(THOB) Chapter 55: Business Outside The Church (Patreon)

Ezril walked the compound grounds of the parish house. The ground was muddied. The signs of the rainfall from the previous night could be noticed from the puddles of water around the compound. The noon air was cold. And though the sun was out, its heat was absent.

It was Ezril’s last week in the parish, and he had finally succumbed to Sister Alanna’s pleas to indulge her in a stroll around the compound.

She walked beside him, telling a tale of the convent as she was prone to doing whenever she could. Finding his surrounding more appealing, Ezril paid almost no heed to her story. He nodded in response to something she said and caught sight of one of the girls on the staff scuttling hurriedly into the parish house. Her name was Ennex, a child in barely her eleventh year.

They still feared him.

He didn’t blame them for it.

Alanna said something and he nodded again, with no idea to what he was acquiescing.

He had learned that when she told her stories she required a sign that proved he paid attention, a sign that, if he didn’t give, would eventually throw her into a fit of vocal hysteria, which would grow into an eventual tantrum.

Today she was telling one of the tales of Lenaria, amongst the rumors the sisters held of her.

The stables were close now, heralded by the almost indistinguishable smell of horse excrement inhabiting the air. He had never visited it since his arrival; he had no business there. He would have decided to check on Father Kazaril’s horse as an excuse, but he had learned early that the priest had none.

“… then just before she could cross the table to tackle Sister Tiern, Lenaria got up from her meal,” Alanna was saying. “… are you even listening to me?”

Ezril nodded.

“You’re not…”

Ezril barely suppressed another nod. She was correct. And now he could hear her pouting.

“I would have you know, Brother Antari, that it is in poor taste to ignore a sister of the convent. For when we attain Truth’s love we may withhold it from you.”

He smiled. He did it often when she was with him. “Isn’t that against the teachings of the Credo?” he asked.

Alanna shrugged. “How should I know?”

“Because you are a sister of the convent,” he answered. “A daughter of Truth.”

She waved a dismissive hand. “I am but a young sister of the convent who knows not what she does,” she said, imitating Mother Nervia’s usual choice of words when scolding her for her actions and obtuse opinions.

Ezril shook his head. “You are impossible.”

She smiled. “Why, thank you, Brother.”

She hurried forward, four paces ahead. Then stopping before him, she spun to face him.

Today she didn’t wear her habit. The gown she wore was a light blue, stopping just above her ankles. Its hem twirled majestically from her action. Ezril didn’t know much about female clothing, but he knew it was beautiful. Her hair was black, and cut to shoulder length. It spun with her, too, giving him a rare glimpse of her neck. It was beautiful, and his hand twitched at the thought.

“You did not finish your tale of Sister Lenaria,” he told her, seeking to distract himself.

“Is it important?” she asked, suspicious.

Ezril said nothing.

“Well, if you insist.” She turned again. She seemed to enjoy it. “When she rose from her meal,” she went on, “Sister Elyza stopped moving, right there on the table, covered in food from the plates she had scattered. By Truth, I wanted to laugh, but I couldn’t; Sister Lenaria can be very frightening.” She paused. “Y’know she got into a fight in the dining hall once. She left without a scar. Sister Nebli, however, was in the infirmary for a week.”

“Frightening,” Ezril agreed.

“But I’m sure you have it worse in the seminary.”

This, Ezril didn’t answer. Speaking of the seminary with someone not of it didn’t come to him so easily.

“I get it.” She glared at him. “I get to talk, but you don’t.”

“That’s not really the case,” he told her. “You simply enjoy having something to say.”

She gasped in shock, her hand on her chest. “Is that really what you think of me, Brother Urden. You think I enjoy talking that much? That all I do is talk?”

He observed her, confused as they fell silent.

Then Alanna laughed. “A joke, Brother Antari. I merely joke,” she said. “Yes, you are indeed correct. I do enjoy talking very much.”

Ezril frowned. “Are all sisters of the convent like you, Sister Alanna?” he asked gently.

“No, no,” she waved the thought aside, “only me. But I do admit, I talk more around you, Ezril.”

“And why is that?”

Alanna shrugged. She turned and walked away, and he followed her.

“Truth!” Sister Alanna slapped her forehead, turning to him in alarm. “There is a place I must be before the sun is out. Will you—”

Ezril’s hand leaned away from hers as she reached for it. It was so slight he had barely noticed it.

“—I apologize.” She didn’t meet his eyes; she knew better than to touch him suddenly. “Will you escort me to the market? Mother Nervia requires I get her an elixir before her return.”

Ezril thought on it briefly before replying. “I see no reason not to.”

“Good.” Her high spirit returned. “However,” she gestured at his cassock, “you will not be wearing that. You’ll scare everyone away. You’ll wear something simpler. Something normal. You have that, do you not?”

He frowned. “I do.”

“Then we’ll meet in front of the church in an hour.” With that, she hurried towards the parish house, leaving him to wonder what exactly he had agreed to.

He sighed. This is why she drew me from my room?

Ezril sat on his bed a while later, stroking Wraith’s fur. Its head lay on his legs. He was in need of a place to rest, but the wolf had no intention of relinquishing the bed. So now they shared it while he waited on Alanna.

He remembered how he had ended up taking Wraith along and the memory made him smile. The Monsignor had announced the churches they would serve at, and while they had eaten that night Father Talod had come for him.

The Monsignor’s chamber was always filled with books. That night had been no different and Father Talod had not remained. Father Biorg, however, had stood at the corner of the room. He had been completely out of place in the expanse of it. Clearly, he belonged in the stables. And the kennel.

