The Conciege
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(THOB) Chapter 138: Blue Shoulders
🕑 Added 2024-01-23 05:37:50 +0000 UTCEzril’s return to the cathedral was welcomed just as was the return of the prodigal son in the scriptures; with threats of wrath and fury which were followed through.
He was received at the end of drawn Sunders of varying designs, and displaced of his Sunders, bow and quiver. They’d even taken his insignia from around his neck. Somehow, he had a feeling if he’d worn his cassock into the compound they’d have ripped it off his body too.
Following his disarming, two priests had taken him into the lower levels of one of the buildings where they threw him into a dark cell he hadn’t known the cathedral had.
Two days and nights he’d been down there, unfed. The only other time he saw another human being had been when one priest returned at certain intervals to fill the room in light from a lantern globe he hung at one end of the room far from Ezril’s reach.
Eventually, the same priests who had confined him came for him, taking him out of the cell and into the bright day he had thought would be night. And now, he stood before the Bishop, Arch-bishop and Monsignor, hands cuffed before him in chains of Asmidian steel, starving and without proper sleep. But at least he could breathe air that didn’t smell like someone had died in it.
“You have engaged in your own personal crusade through the realm without sanction,” Bollis addressed him without a hint of adhered protocols as had been the last time he was here. “You have brought fear to the children of Truth here in their own home,” the man seemed genuinely peeved, “and have terrorized the populace with the unchecked release of aAtle wolf.”
The old man’s face was so red and the vein in his neck so swollen that Ezril feared the man might suffer some kind of illness if he didn’t contain himself. Maybe a stroke. Also, it seemed the matter was not one grave enough to bother the crown.
“If you think two days in a cell is your punishment, you are gravely mistaken Ezril Vi Antari ,” the bishop practically spat out his name. “You will rot longer than this and in a cage fitting for an abomination that you have chosen to become. What you have done is unspeakable without sanction and just cause. First, we will take your beast…”
Ezril held back a smirk; he had brought back no beast. The Monsignor leaned in to the bishop and whispered into his ear. Apparently, someone in the room knew Shade was nowhere to be found.
Bollis turned on him. “You have set aAtle wolf loose in the realm?!”
“No, your Lordship,” he answered blandly. “I have not.”
“Then where is the beast? It is not here, and no one can find it.”
So they were out looking for it. He found himself pitying anyone that came to the misfortune of finding Shade. When he’d released the animal, it was in the foulest mood he’d ever seen it.
“Gone, your Lordship,” he said. “It will bring no one trouble, for now.”
“It will bring no one trouble? Do you think we seek it for that?” The man barked a bitter laugh. “Oh, this has nothing to do with what troubles it may or may not cause. The beast is a property of the seminary, and when you are…”
“Your Lordship,” Arch-bishop Grenis intervened. “I understand your fury, but do you not think you might be taking things a bit too far with your punishment? Don’t you think perhaps you bring the hammer of justice down harder than even the hammer is designed for? I fear you stoke your justice with your fury, which really should not be so. At least not in this case.”
Bollis scowled at the Archbishop but said nothing, and she continued. “Considering, what he has done is truly deserving of some level of punishment. However, I do believe there are certain things that should be addressed. First, the realm is on the fore front of a holy crusade and it will need all the priests it can get,” she looked at Ezril, “and I have no doubt this young man will be of use on the battlefield. Second, he has done nothing but increase the authority of the seminary in the past two weeks. The well-orchestrated rumors of the seminary having finally decided to rid the realm of the Venin guild,” she barked a short melodious laugh, “with a single priest no less, is definitely a feat worthy of the books. I do know it will go down in the realm’s history. Although, your priest will no doubt remain unnamed in whatever tales the poets spin. That said, would it not be a better choice to have the priest who brought down the Venin guild singlehanded—and in a week no less—fight on the battlefield where such animosity is most needed at this time. Perhaps after this crusade is over, you can impose upon him his revised judgement.”
Bollis’ scowl receded and he actually seemed to see reason in the woman’s words.
“Father Vi Antari,” he said, returning his attention to Ezril. “What of the priestess? We know that is why you left.”
Ezril bit back the tears. One week, and the thought of what had happened to her still invoked them.
“She’s gone, your Lordship.”
Grenis Hallowed herself but withheld any further reaction. “And her body?”
“Gone, your grace. Given over to the fire.”
The woman nodded. “As should be.” Then her gaze softened. “Knowledge of how close you were to the priestess was known to all. And it would seem this loss was as much the church’s as it was yours. She was one of our bests. I once had the honor of witnessing her skill in an exhibition Abbess Lyniah held for me on one of my visits to the convent. The young sister against four of the convents best at the time. She truly was gifted. That said, I am truly sorry for your loss, Father Vi Antari.”
A comfortable silence fell over the room, and the woman allowed it stretch awhile before she spoke again.
“I also heard of your friendship with the sister that was taken alongside the priestess. What became of her?”
“She too is gone, your Grace. Given to the flame…” … along with the rest of the bodies in Heldrag.
“Our knowledge tells us she was actually not a captive, but rather an accomplice of the guild. Did you know that?”
“I fear I learned of this in my search, your Grace.”
“I see.” Grenis mused. “That said, tell me, Father Vi Antari. Were you the one who killed her?”
Ezril nodded. “Yes, your Grace.”
