The chimes sounded many more times throughout the long minutes that followed, until at last a set of light directors shone onto the balcony from the plain below. The crowd shouted with elation, then magnified their excitement a hundredfold when the High Conduit emerged to look down on the Penitent Faithful. He smiled warmly at their cheers and waved in response to the crowd’s reaching hands, somehow maintaining an air of serenity and peace despite the deadly events that took place only a few hours earlier. He finally motioned for the applause to subside, and it diminished almost instantly at his command.
“I know you’re all weary,” the High Conduit began, “so I thank you for heeding my call to you in the middle of the night. I thank you, and the Venerates thank you, for heeding their call faithfully, and that includes the call each of you answered tonight to defend Dism Slyde itself. Whatever your role, wherever you were during the fighting, you are all a part of the most decisive victory in the history of Dism Slyde.” The last words were spoken with great conviction, and the High Conduit paused thereafter as the crowd erupted once again. He eventually motioned for silence.
“We knew this day would come to pass,” the High Conduit continued. “As the only thing standing between the Cynmeren and the Venerates, we have forever been an obstacle to the enemy; now they’ve become desperate. Their attacks have grown bold and reckless, and we knew they would soon be forced to send their strongest to defeat us. I tell you this: they sent their strongest here tonight, but we were stronger.
“The Penitent Faithful have proven once again that all things are possible through the grace of the Venerates, but this victory did not come without great loss. To the members of the Shroud Legion, the Protectors, the Handlers, and all others who sacrificed themselves to protect Dism Slyde: you will not be forgotten. Your penance has ended, rest now with the blessing of the Venerates, knowing that you are forgiven.”
There was a long silence as every head bowed in remembrance. The image of the Handler falling out of the cart stood out in Keltin’s memory; he was determined to learn the man’s name so he could be remembered properly. Keltin looked up when he heard gasps from several members of the crowd. While the Penitent Faithful were remembering the dead, a Cynmeren had been hoisted into place on one of the long posts and propped up on the balcony beside the High Conduit. This creature, unlike the others in the plain below, still retained a glowing head that slowly surveyed the crowd. “Kill it!” someone shouted, and the thought was echoed by ten more voices in the span of a single breath. Shouts continued until the High Conduit raised his hands once more for quiet. Then he turned to address the bound Cynmeren.
“Your greatest warriors lay before you,” the High Conduit said, gesturing to the dead Cynmeren below. “Call out to them! Command them to break free from their bonds and overthrow their captors, so that we may all witness the power of those who would defy the might of the Venerates themselves.” The Cynmeren made no sound, instead continuing to study each member of the crowd intently. “As I thought,” the High Conduit said with an expression of mock disappointment. “You have no power to bring them back to life; only the Venerates can conquer death.”
The Cynmeren began to shake against the ropes that bound it to the post, a strange choking sound quietly falling onto the Penitent Faithful below. “Look how it shudders with fear!” the High Conduit shouted to the crowd, who all laughed and mocked the creature. Then the sound it made grew suddenly louder, and Keltin felt a knot of fear tighten in his stomach. He had heard this noise once before, and he had hoped to never hear it again. The Cynmeren was laughing.
The crowd fell silent, stunned by the spectacle. The High Conduit maintained his composure, though, and addressed the beast over the sound of its terrifying laughter. “As life fades from your eyes, may the last image you see be of the bodies of your dead. This is the only future for your kind, for today we vow to remove Cynmere’s vileness from this land forever. Today begins our Holy Purge.” The High Conduit nodded to one of the Protectors holding the Cynmeren’s post, and an isen flashed in the man’s hand.
“I win,” the Cynmeren declared in a voice darker than the clouded night sky. Then the isen silenced it forever.
A chill washed over Keltin’s body as he watched the glowing head plummet into the center of the waiting Cynmeren bodies. The raw brutality of the moment stood out above the other atrocities he’d seen throughout the night, not because it was any bloodier or more gruesome than the other Cynmeren deaths, but because this one felt disturbingly human. He looked to Silax for confirmation that this didn’t feel right, but Silax watched the scene before him with fascination, not horror. In the next instant, Silax joined the Penitent Faithful as they were stirred into a frenzy of cheers and applause.
