The Priest

by Rowan McAllister

  But did the Brotherhood deserve to exist unscathed and unchanged when it was based on a lie?

  Tell.

  Tas didn’t know if the whisper was his conscience or simple desperation, but with a resigned sigh, he gave in.

  “A few months ago, I discovered a set of journals hidden behind a false panel in my rooms at Blagos Keep. They were written by a Brother Tasnerek, ages before my time. He wrote of a great storm that damaged the Inner Circle’s sanctum and of sacred texts in Harot’s own hand that he’d found while helping to rebuild. He only had a chance to read a few pages before he was interrupted and the scrolls disappeared, but what he read changed him forever.” Tas rubbed his temples, remembering the giddy rush of finding the journals—a feeling that had soured quickly. “At first I didn’t want to believe what I read. The words were heresy. But something wouldn’t let me discount them. Something wouldn’t let me turn them over to my brothers either. I read and reread them. I meditated on what I’d learned. I prayed for guidance. But the thought that I’d seen truth in those pages wouldn’t leave me. Rumors I’d heard and discounted over the years, some parts of my training that never quite made sense, abuses of power I’d witnessed, even feelings I’d received from the stone around my neck, all of it wouldn’t let me go back to the way I was before, just like that Brother Tasnerek from centuries ago.” Tas glanced sideways at Girik, but the man’s expression was unreadable. “What I’d seen in those journals was the truth.”

  “What truth?” Girik urged when Tas fell silent.

  Unable to look at the man, Tas fixed his gaze on the trembling ring of light a lantern cast on the ceiling across from him. “That it’s all a lie,” he answered in a whisper. “The pain rituals aren’t necessary. They never were. The stones are charged by life energy, any life energy, not just pain. All of this horror was never meant to happen.”

  Silence hung heavy in the chamber until Tas couldn’t take it anymore and glanced at the man beside him. Girik’s face was completely blank. Had he misjudged? Was the man a simpleton after all?

  Already beginning to regret his decision to share, Tas hopped off the altar and paced the room in agitation and frustration. “Don’t you understand? It means my brothers and I have tortured uncounted numbers of our flocks for centuries, and we never had to. Those scars on your back never had to be there. The same good could have been accomplished other ways, kinder ways. It didn’t have to be like this…. Say something!”

  Chapter Six

  ONE OF the many reasons the villagers had always thought Girik a little dense was because he rarely reacted quickly to anything. He liked to take his time—slow and ponderous, like trying to move the mountains he was named after. The brother in front of him sparked and sputtered like a torch in a storm while Girik tried to absorb and digest what he’d been told. He hadn’t spoken this much to anyone beyond his mama in years, so he was a bit rusty, but the brother was clearly impatient for some sort of response.

  “I’m not sure what you want me to say,” he finally admitted. “The method may be a lie, but it’s still effective. So, unless those journals told you how to get the exact same results one of these other ways, from what I can tell, it doesn’t change the situation.”

  “What?” the brother gasped. “Of course it does! It changes everything!”

  Girik shrugged. “Maybe for you, but not for us, not right now. We have a monster out there killing livestock, destroying crops. It hasn’t killed a man yet, but our luck won’t hold forever. That’s what matters to me right now.”

  The brother scowled at him and sniffed. “I was an idiot to think you’d understand the gravity of the situation. I never should have told you.”

  Girik frowned right back at him. “I understand more than you think. If we weren’t in a ritual chamber below the ground with dozens of people singing their hearts out above us, hoping what we do down here will rescue them from a terrible fate, I’d be glad to discuss it with you and express my outrage, but there isn’t time. I need to help you come up with some sort of practical solution to what’s important right this very second, not what will happen months from now in corners of the kingdom I’ve never even heard of, let alone seen. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes,” the brother huffed.

  “I’ve given you my word. I’ll tell no one. I will keep that word to protect the people I care about, if nothing else. So what happens if word gets out is moot and up to you rather than me. What matters to me is how to get that stone around your neck charged. So can we please focus on that?”

