik could admit to being shallow enough that it helped.

  Before he realized it, the flow of the procession had taken him into the temple, and he stood before the dais as the rest of the village filed into the benches behind him. The priests had arranged themselves behind the altar table on the dais and regarded the room solemnly. The tall brother’s face remained unreadable, but this close, he looked paler than before. Girik still wasn’t sure if he should find that reassuring or not, but at least the man didn’t look as eager to get to the next part of the ritual as the one thirteen years ago had. That bastard had seemed positively giddy at the prospect of tearing young Girik apart.

  Suppressing a shudder, Girik lifted his chin and tried to mirror the blank expressions of the brothers in front of him as the humming of the bowls faded with the last words of the hymn.

  “The three turns of the wheel have been completed. The Gods have blessed our undertaking,” Brother Lijen intoned from the dais. “Is the Offering prepared?”

  “He is,” Girik croaked on cue.

  “Then step forward and follow Brother Tasnerek to the sacred space. Praise be.”