by Michael Mood
He threw some coins on the bar, being sure to leave a little extra because he was certain he had bled on something, and he pushed through the front door and into the rising light of the morning.
The worst part was the fact that in the two days since he had met Allura he hadn't stopped thinking about her. His anger could not outweigh his attraction to her and he punished himself repeatedly in his head for it. Don't be such a stupid fool. You'll never see her again.
Otom checked the position of the sun and started to trudge southeast towards Pakken. It would be a few days of walking, but it was spring here and the wind couldn't get at him inside his furs.
Hurried footfalls behind him made him stop and turn his head. It was early for most people to be up yet.
Allura was running towards him.
His first instinct was to run towards her, his second was to run away. He did neither.
“Otom, please!” she yelled, still a good distance away. Her boots were slapping the hard-packed ground, the sound was naked and alone in the morning world.
He turned and began trudging sullenly away from The Fool's Heart Tavern and Allura Finny.
A tense moment passed where Otom fought with himself. He didn't know what to do or how to handle this. What could she want? Could she want him? No, certainly not. She was coming to rub it in. Even though Ris had lost in the finals, he'd gotten to pound Otom.
Otom sighed.
It might have been the beauty of the morning – crystal skies under a reassuring sun – or it might have been that he caught the smell of her on the wind – clean and perfect – but whatever the reason, Otom stopped walking.
She ran up behind him and stopped a few fingers away, panting. He didn't turn his head to look at her, instead deciding to stare into the sun. It hurt his eyes but he didn't care; he couldn't catch a glimpse of her this way.
“I just want you to know,” she said, “that I wasn't scouting with Ris. I tried to get him to stop talking. I tried to get him to shut up and leave you alone, but he's a maniac about that type of thing. If he doesn't know a majority of the fighters in a tourney, or enough about them, sometimes he'll cancel out.”
“That's dumb and your boyfriend is an idiot,” Otom said nonchalantly, hoping to anger Allura with his bluntness, but hoping at the same time that she wouldn't stalk off mad. Just having her near to him sent a tingle through his body.
“I know it's dumb,” she said. “Please. Don't think I'm involved in it. I saw you sitting there with your wraps and Skada on and I knew you were giving yourself away too easily, but before I got around to warning you, Ris came. Is that how you pronounce it? Skahhdahhhhh?”
“Close enough.”
“We're not even from Marshanti,” Allura said.
“I don't care where you're from,” Otom said. “All I know is that Ris doesn't play fair and you like him. I don't even know why you're wasting time talking to me.” He started walking away, trying to will his feet to turn around, trying to force his mouth to say something – anything – that would bring Allura to him. But he couldn't. A part of his brain was holding him back, keeping him stubbornly on his path out of the city.
He pulled his hood tight around his head just as Allura yelled something behind him, but the comment was lost in the wind, fur, and his injured ear.
The battered fighter walked. He assured himself for the thousandth time that he would never see her again.
He would be wrong about that.
-5-
Present Day
Otom sighed and turned his back to The Frost Bear, even though to him it would always be The Fool's Heart Tavern. His head hung heavy with memories and wishes. Wishes that perhaps he could go back to that day and turn to Allura and start things then and there. Start things on the right foot, instead of how their relationship would eventually blossom.
But there was no going back now. The sights and sounds of Kilgaan hung on him like a yoke as he walked toward the gate, the same one he had passed through fourteen years ago.
With every step he took he hoped that her footsteps would crunch behind him in some sort of weird dream moment. Somehow God would bring her back here, transport Otom back in time, or some other equally ridiculous thing. It was a fantasy. If he did somehow truly relive that moment right now – the perfect morning, that tragic girl - the emotions would crush his heart and snuff out his soul.
She had eventually told him what she had yelled to him that morning. He almost whispered it now, just under his breath. It was a phrase that had stuck in his mind for so many years, despite its maddening implications. He wanted to whisper it, to bring a piece of her back to him . . .
No. His Vow of Silence held him.
He would not speak today.
Sometimes it was less painful to be silent and alone.
Chapter 8 – Murder
-1-
Her room was alive with light and the beams bounced and jostled as Domma poured the last heavy metal pail of water into her bath. Steam rose from it as she let her robe drop, stripped her shift off, and then took a hand at unwinding her bandages.
She gripped the edge of the tub and stepped gingerly into the hot water. Her room's eastern view let the sun stream in at this time of day and she could hear the sounds of the city through the open window. She smelled bread from the bakery just down the street.
It had been five days since she had seen Ormon Stipson, but it wasn't him that kept popping into her mind: it was Warden Potter. The life of a Cleric could be incredibly frustrating sometimes and it wasn't always easy to be so constrained. With her chest bound and her full robe on, Cleric Domma couldn't be seen for who she really was. That was part of the uniform. But deep inside of her something burned, as she was convinced it did in everyone.
Sometimes, even at the expense of heresy, it was good to acknowledge that she was a woman.
She let her hands – and an image of Warden Potter - remind her of that fact.
