by Daniel Heck
“There’s only one thing,” you say.
Titania groans. “You won’t let me into the temple along with you,” she guesses, “because someone in a position of authority might discover our relationship.”
“Has it become that regular of a problem?”
Titania halts and crosses her arms.
“Bartleby, when are you going to realize that nothing can stop who we are? That no one, of divine authority or otherwise, has the right to hold us back?”
“This has to be the way it is, my dear. Without the church, I am nothing. And you know full well what they could, or would, do. An excommunication is the least of my worries.”
“They would hurt you?”
“No, it is a church of peace. But they are not beyond besmirching my reputation in potentially drastic ways.”
Titania gazes straight into you.
“You,” you continue, holding her around the waist, “are the most important thing to me. We will continue to make this work, no matter what.”
She nods weakly, her eyes betraying sadness.
“Now come. There’s not far left to go.”
You turn a corner and shield your brow from the morning light. Facing east, you see a familiar structure sitting upon a marbled foundation. A golden archway beckons you; at its peak is mounted an eight-rayed sun, the symbol of your faith.
“Wait here,” you instruct. “I will return soon.”
She sits on a stone and gazes toward the horizon. You make your way through the doors and around a dozen pews, toward a plain metal vestibule near the back of the building. A few worshippers pray silently here, their heads bowed. Your footsteps echo against the ancient stone, and you squint as you pass through the narrow beams of light afforded by the temple’s few windows.
The vestibule’s door clanks securely against its binding as you pull. You glance around and recognize a balding human in white robes, who sits near the confessional. You approach and tap him on the shoulder.
“Monsignor Cristof,” you whisper with reverence.
“Bartleby, my vibrant young student,” he replies as he stands and grips your hand in both of his, “It is good to see you.”
“We… I mean, I would like to access the archives. A need has arisen for information about Thomerion.”
Cristof scratches his head and squints. “Hrmmm… There is only so much even we, as experts of religion, can tell you about the god of destruction, but I would like to help in whatever way possible.” He turns.
“Have you ever seen anything,” you continue, “relating to that deity about some sort of gate?”
Cristof turns back suddenly. His eyes become large as plates, and his mouth twists into a stunned ‘O’ shape.
“What is the matter?” you ask. “What did I say?”
The old man glowers around at nearby worshippers, then lowers his voice to a sober whisper. “I had hoped… to keep that topic a secret from the public. For the very thought of this gate, let alone the reality, struck fear—nay, dread—deep into the hearts of those who first discovered the possibility. To spread rumors would cause utter chaos. Before we delve into it further, you must pledge to me that you will not tell a soul about what you learn here.”
You flinch. “Not even those I trust most?”
“Not even. Perhaps especially, for they are often in the best position to make use of such secrets.”
You cross your arms. “You trust too little.”
“Do I have your pledge?”
What choice do I have, in truth?
A tense moment passes. You sigh, and nod.
“Very good. Come, this way.”
Cristof leads you away from the vestibule and toward what appears to be a featureless wall built into a side wing of the temple. When it’s clear there’s no one else watching, he mutters a mystical word, and the wall dissolves to reveal a secret passage. You follow him in.
The passage is short and natural in make, nothing at all like the temple that leads to it. At its end stands a podium, upon which lies a massive, untitled volume. A torch on the wall emanates just enough of a glow to read by.
The monsignor uses a small reed stuck between pages to open the book to a spot about two-thirds of the way through. Hideous imagery leaps out at you immediately: disembowelment, burning at the stake, and the crushing of skulls underneath mounds of the very stone that once comprised the houses of innocent civilians are all some of the least deplorably evil acts these pages depict. Without a word of explanation, you can tell they are all innately connected to the god of destruction.
As Cristof turns another page, however, an image of a hollow blue circle leaves you mystified.
“My friend, this… is Thomerion’s gate. Long ago, his worshippers figured out a way to open a two-way portal that connects this realm to the demon realm. Insane and brainwashed as they were, they wished for him to be able to come to this earth and rule it in its entirety. Fortunately, they were stopped just in time.”
“A family member is having visions, and has been saying something about such a gate. Could the cult of Thomerion be trying again?”
Cristof scratches his head. “It is possible. However, they would need to reunite two parts of a particular golden idol, and then activate that idol when Velgo, Duminus, and Qartan, the three famed planets of greatest magical energy in the universe, are next in full alignment.”
You scoff, “That’s bound to happen only once every few millennia.”
Cristof looks you straight in the eye, his jaw locked.
You feel the shock rob you of your breath.
“No.”
“Astronomically, it cannot be denied. The moment will come to pass in precisely forty-three days.”
Panic strikes you. “And no one has done a thing about it in the meantime? The church of the sun knew about this?”
“Calm yourself,” Cristof cautions. “We don’t know where the pieces are, for one. A preclusive search could have taken months, if not years, and required more men than we have available.”
“But now that we have reason to think they are being sought…”
“Is this family member you mention some kind of diviner?”
