Soul of the Prophet: The Elder of Edon Book I

by David Angelo

  When they were done, Fin held Scarlet close to him at the foot of tree, exhausted, drained, and shaking. They said not a word, their lips unable to part, their minds shut off to the world around them. With the passage of time, the color of the dorsal spines that ran down Fin’s back and to the tip of his tail slowly dimmed, turning a shade of dark cherry, an outward sign of a Faranchie who had just made love.

  “Oh, Fin…” Scarlet sighed. “I wish this night wouldn’t end.”

  “Me too,” Fin replied.

  “You know where my favorite place in the world is?”

  “Where?”

  “Right here, in your arms. I feel safe and protected when you hold me. I feel that I have nothing to fear.”

  “You’re right,” Fin said, “because I love you more than the blood that runs through my veins, and I would gladly spill it for your sake.”

  “Don’t talk like that,” Scarlet said. “I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.”

  “Neither do I,” Fin replied, squeezing Scarlet a little tighter. “But just know that, if something happens and you find yourself in danger, I would gladly lay down my life in order for you to live on.”

  “I hope you never have to do that,” Scarlet said. She drifted off to sleep.

  Fin gave Scarlet a kiss on the head before letting her breathing carry him off into a state of sleep. The last thing Fin saw before his eyes closed was what looked like the shoot of a tree poking up from between the blades of grass in the shadow of the old oak. It was probably descended from a seed that had dropped from its mother’s branches, had taken root, and had slowly worked its way up from beneath the soil. Soon it would be as tall or even taller than its predecessor, to live on after its mother had long since vanished from the face of Edon.

  24

  TO YOUR EXCELLENCY, SCALJON, and the governors of the Edonion parliament. It is with great prejudice that I send this letter of disapproval to you and the Cullidons who work underneath your rule. For far too long, the church has been manipulated by the state and used as a means to enforce laws of great severity upon the dragons of Edon. Many of my precursors have worked side by side with your parliament for years, transforming the church into a mere extension of the emperor’s arm, and it was through this relationship that a multitude of injustices reared their ugly heads. Our Faranchie brothers, for example, have been forced to live a life of servitude and oppression under the feet of my species. The pain that they endure has made me, at times, ashamed to call myself a Cullidon, and I cannot ignore the fact that the very church I have served for years is partly responsible for their suffering.

  Therefore, as the newly appointed leader of the Church of the Elder, I hereby declare an exodus and sever all ties with Sebeth. I believe it to be in the best of interest of the church; the people of Edon, including the Faranchies; and, most importantly, the Elder, whom I serve. I have already appointed a new order of church leaders, with no government ties, to bring the Church of the Elder back to its fundamental roots, from which it has strayed over the last few centuries. Under this regime, I will reinstate passages and scriptures that were edited from the Elder’s holy text. I will introduce a new reign of tolerance toward the Faranchies, and I will also put my full support behind the Dragon Storm resistance, who have taken responsibility for the death of my predecessor. Under my rule, the church will enter into a new era of acceptance and equality, of free love and diversity. No one will be judged for who they are, and Faranchies and Cullidons will be encouraged to live as one. There is nothing you can do to convince me to stay in Sebeth, as I have already vacated the Temple of Sebeth and transferred to a new location, far away from your reach. There are no second thoughts plaguing my mind as I write this note, but I do wish that you would reconsider your evil ways and reestablish order and peace to the kingdom.

  Sincerely, the leader of the Church of the Elder,

  Wyart

  Wyart hammered in the final nail, pinning his note to the solid oak door of the Temple of Sebeth. The sun was just rising on what was quickly becoming a hot and muggy morning, three and a half weeks after he was ordained leader of the Church of the Elder. Wyart hardly had the time to break in his new robes before such an earthshaking decision was made. It was the end result of almost five years of careful planning and deliberation that had begun shortly after Wyart was made the next Cullidon in line to inherit the church after Darancho’s ordination. Everyone loved Wyart’s credentials, which included years spent in complete devotion to the Elder’s cause, spending every waking moment in the Temple of Sebeth during his youth. He displayed a type of servitude that was almost unheard of, even among the most devoted of followers. The leaders of the church always said that Wyart was destined for greatness, but even they could not have predicted the bold agenda that he was creating.

