The Conciege
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(THOB) Chapter 140: The Stand
🕑 Added 2024-01-26 05:47:29 +0000 UTCThey rode hard for five days. During the day they pushed the horses as far as they could go, and at night they set up camp anywhere they found themselves between cities.
They left Ardin six hundred priests strong under the command of two reverends, who reported to Bratvi. Once outside the capital, they quickly met up with another reverend with command over three hundred priests. Before nightfall, they came upon the city of Hovgrad, a simple city of the realm with no significant repute. Ezril had come upon the city during his travels with Urden, and like his travel, they did not enter. Gavabad, the second reverend with them since the capital, went in with a hundred of his men while the rest of them went around the city, casting sleep aside and marching through the night.
By high noon they rendezvoused with the reverend, who now had with him a general of the realm, a man whose name Ezril did not remember simply because he did not listen for it, as he was sure most of the other priests did the same when the scraggly bearded man introduced himself. The general had been charged with his command of a thousand men strong amongst which stood Hallowed, not Hallowed and—after marching with them for half a day Ezril learned—Tainted.
By day five they had met up with all they were required to meet, and rather than the reinforcement they started as, they now resembled an army of their own, marching out to war.
Every reverend was given command of three hundred priests in times of wars, and these Reverends were given into the command of a Most Reverend who held no more than three personal guards. Apart from these individuals, a Most Reverend was in command of twelve Reverends which was the case with Bratvi.
Ezril wondered at the appeal to the power of command as Reverend. Was it the reason Darvi sought after the title so? He didn’t think it ludicrous, although he saw it as a tasking ordeal. Olufemi already listened to his every word and he couldn’t help but find it tasking, considering he had to answer to Darvi for it. But watching the Reverends take command of their companies with such dedication and poise was nothing short of interesting. Watching Baltar do it was just as much so. He wondered if the young priest had been taught since gaining his frock. Or did they simply pick people born with the skill? If that was the case, it made Baltar ease in it more comfortable to understand.
For the duration of the journey Ezril took whatever time he could find conversing with Levlin. The scholar was bearing the brunt of the march worse than he’d expected. His lips were constantly chapped, as though water was a scarce commodity in the camp, which Ezril knew for a fact it wasn’t. Then there was the man’s constant loss of weight. Food seemed more sparing than was expected, and while Ezril ate comfortably, either because he was still a priest or he was required to fight, he wasn’t certain, it mattered very little. Perhaps it was both. Regardless, he paid it little mind. He could eat comfortably and that was going to suffice.
Levlin taught him much of the Merdendi way, unfortunately, having been too young during his time amongst them, not much was in the way to be taught. So it wasn’t long before there was no teaching of their culture and everything was left to the knowledge of language.
Ezril never truly fancied himself a fast learner, but something about the Merdendi tongue left him a slower learner than he’d ever credit himself. The real issue wasn’t in the words but in their pronunciation. He found it especially irksome how a single word could mean over five different things. It all depended on how it was pronounced; the intonation carried along with it. For instance, there was a word that when stressed at its end meant elevate, but when stressed at its beginning meant loss. Strangely enough, depending on how it was manipulated, it could mean sky or distance. In all, he was finding the language rather confused.
Regardless, he learned it with as much vTalod as he’d done vrail.
On a simple evening when the sun was teasing its descent and the birds and insects were having their contests of symphonies the march came to a halt. Apparently, tiring out the soldiers before reaching the tower was not an acceptable idea. And it was beginning to seem this reinforcement was in no necessary rush, which made little sense to Ezril.
Wrists bound together in chains, Ezril rose from the group and strolled among the trees. This was one of the moments when his mind disturbed him. Whatever had happened in Heldrag before the massacre hadn’t been temporary. He hadn’t simply released the lock on the recess of his mind, he hadn’t just eased his grip on it, he’d lost it. And now he was left in a constant struggle to regain it. Voices echoed in his mind as he rose from where he was supposed to be rested. Some of the words were ones he recognized, ones he’d thought at certain points in his life; unacceptable words. They came strong now, summoned from nothingness, and he struggled for silence.
The rustling of leaves served a poor distraction and even the dimming sunlight seemed to dim faster. He knew a certain way to calm it but he was inclined to fight a losing battle first, for a man who would not first fight had no right to peace.