-2-
An hour later, Domma stood in front of her congregation. The sanctuary was lined with full-length stained glass windows and sun poured through them. Rainbows danced on wood and stone.
“It isn't enough to want to be good,” she said, her voice carrying through the massive hall. “You must actually be good. To God, and in fact to all of us, actions speak louder than words.”
She saw someone in the congregation nodding. Always a good sign.
“If we are good, we will be rewarded. The Five-in-one will judge us, deem us worthy, and we will transcend. The passage we just read - the one with Gustus and his followers – reminds us that no one is above that judgment, not even a son of God.”
Domma ran her hand down the smooth page of The Book that sat on the podium in front of her. She had translated this one herself and hours upon hours of her recovery had been spent writing the characters that filled it. This Book had given her life meaning when she had hit a dead end. Her Devotee powers had come at the completion of it. She hadn't truly expected that, but she certainly had hoped for it.
“No one wants to be Gustus,” she said, looking up with a half-smile. “Reborn on another world devoid of God, devoid of all that is good. Here we have families. Love. Compassion. We sing in harmony with each other not only in the flesh, but beyond into the spirit as well. Please join me in singing 'The Soul's Walk'.”
As Domma's voice rose, the others in the congregation picked up on it and began to sing the familiar tune. The sanctuary echoed with a hundred voices and, as she sang, Domma lit the tall candles that would burn for seven days. Today was the fifteenth of Aphril, and it was the start of a new year for the Sunburst Clerics.
The last notes of the song faded away and Domma walked back to the podium.
“I want to thank everyone for praying with us here at the Sunburst Temple for the past few hours. Remember that faith in God is seldom rewarded directly, but certainly never punished. Your time could not be spent more wisely than to follow the teachings of The Book.”
; With that, Domma raised the hood of her robe and strode down the tall steps, away the tall platform she preached from. She felt her magical power grow and fill her as it always did after leading others in prayer.
She felt refreshed and ready to take on anything.
-3-
Domma heard a light knock on the door of her study not ten minutes later. She sat at her small desk where she read The Book and took notes for her sermons. She had a quill in her hand already because she found that if she procrastinated she would rush out next week's sermon too hastily. Even if she wrote one sentence she at least had a start on it, and that made it easier to finish.
“Come in,” she said, inserting the quill into her half-empty bottle of black ink.
Her study served as many things: sleeping quarters, bath, office, and meeting room. This could be someone coming to talk about the sermon. Sometimes that happened. She always welcomed it when it did.
The woman that opened the door and entered was mousy, short, and nervous looking, although Domma perceived – by the lines on the woman's face and the way she walked – that nervousness was her natural state. There was nothing out of the ordinary going on here. But, just to make sure, she Delved quickly, using a tiny portion of the power she had gained from leading mass.
Gzzt.
“Muriel?” Domma asked, not rising from her small desk. She steepled her hands in front of her, waiting for a response from the nervous woman.
“She said you would likely know my name,” the woman said. Her voice suited her well.
“Another Cleric said this?” Domma asked.
“Yes. She said you were the best.”
“Well,” Domma said, “I've been told that I'm good at what I do. But there really is no 'best'. I excel at the things God has blessed me with.” Domma gestured to the chair opposite her and Muriel sidled over to it, examined it, and sat down in a different chair.
“It's about the sermon.”
“It can be a confusing passage,” Domma said.
“Why did God banish his son? How could he do it?”
“To the point,” Domma said, raising her brow. “I like that. Let's not tiptoe, then.” Gzzt. Bakery. “You say 'God's son', but in the things Gustus did, and the pride that he had, you should refer to him God's failed son. If God and Gustus were both bakers . . . do you know about baking?”
Muriel nodded.
Yes, I knew you would. “Right, then,” Domma said. “If God and Gustus were bakers and Gustus decided to take that knowledge and open up his own shop, his bread would never compare to God's.”
Muriel nodded. “But his shop would still exist,” she said, tilting her head slightly.
“For a time,” said Domma. “He may be able to fool passersby that his fare was worthwhile, but while he was selling flawed bread, God would be giving away the perfect loaf for free. The only problem with God's shop is that it's hidden away where it's very, very difficult to find. Perhaps Gustus's shop is right out in the open with a tacky sign painted in blood: bread - three oplates. That's a high price for mediocre bread. Do you understand what I mean?”
“There's another world somewhere?” Muriel asked.
“Yes,” Domma agreed. “But you might not want to go there. The Book is not without its mystery. There are meanings wrapped in meanings wrapped in meanings. But the important tenets are very simple: God is above all. Gustus failed. We are, all of us, being judged.”
“I am . . . struggling with these beliefs.” She was agitated still.
“We all do. That is why God hides his shop away. He doesn't want people to find it unless they really like bread.”
Muriel smirked at this. “Once everyone finds it, Gustus's business will dry up completely. I would feel bad for him.”
“As would God,” said Domma. “Correction. As does God.”