“Not in the least. He was, however, afflicted with Thomerion’s seal six years ago, at the time of the alliance between that church and the Koraxon military.”
“I would use him…” Cristof advises, “to the greatest extent you know how.” He turns his back to you, seeming to shrink as he shuffles toward the main chamber.
“You cannot assist?”
“Once again, my job now is to maintain a sense of normalcy among the congregation. After all, my suspicions are complete. The world is doomed.”
“So, without telling anyone, I am to literally save the world from Thomerion?”
Without turning, he mumbles, “Fate is a cruel beast.”
You frown, ignoring the faithless fool, and approach the book to look more closely. The pages imply the idol’s parts: a top and bottom, which form a golden monkey with a twisted, menacing visage, and seem to activate when clamped together.
Further scratchings, although vague in shape, appear to show that one piece is (or at least, was at one time) guarded by a tremendous yeti, while the other is inside some sort of gangly plant. Some words in large print, taking up an entire page of their own, are most foreboding of all:
Those who would rend these treasures in twain: their energy shall rend thee in turn.
So whoever destroys the idol is destroyed by its aftermath?
“There has to be a way to survive it,” you mumble to yourself.
You turn around, only to find that Cristof has left the chamber.
“By the gods…”
As you prepare to leave the area, a realization hits you. Titania knows none of what you’ve learned. She would likely follow you to the ends of the earth. But, you ask yourself, if the gods demand it, would she do so blindly?
How do you handle this?
I tell Tit
ania only the absolute minimum.
I betray the church by spilling everything.
It is now considerably after sunset. Most locals have retired for the night.
“It might be best to find an inn,” Titania suggests, “and talk to Katalina yet tomorrow.”
You nod. “We wouldn’t likely find her about now, anyway.”
You stable your horses and proceed on foot toward the only tavern in town, the Blighted Eagle. Approaching it, you grimace at the sight of its warped wood and the ancient sign hanging out front. The windows look like they haven’t been cleaned in eons. Titania looks at you with hesitation.
“It’s better than nothing,” you mumble.
Suddenly a crash and several shouts ring out from within, followed by a series of muffled thumps. A large chair explodes through the swinging doors, and you jump back just in time for it to fall at your feet. Titania tenses, but holds her action, her eyes large. A child’s wail pierces your ears, interspersed with orcblood curses. You can’t see much of what’s going on inside, despite the commotion.
You grip the sun talisman hanging around your neck. “Should we break this up?” you ask, your eyes locked straight ahead. “It sounds like at least one person could need healing.”
“That count could include either of us in the end,” Titania argues, “We should wait until the dust settles.”
You feel torn. By that point, it may be too late to help.
What do you do?
I jump into the fray!
We stay in the street until the brawl finishes.
You smirk as you look Titania in the eye. She thrusts a hand into her hip.
“What are you thinking, mister?” she asks.
“I’ve heard of a festival coming up. I think I can make some arrangements to get us in.”
“Really? That sounds quite enjoyable.”
“It will be. The last one had a number of contests, merchants and wizards, and a royal dance.”
You gaze at each other for several long moments.
“And…” you continue as you cock your head in anticipation, “you’re sure you’re willing to head out toward Katalina in exchange?”
Titania smiles. Her eyes reflect a flirtatious shimmer. “It’s a deal. Let’s get started,” she concedes, “before I change my mind.”
You chuckle and take her hand in yours as you leave the ward.
Images of the well-maintained beaches of Sungaze flit through your mind as you approach the stable, and also as you negotiate terms of your rental with the stablemaster. You almost went to the seaside fishermen’s haven when addressing Fedwick’s illness six years ago, only to be distracted by Titania’s captors, which blessedly led to your getting to know her better. The last time you graced the town’s pink sands and numerous ports, on the other hand, you were very young, and couldn’t help but ask your parents why the lot of you couldn’t visit someplace more exotic, perhaps even one found outside of Ambrosinia altogether.
‘And risk having you kidnapped, or worse yet, tortured by foreigners?’ your mother chided at the time. ‘Not a chance, child.’
Perhaps, you ponder, I inherited a bit of that caution and lawfulness. A bit too much, even.
You glance once more at your love, and are reminded that the church frowns upon such relationships.
On the other hand…
“Bartleby…”
You shake your head, thinking you hear a voice.
“Yes?”
“Where did you go? Are you with me?”
You blink with force. “Nowhere important, love. I am with you always.”
Halfway to your destination, you set up camp with a lot on your chest. Sharing a bedroll with Titania infuses your soul with blessedness and joy, yet a kernel of trepidation settles into the back of your mind.
Will this be worthwhile? I’ve already sacrificed a lot, and as of yet, we know virtually nothing.
The second day passes without delay, and you enter Sungaze late in the evening. Gaggles of merchants and fishermen close shop as the sun sets, although several stop to offer salutation to their former leader. At one point, Titania hugs and chats briefly with a mother of three young boys, each identically dressed in dapper brown knickers and tunic, who play in the streets with wooden toys. You’re their role model, she tells Titania, before herding them all into an adobe hut. Your lover stares after them for several moments, beaming.