  Wyart stepped back from the door and looked at the place he had once called his home. He choked back melancholy tears as he admired the beauty and splendor of the temple. Its solid marble walls were as white as snow, towering hundreds of feet into the air, making Wyart feel minuscule in comparison. From its roof stood three pointed spires of gold, two in the front and one in the back, creating a triangular pattern on the roof. From the base each spire spewed forth the water of an artificial waterfall, emptying into a moat that wrapped around the temple’s base. A ray of sunlight created a rainbow that arced over Wyart and into the water below.

  “Am I doing your bidding?” Wyart asked, looking at the temple’s facade as though it were a living being. Wyart could almost feel the cold stare of the Elder emanating from the walls, peering down at the green falcon stitched onto the front of his white robes, a drastic departure from the traditional gold. Wyart felt that gold was too decadent and lavish for the new church, and he’d replaced all the gold in the priestly robes with green to reflect the church’s new direction.

  “Your Excellency,” called the Cullidon who was next in line to inherit the church after Wyart. Ruken was his name, and he was possibly Wyart’s most trusted and valuable ally during the planning stages of this mass exodus. Wyart could hear his friend and partner coming up the cobblestone path behind him, through the thunderous roar of the waterfalls.

  “The wagons are all ready to leave,” Ruken said when he reached Wyart. “All we’re waiting for is your mark. I suggest we get moving as soon as possible, to avoid any detection by the authorities.”

  “I shall miss this place,” Wyart said, ignoring Ruken’s inquiry. “When I was still a student, living in the temple as an apprentice, I had an apartment in the west tower. At night, whenever I found myself working late at night, trying to finish the studies that should have been completed earlier in the day, I would let the steady sound of the waterfall put me to sleep.”

  “Sir,” Ruken replied, “it’s not safe for us to stay here any longer. Once parliament finds out about this, they’re going to want all of our heads on pikes.”

  “I’m aware,” Wyart said, turning to face Ruken. “We shall be chased to the ends of Edon, and our lives will be in constant danger from here on out.”

  “Which is why I will ask you again,” Ruken started. “Is this all worth it? Nothing of this magnitude has ever been accomplished in the history of the church, and there’s no telling whether anything positive will come out of it.”

  “Then we’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?” Wyart said. “Too many years were spent planning for this exodus for us to turn back, Ruken. We owe it to Edon, and the Elder that made her, to distance ourselves from the ills that poison us.”

  Wyart pointed over Ruken’s shoulder to the valley below the hill where they stood, to a cluster of buildings that made up the city of Sebeth. The Diet and its imposing dome were clearly visible among the cluster of marble buildings. It loomed over the skyline like a giant eye, spying on the comings and goings of everyone within the city limits and beyond.

  “There is no way we can do the Elder’s bidding,” Wyart said, “with that bearing down on us.” Wya
rt tuned back to the temple. “The only thing I hope for is that parliament doesn’t destroy this place when we depart.”

  “Have faith that the Elder will protect it,” Ruken replied. “And also have faith that we’ll be able to return one day.”

  “We’ll return,” Wyart said. “Something tells me that, if the Dragon Storm prophecy comes to pass, this temple shall become our home once again.”

