Dancing on the Block

by Marina Barinova

  The bastard remembered the way she liked it.

  “Wait…”

  “Shut up.”

  She wasn’t really resisting. In her head, she cursed how tired she was, the way she couldn’t fight back, and the alcohol. There was no beating the latter when it came to overcoming shyness, and her body betrayed her—a familiar ache in her lower abdomen appeared in response to Vezzam’s caresses. She’d forgotten how good he was.

  The thought of Guiro appeared on the edges of her consciousness, though Artanna quelled her conscience quickly. A dead lover is a useless lover.

  Vezzam was in a hurry. Nervous, it was almost like he was afraid to break the spell. He very nearly got tangled up in the strings holding his own pants up, though he eventually succeeded, not without some cursing. Artanna awkwardly rid herself of the clothing that rubbed against the hundreds of scars covering her excited body, clipped Vezzam’s boot with her foot, and very nearly fell off the bed again. Another curse was spat into the air. Finally, seeing Vezzam hovering over her indecisively, she pulled herself up on her elbows and frowned. Vezzam’s harsh gray locks were shaggy to the point that they tickled her chest unpleasantly.

  “Are you waiting for a special invitation?”

  She pulled her Second closer and guided him inside her. Vezzam muttered something Vagran in her ear, though she didn’t really hear it, and they were beyond the point of talking, regardless. Jerking a few times, Artanna matched his rhythm. It was unbearably hot, even with the draft blowing across the floor.

  “Careful,” she barked when Vezzam bit too deeply into her shoulder. “Are you trying to screw me or eat me?”

  “Be quiet,” he replied anxiously, though he slowed down and stroked her skin, which was roughened by all the uneven places, as gently as he could.

  Vezzam was determined to do his best, to the point that the Hundred leader lost track of time. She really had forgotten how good it was with him. Still, even in that moment, Artanna knew she was making a mistake.

  What could have been more humiliating for both of them than sleeping together out of pity?

  Chapter 38. Ellisdor

  Doing his best to not make a sound, Gregor crept toward the entrance to the Shrine hall. At that hour, the temple attendants were in their quarters, leaving just the silent sister in her white starched cap walking between the columns as she collected candles and dropped them into her apron.

  Brother Aristid was on his knees praying quietly in front of the altar. With one hand, he worked his way through the metal beads on his rosary, while the other held a sacrificial candle. The Holy Book he kept with him at all times was lying next to him. Gregor glanced down at it and saw to his surprise that it wasn’t in the church’s traditional ancient script; it was written in the imperial tongue. Just having a book like that in your possession was grounds for an accusation of heresy.

  Gregor decided to wait for the end of the prayer, so he sat down on one of the benches behind Aristid. It creaked in annoyance. Voldhard froze, while god’s man paused, though he didn’t turn his head.

  The prayer over, the monk stood up and placed his candle on the altar. He kissed the silver disk and bowed to the image of Gillenai before turning around. When he saw the duke, his face broke into a serene smile.

  “Your Grace! What a pleasure to see you before going to bed.”

  Voldhard stood up and went over to the monk.

  “Forgive me for interrupting you.”

  “Those who thirst for completion will find it,” Aristid replied, quoting the Holy Book. “Are you here to pray? In that case, I’ll leave you alone with the Keeper.”

  Gregor smiled awkwardly.

  “I’m not here just to see the Keeper. I was looking for you, too.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I need to confess. Some spiritual guidance would help, as well.”

  “I do have the right to perform the sacrament,” Brother Aristid replied, though there was misgiving in his voice. “All itinerant monks are permitted to do so. Although, I would think Master Dararius would be much better for that. He’s been your confessor for years.”

  Voldhard faltered.

  “That’s exactly why I’d like to speak with you. Master Dararius is a good man and a talented teacher who’s known me since I was born, but I don’t feel like I can…”

  “You’re ashamed to confess a serious sin to someone who’s close to you?”