Hidden amongst the trees Ezril eased himself into the closest thing to comfort he could on his feet. His bound wrists were cold, constantly cold, always cold. It was a reminder that the metals that bound him were made from the same thing that fashioned his Sunders. It was an odd thing to consider it was used to bind both Tainted and Hallowed. The Tainted lost their touch to it, and the Hallowed, despite all their blessings, lacked the power required to break it, not that a Hallowed could walk around shattering metals with their bare hands. However, since a Hallowed in the army so many years ago had once shattered his bindings when confined, the realm had found the sense in binding them in the ore. After all, if one Hallowed could do it, there would come a day when another would. It seemed the realm preferred to err on the side of caution. For any Hallowed they intended to hold for a while, they bound in Asmidian. For those that were too violent and brutal, those lost to society… well, Bavarest was the place for them. The Tainted were often sent to Bavarest, too, but the king’s pit was the place for the Hallowed not fit to be in society.
Legs spread to shoulder length beneath him, Ezril eased his mind the best he could, settling himself in the insanity of voices in his head. It was as if the witnesses in his darkness whispered bitter nonsense to him. If he paid close enough attention he could hear almost every word. There, however, existed some things said that no matter how hard he focused he couldn’t make any sense of. They were like sounds one had to close their eyes and hold their breaths to hear clearly, and even then, wouldn’t hear.
The wind was warm against Ezril’s skin, and while it wasn’t much in the way of heat, his hands begged for its feel. It was odd how the sensation of temperature was partly lost to him but the cold of the steel binding him was unmistakable, unforgettable. It was like he was bound in winter. Truly odd, he thought, sparing his chains a glance. He wanted to know more on it out of nothing but pointless curiosity. But the chances of doing that without exposing his oddity was as slim as the chances of him finding Rin one day.
He frowned. It was annoying how quickly the thought of Rin dampened his mood. He shrugged the annoyance away, he had too much to worry about now to be thinking of the goddess.
Easing himself into the best focus he could, he let the air hit his skin and forced himself to feel it. The knowledge of what he was about to do creeped into his mind and his voices mocked. They mocked him for choosing a coward’s way out, for choosing defeat rather than standing to fight against them. Ezril smirked. I am standing, am I not?
With the feel of the air came the sound of the birds and the insects, every chirp and every buzz. Every rustle of leaves and every cracking tree bark. The worms dug their miniscule tunnels in the dirt and the birds flapped their wings to whatever thrill encompassed them. Ezril ignored them as much as he paid them attention. Slowly the voices deemed into the background, and in their stead came the rondo of the sound of emotions.
Joy was as empty as it was full. It was a tease of beauty, rich and fulfilling, seeking to encompass all things. It was like the sound of a cup of mead getting full, like the sound of tree barks cracking as they aged. It was what he believed life was supposed to sound like. It was the little things given attention. The sound of an infant’s palm creasing or an old man smiling. A child chasing a dog or a mother kissing a babe. It was the sound of everything and nothing.
Anger was different. It wasn’t as he’d expected. It was not loud as an explosion or like the crackling of wood fueling a flame. It wasn’t even like the sound of a man scowling or a woman frowning. But it was reminiscent of a bird sitting upon its eggs. It was like the calm breeze carrying with it the winter chill. It was quiet and it was tempting. It was a gentle rise in crescendo. It was the sound of leaves rustling in the wind. It was the sound of a snake slithering along the sandy floor. It was the sound ofGreen Horng beetles warring over a mate. It was the sound of everything without focus. It was what chaos would be if it could speak. It was quiet with the promise of destruction. It was nothing, yet in its silence there was thunder.
Every emotion came with its sound, and each one usurped the voices in his head. They were no better than the voices, but they were preferred. Sometimes he wondered if he was merely replacing one demon with another, but he found he had little care for the philosophy of it.
It was a while before he heard the sound that heralded them all. It was a sound present at the beginning of every emotion and skulking at their end. It was a sound present in all, and yet rejected by all. It was the sound before all sounds, and the sound promised to remain even at the end of all sounds. It was as much the birth of emotions as it was the end of them. It was the absence of sound. And it existed at the heart of it all. In Heldrag it had come over him like a wet blanket over a candle flame. Now, he eased himself into it, and in it he found silence. There was no solace in it, but at least there was silence. And silence was what he sought. It was all he sought.