Write down the keyword REMEMBER.
Ahhh, reminiscence.
You say, “Where may we find you later, should we ascertain the fee in the meantime?”
Stephano replies, “I shall be browsing at the weapon shop midday tomorrow.” You nod. He mounts, and you let him fly away.
“I’ve shot an arrow or two in my day,” you assert, “so let’s enter that archery contest.”
Titania smiles in agreement. “There are only eight slots,” she reminds you, “so you’d better get registered early.”
Sleep comes easily, and you wake rejuvenated. The town square once again stands packed corner to corner.
After a little asking around, you find the plump barker that seems to be in charge. With a grin and a nudge of his elbow, he writes your name down on a long parchment. After a few more minutes of milling about and organizing, he steps upon a pedestal and shouts, “Ladies and gents of all races and ages, welcome to the archery contest for the Ambrosinian Spring Festival!”
The crowd whoops and hollers, and a cluster of elves pump their fists in the air.
“As our assistants are currently setting things up, the otherwise ordinary field you see behind me,” the barker indicates, “will soon become an arena by which to test wits, skill, patience and a steady hand. At stake is by all measures a considerable prize: two hundred gold pieces!”
You and Titania exchange glances.
“Fifty gold goes to the runner-up, and to all others, a pat on the back and the knowledge that you had a good time. Or so one would hope!”
The barker grins wide, and a few folks chuckle, but most keep listening quietly.
The barker continues, “The winner shall be determined by single-elimination format. The first two rounds shall consist of three shots per person, one each at increasing increments of distance, but from there, things will get a little more… shall we say, interesting.”
Within the field, you think you see a few men manipulating pulleys and rope into some sort of interconnected system. For now, a few targets, pallets of painted wood consisting of six concentric circles each, stand on bulky easels at the south end of the field. Their maroon centers, small as they are from this distance, stare into you like eyes.
“First up is Bartleby of Whitetail, servant of the church of the sun!”
You look into Titania’s eyes, and smile.
“Good luck,” she says, “But perhaps just as importantly, have fun.”
You wink, then turn to see an attendant standing nearby, who holds an ornate longbow and quiver. You accept the weapon with fervor, nock an arrow and shake hands with your first opponent, a nervous-looking squire half a foot shorter than you.
A small crowd observes and claps politely throughout the proceedings, although the squire turns out to be somewhat easy work. Some of your shots fall in sub-optimal rings, but his fare far worse; one even sails completely wide of the designated target. You breathe deep, allowing yourself to adjust to the pressure, before the real competition arrives. After notching the win, you shake the boy’s hand, even as a small tear begins to streak down his cheek.
Titania shouts from the sidelines, “He knew this had to be coming!”
You smirk. Your arms already ache from repeatedly pulling the bow’s masterfully forged string.
The barker allows a break before abruptly beginning the second round. Your opponent this time is a female centaur, who wears a regal-looking fur cloak and nods her respects in your direction. From the looks of her, she’s seen a competition or two in her day, whether for entertainment or not.
&
nbsp; The second round is extremely close, and comes down to the final shot, but you earn a tremendous whoop from the crowd by somehow hitting the bullseye on the farthest target. The impact’s vibration disturbs a pigeon atop a nearby branch, which flutters and coos before settling back down.
The centaur approaches.
“I do not envy your next test,” she mumbles, before bumping your shoulder as she returns to the main path, her calm hooves clacking against the cobblestones.
You glance back at the creature, apprehensive. It hands off its bow and quiver to a lithe male elf, whose gaze bores into you like the rays of energy your sun talisman emits. Dressed in kelly green from head to toe, he radiates confidence, right down to a tiny curl at the edge of his lips, which are richer in color than the brightest of roses. His long fingers grip the weapon as easily as if it were an extension of his entire body.
You gulp. A bead of sweat trickles down your brow.
“We’re down to the finals, ladies and gentlemen!”
A hush conquers the entire area. The men you saw earlier swing into action.
“For these six shots,” the barker continues, “our combatants can play it safe with a stationary target, or instead try to hit a moving one for bonus points. As you can see, some go side to side, some up or down, and some move more quickly than others, but it’s this bit of strategy that will most greatly test our finalists’ mettle.”
Worse yet, by the luck of a draw of straws, you go first.
“I’ve had training,” you mumble to Titania, “but not this much.”
She looks straight into your eyes. “You can do it,” she encourages, as she pats your shoulder. “Teach this elf who’s boss!”
As the final round progresses, you feel the chances of your earning the prize money gradually slip away. The elf hits shot after shot without hesitation, occasionally bowing to the audience as several ladies within squeal their admiration. You are held speechless at one point, after a particular lob requires him to overshoot a strangely hanging tree branch, yet strikes the bullseye anyway. Meanwhile, you do the best you can, alternating between stationary and moving shots, but find yourself behind in the count as your opponent readies his fifth shot.