  “Yes,” Gregor replied gloomily. “I don’t want to disappoint him.”

  That didn’t bother the monk in the least.

  “That makes sense. We always try to spare the feelings of those we love even if we’re not always successful, though you should also remember that there’s nothing shameful about admitting your errors. The Way of Order is a difficult path that lasts your entire lifetime. Temptation besets us, and sometimes we stray into sin. But the true strength of the faithful is the ability to return to the proper path.”

  “You’re very kind, Brother Aristid,” Voldhard said quietly, his eyes on his hands. “Could I ask you for a confession outside the Shrine? I wouldn’t want anyone to accidentally overhear us.”

  “I think we can make an exception, though that’s not really what we’re supposed to do. The most important thing is cleansing your conscience.” The monk motioned for the duke to follow him. “Incidentally, I’m convinced that the Keeper is always watching his followers. No matter whether we’re within the walls of god’s house, in an old shack, or on the banks of a river, god sees us.”

  “In that case, he’ll appreciate our walk in the church garden.”

  “I can’t say for sure,” the church brother replied with a shrug. “He and I haven’t talked about that yet. But I don’t think he’ll mind.”

  They left the stuffy semidarkness of the Shrine and walked around behind it. Gregor led the monk along a narrow path, the walls meeting elegant arches overgrown with vines. The green carpet stretched its clingy arms almost to the very cupola of the temple. A short spire crowned the silver disk, which blazed in the light of the setting sun.

  On the other side of the wall of ivy, there was a hidden entrance to a small, cozy garden. Several old marble statues worn by the harsh Highligland climate were in the process of being overwhelmed by dark green foliage. And at the center, there was a small and dormant fountain flanked by two long benches. The part of the low, dilapidated wall that hadn’t been overrun by plant life opened out onto a gorgeous view of the southwest. The full-flowing Lall wound its silver ribbon between green hills and fields of rye.

  Gregor brushed the dust off a bench and invited the clergyman to sit.

  “A nice spot,” the monk said, looking over the marble statues worn by the decades.

  “My great-grandmother had this garden put in for moments of solitude. She was from Gatson and homesick, though she found peace looking at these statues. They were made by the best masters from Turfalo. Ever since, the servants haven’t been permitted to come here without special permission. That’s why it looks so rundown—I always forget about it.”

  Brother Aristid sat down next to Voldhard.

  “Are you ready, Your Grace? Do you remember how to perform the rite?”

  Gregor nodded.

  “Of course.”

  The monk traced a wide circle in the air. The duke followed suit.

  “I ask the Keeper to listen to his pilgrim. In grief and in happiness, in life and in death, you look on us, our god—do not turn away now. This meek man thirsts to open his soul to you, so look on him and illuminate the Path to him with your divine light.”

  Gregor uttered a short prayer as Brother Aristid nodded approvingly.

  “Bless and hear me, Master, for there is a great sin weighing on my soul.”

  “I bless you,” the monk replied. “When was the last time you confessed?”

  “Before I left for the capital, three moons ago.”

  “God be your aid. Tell me what is eating at your soul, and do not be afra
id of your penance, for the Keeper will not give you a trial that is beyond your strength.”

  Gregor bent over, leaned his elbows on his knees, and placed his chin in his hands. His eyes on the fountain, he thought about where to begin. Brother Aristid waited knowingly.

  “My family has followed the Path for centuries,” the duke started. “When the Latanians brought the Teaching to the continent, the Highliglanders were among the first to accept the precepts of Gillenai. And ever since, we’ve been true to the Keeper, even giving our lives to defend those in our faith.”

  “A blessed aim.”

  “The Voldhard family is an ancient one. We kept up warm relations with the Latanians long before Highligland joined the Criasmor Treaty, our faith tying together many beautiful lands and peoples, giving a reason and a hope for life. That was a good time, I think. Everyone stood together.”

