(THOB) Chapter 127: Apocryphal Not Fallacious (Patreon)

Their reception at the seminary was without ceremony. They cut through the Umunna forest and through the mist as though these were not things that had once called fear upon them. They were ushered in by open gates, and—when they came close enough—raised portcullis.

Their rooms now under the command of new brothers bound on their journey to priesthood, they remained in the stables, where their horses were attended by the older brothers of the seminary, and Shade was crooned away to the side by a Njord; the only priest who seemed to have any interest in their arrival. But the truth was not lost to them: the priest only had eyes for the wolf.

The seminary was calm under the evening skies. The almost monotonous clacking of wooden swords filled the air, accompanied by the voices of priests who seemed more interested in challenging their creativity in profanities and the strength of their whipping hands than in the training of the young boys. It almost made the existence of the war beyond the border seem a distant dream. But not distant enough.

While the others waited at the stable, Father Talod came for Darvi. Darvi pulled their aged brother aside in discussion, and Ezril found it still disconcerted him to think of the priest as a brother. After a few words were exchanged, Talod turned eyes on him, and with a wave of his hand, ushered him to them.

He went graciously.

The Monsignor’s chambers looked more arranged than he remembered. The books on the shelves seemed almost arranged in specific order, as if for easier discovery of required information. All that was left was to label each section and it would seem more like something from a library. Ezril was surprisingly happy to see the sword behind the Monsignor’s chair still hung there, burnished to a shine, ceremonious and undipped in shadow fire; an observation only less than two years of priesthood made him capable of.

They were forced to wait for the Aged overseer of the seminary on their feet while Talod sat at one end of the room, and Ezril realized the man had aged more than was required of the time since they’d last seen.

Did he always have that? Ezril wondered, noticing the scar that ran the length of the back of Talod’s left hand, from the start of his finger to his wrist, and he realized he wouldn’t have known even if the man had had it on the first day he arrived at the seminary. Most of the priest’s physical features had been either unimportant to him then, or lost to him now. All that had mattered was his skill with the sword and the hatred he invoked with his cane. With the realization came a shocking self-disappointment.

“A foolish seminarian thought he was being treated too unfairly,” Talod said, noticing what had kept his attention. He moved the hand to cradle it in the other, massaging it absently, and Ezril noted how it shook. “Snuck a hunting knife into the practice field,” the old priest continued. “Should’ve seen it on time, but I didn’t.”

“And was he? Treated unfairly, I mean.”

Talod shrugged, somehow he was able to convey his absolute lack of care in the single action. “No more unfairly than you were, brother.”

Ezril was amazed at how casual the man’s tone was and how he had addressed him as brother, as if it was the most natural thing. But he figured it was to be expected. The priest had more experience with students turned brothers than he did with masters turn brothers.

Darvi nodded in understanding. “And the brother?” he asked.

“Beyond the gate.”

Ezril wondered at it. Even if it was a surprise attack, it had been on the training ground. The boy must have had some skill to have landed a blow on the priest. Did the seminary care nothing for talent anymore?

He thought to ask but kept his silence. He hadn’t been there, and he hadn’t seen what happened. It wasn’t his place.

Seeming to sense his disturbance, Talod said, “We gather the best and we raise them. But there’s no point in raising the sharpest blade if you have no control over it. If a child cannot learn to obey, then the seminary has no need for him. And neither does Truth.”

It was a while before Monsignor Crowl returned to his chambers. When he did, it was with no hurry, and almost no attention to those around him. Like their former instructor, it seemed whatever haunted the seminary, aging priests faster than Vayla intended in her spans, had infected the older priest too.

