(THOB) Chapter 70: The Types of Silence (Patreon)

There was one thing Ezril was certain of: his continued dislike of alcohol. In the seminary he had drunk it because his brothers did. Tonight he endured its bitterness for a different reason.

Darvi had him gathering knowledge on a Tainted the seminary claimed was in their vicinity. He had been seated for two hours now, clad in simple clothing that, at most, would identify him as a mercenary. With the absence of his Sunders and his bow, he could easily be mistaken for a simple citizen of the kingdom.

The tavern was located a near two-hour ride away from where Ezril and his brothers rested. Here, no one could have known he was a priest.

While they had been leaving the fort for the past three months for this reason, Olufemi never embarked on the same mission. Takan was always sent to the nearer villages. There, he was known and loved as a simple traveler, always bringing them interesting and false tales of the places he had been and the people he had seen. Something about Takan made him good at making friends when he wanted to. It left Ezril wondering why as children he had not been good at it when they were children in the seminary or with him and his brothers. Even now, Ezril and his brothers did not regard him in the same fondness with which the soldiers and the villagers nearby did. Perhaps it was because they knew who he was at the core.

Salem went everywhere as a priest. He carried himself with a great nobility. Ezril once saw a soldier fight the sudden urge to bend a knee in Salem’s presence. It was a sight to behold. An amusing one at that.

Each of them played their parts for their reasons everywhere they went.

There were things only wanderers learn. Such things were what Takan found. Then there were things only priests are told. Salem gave people the urge to confess their sins to him. It was the worst attribute for a priest as far as the citizens of the kingdom were concerned. It was never a good thing to seek to confess your sins to a man who carried the wrath of your Truth and none of his love.

When Ezril sat at a tavern, it took less than thirty minutes for those around him to forget he was there. It was almost as if he seemed to blend with their environment. They deemed him not of any import that they should watch what they say. And the drunk tended to say a lot.

There are things priests aren’t told, and wanderers never hear. Such things are said in the presence of the unimportant. These are the things Ezril learned.

Tonight he would stay longer than most. Salem was to come for him after dark. Although they would not meet, his brother’s presence would inform him that it was time to depart, an instruction given by Darvi before they had all left.

Four weeks of visiting the tavern, two days out of seven, and the only thing Ezril knew about the Tainted they sought was that it was a ‘he.’ No name, no place to find him, and no idea on what kind of person he was. Darvi had suggested the outings for the sake of gathering the rumors and finding the truth. Rumors, there were plenty of. However, truth proved rather challenging.

Ezril took another swig of his drink and focused his attention on the men gathered at the table at the east end of the tavern.

Five men sat drinking away their day. One of them was nearly drunk to stupor. They were regulars who always had some obscure tales to tell. In truth, Ezril mostly listened to them for the entertainment when he grew bored. But today their tale seemed something of import.

“… and then, Muribe tried ta force him ta get of tha horse,” the only blond at the table was saying, “but he wouldn’t budge. He wasn’t even scared o’ how huge Muribe was, and Muribe’s the size o’ a horse.”

“And a small thing o’ a man ’e was.” This from the man with a scar on his hand, perhaps from a farming implement. “And I tell ya I seen men as large as Muribe grow scared o’ ’im.”

The blond took another swig and continued, “We’s demanded he let us pass, but he wouldn’t budge. So Muribe steps up ta him all polites, and asks him ta move him an’ he thin’s ta tha other side o’ tha road, y’see. That’s when it happened. This man comes down from his horse an’ walks up ta Muribe. By Truth, I don’t know wha’ he says, but Muribe still refuses ta talk about it. He pales like he been whispered ta by tha dead. He just stan’s there, like a stone.” He took another swig, realized his cup was empty, and put it down.

Ezril frowned at the story. Tales of the Tainted were usually similar, containing fear and mystery. He and his brothers might need to find Muribe. It wasn’t required of them to help the man, but he was fairly certain Darvi wouldn’t object to it.

Earlier in the conversation the blonde had said they saw the man on the varrish road. Ezril knew the road. Not many frequented it. And it only led to two places. That’s where we’ll find him, Ezril concluded.

The tavern doors opened before he could return his focus, and with it came an eerie silence.