  “We still maintain our unity in the faith.”

  “No, Brother Aristid,” Gregor replied, shaking his head. “I studied in the Order and saw for myself how far people have strayed from the precepts. And that’s even true of those fate has prepared to guard our faith. How many centuries has it been since the Ancient Empire fell? Fifteen? Just imagine—fifteen centuries! We forgot a long time ago why our ancestors joined the alliance, what they were fighting for, the ideals they held dear…”

  “What’s eating at you the most?” Aristid asked thoughtfully.

  “We ourselves didn’t notice how we betrayed our oaths, holy brother. We forgot the precepts of the Holy Book! We created laws, but they aren’t even followed by the people whose job it is to maintain the peace. We built Shrines to give aid to people, but they’ve turned into spots for collecting tribute, where the clergy rob people and sell the remission of sins for gold and silver. The masters forgot the true meaning of the Path, sometimes openly extorting people for land and money!” Gregor paused for a second, taken aback by his own passion. “On the road to Ellisdor, I met a girl on her way to the capital with a petition for her village. The community there long ago bought their freedom from the local cloister, but the clergy are trying to get their property back with threats just because the village is prospering. How can we trust the representatives of god on earth if they no longer care about the people whose fate is entrusted to them?”

  The monk shook his head sorrowfully.

  “Sadly, not all of god’s people live the lives they should,” he replied gently. “And they’re going to burn in Arzimat’s pits when they die. Even the great master.”

  “But what about this life? Is this temporal life really so meaningless? Is the empire so rotten that it’s going to blackmail and kill innocent people as it pushes toward its goals? My people, holy brother! And I can’t let the people I care about be destroyed for my mistakes.”

  “Then, protect them.”

  “Oh, I will, don’t worry!” Gregor clenched his fists in an effort to calm himself. “But that’s just one symptom of the disease afflicting the entire empire, and there are many of them. The plague covers all our lands. And the great master turned out to be a traitor. Forgive me for my insolence…”

  Brother Aristid nodded slowly.

  “No, my lord, there is no insolence there. I’m afraid you’re entirely in the right.”

  “You really think so?” Voldhard asked in surprise.

  “Yes. And I’ll stand behind those words, for I can’t lie when my eyes see all the impurities in the world our sovereigns have built. The cloisters were for solitude and prayer. The saints, having decided to dedicate their lives to the service of god, set off for distant lands in order to detach themselves from worldly cares. But what do we see now?”

  “The cloisters themselves raking in money,” Gregor said, taking over. “And they don’t spend it on helping the needy, which is what the Teaching says; instead, it goes toward gold decorations for their temples, rich fabrics, and the finest wines. When I was in Missolen, I was stunned by the splendor of Eclusum—it’s a city of temples that sparkle with gold and crystal! But now that I’ve seen the lives lived by the people lining the pockets of the clergy, the picture is clear. Could it really be that what my family pledged to protect is no longer there, and I’m just now realizing it?”

  The monk listened to the duke’s anguished monologue thoughtfully, his fingers working their way through his rosary. Gregor sighed and continued.

  “I’m afraid I committed the most serious sin of all, Brother Aristid. I think I’m losing my faith.”

  The monk stood up quietly, took Voldhard by the hand, and led him to the parapet with its view of the hills and rivers of Highligland.

  “No, Your Grace, you haven’t lost your faith. What you’re going through is something different.”

  “Which is?”

  “As an itinerant brother of the church, I’ve been to many lands. I saw holy Agaran and its magnificent temples, I drank the purest of spring water given to me by a sister in the Vilaton cloister, in Osvendis. I gave sermons in the main Shrine in Amellon, a true gem in Beltera. I had to teach runaway Ennian slaves how to read and write in Rikenaar. I even had a conversation with an Ennian magistrate in Sifares itself, spending an entire year on the Tirlazan Islands preaching to the slaves gathering pashtara leaves. But I’ve never told you why I decided to begin my wanderings.” Aristid looked the duke in the eye. “And I think you’re the kind of person who should know the truth. You’re ready.”