  Scaljon waited anxiously, shifting in his seat as he watched Rixis read the letter that had been left on the temple door. The record-keeping associate, Huac, was seated next to him in front of a large, solid oak desk in the spacious office located on one of the upper floors in the Diet. Rixis sat directly opposite them, the note obscuring the contours of his face, hiding the bright red eyes that scanned every word on the piece of parchment. The only thing visible from behind the note was that row of sharp black claws curling over the collar of Rixis’s cloak. No one dared make a noise as Rixis read, out of both respect and fear. In the last five months, Scaljon had hardly seen Rixis, except for a few brief moments when a report on the ongoing “prophet search” was due. Usually, Scaljon would receive a handwritten report from Rixis in the morning, detailing what needed to be done in the kingdom and how Scaljon was to go about his business. It was rare for Scaljon to have a chance encounter with Rixis during a typical workday, since he usually hid somewhere deep within the confines of the palace, far from prying eyes. Most Cullidons in parliament did not even know Rixis existed, aside from a lucky few who were considered his inner circle of sorts.

  In Scaljon’s eyes the less he had to converse with Rixis, the better, and ever since Fin fled from custody last fall, meetings with Rixis had decreased even more. Locked away in his meditation chamber, or the “cave,” as Scaljon called it, Rixis would spend hours or even days alone, contemplating, planning for something that Scaljon dreaded to think about. Whatever Rixis’s plans were, Scaljon had no say in it, rendering his already fake title of emperor even more pointless. As Scaljon waited for Rixis to respond, he recalled his last encounter with his boss, which had gone better than expected. It was after the Children of the Dragon Storm took responsibility for the death of Darancho. It might have been a shining accomplishment for them, but it did nothing to save Scaljon’s skin, and he dreaded having to report it to his boss. As it turned out, though, Rixis had already assumed that Darancho’s blood was on the resistance’s hands, and his anger was not too unmanageable. Sure, Rixis growled like a cornered wolf before letting out a slew of profanity directed at Black-Tooth and Fin, but at least he was not trying to gut Scaljon.

  But judging from the way Rixis held his glass of wine, its stem hanging between the fingers of his left hand, the mood was about to go sour. The liquid began to tremble in the glass as Rixis’s mounting anger caused him to shake ever more violently. Eventually, his fingers began to close upon it, growing tighter by the second, his grip strengthening as he reached the end of the paper. Scaljon and Huac both jumped slightly when a small crack emerged in the side of the crystal. Scaljon knew what was coming next, but even then he was unable to prepare himself for when the glass exploded, showering him and Huac with wine and small shards of crystal. The stem bounced off the stone floor, while Rixis’s hand balled into a tight fist.

  “The nerve of him!” Rixis snapped, crumpling the note into a ball and tossing it aside. “I give him power, and this is how he squanders it? Doesn’t he know that his power comes through me and me alone?”

  “But—but, sir,” Huac started, straightening his glasses. “The church is se-se-separate from the state, as—as ordered in establishment number—”

  “I know what it says,” Rixis replied. “You’re forgetting, Huac, that I wrote it long before your father was ever conceived. That law was only meant to deceive members of parliament and the public into believing that there was a separation between the two entities, which there never really was. It’s just like how Scaljon’s role of emperor is in name only.”

  Rixis stood up, knocking his chair backward, and walked over toward a window that overlooked the streets below. Beyond the rooftops of the buildings that constituted Sebeth’s city center sat the temple, perched atop a hill in the distance, the gold of its towers catching the glint of the afternoon sun.

  “The church never had any power of its own,” Rixis said. “Every action the church made, every move, every decision and piece of legislation they passed, was dictated by me. It was I who placed those priests in line to inherit the title of leader when the time came. The only reason Wyart was ever made pontiff was because I ordered it!”

  “But—but, why do you have so m-m-much interest in the church’s affairs?”

  Scaljon placed a hand on Huac’s shoulder. “Huac, please,” he begged, trying to keep the recordkeeper from becoming the latest victim of Rixis’s wrath.

  Rixis turned to them. “Scaljon, let me explain it to the newest member of my inner circle. Until six months ago, you were led to believe that the branches of this government worked independently of one another, and that they all answered to Scaljon as their primary source of authority. In a way this was correct, since most dragons don’t know about my existence. Like yourself, they didn’t know that every decision made by parliament in your lifetime, as well as your parents’ lifetime, happened because it was what I wanted. Through Scaljon I control Edon’s every move, pull every string, make everything work the way I plan, all while I dwell deep within the belly of this palace.

