by Tim Mathias
“…once we are certain that the wounded have mended enough to march, we will do so,” Willar told the group. He spoke with calmness and authority. To Zayd, he sounded eager to command. “And this will be difficult,” he continued, “but in the interest of our safety, we will forego burying our dead.”
Several objections arose, but Willar raised his hands. They were covered in blood and dirt.
“It is unfortunate, I know,” he said, “but we can’t remain here in case they return. We need to move. This terrain does not lend itself to defensibility.”
“What of the prisoners?” Barrett asked.
“For now, we will keep them alive.”
More objections. “Burn them alive,” Zayd heard someone say.
Willar spoke over the voices. “They will likely not attack again if it will put their kin at risk.”
“And if they do?” another voice asked.
“Then they can watch as we slaughter more of their soldiers like dogs.”
They laughed. Foolishly so, Zayd thought. When you wound your enemy so badly that he cannot or will not attack – that is a victory. His father’s words echoing in his head. This was not a victory. Only a reprieve.
Willar dismissed them. The officers dispersed, but Zayd did not move. Neither did Barrett. The knight, facing away looked over his shoulder before slowly turning to face him. He wiped sweat from his brow. “I’m in no mood.”
“You saw him,” Zayd said as he slowly stepped towards the knight.
“Not until it was too late.” Barrett grimaced. “I needn’t explain myself to you, now step aside.”
“You’re as much a coward as you are a liar.” The words hit Barrett like a slap across the face. His eyes widened in anger. Zayd continued, “You did not have the courage to cut him down yourself like you wanted to. It wasn’t enough that he was in chains for wrestling you off of me, was it?”
Barrett took a step closer. They were within an arm’s length of each other. “If I want to cut you down then I’ll bloody well do it.”
“Do it, then. Do it, and see how long you keep your head.”
Barrett scoffed. “I could beat you to a bloody, spineless pulp and no one would blink. Praene wouldn’t even reprimand a Silver Sun knight for it, so don’t think I won’t. I’ll let you hit me first.” Barrett stuck out his chin. “Go ahead, Tauthri. Let’s finally settle this.”
When Zayd did not move, Barrett continued: “Would it help if I told you I did see him? I saw that useless dark-eyed insect and I thought to myself, the world will be better off with one less. I heard his bones break as he fell. At least he had a backbone.”
Zayd could see Gavras staring into the sky, felt the warm blood trickling from his head, and saw the chains on his hands and feet. Without thinking, Zayd spit in Barrett’s face. The knight flinched and took a step back. “Bastard!”
Barrett shoved him with the force of a battering ram. Zayd was knocked from his feet and landed flat on his back, and the air in his lungs rushed out. He began to cough and gasp, but he could still hear Barrett as he walked away. “Bloody dark-eyed vermin! God-cursed rodent!”
Zayd got back to his feet. What was he doing? A week ago, he would never have thought that he would have spat in the face of any superior officer, let alone a Silver Sun knight. And certainly not Barrett Stern. Several days of marching and the edifices of authority were already falling apart. And there were many miles yet to go.
When they resumed marching with Willar Praene at the head of the column, they veered west, off of the original route they had planned. Zayd thought nothing of it as he sat in the back of the carriage with the nine remaining Tauthri, watching as the bodies of their dead slowly disappeared from view as they went. They were leaving the bodies of two of their kind to rot in the open: Tuhri, the youngest of the sentries, had survived the battle but not his wounds. It was odd, Zayd thought, that they had not even moved them off of the road. They had just left them as they had fallen.
Sitting the carriage next to his men, watching the dead fall away into the distance, Zayd once again traced his sigil, this time on the inside of his arm with the point of his dagger.
Chapter 8
The sound of thunder woke Osmun from yet another restless sleep. He had covered the only window in his small room in the monastery so that, if he did happen to find restful sleep, the sun would not wake him. It was a vain hope.