Keltin was glad the last of the Cynmeren was gone, but he didn’t enjoy watching it die. The same was not true for the rest of the Penitent Faithful, though, whose shouts and taunts ripped through the night air. The High Conduit stepped back into the Spire, leaving the Cynmeren that had spoken fixed to a post on the balcony overlooking the cheering crowd. Keltin departed in silence without Silax, not wanting to focus on death any more for one night.
On his way through the corridor to the healing quarters, Keltin looked out each window he passed as the Protectors hauled the Cynmeren bodies out to the valley beyond the Gates. They would be added to the sightless vigil, just as every attacker had been before them, and Keltin knew that was what needed to happen. The uneasiness that came from hearing the creatures speak had rooted itself deep, however, and Keltin couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that he had done something wrong by killing the Cynmeren. Worse than that, he knew he was good at both fighting and killing the creatures, and a part of him took great pride in that fact. In the dark of the healing room, Keltin stared into the nothingness, remembering everything he had seen throughout the day, and everything he had done. “Forgive me, Venerates,” he whispered, “for I have sinned.”
---
The following morning, Keltin went about his normal routine as best he could prior to First Calling. Silax had to help him out of bed again, but other than that, Keltin was thankful that he needed no assistance. As they walked to the large staircase, Silax tried to bring up events from the night before, but each time he did, Keltin offered little or no reply.
“What is it?” Silax demanded at last.
“What is what?” Keltin replied tiredly.
“Your lack of levity this morning,” Silax said. “We won, Keltin, and you know as well as I do that the two of us were crucial to that victory.”
“I just did what I had to do,” Keltin said flatly.
“No, you did what you were made to do,” Silax said, pulling Keltin to the side of the corridor. “I know you can feel it—the power, the thrill of the conflict. You’re craving it even now. It goes against everything we’ve ever known, and yet it makes so much sense if you think about it. You told me before that you felt like you never fit with the other workers in Aldhagen, right? That’s because you belonged with the fighters here instead. I felt the same, and I know I belong here now.”
“I don’t crave any more fighting,” Keltin objected, though a part of him had to admit that Silax was right.
“If you say so,” Silax replied with a knowing grin. The sound of rapidly approaching footsteps suddenly interrupted the conversation, and they both turned back to see who was running towards them. A pair of Servants dashed through the passage and stopped abruptly when they reached Keltin and Silax.
“You both must come with us. Hurry, please,” one of the Servants said with a small bow. Keltin turned to Silax, who appeared equally bewildered by the Servant’s request.
“What of First Calling? Are we meant to ignore our penance this morning?” Silax asked.
“This is of a higher importance than any Calling,” the Servant replied hastily. “Now, please, we must go.” Keltin and Silax both followed, curious to see what could possibly be held in higher regard than the Callings. They t
urned right, down a passage that led deeper into the healing quarters than either of them had been before. After ascending a short set of stairs, the Servants approached a solitary door at the end of the hall.
“Knock once, then enter when instructed,” one of the Servants advised, then the pair of them rushed away, leaving Silax and Keltin alone in the empty corridor. Not knowing what else to do, Keltin knocked.
“Enter,” a voice said from within, and just as Keltin opened the door he realized who had spoken. Before taking another step, Keltin fell to one knee, with Silax following an instant later.
“Venerates smile upon you, Keltin and Silax,” the High Conduit said warmly.
“And you, High Conduit,” they replied from the floor.
“Rise, please, rise,” the High Conduit chuckled. Keltin and Silax followed the order and at last had a full view of the room before them. It was a healing room, that was easy to tell from its simplicity and cleanliness, but it was twice the size of the others and filled with implements Keltin had never seen before. Two Protectors stood by the doorway, their eyes sunken and seeming to never blink as they kept watch. On a bed in the center of the room, just beside the High Conduit, lay Draeden Ansund. His face was gaunt and he looked exhausted, but a tired smile still creased his face.