  “I would be happy to listen.”

  “The church holds me apostate,” the monk said with a bitter smile. “A heretic, as most people put it.”

  Gregor’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.

  “That’s a very serious accusation, and you don’t seem to me to be someone who would forsake the faith. What did you do?”

  “I started asking the same questions you did,” Brother Aristid replied quietly. “It’s just that the people around me saw them as a threat to the position of the church in society. The masters decided that I was trespassing on their liberty.”

  “Tell me more.” It was hard to say if Voldhard was asking a question or giving an order.

  “Of course.” The monk reached into the pouch on his bag and pulled out a book. Leafing through it, he pulled out a few pieces of folded paper and handed them to Gregor. “This is how it all started. I wrote in the wrong language.”

  “This is from the Holy Book,” the duke said after he glanced over the papers. “You’re translating it into Highliglandian?”

  The clergyman nodded humbly.

  “I’m not so good at the local tongue, so I have to get help from scribes, but yes, I’m trying to. Ten years ago, I translated our main religious text from the ancient language into our imperial tongue,” he said, patting the worn cover of his book. “When I presented my work in Eclusum, I was hit with an avalanche of outrage.”

  “But why?” Gregor asked with a frown. “That’s wonderful. Although…”

  “They think reading the Holy Book is the privilege of the clergy and aristocracy, the only people taught the ancient tongue. Sadly, that works well for Eclusum, and you, a former student of the Order, should understand that very well. The church doesn’t want just anyone to have the ability to reach out to god, read the holy texts, and think about them without the masters being involved. After all, who would need the church? It would lose its influence and income, which is why the clergy does everything it can to ensure that simple people are dependent on it. The Shrines are god’s home, and the masters are his representatives here on earth. But I couldn’t find a single line about that in the Holy Book, even in the most ancient copies. That’s when I started asking dangerous questions.”

  “Which?”

  Gregor was dead serious. Seeing that the seed was falling on fertile soil, Brother Aristid made sure to explain.

  “Can simple people read the Holy Book on their own? Can they pray at home, and not just at a temple? Where does it say that Shrines are the only place the Keeper can hear us? And if we’re all god’
s children, bound to him with invisible ties, why do we need the church as an intermediary? Why shouldn’t people just confess their sins to the Keeper himself instead of a master?”

  “I’ve been wondering all of that, too, but I’ve never said it out loud. There was one time I got beaten and sent to lockup for far less, and that was enough for me.” Voldhard rubbed his nose, thinking back to the day it was first broken.

  The monk slammed the metal beads on his rosary together.

  “And I know very well why. At the end of the day, I concluded that most of the traditions and rituals we have to follow were made up by the clergy to make themselves rich. When I tried to talk about that with some other masters, they all turned on me. Later, when I wouldn’t recant and instead translated the Holy Book into the imperial tongue, they branded me a heretic. I had to leave the university in Eclusum and set out on a pilgrimage to escape my persecutors. There’s a bonfire prepared in Missolen with my name on it to this day.”

  “But I think your ideas are the right ones!” Gregor replied with indignation.

  “For those out in the world, perhaps. But not for the church.”

  “The church is too power-hungry,” Voldhard said thoughtfully. “It could stand to be cleansed.”

  The monk smiled.

  “Agreed, Your Grace. That’s why I told you all this—I sensed that I could trust you. I’ve never met such a righteous man, someone burning for the truth and the fate of his people. That’s why you’re feeling what you’re feeling. You’re so dedicated to the ideals of the Way that you can’t understand how human flaws could so disfigure them. No, Your Grace, you haven’t lost your faith. It’s too strong, in fact.”

  “But I’m not a righteous man, Master,” the duke replied with a sigh. “I’d like to end my confession there, but I have another sin to talk about.”