The calming sound of the rain nearly took him back to sleep, but another, louder roll of thunder told him it was not to be. The time that had passed since he met with Nestor was a blur, a mixture of study, daydreams, near-sleep, and nightmares. Nestor had pointed him in the right direction, but it did nothing to get the voice from out of his head. He needed to confront Egus and Andrican and bring his trial to an end, but to do so, he needed to find the answers. They were already written, but after speaking with the old historian, it seemed they were hidden between the words.
“Why bother writing anything if you leave so much unsaid?” Osmun muttered to himself as he sat up in bed. He could appreciate the need for some ambiguity; some truths needed to be found by way of discovery, not just by dictation. But why would something as crucial as this be written in such an obscure and indirect way?
“If it’s written at all,” he said again. He wondered if anyone passing by his door would hear him talking to himself, but then he decided he didn’t care. Let them listen. They may learn something. As incoherent as he may ramble in his exhaustion, he knew that, out of anyone at this monastery or any other in Lycernum, he was destined for greatness. He had the most powerful natural gift for communing with and commanding the Beyond.
Osmun lifted himself to his feet, realizing that his skill was all the trial ought to consider. He could spend the rest of his life studying, but the church needed him and his skills, as much as Andrican derided him for thinking so. They would end the trial, he realized, if he refused to play their game, and they would make him a cleric if not doing so meant that he no longer aided the church.
He opened the window and looked outside, uncertain of the time of day. The clouds were heavy and dark. If the sun was out, it was wholly unable to penetrate the gray veil that covered the sky. He left his room and went to the dining hall for tea before he left for the Cathedral. Every monk, fellow priest, and disciple that passed by him as he sat alone drinking his tea looked at him with what Osmun could only assume was pity. He shook his head as he took another sip. It had lost its flavour. He pushed the half-empty cup away from him and left.
It wasn’t pity, he decided. It may look as though they pitied him, but surely it was borne out of some fear. They were intimidated by him. Envious.
He eschewed his usual meandering route through the city only partly because of the rain. Mostly it was because he needed to have this matter put to rest. If the spectre was still haunting his footsteps, he did not notice. It was the only mercy of being as utterly exhausted as he was.
The words, though… its words still reverberated in the back of his mind.
Osmun still was not sure what time of day it was by the time he reached the Cathedral, soaking wet. The sheets of rain were keeping the usual thrum of the city to a minimum. There were moments as he walked that he thought he was the only person in Lycernum.
The brass bell in the Cathedral tower began to chime as he pushed open one of the iron doors. Inside, a worship service was coming to an end. The hall was half-empty even before the faithful began to leave the Cathedral and walk outside into the rain.
On the stage was a young priest, perhaps younger than Osmun, who smiled peacefully at the congregation as they left. As he noticed Osmun approach him, there was a visible effort on his part to keep his gracious demeanour in place.
“The clerics,” Osmun said. “Where are they?”
“You must be Osmun Arus,” the priest said. He bent over slightly, but remained on the stage, several feet above Osmun. “Are you quite alright? You look ––”
“Are they
here?” Osmun asked flatly.
The priest’s smile faded somewhat, and he replied, though Osmun only heard the ever-present voice in his head rush to the forefront. The priest stood back up.
“You seem unwell, Brother Osmun. Is there some way I can help you?”
Osmun walked away abruptly. He could hear the priest trying to get his attention as he went, but his voice quickly became just more background noise.
He went to the library and found it empty, so he tried the door that led to the iron-walled room where they had the trial, but it was locked. Osmun kicked the door in frustration, sending a loud clang off the stone walls of the library and out into the halls.
The two clerics were at the entrance to the library as Osmun went to leave. Andrican wore the same stern, unimpressed look he always did. Egus looked pleased at first, but his disposition changed when he got a good look at the young priest.
“By the Beacon, look at you,” Egus said. He squinted as if he thought his eyes were deceiving him.
