The answer to the presumed “couldn't we have just taken the stairs?” Would have been a hard, unforgiving NO.
Noah vibrated with anticipation. His excitement could have been tasted in the air surrounding him.
As the heroes gathered behind the granite bar, waiting for the Princess's court to let them in, Era took in the environment. Marble arches above the central chamber gave the appearance of a cathedral, though if one looked beyond them, the night sky could have been seen through layers of bulletproof glass. The sprinkling of no less than seven granite fountains echoed throughout the chamber. The walls were lined with stained glass murals, depicting stories from every chapter of the Luxiacon.
At the center of the bizarre chapel was a ten meter high green glass statue of the Holy Trifecta: the unified appearance of all three Gods. Rafeth was a half-naked, muscular spearman with the Sun for a head, his bulky, circular moonshield was Galgalim, and his rearing steed, a giant, armored war-sheep, if such a thing existed, was Argo.
Notched into the granite pedestal of the statue was a silk-lined indentation, in the shape of a chair, where Her Blessed Imperial Candescence Crown Princess Pamina O'Connell Belden IV held court. She was clad in a nondescript white pantsuit, as royal balls and other such occasions were growing rarer and rarer lately.
At her side was a 14-foot-tall, bearded man in a three-piece suit, nearly spherical from a precisely tempered blend of blubber and muscle. This was Sir Fjell Darkenstomp, her faithful bodyguard, and one of the last Pohjolan frost giants in existence.
“Look, it makes no difference how the King of Celsior thinks he wants to 'sponsor' the Chosen Three,” she shouted to the yellow-suited messenger. “He'll go forward with or without my permission, the vacuous fossil that he is. And if you seriously think Parliament is going to so much as lift a finger against their collective sugar daddy, you might as well grab a jester's hat, hop over to Celsior Central, drop your trousers, shove plastic bananas up your nose, and join their little demented immortality-project-of-the-month club, because that would be capital S, Stupid.”
“So, what do you expect from us?” asked the messenger.
Pamina brushed a lock of brown hair behind her ear, so that her face would be in prime condition for unleashing pure political death. “Tell King Gregor that he can sell as much merchandise of the Chosen Three as he pleases, but if I catch him trying to help Lord Monty and squeeze cash from both sides of the cycle, or otherwise violate the Dark Lord Non-Intervention Act, I'll tariff him, sanction him, and vote-of-no-confidence that banjo of his straight up his mummified arse! Have I made myself crystal?!”
“Yes, your Blessed Imperial Candescence.”
As the messenger left with his proverbial tail between his legs, the Princess sunk further into her throne with a sigh. “Never go into politics, Fjell. It's not worth the strain on your mental health.”
“Sure,” grumbled the giant.
“So, who's next in the queue?”
Era winced. Our turn next. Nothing like a meeting with the most powerful person in the Empire to kick my social anxiety into high gear.
Don't panic, Era. You got a B plus in Advanced Royal Decorum. You'll probably get through this without being hung, drawn, and quartered.
Wait, can you even be sentenced to that anymore? Questions for later.
The giant checked his smartphone—a modified touchscreen TV. “Nine o'clock: Chosen Three,” he said.
Her eyes lit up. Those six syllables alone were enough to break the spell of all the post national tragedy stress.
Springing from her chair, she caught the eager smile of Noah, and came running into his arms.
[Pamina — Normal Hug, Except It's from Royalty, so There's Literal Magic Involved]
[Critical Hit!]
[Noah's scoliosis was cured!]
“Wait, he has scoliosis?!” asked Liv.
“He had scoliosis, Livvy darling,” said the Princess, turning back to Noah. “Glad we could get that out of the way before your quest. Now, what's this I've heard about you being a Chosen Hero?”
Noah, too bashful and ecstatic from seeing her again for coherency, responded with a noise that could best be described as “a cat trying to imitate an accordion.”
“Me too, Noah,” she said, giving him a quick kiss on the forehead.
“Now then,” she added, addressing all three of them, “I was going to go over the details of your quest, but, well, we've all had a long day, haven't we? Let me show you to the guest bedrooms.”