  The brother blinked at him for a few seconds before his shoulders slumped and he nodded. One corner of his mouth curved slightly as he said, “You know, you’re very well-spoken for a farmer at the edge of nowhere.”

  Girik snorted. “I’m more of a hunter and carpenter than a farmer. And you can blame my mama. She could never pass up a book, and she refused to adopt the local dialect.”

  “And where is she from, if not here?”

  “I don’t know. She’d never speak of it.”

  The brother pursed his lips. “Curious. But I suppose it’s neither here nor there.”

  “You’re right. It isn’t.”

  Girik folded his arms across his chest and regarded the brother solemnly until the man flinched and began pacing again.

  “Not going to let me off the hook, are you?” the brother asked sheepishly.

  “Not until we find a way to fix this. You say you can’t do the ritual the old way. Is it you can’t or you don’t want to?”

  The brother grimaced and shrugged. “A little of both. I did try earlier. I tried my best, but everything in me revolted. The second I opened the channel for your pain and fear to flow through, something in me shut it down. It was like I was trying to drink poison and my throat closed. It wasn’t in my control.”

  “We could still try again.”

  The brother shook his head. “I don’t think it will help.”

  Girik stifled a growl of frustration. “Then what about the ‘other ways’ you spoke of? Did the journals tell you how?”

  The brother stopped and seemed to squirm. Even in the dim light, Girik could see color infuse his pale cheeks. “He mentioned many theories, but only really explored one before the journal entries stopped abruptly.”

  “Then let’s try that one.”

  The brother began pacing again. “It’s not—I’m not trained, you see. I can’t—I don’t know—” He finally ended that sputtering oration with a growl, and Girik couldn’t hide a smile. The brother was a bit high-strung but kind of cute when he wasn’t looking down his nose at everyone.

  “Tell me what it is and maybe I can help. We could at least try and see what happens. We have to try something.”

  If anything, the brother’s flush deepened, and the next set of sounds issuing from his mouth were completely unintelligible.

  “We have a little time,” Girik pressed. “We could practice.”

  This time, the brother choked and turned away. Girik was half-afraid they’d have another mess stinking up the chamber, so he hurried to the brother’s side to help support him, but the man shied away.

  “I’m all right. I’m all right,” the brother said, waving his hands in front of him. “I just need a moment.”

  His face was almost as scarlet as his robes now. Utterly confused, Girik stood there with his arms hanging limply at his sides as the brother looked everywhere but at him while he composed himself.

  “Sorry.”

  “Care to tell me what’s wrong?”

  The brother groaned and rolled his eyes. “It’s pleasure, all right? The method he researched was pleasure—the opposite of pain.”

  “Pleasure can mean a great many things,” Girik offered, trying to calm the man down.

  “Except, as with the pain, the pleasure must be intense, as intense as it can possibly be.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes. Oh. The other Brother Tasnerek experimented with a fellow brother, whom he
didn’t name. Such congress is forbidden, though there have always been rumors of brothers who’ve strayed.”

  “Have you?”

  “What?”

  “Strayed.”

  The brother lifted his chin haughtily. “No. Of course not. It was forbidden. Harot’s ancient texts were very specific about that.”

  Girik’s lips twisted. “Makes sense. Wouldn’t want any of you to discover that secret on your own and ruin his whole plan.”

  The brother scowled and opened his mouth as if to argue, but clamped it shut again and shook his head. “You’re probably right.”

  “Are you willing to try now?” Girik pressed, trying to keep them on track.

  The brother blinked at him. “What? You mean with you?”

  Girik couldn’t help rolling his eyes this time. “I’m the only one here,” he said, trying not to take the brother’s reaction personally. “We can’t just sit and do nothing.”

  The brother held out his hands palms up. “I wouldn’t know where to start.”

  Girik shrugged and cleared his throat. “I could help there. I do have some experience in that arena—not the magic, of course, but in pleasure. I’ve been told I’m a good lover by more than one person, at least.”