“You look even more unwell than the last time you were here,” Andrican said, his voice devoid of compassion. “What have you been doing?”
Osmun tried to compose himself. “I’ve come to ask you to end the trial. I know what you’re doing. I’ve figured it out. I don’t know how you’re doing it, but it’s a trick. You’re trying to fill me with doubt for some reason, perhaps to teach me some humility. Let’s just be done with it, shall we?”
The two clerics exchanged a glance, as they often did. Osmun wondered if Egus was taking a cue from Andrican. He had always trusted Egus. Had it always been misplaced?
“The trial is over,” Egus said meekly.
“No.” Osmun shook his head and felt a smile spread across his face. “It’s been going on since we were in that room. It’s been going on for ten days! Ten days you’ve done your best to break me down.”
“That was seven days ago,” Andrican interjected.
“Seven? No, stop. Stop trying to… It’s been ten days.”
“Osmun, the trial was seven days ago,” Egus said quietly. “It’s not still going on. It was one day, and only that time we spent in that room.”
“It’s just like I told you, Cleric Egus,” Andrican said as he clasped his hands behind his back. “He’s still on about that nonsense I told you about.”
Osmun scowled. “It isn’t nonsense! I know what I have seen, and I’ve found the proof in the doctrines that shows I am not imagining this.” He quoted the passages and cited the doctrines from his discussion with Nestor. Egus looked contemplative while Andrican looked disinterested.
“That’s an absurd conclusion,” Andrican snorted.
“If it were true, that would mean we would see it as well,” Egus said.
“And we haven’t,” Andrican said. “What is your explanation for that?”
“That I am plainly more skilled than the two of you,” Osmun nearly shouted. “That is the only explanation for your lack of insight!”
“No, you are a liar. That is the most reasonable explanation.”
“The both of you have become too comfortable in your stations that you no longer see the world as it is, only as you once knew it. Even Nestor agrees—”
“Nestor Thuland?” Egus asked. The colour drained from his face.
“Who is he?” Andrican asked.
Egus covered his mouth with one hand and was slowly shaking his head from side to side.
“Egus, who is he?” Andrican repeated.
“He is a retired historian.”
Andrican looked from Egus to Osmun, his mouth agape. “You discussed this theory of yours with a historian?”
“He’s no longer a historian, he’s only an archivist now,” Osmun said.
“You know that you are forbidden to discuss your trial with anyone other than your adjudicators,” Egus said.
“I didn’t tell him it was part of the trial.”
“So you say,” Andrican said.
“He is not a historian anymore,” Osmun repeated.
“I’m not sure if I’m more surprised at your conduct or at his.” Andrican’s voice remained calm, but Osmun could tell the cleric was infuriated. “I had hoped that you would somehow free yourself of this delusion, but it’s clear that you are troubled. Very troubled. It was the only reason that Egus and I had not already told you that you’d passed the trial. But now I’m afraid that is a moot point entirely. The only appropriate action at this point is to suspend you from the priesthood entirely.”
“What? You can’t—”
“You’ve left us no other option.”
Osmun looked to Egus. “You can’t… please…” His words trailed off as he looked at the older cleric and saw that, though it pained him, he was in agreement with Andrican. He suddenly felt like lashing out, but he was powerless and paralyzed. Andrican’s words had sapped whatever energy he had left. He began to stammer, prompting a look of pity from Egus and one of disdain from Andrican.
He found himself outside of the Cathedral, sitting at the steps of the monument. The two clerics must have escorted him out, but Osmun was lost in thought. He had heard Andrican speak as though from a distance, his words distorted and faint: rest… meditate…contemplate your future…… forget what you think you saw… speak of it to no one.
It was odd that not long ago he was sitting in the exact same place, full of hope, and now he was directionless and empty, save for the ancient, unknown voice he could not escape.