A group of men stepped through the door, well pruned, even for soldiers of the kingdom. There were five of them and they walked in unison, one foot before the other, following in steps. Ezril knew enough to understand the man in front was the leader. His beards marring his face, it seemed no one had told him it made his face look unbecoming. Or perhaps it was the look he was going for. The other four kept up a casual conversation. Ezril deemed them new in their service, a year at the most, perhaps less.

Ezril learned earlier since leaving the seminary that there were different kinds of men that call upon three forms of silence in the realm. The first were nobility, men of high birth, royalties, lords, and the King. Their presence called upon a silence, one of respect, sometimes admiration. But there was always a hint of fear.

The second were priests. This silence was always wrought with fear and guilt. In the presence of a priest, a man’s life is measured in only his sins. And every man is guilty of sin.

In the seminary, Father Munidu had failed to teach them one thing, though. Animals could feel the will of men; they could understand what a man felt. A Hallowed could force it upon them, and those not Hallowed could never truly feel it. But what he had failed to teach them and, Ezril had come to learn, was that the Hallowed could feel what other men felt. It just had to be strong enough. It was a phenomenon he had grown to dislike. No good ever came of it, for men felt the vilest of things more times than others. And what the people in the tavern felt in this moment was so strong he could taste it.

The silence that fell over the tavern was of the third kind. One Ezril had been privy to only but once in his life, long ago at a young age. It dripped with malice, hate, and a distaste that made the air heavy and the space choked. This was a silence born in the presence of the king’s soldiers; the King’s guard.

The silence bore down on all those who held it. Their faces contorted in concealed hate. But nobody moved. Like predators awaiting the passage of a poison prey, they remained unmoving. The slightest movement would be heard, perhaps echoed, even a sip would draw attention. Nobody in the tavern wanted it. For all the hate they may feel for the men in the King’s guard, or what they represent, they also feared them. It was a saddening thought.

Ezril sipped his drink.

His action drew the eye of the man closest to him. He was a bald, skinny man with weathered skin that presented him significantly older than he really was. Ezril kept his eyes low, though. It was the action expected of his adopted persona in the presence of the King’s guard. The King’s guard drew closer with each step. Their voices fought the silence with words, and laughter, and the odd creation of easy banter. The leader’s face grew clearer and Ezril felt a recognition of it. He was certain he knew the man. But from where, was the question. Perhaps the underbelly, he considered. It was the only place he’d had a free enough life to know people he wouldn’t remember now.

“I know you,” a gruff voice stated immediately after.

Ezril hid his frown. The King’s guards had stopped in front of him and it was the bearded man who had spoken.

Hiding was going to be impossible. Challenging the man’s authority by not answering was not an option either; it meant his time here would be over. He would have to find a new tavern to assimilate himself into. And he was far from done milking this tavern of all the information it had to offer.

Ezril raised his head, feigning confusion. “I doubt that, sir,” he replied.

The man shook his head. “No. I’m very sure I do.” His gaze focused, eyes searching. “The hair is different, but I know you.”

The conversation was drawing too much attention. Ezril realized he would never hear anything useful from the tavern again after tonight. He would now be known, associated with the King’s guard. They would be wary of him.

Yes, you know me. He frowned, displeased. And I know you. It hadn’t taken long to place the man’s mug of a face. After all, it was part of his earlier memories.

The man’s eyes grew wide in realization and he turned to the King’s guard beside him. He was a man his age, sporting a permed hair and clean shaved jaw.

“It’s Olnic’s boy!” the bearded man said. “Remember? I told you guys about him while we were at the camp.”

The others must have found his words funny because they laughed heartily. The sound rummaged through the room carelessly. It was like children laughing at the joke of someone older, a joke they knew to laugh at but did not understand the reason.

A sigh escaped Ezril’s lips. He didn’t have time for this.

“Do forgive me, sir, for not recognizing you,” he replied, his voice piercing through the soldiers’ laugher. He had intended an apology but was not surprised by the condescension in his tone. Pretending, it seemed, was harder than most made it out to be.

The man frowned. His beard took a new form Ezril had not thought it capable of. The man was indeed ugly, for what he was worth. “I see you still have no respect, boy. It’s Alphex,” he scowled, “and you will show me the respect I deserve.”

Ezril balled his hand hidden from them. “You must forgive me, sir,” he said, again, raising his cup to his mouth. “I meant you no disrespect.”

He took another sip.