The Monsignor had told him of Njord’s intention and his subsequent refusal, and though Ezril had agreed with him, he had said nothing.

Njord spoke of how useful it would be for him to grow accustomed to the wolf. Crowl in turn had spoken of how he would not have it terrorizing the city, or biting people. Njord on his part had believed it would not.

“It will only do what the boy asks,” he had said. “And if it attacks anyone, then believe me, they would deserve it.”

There had been no humor in his words.

In the end, Crowl had let the decision fall to him, and Ezril had decided in favor of Njord. Crowl had simply sighed when he returned to his seat. His voice had been barely above a whisper when he’d spoken again.

“To think an animal of the seminary might wreak havoc on this city. I’m too old for this.”

But of the entire encounter, what Ezril could not forget was what Njord had said in response. When he had spoken Ezril thought he had heard a hint of forewarning in his voice.

“The boy belongs to the seminary, Crowl. But make no mistake, the wolf belongs only to the boy.”

The words crawled into Ezril’s mind now as he massaged Wraith’s head through the fur. It gave a low growl that rumbled in its throat, sending a tremor through him.

The door burst open a moment later, and Father Kazaril stepped into the room clad in his black cassock. He was a man somewhere in his fifth decade. His head was clean shaving, whether it was a fashion or the priest was simply bald was beyond Ezril’s knowledge. His skin was weathered but taut, like tightly woven rope, and his eyes were deep set and a simple brow. He spotted no beards, and he stood tall with a straight back. The life of priesthood had done him as much good as it had done him harm.

“Come, boy!” he ordered. “We have business outside the church.”

Without waiting for an answer he and left.

Ezril rose, still wearing his cassock, and followed. He had questions, but he knew better than to dally when Kazaril gave instructions. Alanna would just have to attend to her business of the elixir on her own.

They mounted their horses—Kazaril picking one at random—and left the church in a trot. It was a while before Ezril asked the question that plagued his mind, knowing they would soon push into a canter.

“Where are we going, Father?”

Kazaril’s answer was precise, given without hesitation. “To do Truth’s work.”

He kicked the horse into a gallop. The wind blowing the cape of his cassock and cooling his bald head, he left Ezril to follow.

They arrived at their destination not long after. It was a house surrounded by soldiers. On the outside it was old and rickety, teasing to fall with the slightest gust of wind. The soldiers surrounding it were ten in number, and they held their positions with the clearest ease of perfected training.

A heretic, Ezril concluded at the sight of their uniform.

They were clad in red from their vests to their boots, and their scabbards reminded him of the sight of blood. Ezril knew them to house longswords of the Alduins design. Vest, trousers, and boots most likely held hints of metal in some way from the way they gleamed. The insignia on their shoulders held a skull impaled on a spear held firmly to the ground by the bones around it. It marked them for what they were: The king’s blade. They were the best the soldiers the realm had to offer. Its elite, comprising of only the blessed, and answering only to the king.

“Father Kazaril,” a bearded man addressed them with a quick nod as they dismounted.

Kazaril showed no interest in the action. “Where is it?” he asked, instead.

“I am Olann Fitsnik,” the man continued, seeming determined, “commander of the blade of the king,”

Olann Fitsnik was a man of age, but he carried himself with an air of authority, one, it seemed, was of no import to Father Kazaril. His grey beard swallowed his jaw and the hair on his head was thinning. His face bore wrinkles. They didn’t speak of age; they spoke of a laborious life spent in servitude.

“And I am Father Kazaril Einsgaol, Priest of the seminary,” Kazaril said without ceremony. “And I will not ask you a second time.”

Olann watched him, his face devoid of emotion. “Inside,” he said. “We were awaiting your arrival, Father.”

“Good.” Kazaril stood. “Lead the way.”

Ezril saw the commander’s jaw twitch as he turned. His afraid of him, he thought. He hates him, but he’s afraid of him.

They entered the house, the men leading the way in caution. They knew what they were doing. Soon they were all in the house.

It was a simple place. A small house made of wood in the lesser parts of the city. But even here it stood out as something different. The inside was humid. Ezril could see the molds growing on the wood. Whoever lived here had no desire to clean it. The floor laid covered in pieces of clothing and food, leftover from days long past that their putrid smell filled the room. Ezril frowned. Not at its smell, but at the realization that it did nothing to bother him. He had the seminary latrines to thank for this.

“You have no power here!” a female voice screeched from within a room were two of the soldiers had entered. The words were followed by scuttles and grunts, signs of a struggle.

They pulled her out kicking and screaming, cursing them with words so horrible Ezril did not know most. She fell silent when the soldiers tossed her before the commander. The man seemed to know much of what he was about to do.

“Bind her,” he told them, “before she uses her perverse powers.’

A soldier brought metal chains and locked them around one hand. He reached for her second hand, and everything fell away.

The soldier trembled before her, his hand shaking so furiously he dropped the chain. When he fell, the room began to fade to darkness. The woman opened her mouth and black smoke slithered out, so thick it looked solid.

Ezril trembled at the sight. Soon he found it a challenge just to stay on his feet. Around him the men fell to their knees. But Father Kazaril stood, unshaken by whatever held the rest of them, but he didn’t move. He simply watched the woman with a strain.

She has no hold over him, Ezril thought.

No. The realization came almost immediately. He simply fights it.

A bead of sweat broke out on the side of Kazaril’s head as Ezril dropped to his knees.

She is a Tainted, he thought as the room turned black. His last sight was of Kazaril falling to his knees.