“I believe you know these two, isn’t that right, Ansund?” the High Conduit asked with a smirk.
“That I do,” the Draeden nodded. “I would know their faces anywhere. Venerates smile upon you both.”
“And you, Draeden,” Keltin and Silax replied in unison. “It’s good to see that you’re all right,” Keltin added.
“Thanks entirely to you,” the Draeden beamed. “I would surely be dead now if not for your quick actions.” Keltin shook his head in embarrassment, but the High Conduit pointed a finger at him in warning.
“This is no place for modesty, Keltin,” he cautioned. “While I appreciate a man being humble, he must also know how to accept a compliment and the weight it adds to his own character.”
“Yes, High Conduit,” Keltin corrected himself hurriedly. “Forgive me, Draeden, and thank you.”
“Thank you, Draeden,” Silax echoed.
The Draeden nodded. “I owe thanks to you two for my life, but that’s not the reason we brought you here.”
“No, it isn’t,” the High Conduit added sternly. “We need to discuss the events that led to the Draeden’s rescue—specifically your actions—to better understand how two of the newest members of the Penitent Faithful found themselves mired in combat right alongside the Protectors. Silax, why don’t you begin.”
Silax’ mouth hung open for an instant. “I was here, in the healing quarters, when the fighting started,” he said slowly. “I could hear it, and the screams of the men the Servants tried to help. I felt I could be of more use with an isen in hand, so I left the healing quarters and picked up the first weapon I saw. I surprised the enemy a few times, then I found Keltin and we fought our way to the Gates. After the explosions, he and I carried the Draeden as far as we could, then returned to the healing quarters to have our own injuries tended.”
The High Conduit nodded thoughtfully, then frowned as he looked Silax up and down. “That was an excellent synopsis of your role in yesterday’s fight, Silax. Thank you. But I am more interested in how you learned to use the isen so effectively, being new to Dism Slyde as you are. Who taught you?”
Silax’ head leaned towards the floor as the pain of memory weighed on him. “Eredun,” Silax said faintly. “I learned from his example.”
“How many did you kill before arriving in Dism Slyde?’ the Draeden asked.
“Dozens,” Silax replied. “They attacked us. Thankfully, Eredun had already shown the basics to Aemetta and me.”
“You fought alongside Aemetta as well?” the High Conduit asked, leaning forward with growing interest.
“I did,” Silax said. “She is even better with the isen than I am, to be honest.” The Draeden and the High Conduit exchanged a wide-eyed glance, then the High Conduit motioned to one of the Servants along the wall. The man stepped forward and leaned close so the High Conduit could whisper something in his ear; in the next instant, the Servant darted out of the room with an urgency Keltin had only seen rivaled on the battlefield.
“And you, Keltin?” the High Conduit asked, apparently satisfied with Silax’ answers for now. “How is it that you came to be in the heat of the battle at the Gates?”
“Nihmadien and I were on the Western Walk,” Keltin began. “We had just reached the Far Lookout when the first of the horns sounded….”
---
Keltin recounted the events of the battle with as much detail as he could, but when he finished speaking the High Conduit said nothing. The man just stared in silence, his ancient grey-blue eyes seeming to burn into Keltin’s head from across the room. “Yours is an interesting path,” the High Conduit said at last, walking from the Draeden’s bedside closer to Keltin. “One over which the Venerates are clearly watching. Death followed you throughout the night, yet you remained free of its touch. To have survived the onslaught in Tamer’s Canyon is impressive enough, but to withstand both of those explosions as well…truly, a miracle only the Venerates could orchestrate. Without Nihmadien and then Belgram sending you away exactly when they did, you surely would have died with them in the fight at the Tasking Station.”
“Nihmadien is dead?” Keltin breathed, “and Chant Leader Belgram?”