Alphex laugh. The sound was hollow and flat. It was bitter. “You’re still as unmannered as ever. What are you now?” he leaned in close to study him. “A mercenary? No. You have no weapons. A merchant perhaps.” He rose back to his full height. Now he looked down his nose at Ezril. “We knew you were never going to amount to anything. Olnic just sheltered you anytime you trotted in from your cozy life, and look what you did at the end, look how you showed your gratitude. You went and fucked up his business with the visitors.” His next words were so small only Ezril and the King’s guards heard it. “Fucking Tainted.”

Ezril’s hand tightened around his cup. If he was any of his brothers the cup would’ve broken under the pressure of his grip. It made him wish he had the strength of the Hallowed. However, his grip tightened in defense of himself. If the other King’s guards felt the words necessary enough to try and take him in, then Ezril would have to defend himself. Looking at them, he knew it would not be an easy feat. Still, it was possible. Doing it without killing any of them was where the challenge would be.

“Tolin, too,” Alphex continued. “Always told him you weren’t good. Shame what happened to him. Shoulda been you.”

The cup in Ezril’s hand cracked.

Alphex slapped Ezril’s hand violently. It wrenched the cup from Ezril’s grip, sending it flying across the tavern. “Say something!” he barked. “Use your fucking words! You can speak, can’t you?!”

Ezril rose abruptly. His chair scraped the floor. His hands balled into fists at his side. Alphex had gone too far talking of Tolin. Violence seemed imminent now, and Ezril would be the one to start it. It was a sign of treason to go against the King’s guard. Any subject of the crown could be hanged for it.

Ezril almost smiled at the thought. He was a priest, thus, he was no subject of the crown.

“I dare you,” Alphex grinned. His hands twitched with excitement. “Give me a fucking reason.”

Ezril was glad to oblige. Taking all five men down would be tasking. He did not have his Sunders and he did not have his bow. Then again, he’d always excelled unarmed, which still baffled him. If he fought them, he would be ostracized in the tavern, information would never reach him. It didn’t matter, he’d given up on the tavern the moment Alphex had spoken of Tolin.

Break bones. Shed blood…

“… take no lives,” he muttered to himself.

Alphex’s instincts were good, because he moved first. But he was a King’s guard, not a priest. Ezril was faster. His hand moved.

The tavern doors creaked open and every one stopped. The sound was gentle, yet loud. Ezril’s hand hadn’t left his side.

And a new silence fell on the tavern.

Ezril didn’t have to look to know who it was. This silence was deafening. The men that had been so engrossed in what was going on immediately found interest in their cups. Ezril’s gaze shifted passed Alphex. His eyes settled on a man in a black cassock. His hair held back in a perfect knot, unlike Ezril’s own that flailed around, long, free of his haphazard knotting from earlier in the afternoon.

Salem kept his gaze fixed on Alphex and his men. It was a calm gaze, portraying his noble birth, the child of the Lord of Alifat. Ezril noted its impact on the King’s guards and concealed his smile.

He stepped away from Alphex. Putting his hand in his cloak, he brought out a few copper coins, placed them on the table, then walked away, making his way to the exit.

“Good evening, Father,” he greeted Salem as he passed. And no other word was spoken.

He knew Salem would stay a while longer before leaving, though it was meant to be the other way around. They were to report the events of the day to Darvi, perhaps when morning came. Darvi would not be pleased, but Ezril knew Salem wouldn’t complain. His brother never complained about what he did. It was something he often found disturbing.

The moment he stepped out of the tavern he extricated a piece of rope from within his cloak. The insignia of the seminary dangled from it. He wrapped it around his wrist, loose but secure.

Monsignor Crowl had replaced the ones he and his brothers gotten when they entered the seminary with this one on the day after their ordination. The day after he had been asked to kill his father should the chance present itself. Unlike his brothers, Ezril never wore it around his neck. Unlike the old one, it was made of Asmidian ore and was very cold to the touch. It caused him discomfort against his chest. Against his skin, it reminded him of shadow fire. So for the past year, while his brothers wore it around their necks, his dangled from his wrist, well away from his skin.

Just one more way he was different from his brothers. Just one more secret to keep.

Their pastoral year was almost coming to an end. Ezril and his brothers had been posted to one of the military forts designed to protect the kingdom. One year of being priests in the midst of soldiers and they had learned a few things about war. But why does it seem like this won’t end in a year.