It was hours before Osmun was back at the monastery. He was unsure if he made it there deliberately or by chance, like a listless boat running aground. He went immediately to his room, avoiding the stares of others who walked by, though he could not avoid knowing they were there and feeling their judgments as he passed. Let them judge. Cleric or not, he was still more skilled than them all. His power would be used for great things. He knew this, had always known this.
He wanted and needed to sleep, but he knew it would not come. It would only be the strange voice. It was odd to think that it was always with him now, like a shadow in his own mind, though what cast it, he could not fathom. He dared not.
The rain had subsided when he next awoke, though the clouds remained. He seemed to have no more sense of wakefulness, and as he rose again, he was uncertain if he had been in his room for days or hours. He could smell baked bread, which meant that it was likely midday. But the mid of which day, he could not tell.
As Osmun left his room he nearly ran into Julian Tomarus, a young disciple training to be a priest.
“Brother Osmun, forgive me,” Julian stammered.
“Not to worry,” Osmun meant to say, but he only grunted his acknowledgment, which made Julian more nervous than he already was. Osmun may have felt some sympathy for him if he had the energy. Julian was barely a man, and even though he was nearing the age where he could be admitted to the priesthood, he still had the round face and thin frame of an awkward boy.
“I was actually coming to see if you were awake,” Julian went on. “I was looking for the book on the ascension, the one written by Jonas Dains, and I thought you might have it.”
“Dains? Why do you want that one?”
“There are a few passages about the route he took that I wanted to go over.”
“No one puts any stock in Dains’ account of the ascension. In any case, I don’t have it.”
“I’m sorry.” Julian wiped his palms on his grey robes. “I really am, to be troubling you like this, ah, but Nestor said you were the last one who had it.”
“Yes, and I took it back,” Osmun said flatly. Julian looked from side to side as if there were others nearby who might help him. Osmun tried to recall if he had been so nervous when he had been a disciple, or if he had ever had a reason to be. Nothing came to mind. “Let’s go take a look in the library. I think I remember which shelf I put it on.”
Julian exhaled and flashed a quick smile. “Thank you, B-brother Osmun,” he sputtered out, and as Osmun began to walk,
Julian hurried to keep pace.
“I know that many believe that Dains’ details are wrong,” Julian said as they walked.
“Many don’t believe, Julian. Many know.”
“Y-yes, well, what I am trying to find out is if he was describing the ascension from a different starting point.”
“I see. That’s quite…” Foolish is what it was. He searched for a more diplomatic term. “That’s quite an interesting take on it.” And it was one that had been considered dozens of times by numerous noteworthy scholars, but Osmun said nothing. He, too, had once been wide-eyed and naïve. Julian was too young to yet experience the bitterness that he felt now. Perhaps in another year. Two, if he was fortunate.
The two of them walked around the communal garden between the dormitory and the main building of the monastery that contained the chapel as well as the library. Julian went on about his idea of the ascension, but Osmun ignored most of it, giving him only a polite nod and an affirming grunt every few moments. He was familiar with Dain’s account, and while he could save the young disciple time and energy by telling him precisely how flawed the account was, Osmun decided again to say nothing.
The library was completely silent and much darker than usual. There were no candles or braziers lit, and there was little in the way to daylight to come through the windows.
“Go get a candle from the chapel,” Osmun told Julian, who nodded and rushed off. Osmun walked further into the library, going cautiously as his eyes still struggled to adjust. He stood for a few moments, and then, as his eyes finally settled, he saw Nestor sitting at his usual table.
Julian came through the doors holding a candle, and as he approached, they both saw that Nestor was face down on the table, inches away from an open book.
“Is he…” Julian stood back from the table, his eyes fixed on Osmun, waiting for an answer.
“I think so.” Osmun touched Nestor’s hands, and found the answer in their coldness. “Yes, he’s gone.”
“What do we do?” Julian whispered. Osmun looked over at him and saw an expression of fear on his face, as though he himself felt guilty for Nestor’s death. Osmun held out his hand.