“Their penance has ended,” the High Conduit nodded wistfully. “Which leaves you in a unique state of transition. I needed to understand how you and Silax ended up where you did, and now that I know, I am confident that the Venerates have shown me your path to redemption.” He returned to the Draeden’s bedside for an instant. “Ansund, it will be as we discussed earlier. I will let you share the joyous news with these two; my presence is needed elsewhere. All of you, serve well.”
“Venerates smile upon you, High Conduit,” the room said in unison as the grey-haired man passed through the entryway, his two Protector guards following close behind. As soon as his back disappeared into the hallway beyond, Keltin and Silax spun to face Draeden Ansund with eyes wide in anticipation.
Ansund studied them with the same intense gaze they had come to expect from the man, but there was a hint of something else in his sunken eyes now—a trace of pride, somehow intermingled with flashes of sadness. He looked down quickly to regain his composure, but he knew Keltin and Silax had seen the confusing mixture of suppressed emotions. “The Protectors stand as a symbol, an outward warning to the Cynmeren, of the strength and unity of the Penitent Faithful,” he said. “But, I grudgingly admit, there are times when strength must be concealed until the instant it is needed; that is not the way of the Protectors. I had hoped, albeit for entirely selfish reasons, that the High Conduit would change his mind about your next task. You both would have made fine Protectors, but that’s not your path it seems.
“After last night’s attack, the Shroud Legion is woefully undermanned and in need of dedicated fighters like you and Silax. Your abilities will be tested, but from what I have seen, you possess the speed and resourcefulness needed to make you invaluable within the purifying smoke. As soon as your injuries are healed, you will each report to the Legion for assessment.”
Keltin stared at the Draeden in stunned silence, but Silax began to laugh quietly to himself. “As the Venerates will,” he smiled. “Let it be so.”
19
Thirna frowned after tasting the mixture that bubbled and churned in the large clay pot in front of her. Wyand stood across from the dark-haired Handsister with a long stirring spoon in his hand, awaiting the woman’s next instruction. “It’s still not quite right,” Thirna muttered to herself, looking pensively at the ground, then over to the assortment of jars on shelves along the wall. The brewing room was dank and musty with no outside lighting whatsoever; only a pair of torches and the small brewing fire itself prevented the space from falling i
nto complete darkness. Thirna reached for one of the jars, then shook her head as she searched for a different ingredient.
Wyand was fascinated by the process the Handsisters used for creating their seemingly-magical remedies, so it was easy for him to look past Thirna’s current state of consternation. After spending just two short days with the Order of Hands, he had already seen works of healing he thought were only possible when performed by the hands of the Venerates themselves. Today’s task was no different: the steady rain and the chill it carried with it had stirred a sickness within many of the Cynmeren over the past day, and they now looked to the Handsisters to provide a cure.
Thirna approached the boiling pot again, still looking perplexed, then a sudden smile crept over her wrinkled face. She darted over to one of the darkened corners of the room and scanned the floor anxiously. “Ha!” Thirna cackled at last, before stooping down to pluck something off of the ground. She stood and approached the pot with a satisfied grin, holding out a handful of short white fibers. “Frost mold,” Thirna said proudly. “I should have thought to look for it sooner. It only forms colonies when the rains are going to last longer than a few hours, and it always ushers in cold weather and sickness.” With that, she dumped the handful of fibers into the pot. “Stir,” she said, then stepped back.
Wyand did as he was told while trying to avoid breathing the foul-smelling vapors whenever possible. Thirna’s eyes jumped back and forth between watching him and watching the bubbling mixture until she raised a hand for him to stop. “That looks better,” she said, although to Wyand the pot of liquid looked exactly the same as it had before. Thirna took the spoon from his hand and scooped out a small portion of the cloudy, brownish substance and sipped it slowly. Thin tendrils of steam swirled around her mouth as she drank and they were quickly followed by a pleased smile. “This is ready. I’ll fill the cups, you deliver them to anyone complaining of the sickness,” Thirna instructed, holding the spoon above the surface of the pot. “Well?” she asked impatiently, and Wyand suddenly realized she was waiting for him to retrieve the first cups for her to fill. He hurried over to her, but Thirna still sighed at his lack of cognizance.
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