  The brother gaped at him. He started a few sentences, but stopped a word or two in each time. As the man floundered, Girik worked hard to tamp down on his own impatience. The village needed this man. Mama needed this man. The village alone might be able to chase a Spawn off for a short while. They might be able to kill it, if they were extremely lucky, but at a cost that far outweighed the reward. Girik himself had spotted the thing from a distance and it was huge. It would take nearly every able-bodied man and woman in the village to make an attempt, and their chances of success were slim. Even if they did manage to kill it, they’d have its Wraith to deal with after, and the whole process would start again, once the Wraith found a new body to inhabit.

  “Listen,” Girik finally said, taking pity on the man, “I’m going to clean up the mess in the corner to make things a bit more pleasant in here. While I do that, you come to some sort of decision. Either we try the new way or the old. But we have to try something.”

  He held the brother’s gaze until the man nodded, and then he grabbed a rag and one of the buckets of water that were meant to rouse the Offering when he fainted. He had to keep his hands busy or he might wring the brother’s neck, and that wouldn’t help either of them.

  The brother was silent the entire time Girik worked. But when Girik finally stood and placed the lid over the bucket, he found the brother watching him with his chin high and a determined set to his features.

  “I’m almost certain the old way won’t work. I’ve meditated a little on it, and I think I wasn’t the only one rejecting the energy. I think Tasnerek, the stone itself, won’t accept it anymore. But you’re right, I haven’t tried any other method. I can’t say with any certainty it won’t work, if I haven’t even tried.” Girik smiled, but the brother held up a hand. “I can’t say it will work either, but if you’re willing, then I must be too.”

  He said it so solemnly, Girik couldn’t help cocking an eyebrow. “It won’t be as bad as all that. I may not be to your taste, but I like to think I’m not revolting either… unless you prefer women?”

  With a huff, the brother said, “It doesn’t matter what I prefer. It’s your preferences and pleasure we’re talking about. That is where the energy will come from.”

  “Apologies, Brother. This is new for me too.” He set the bucket aside and approached the man. He gave the brother a deliberate and slow appraisal and his grin widened. “You don’t have to worry on that score, then. I’m sure someone sometime has told you how beautiful you are.”

  The brother’s thin dark eyebrows shot to his hairline. “Certainly not. No one would dare. A brother’s looks have nothing to do with his service or his calling.”

  Despite his words, a flush crept back into the man’s cheeks.

  “Where would you like me?” Girik asked, unwilling to let either of them become distracted.

  Worrying his lower lip, the brother searched the room. “The altar, I suppose. There’s really nowhere else to sit. You are the Offering, after all. It would make sense, I guess.”

  Girik sat where he was told and watched as the brother fidgeted. He shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as he was, given the gravity of the situation, but when in a man’s life did he get to see one of the high-and-mighty Brotherhood tremble with nerves? They were untouchable to the everyday man. The king might be the face of power in the land, but everyone knew the Brotherhood really ran things, but perhaps now that would change. If this brother told anyone else his secret, the mighty Blagos Keep could come toppling down, and the Brotherhood’s iron grip on Rassa might finally loosen.

  It was too much to think about, so Girik forced his thoughts in a different direction. Now that hours of excruciating pain were off the agenda, he could appreciate how attractive the brother was. The fact that the man had shown concern, compassion, a real sense of duty, and vulnerability behind the mask of his order only helped make him more so.

  He was smaller than Girik. Most men were. But that didn’t diminish him. The brother still stood a head taller than most, and the power of his position and the artifact around his neck could not be discounted, despite his current vulnerability. A torch had been an apt comparison. He could burn you just as easily as he could be a light in the dark or warmth in the cold.

  Girik smirked.

  Now he was waxing poetic when he should be concentrating. But his wandering thoughts had caused his cock to fill halfway, which he supposed was a step in the right direction. He was tempted to give it a little rub, but kept his hands still. After all, the brother was supposed to take care of such things. He’d said so himself.