“Now, Father Tenshaw, I have read your reports,” the Monsignor began after he was seated. “And I must say, you make it a habit of sparing no detail in them.” He glanced to Ezril, “I’m also over joyed to have our brother back with us.” Wherever the joy was, Ezril figured it had missed its cue to take over the man’s expression. “We thought him dead, but Truth must have thought it right to spare us such a loss.” His joy apparently ended, he clasped his hands before him, resting them on the table. “Now, to other matters. You and your brothers have served your pastoral year, although, the seminary does apologize for its prolonged time. We did not wish for it at the time, but the crown did make a request of the bishop, and though we exist outside of his control, it is a hard thing to refuse a king. That said, is there any update you would like to add, Father Tenshaw.”

Unsurprisingly, Darvi did. Ezril stood unmoving, face held in a tight mask as his brother spoke of Olufemi’s continued aberration to commands not giving by Ezril, but it was more an observation than a complaint. However, when Darvi delved into his update on his relationship with Lenaria, Ezril found he had to work harder if he intended on revealing nothing. The report was short lived and his brother ended it with a suggestion that at this rate he was bound to break his oath of celibacy. Ezril wondered if the annoyance he’d heard in his brother’s voice as he spoke of Lenaria had been his imagination or if it had truly been present as Monsignor Crowl mulled over the report.

“Father Vi Antari,” Crowl addressed him. “We have also received report from the church on this issue, and were advised to withdraw you from the fort. Or at least, bring your pastoral service to the end that was long overdue. Against that advice, I decided to have you remain. However,” Crowl leaned forward. “It would seem that only served to worsen things between you and the young priestess. A month lost in the forest. Only Truth knows what happened within that period. It may seem consequences are in order. So what do you have to say for yourself?”

First, Ezril noted how Monsignor Crowl had said nothing of the tribe in the forest and had to fight not to spare a glance at his brother. Second, what happened during that period was none of Truth’s concern, and the lost take him if he was going to address anything on the topic. If the seminary deemed it necessary to punish him, then so be it. But to question his relationship with Lenaria was to stand against him. He was no fool, but he’d accept their punishment ten times over before he would justify it to them.

He took a calming breath, realizing he needed it. “The matter of I and the priestess will be addressed,” he began, “but we have greater matters at hand than punishing a priest for his friendship with a priestess. If I may, I suggest we execute judgement and execution after this is addressed.”

He paused, allowing his words settle, and preparing his rebuttal for the coming refusal when Crowl surprised him with a nod.

“We’ve waged war beyond the border,” he continued, hoping he had not faltered, “but in the last two months, the realms soldiers have told of men who would not fall when cut. Men who showed no pain when struck and do not cry out when impaled. Enemies who are simply determined on moving forward and cutting all in their path, leaving only when the battle has run its course. Before I was lost, I fought one of these men alongside the priestess. He possessed a strength greater than any Hallowed I have encountered, over two dozen arrows did nothing to suppress him, and he continued to fight even after I had severed his tendons and taken his arm. He only stopped after I took his head. Now, I have heard the tales, as I am certain everyone in the realm has. Men with bloodshot eyes and an unending thirst for bloodshed. And I know most believe it a myth; fairytales conjured to scare children; and a truth the church believes long sent into extinction. But the nightmares have returned to us, drawn from the tales. And they fight us at our border, alongside the Merdendi. Monsignor,” he said, “the Broken are at our doorstep.”

There was a silence when he was done. A silence that revealed nothing, and hid everything. All the faces around him remained impassive, and he wondered if he had failed to convey his thoughts, which would have been a terrible thing, considering he had been planning it since they’d left the fort. There was no one in the room who did not understand what this meant. It was the true purpose of the seminary, and the war was theirs now. But that was if they believed him.

“The Broken,” Talod echoed, shattering the silence. “The Merdendi have the king’s men seeing myths now. The Broken do not exist.” He snorted in derision. “And if they did, they ended in the war of the Scorned. They are part of the reason the Tainted exist. Has two years away from the seminary made you forget your catechism?”

“Father Talod,” Crowl cautioned the rising priest, who returned to his seat as if he hadn’t known he’d risen. In a calmer voice he added, “I believe Evangelist Trakael wrote of such things during his evangelical days.”