  “The church is no different from any other branch of Edonion society whose actions I control, and the church is—or was—one of most important tools in my arsenal. The church dictates how individuals live their lives, what they can and cannot do, similar to what parliament does, but on a much deeper level. The state of one’s soul usually matters more to a dragon than anything else, and most of my subjects, both Cullidon and Faranchie alike, would do literally anything the pontiff tells them to, all to secure a spot for themselves in the Upper Realm. And if you control the pontiff by making him say exactly what you want him to say, the people are yours to manipulate as you please.”

  Rixis turned and leaned against the side of the window and looked out at the temple. He let out a deep, agonized sigh, the breeze from outside lifting the tails of his cloak. “And now that control is gone.”

  After a brief pause, Rixis continued, “Scaljon, do you know what they took with them?”

  “Well, according to our troops, they took everything. Every book, every holy object. The place is empty.”

  “Did they go in the basement?” Rixis asked.

  “They did,” Scaljon replied. “All the scrolls are gone.”

  “Shit!” Rixis growled, slamming his fist on the windowsill. “The Dragon Storm prophecy was in there, along with every other book that I censored from the holy texts. Those scrolls, in the hands of someone so radical, are a situation that will make Rocklier’s preaching tour of the south look like a backwater freak show in comparison. I should have burned those scrolls long ago.”

  “We can always establish a new church order,” Scaljon said. “We can pick a new leader, a new list of priests. We could even rewrite the holy texts.”

  “But how do we know that something like this won’t happen again?” Rixis asked. “Wyart was moved by what he read in the holy texts, which led him to cut ties with parliament. If we reestablish a new church, another Wyart will find a way inside, and we’ll find ourselves in the same exact situation that plagues us now.”

  “Then what do you suggest?” Scaljon asked.

  Rixis moved back toward his desk, pulled a piece of parchment out of a side drawer, dipped a quill into a cup of ink, and began writing something down.

  “What are you doing?” Scaljon asked.

  “I’m creating a proclamation,” Rixis said. “You are to denounce Wyart’s actions, brand him a heretic, and appoint a new pontiff of Sebeth, preferably one that will reinforce the values we hold so dear.”

  Rixis handed it across th
e table, along with the quill.

  “Sign that,” Rixis said, “and bring it before an emergency session of the assembly. Tell them that, beginning one week from today, anyone caught following Wyart’s teachings is hereby an enemy of the state and shall be punished accordingly.”

  “But my lord,” Scaljon said, standing up. “How are we going to build a new church on such short notice?”

  “I don’t know, figure it out yourself,” Rixis barked. “There have got to be some older members of the church who disagree with Wyart’s views. Find them, then appoint a new pontiff. Do what you need to do, and make it quick. The sooner we get a new church off the ground, the sooner we can regain control of the populace. Now bring this document before the assembly at once, and if it’s not the law of the land before midnight, there’s going to be hell to pay.”

  Without hesitation, Scaljon took the document from Rixis, jotted his name at the bottom, and exited the office, leaving Huac and Rixis alone.

  “I-I must be going as well,” Huac said, also standing up.

  “Hold on,” Rixis said. “There’s something I need you to add to the record, and it’s just down the hall. Come with me.”

  Exiting the office, Rixis led Huac down what was affectionately called the painted hall, due to the massive mural on the ceiling. Huac, having only recently become a member of Rixis’s inner circle, had never been inside this once off-limits location until now and found himself entranced by the glorious painting of an epic battle scene that dwarfed him. Faranchies and Cullidons clashed in a massive brawl, with swords locked together and arrows flying through the air. But the fight seemed to be going poorly for the Faranchies, whose battered corpses littered the ground at the combatants’ feet.