  The brother licked his lips and seemed to have to force his gaze away from Girik’s lower body, which made Girik’s cock fill a bit more in anticipation.

  “I’m not sure what hymn to use to key the stone in a situation like this,” the brother said after clearing his throat. “The journals were, uh, fairly detailed about some of his experiments, but he said he sang a song he and his, uh, partner created over time. We don’t have that luxury here.”

  “And I can’t carry a tune in a bucket,” Girik admitted regretfully.

  The brother smiled then, a genuine smile that reached his dark eyes and softened them. “Don’t worry. You don’t need to sing. The stone is keyed to my voice, even if it responds to the sacred bowls and congregational hymns. I’m the only one who can control it.”

  Girik had always been curious about that, but it was hardly the time to get into such a discussion.

  When the brother seemed to hesitate, Girik decided to give him a little push. “You said we had to build some sort of rapport, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m guessing you’re not going to be able to do it from all the way over there, though.”

  The brother gave him another smile, this one sheepish. “That’s true.”

  After taking a deep breath and blowing it out, the brother came closer. “With the other ritual, we build the pain slowly as the connection strengthens and the Offering’s fear grows.”

  The brother spoke as if Girik were his apprentice, but Girik was only half listening. He was focused more on the man’s nearness, the sharp line of his jaw, the fullness of his lower lip. Girik hadn’t had a lover since the early summer, when the traveling merchants came through. And that one had been passable if not particularly memorable. He never bothered with people in the village. Life was hard this far from the capital, so the unmarried didn’t find him a desirable marriage prospect with no family other than his mama to lean on. And any involvement with the already partnered in such a small village wasn’t worth the consequences.

  Despite the brother’s obvious inexperience, Girik had an idea he was going to thoroughly enjoy this. Not everyone could say they’d lain with one
of the Thirty-Six. In fact, Girik was pretty sure he’d never heard of anyone saying that, not that he’d be able to exercise any bragging rights.

  But he’d know.

  “So, it would make sense to build my pleasure slowly?” Girik nudged.

  The brother cleared his throat and nodded. He lifted a hand, but it seemed to freeze in the air inches from Girik’s skin. Goose bumps erupted all over Girik’s flesh, and his nipples hardened in anticipation. When the brother made no move to close the gap, Girik clasped his wrist and guided the hand to his chest. The brother’s hand was smooth and uncallused, his skin cool against Girik’s warmth. The hand flexed almost involuntarily against his flesh, and Girik smiled.

  “Touch me,” Girik whispered, not wanting to spook the man. “Touch me and sing your song, Brother.”

  The brother’s dark eyes lifted to meet his uncertainly. “I don’t know what to sing,” he replied just as quietly.

  “Then hum something.”

  The brother closed his eyes and seemed to be in deep thought for a long time before he took a breath and began humming an oddly familiar tune. It wasn’t a hymn. Though Girik avoided the temple and the brothers as much as possible, no Rassan could ever completely escape the Harotian hymns. They were sung on birthing days. They were sung on feasting days. They were sung at all hours in the temple, in kitchens, in sewing circles, and in the fields. Girik knew them all, and this wasn’t one of them. Could the brother actually be singing one of the forbidden field and forest songs that still survived despite the Brotherhood’s campaign to wipe them out?

  His smile widened. This brother was full of surprises.

  The man in question opened his eyes, and Girik tried to sober his expression. He was supposed to feel pleasure, but he was pretty sure he wasn’t supposed to be enjoying it as much as he was.

  Closing his eyes so he wouldn’t get any more distracted, Girik surrendered to the sweet sound of the man’s voice and the pleasure of his touch as the brother began a tentative exploration of his body. He sighed as the brother’s hand ghosted over the soft hairs on his chest and his nipples. His stomach muscles clenched and quivered as the brother’s fingertips mapped the ridges and flat plane of his hips and belly.