“I haven't been coming to the Temple long,” Muriel said. “Only the past few weeks or so. My son . . . was taken from me about a year ago . . . and I needed something. I was hoping that this could be it.”
Domma nodded. “I am sorry. It is sometimes impossible to explain why certain things happen, no matter how deeply we believe. We can usually look only for solace. It is rare that we find explanations.”
Muriel nodded slowly and sadly. “The story of Gustus, well, I'd heard of it. But to banish your own son . . . it struck a chord with me and I don't understand how God could . . .”
“He is not a mother,” Domma said, laying her hand on Muriel's. It was the first wrong move she had made in a long time.
“Neither are you, Cleric,” Muriel said. The woman stood up and walked away. She turned her head just before she left. “And I have to say that I don't much care to follow a deity who would treat his family like that.” Then she exited without closing the door.
Domma sat thinking. Muriel has some sort of point. I will have to think on it.
While she sat, debating whether or not to start her sermon off on a note that would address what Muriel had said, another Cleric walked in.
Her name was Metta. She was young and new to the Temple. She had beautiful blond hair that Domma was jealous of. The rest of Metta was rather unremarkable, but that hair shone when the sun hit it.
“Metta.”
“Domma,” she said in her light way. Her lips were pursed as if she were troubled. “Are you busy?”
Domma glanced down at the parchment she had started writing on. So far she had written just one sentence, but she supposed that was her start. “Nothing that can't wait.”
“They need you down at the fourth district hospital.”
“Need me? Usually that's a voluntary thing.” Something was amiss. She Delved Metta, but nothing she gleaned was useful.
“Someone named Ormon Stipson is dead,” Metta said. “Murdered. A Warden came to the Temple to try and give you the message while you were in mass.”
Domma stood up slowly. Sadness rang through her. “It could be suicide,” she said. “Sometimes these patients talk to me about it. Ormon didn't specifically, but . . .”
Metta shook her head and her blond hair – which was always to be tied back during prayer and holy hours – bounced from side to side. “Not the way they found him, I guess. Doesn't look like it, anyway.”
Domma grabbed her holy symbol from the wall – a replica of God's shield inset with tiny gems – and put it around her neck. She didn't always wear it, but in times like this it gave her courage and made her feel safe. “I'm on my way,” she said. “Which Warden told you of this?”
“Warden Funary, I think he said his name was. I didn't really recognize him. I think he's relatively new to that hospital.”
“Alright,” Domma said. “Pray for Ormon and myself. We will both, I think, need it.”
“I will,” Metta said.
Domma ran out of her room, through the giant doors of the Temple, and out into the hot and humid day.
-4-
Ormon's arms and legs were chained to the four corners of his bed and most of his head was gone. A good portion of his skull was simply missing. The place where his head injury had been didn't even really exist anymore. Brains had leaked out the side and been smeared on the filthy bed. There was blood everywhere.
“Could be an axe wound,” Warden Funary said. He was pacing nervously back and forth. He was obviously made of tougher stuff than Domma, for she had already vomited twice: once just after she had entered the room and once again after she had removed the sheet that had covered Ormon's body.
“Didn't you hear him screaming?” Domma asked. “God's Shield, Funary, someone chained him up and hacked his head apart.” She winced at her own words.
“He was chained for his own safety before this all happened,” Funary said. “I did it myself. He was having fits, Domma. My quarters are far from Ormon's and this straw on the walls absorbs sound. Honestly it's one of the reasons we put it there in the first place. Men like this can pitch a fit at all hours of the night.”
“Shouldn't you w
ant to attend them, then?”
"If we attended to everyone who was pitching a fit we'd get no sleep, Cleric. You must understand this."
Warden Potter burst into the room. “My God! Ormon!” He clapped his hand to his mouth, his eyes wide. “I came as soon as I heard! Funary, what happened here!?”
“I don't know,” the newer Warden moaned.
“And on your watch?” Potter said. “You need to leave this room. Your first week has not been kind to you.” Potter was wringing his hands. “Go home for the evening. I will do what I can here.”
Funary backed slowly out the door.
Probably his first and last week, Domma thought.
“I never asked for help here,” Potter said. “Not once. But they sent me that idiot who can't keep my patients from being murdered!” He was angrier than Domma had ever seen him, a fire radiating from his eyes.
“We need to bring the Guard in on this before it happens again, Potter.”
Potter scoffed at the idea. “These people aren't even considered citizens, Domma. If you truly believe the Guard will give a shit about this, you're delusional." He visibly calmed himself. "My apologies, Domma. My tongue is . . . too free sometimes.”
Domma didn't mind Potter's anger, what concerned her was that he was right. The Guard was spread thin enough as it was. They had no interest in the murder of a mentally ill person. The hospitals had been partially funded by King Maxton about ten years ago, but that didn't mean they had the full support of everyone in the kingdom. If she made a plea to the king would he send a Kingsguardian to follow up? Probably not. But Domma had met the king once and he had seemed nice.