Time stopped. Era's knees buckled and his lips quivered.
...a bed?
With a single word—three letters, one syllable—his mind was washed clean of anything intelligent. For the first time since he left the toxic-waste-strewn ruins of his hometown on a train with no ticket, he would sleep...in a bed.
Liv turned to him, raising an eyebrow. “You havin' a seizure or something, Slasher?”
“How many pillows?” moaned Era.
The princess smirked. “Five.”
A single drop of blood fell from Era's nose.
[Era was KO'd!]
“They got cookies!”
Era woke with a start from Noah's screech of enfoodiasm. But since he was buried in a mound of silk and linens in the castle's two-bed guest suite, and soon to fall asleep again, Era couldn't complain to save his life.
Opening his eyes, he caught sight of Noah mumbling a pre-cookie binge prayer as he sat above the guest room's elaborate snack table.
“Ease off the late night snacks, healer,” said Era. “We have to be in peak physical condition for the adventure ahead.”
“For me, it's spiritual conditioning, thank you.”
“Fair enough.” Wait, gluttony's a sin, right? Ah, who cares. Thou Shalt Stayeth In Thy Own Lane.
Liv, in her pajamas, came out of the bathroom and pounced onto the other bed. “Aw yeah! I haven't jumped on one of these since I was a—” Sadly, there were no springs. “Never mind.”
“Wait,” said Era. “There's only two beds.”
Noah grunted in affirmation, still gorging himself on raspberry jammies.
“So, where's Noah sleeping?”
“Minion and I share.”
Era's confused glance was almost audible.
Liv glared. “Or, if it's gonna be that much of a problem, you could sleep on the floor.”
“I could,” said Era, “if you'd both prefer that. I don't mind either way. It just surprised me, that's all.”
The Mystic folded her arms, sighing through her nose. “Nah, it's fine,” she said. “Sorry.”
Of course, Era was being polite, but Liv's inadvertently stoked rage had to go somewhere. Fortunately, she hadn't yet gone over her usual questing party disclaimer with him.
“Reminds me though,” said Liv, “and I hate that I still have to say this, but I feel like this has been a common thing in my mercenary career, so let me make this as clear as I can. I'm in this for fighting, and nothing else. So, if you wanna use this quest as a way to get in my pants, I'll tear your voggin' ears off and feed them to you. Are we square, Slasher?”
Era chuckled and nodded. “Okay, okay. I'm too tired to creep on anyone. Besides, I was under the impression that Noah was your boyfriend or something.”
Noah just barely avoided choking on the cookies. His face turned redder than the half-digested raspberries in his stomach. “G-g-gracious, no! Not by the Wheel, Flame, and Fleece, I swear, we're not—” Noah ran to Liv's bed and hid behind her.
Liv cackled. “Minion and I go way back, but he's more like a brother to me.”
Noah, still attempting to work up the courage to speak, peeked out from behind her. “I mean, I am…well, involved with someone per se, but…it's actually a very dangerous piece of information, and I don't want it to go too public or…well, if you've seen how the news media can really swarm around…Livvy, help me out here!”
“The truthseer has to be the one to tell him, Minion. That's the only way he'll b
elieve you.”
“W-well...see, thing is...”
[Noah — Announce That He and the Crown Princess Are Engaged]
[Critical Hit!]
“For real?!” Era laughed. “Hot damn! That explains why she was all touchy-feely on you earlier. How'd you pull off something like that?”
Noah quivered. “Yeah, well...it's kind of an odd story.”
Chapter 6
The Healer's Tale
“I was, uh…it started when…well, if we're gonna honestly get into Pamina and I, we might as well have as much context as possible, so...
I spent my childhood in a monastery in Fulgan, raised by monks of Argo. The “Order of the Unseasoned,” we called ourselves. We lived in a walled compound that used to be a rich wizard's summer home, before he sold it to the Church of Aries. It had this magnificent view of Fulgan Bay—nothing but sand and sea all around us for miles.
Don't try to find the place on a map. It's gone.
