Jethro stared up at the marvel of stone and glass architecture that was the church. The grey bricks were the size of hay bales and drank in the light of the setting sun. The stained glass windows did not shine with hope, but rather with a deeper and more sinister emotion. He had been born and raised in humid swamps around New Sylians. Every church he had ever seen had been made of wood and white washed boards.
He was being chased by a group of men that shouted with course Southern Gallix accents. He did not know what he did, but he knew they would not explain what it was before they hurt him. He had seen mobs like this, even been a part of them. Dressed in his clean white robes, he had chased Rokairn down like dogs. But they had deserved it; they were not real men. They were dirty animals that sought to be a part of something they had no right to be. They had to die so others may live pure lives, The Changing Wheel demanded it.
Jethro ran up the broad steps to the double oaken doors, and pounded on them with both fists. Sweeping his greasy brown hair out of his eyes, he scanned behind him. He could see the torchlight glancing off the buildings of this quaint town. It was oddly beautiful, but so was a coiled snake before it struck. He could hear the voices echoing off the wooden walls and cobblestones of the street. He turned back to the door and pounded again.
He looked up at the looming stone wheel above the door and said a quick prayer to the Changing Wheel. He jumped, startled, as the door creaked open with a sudden movement. The mob had turned the corner and slowed their approach as they saw the hooded figure in brown robes.
“Sanctuary,” Jethro croaked, his throat dry from running and panting, “Please, tre’ ne sha.” He knew a bit of the language from the Southern Gallix immigrants that lived around his home town. He prayed it was enough.
The monk looked past him at the men he had known all his life and nodded to the crowd, and then looked the foreigner up and down. “Ya my sir, come inside. We will shelter you from the danger that is behind you. We can save you and your immortal soul,” the holy man said with a heavy accent.
Head bowed, he stepped aside for Jethro to enter the ancient building. Shadowy laughter could be heard from the crowd outside. It was dark inside compared to the light of the setting sun. Dusky wooden pews were shadows in the guttering light of the candles that lined the walls in small alcoves. It smelled of incense and sweat. Two more robed figures approached, one holding a bowl of liquid. He offered it to the refugee. When Jethro hesitated, the monk raised it to his own lips to show it was meant to be drunk. The North Mirron took it and sipped at it. It was a bitter wine, and burned his cracked throat and tongue. When he tried to lower it, the monk pushed the brass vessel back to his lips, and Jethro drank. As he finished the drink, he noticed how the liquid was thicker than the wine he was used to and clung to the metal.
A hollow booming sound came from behind him as the double doors closed and were barred, startling him again. The first monk took him by the arm and began to lead Jethro down the aisle, towards the altar and towering wheel at the end. When the foreigner resisted, the monk paused.
“Tre’ ne sha, come with us. You should be cleaned, and prepared.” Noticing his guest’s hesitation, he added, “Maybe my language is not the perfect. You have upset and fears, you are dirty and very scared. Maybe you rest and soon you see the light of the Wheel’s mercy?”
Jethro nodded and allowed the brother to lead him forward. It felt surreal. The light from the sun, low on the horizon outside, lit the stained glass on one side of the chapel, showing the scenes of demons with their pitchforks herding and tormenting sinners, but did not touch the holy saints with looks of pity and sadness on the opposite side.
When they reached the end of the aisle Jethro stumbled and fell to his knees in front of the pulpit and before the tortured figures of the Saints, like a petitioner. The two monks that had come afterwards reached for him, hooking their hands under his arms and helping him stand. Their guest’s head lolled as he was in part dragged and in part stumbled towards an open door leading out of the main chapel.
“The Wheel will guide us to save your soul, my sir,” were the last words he heard before the darkness overtook him.
Aetheric Elements: The Rise of a Steampunk Reality Page 43