And when the crashing of emotions came, he braced himself for it. It hit him like a boulder and he withstood it. It rocked his mind like a grown man shaking an infant by its arm. It was louder than any quiet had any right to be, insisting upon its existence and necessity. And it reminded him of the one thing he always sought to remember: nothing.
When Ezril opened his eyes, he felt nothing. Not the soft breeze of the forest he knew was ever present. Not the voices in his head that had gone quiet from what he knew to be fear but could not understand. Not the gentle touch of loose strands of his hair against his skin…
Not even the cold touch of Asmidian steel against his wrist.
This was what happened when emotions crashed. This was what existed at the end of all emotions: Nothing.
This was indifference.
This was The Stand.
Something rustled off a hundred strides to the side. It could’ve been a shrub or the leaves of a tree. It could’ve been anything. To Ezril, it was an interruption. He turned his attention to it. There was no panic; there was no rush. He moved as quick as lightening in the sky and cut through the distance in a single step. As quickly as he’d moved, he had a priest pinned to a tree by his neck, his feet dangling in the air.
This was a priest he didn’t know. He’d seen the man around a few times, but he didn’t know him. Had the man been watching him? he wondered curiously. Had he been following him? Or had he simply stumbled into his presence without knowledge of what he had done?
He placed the priest to be somewhere in his late twenties and cocked his head to the side at the sight of fear in the man’s eyes. As old as he was the man seemed no more than a child in this moment.
“What’s your name, child?” Ezril asked. His voice was empty, hollow even, it was something he couldn’t remember ever having, but it was sufficient.
The priest stammered out soundless words and Ezril wondered at why the man refused to speak. He thought to ask again, but choosing to give the man more time, held his silence. He would ask again, but, by Vayla, he would not ask a third time.
It took a moment longer before the man answered. When he did, his voice had only traces of the fear Ezril still saw in his eyes but his hands still struggled against Ezril’s grip.
“Nan, brother,” he said. “My name is Nan.”
Schooled his fear, Ezril noted without inflection. He took his time to school his fear… poorly.
He released the priest and the man dropped to his feet. He did not stagger; he did not stumble. He landed with a grace as if he’d all but jumped. Ezril wasn’t impressed.
He turned away from the man and strolled back to where he’d been moments ago. “Leave me be, child,” he said to the air. “I do not like being interrupted.”
He could sense the man’s scowl, feel the man’s irritation wash over him. He didn’t care much for it, however, he did find it disrespectful. For the man to continuously fail to school his emotions in his presence was rude. First the man had interrupted him, now he was perverting the quiet with his emotions that were too loud. He paused in his tracks and turned to the man. He met the priest’s gaze and Nan bristled visibly.
“I will not repeat myself, Nan.”
Nan took a frightened step back but said, “You are not to be away from camp. Your immediate return is necessary.”
Was the man going to interrupt him to no end? He needed his silence and the child was disturbing it. Was the child being purposely annoying or did he simply not understand upon what he threaded? Did he think this a game? Ezril sighed. It seemed there was only one way to gain the silence he sought. He wondered if there was anyone the child was close to. he wondered if any would miss him. He wondered and discarded the thought. It didn’t matter to him. Whoever would miss him would miss him, but he would at least have his quiet returned to him. He turned and made his move, hands still bound. In this state, he would end it all in three moves. If the child was lucky, he’d be dead before he even knew what happened.
“Leave him be, Nan.”
Ezril paused at Baltar’ voice.
“Brother Antari is a lot of things,” Baltar continued, rested against a tree somewhere behind Nan, “but he’d not a deserter. He has no intentions of running.” He turned to Ezril. “Isn’t that right, brother?”
This child schooled his emotions better, Ezril noticed. He could still hear them, like whispers in the night, but they were quieter than Nan’s. Ezril flexed his fingers and nodded. This child could stay.
“No running,” Ezril said at last. Then he turned to Nan who had taken another step back. “Just peace, and quiet.”
Nan turned around grudgingly, and headed off. Baltar, however, stayed a while longer, his eyes on Ezril in the same manner Salem’s always was when he was trying to figure out something that eluded him.
“Are you alright, Antari?” he asked after a moment.
Ezril nodded.
“Are you certain?”
Again, Ezril nodded. When Baltar turned to leave, he wondered if he should follow the child. In this state he could learn his Merdendi faster, and better.
A moment later he reconsidered the thought and remained. He would stay until the quiet was done. The child Levlin was bound to be noisy as well.
And he truly needed his quiet.