I never met my parents, but the monks told me they were in a great hurry to get rid of me, for whatever reason. Mr. and Mrs. Tamino dropped me off at the monastery's doorstep when I was just a baby. Poor fellas must have thought it was an orphanage or something, but the priests had next to no idea how to raise a child.
Not to say I'm ungrateful. It wasn't a happy time of my life, not even slightly, but I believe there's a reason to be grateful for every challenge life gives us. For example, I'm thankful to them for not smothering me in my crib. They could have murdered me at any time, but they chose not to.
“That's setting the bar pretty low,” said Era.
“That, my dear fencer, is how to be pleasantly surprised every day of your life.
Anyway, every day was the same for each of us, and I was counted as one of the monks before I could even speak in full sentences. We'd get up before sunrise, eat a bowl of raw oats, pray from sunrise to noon, more oats, lessons until five, oats, beat ourselves with sticks until bedtime to atone for the sins of the rest of humanity, pray in the evening, then sleep.
Bishop Snell ran the place. He had spent his entire life consuming oats in the monastery, and he expected each of us to do the same. One day, he forgot to slap me across the face with an oaken rod after evening prayers, and…well, that is the nicest thing I can say about him, but it was a very nice thing at the time.
A few days after my eighth birthday beating, there was word that Brother Jacob had smuggled a forbidden book into the compound. While Bishop Snell and the others had Brother Jacob crucified—may he rest in peace—temptation overcame me, and I browsed through this alleged book of sin: Cooking with Mustard.
For the first time in my life, I was made aware of the existence of something I could eat that wasn't oats. I was too fascinated to keep my mouth shut, even in spite of the danger.
In blind and foolhardy rapture, I ran to the Bishop's office and begged him to allow me to see the yellow condiments of the world beyond our walls. And because he wasn't legally allowed to crucify me until I was 12, Bishop Snell told me that there was only one way out of the monastery: becoming a licensed healer and binding myself to the truthseer's code. If I could become the kind of healer who could also heal the truth, I could legally leave the monastery to travel the world, peddling my services.
Now, Era, remember that time we were in the woods, and you told me why you didn't like Lord Galgalim of the Wheel, Praise Be to His Undulations, and I said I couldn't comment on the seraphs destroying your hometown unless I'm 100% sure of where I stand on it?”
“Right, right. I was wondering what you meant by that.”
“For one thing, the Light of the Gods is a hotly debated issue in the Church. I genuinely don't know if the attackers were really seraphs of Galgalim, or, as lots of non-religious people claim, a cult of wicked sorcerers dressed up as seraphs to frame the Gods for their crimes. I would like to think it's the second option; that would make more sense. I believe that the Gods love all their children, and the idea of sending seraphs to blow up cities for them just isn't compatible with that.
But jumping to conclusions would be literally deadly for me. If I ever tell a lie, or even so much as inaccurately represent my inner thoughts in the slightest, I'll die where I stand.
It's scary, but it's an important part of my job. We truthseers have to be held to a higher moral standard than other human beings. Otherwise, no one would trust our abilities.
These magical beads around my neck can hear my thoughts and match them with my words. If they ever catch me lying, they'll turn into huge chains, tie me up on the ground, and a seraph will come down from Paradisia and chop my head off.”
Era turned pale, if only from how nonchalant Noah seemed about the whole thing. “That's a bit harsh,” he said. “I know keeping healers in check is important, but summoning seraphs to kill you? That has to be symbolic for being excommunicated, or summat.”
“Oh, it's real,” said Liv. “I saw it happen once in high school. I was hanging out in the parking lot, and there was this freshman truthseer hanging out with her friends, and she exaggerated a story she was telling. Next thing you know, there was light and smoke everywhere, and when it cleared, her friends were bawling their eyes out around her headless corpse.”
“Yikes.”
“No lying is just one of the rules,” said Noah. “There's also no cursing, no breaking promises, no smoking or drinking (pardon the word) alcohol, no (pardon the word) sex or (pardon the word) kissing until after marriage, no sleeping in past ten in the morning, no forgetting to pray before meals… It's a real challenge to follow all 528 of 'em, but when your life's on the line, you'll have no choice but to make do.”