“Yes,” Talod said. “And I remember he also spoke of dragons, Monsignor. Dragons!” he repeated, incredulous, as if he hadn’t been heard the first time. “There’s a reason why the Evangelist’s words are part of the Apocrypha.”

This was a surprise to Ezril. He hadn’t known the ancient priest had written anything. As if pulled by a functioning windlass, he rummaged through his memory of his seminary days, trying to cleave out the little he could on the man. Then he found something he’d heard either from the mouth of one of their instructors or Salem while he schooled him in a game of war.

Evangelist Trakael was the only Evangelist of the twelve, and the first of the seminary. He was also the only one of his brothers who hadn’t been officially ordained by the archbishop, having left before the decision to make them priests.

The un-ordained priest was known to scour the vast expanse of Vayla, allegedly spreading the word of Truth, returning to his brothers once in every one or two winters. It was said that the man often came bearing stories. But Ezril remembered nothing of writings. And this was the first time he was hearing of the Apocrypha. He could ask them, but he was fairly certain they would not give him an answer, and if they did, it wouldn’t hold the truth in its entirety. If anyone else would know, it would be Salem. So he made a mental note to ask his brother when they were done.

“Apocryphal,” Crowl returned, “not fallacious.”

“But there is no proof of it. Even during the wars of Ingrad himself.”

Crowl shrugged, undeterred. “Now there is.”

There was something in the way he said it, but before Ezril could figure out what it was, the Monsignor turned to him. “Isn’t there?”

Ezril could feel the putrefying hands of panic crawling up his spine. This was what he had dreaded: proof. He didn’t have any, and hadn’t the time. And who knew when next one of the monstrosities would decide to grace the battlefield with its unhallowed presence. He hadn’t had the time and definitely not the luck, to procure such proof. He’d almost stuttered absolute hokum when Darvi spoke in his stead.

“We will have one before we see a second week.”

The Monsignor’s brows furrowed as if contemplating an enigma. “And how do you intend to do this, Father Tenshaw?”

They understood the importance of proof. The crown wanted their help in the war, however, the realms military would not stand to cede authority over its affairs. The admission of an Broken among the Merdendi would put it in the hands of the seminary, and they would have no choice but to answer to the priests. To tell the crown that Broken marched the borders without proof was as deadly as throwing out accusations without evidence. Perhaps worse.

“I spoke with the Hero,” Darvi answered, the young priest seemed to have prepared for such an encounter. “He assured me we would have one in the realm before the week is out… Alive.”

Crowl seemed to think on the words a while. Talod, on the other hand, seemed to stew where he sat, perhaps unwilling to accept the existence or continued existence of the Broken. Ezril wasn’t sure which one had the aged priest in a mood. Perhaps he just doesn’t want to fight, he thought. Old as he is, I doubt he’ll have to.

“Okay then,” the Monsignor spoke abruptly, his hands vanishing from the table. “You and your brothers can make for the cathedral. I’m certain you can find the way on your own, but in the event that you cannot, you can request Father Talod show you the way.” He turned to Ezril. “I already gave them the news of your arrival days ago. They have deemed it fit to prepare a place for the seminary’sAtle wolf. I believe it would be acceptable. I also didn’t think you’d want to leave it here,” he added, his gaze flickering to Darvi for a moment before returning. “And from your brother’s report on the duration of your disappearance I doubt anyone in this compound would want you to.” Now he rose, shooing them away with both hands. “Off with you now. No need to keep the cathedral waiting any longer than it has to. On the morrow after next we will meet with the bishop and the both of you will give him your tale.”

They’d turned to leave, and had almost left the chamber when the Monsignor drew their attention again.

“And Father Urden. I liked your speech…” he stroked his shaven head, “but I think it would be best if you work on it more.”

By the life of him, Ezril could’ve sworn the old priest was grinning. But more importantly; just like that, they had forgotten the issue of him and Lenaria. If he believed the gods were on his side, he would’ve thanked them.