“If I didn't know better,” said Era, “it sounds like they're trying to keep you from being human.”
“But becoming a truthseer isn't something that happens overnight. It actually happens over three days of being submerged in lamprey-filled holy water and subjected to sanctified electric shocks while priests of Argo sing hymns over you. It was very...well, it ended, which in itself is a blessing.
The third day, March 12th, came, and thankfully, that day also ended. But before that, there was a lot of...well, first off, that was the day I finally graduated from the process of becoming a truthseer, recited the Sanguis Veritas before the altar of the Three Gods in the center of the monastery at dawn, and received these Amethyst Beads. The ceremonial burning of palm leaves ended the trials, turning me from Brother Noah to Friar Noah Tamino.
Thing is, though, March 12th was in the middle of the Leviaraffe season, and Leviaraffes can't stand the smell of palm leaf smoke.”
[Bestiary — Leviaraffe]
[Type: Beast, Marine]
[HP: 20,000]
[Weaknesses: Ice]
[Description: A derivative monster from the merfolk template, Leviaraffes have the head, neck, and front legs of a blue giraffe, along with the tail and hindquarters of a whale. They are a common monster in Fulgan Bay, traveling in herds of ten or more to attack a single target from several directions at once with their plasma breath, before feeding on the remains. Their pheromones smell like burning palm trees.]
Noah continued. “Five of the beasts made a beeline for the monastery from the shore. Foam dripped from their mouths. We could hear their front hooves pounding against the sand as they dragged their back halves across the beach. Bishop Snell used a fire extinguisher on the burning leaves, but with all the smoke, it was too late.
The walls broke down as the leviaraffes spat beams of white-hot energy at us. Thing is, whenever they'd vomit lasers, they'd get all walleyed and make a sound not entirely unlike a donkey with a cold. Very silly creatures! Except that they were killing us all.
Any Celsioran sailor can tell you that leviaraffes can be destroyed in a flash with a few ice spells, but pacifism was the law in the monastery.
Brother Justinian tried to reason with the leviaraffes, extending words of love and brotherhood to them. For monsters, too, are children of the Three Gods. A
leviaraffe bit his head off. May he rest in peace.
Brothers Simon, Samuel, and Elijah sang the Hymn of Aressia toward the monsters, while burning protective incense. The incense was made of mostly palm leaves, so I think we can all deduce what happened next. May they rest in peace.
Brother Martin tried to crack open a Koschei Munitions “Dragon Amulet” he had smuggled in from Celsior Central in case something like this happened, but Bishop Snell beat him to death—may he rest in peace—with a broom handle, for trying to solve a problem with violence. In retrospect, that didn't make a great deal of sense, but neither did the Bishop.
Needless to say, I was terrified. As the walls shook, I ran into my quarters and shoved my teddy bear and my Luxiacon into a bag of oats, jumped from a second story window into the grass, and ran for the monastery's eastern gate.
Bishop Snell was there. He raised his bloodstained broom handle for combat. “Halt, coward!” he said. “If the Order of the Unseasoned is to die here, then by the will of Argo of the Golden Fleece, you will die with us.”
Now I'm not sure what I was thinking blurting out something as brazen as this, but it was a time of crisis, so I suppose my brain was in a different place when I said, “I have the Amethyst Beads now, Your Eminence. I don't have to do what you tell me anymore.”
He looked to the side, thinking about it for a few seconds, then he lowered the handle. “Oh... that's right,” he said. “Safe travels, then. Let me get the gate for you.”
But the Bishop didn't need to open the gate. A leviaraffe barged through it, bending the iron bars with its weight. It whipped its head down and gobbled up the Bishop in one bite—may he rest in peace—and wriggled its neck in the air as his body slid down its throat.
I couldn't move. I thought that was it, that was the day I would die, never knowing what mustard taste like. I kept telling myself “just a few more seconds, and I'll meet Argo in Paradisia” over and over as the leviaraffe sat on the ruined gate.
Neverstone: A LitRPG Adventure (The Mad Elf Book 1) Page 7