“Why?”
“She was of the Venin guild, a traitor to the church. I saw no need to treat her any different from those of the guild when they came at me.”
“So it was about vengeance…”
“Duty.”
Grenis nodded in acquiescence. “You shouldn’t have done that, Father. Whatever she had done, she was still an ordained sister of the church. She was our business to deal with.”
Ezril resisted a shrug. “It’s already done.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “Yes it is… Well,” she rose from her table to take her leave, “I will be certain to factor in all you’ve done in your pursuit when I indict you for the murder of a sister of the church after this crusade is over.”
Ezril nodded, unable to bring himself to care. “Yes, your Grace.”
Arch-bishop Grenis paused, then turned to him. Whether it was from his response or the acceptance in his tone, he couldn’t say. But what he knew for certain was that the expression on her face was one of shock and then amusement. She turned to her companions offering them a bow, and he could see that whatever she had heard had amused her but drawn a resigned fatigue from the Monsignor.
Both priests rose to return her bow, holding the posture till she was gone. Upon her exit they returned to their seats.
Crowl let out a weak sigh and rubbed his forehead. All the while, the bishop mulled over Grenis’ words.
“Her Grace has made a compelling argument,” he finally spoke. “You did do a fine job of ending the Venin guild. But before you gloat, I will like you to know one thing.” He clasped his hands before him and Ezril knew what came next was grave news. “The consequences of your action proved… unforeseen. While you brought the plague of yourself upon them, they sought to hurt someone in retaliation. They couldn’t hurt the seminary so they turned to the crown. Seeing as they were unable to reach the king himself, they settled for lesser aspirations, though nonetheless as much trouble to the heathen populace. Prince Mardin as I’m sure you’ve met him, was slain four nights ago in his manor. He and his men put up a brave fight, but in the end, all that was left were corpses. So,” he thrummed his fingers against his knuckled nervously, “taking that into account as well, I have decided that on the morrow you will march with the twenty third battalion of the Wolf-furs which will serve as reinforcements for the war that has been raging at the realm’s borders—despite your need to handle personal matters—under the command of Most Reverend Father Bratvi Arrufa. After which, upon the conclusion of the war you are to return to the cathedral where you will be moved to serve out the duration of a one-year sentence in the king’s Bavarest…”
The last one shook a reaction out of Ezril. He took a step forward in resistance but stopped himself. “Bavarest?!” he growled.
“… pending further punishment,” Bollis finished. “Against my better judgement, I have been advised to return you to the battlefront. It would seem the seminary’s history has another berserker on its hands and I have been told you are the only one with the ability to use this other monstrosity effectively. I’d rather use him, than lose good priests trying to put him down.” He shook his head and muttered to himself, “two abominations in one entry. I always told you nothing good would come of a child taken from the mist… or one given by it.”
Or perhaps his words were intended for Crowl. Ezril paid no attention to it. Bavarest was the worst prison the realm had, most people would choose exile over a month there. It was where the king sentenced the worst of the worst, the dregs of the criminal underworld. Only the most violent were sent there… only the most violent, he realized. Perhaps it was fitting. He had displayed his violence accurately enough.
“Take him away,” Crowl finally spoke, dismissing him. “Bring in the scribe.”
Scribe?
Ezril had enough time to catch a glimpse of Levlin as he was ushered out of the room. The scholar bore cuffs of his own wrapping from around his neck to link with the chains that bound his hands and those that bound his ankles as he shuffled in. The scholar looked as if he’d been beaten for an entire week.
When night came, Ezril had the hungry discomfort of sharing his cell with another human being. When the priests threw the scholar into the cell with him, he thought the man dead. Levlin laid motionless at the opposing end of the cell where he’d been dumped. The man looked more starved than Ezril was, and his clothing was so tattered that save his groins, barely anywhere else was left concealed. He was pondering on what possible crimes a scholar could’ve committed to warrant a night in the cathedral’s cell when something on the man’s shoulder caught his attention as the lit lantern he realized was set only at night cast a light over it.
It was a design of murky blue, aged over a significant amount of time, and uncared for. He drew nearer, and on closer inspection, he saw it for what it was. A tattoo, a branding of sorts of a blue insignia on the man’s shoulder. He almost laughed at what it formed: a shoulder.
The scholar had a blue tattoo of a shoulder on his left shoulder. It almost seemed poetic. The man moved almost indiscernibly and he backed away. He’d seen a lot of poetic tattoos like that in the last two years. A red head on a man’s head, a blue thigh on a man’s thigh.
“So you’re Merdendi,” he said to the man.
Levlin turned to regard him. His movements were so sluggish Ezril worried he might pass if he wasn’t given food soon enough. Although he wasn’t sure which would kill the scholar first; hunger or the wounds that decorated his skin. He was sure the man had a busted rib or two.
“Born…” the scholar managed a croak, “… not raised.”
“But you speak their tongue well enough. So they must have raised you, even if only a little.”
“They did…” he coughed.
Ezril didn’t have patience. He’d been in this hole without another voice to hear for two days and he was itching for a story. Besides, the man didn’t seem to have much talking strength left. Best he used it all up now.
“How long?”
Levlin regarded him through lids so closed they seemed like slits. “Seven years,” he coughed. “They lost me before my initiation test into manhood.”
“Initiation?” Ezril wouldn’t have thought the Merdendi had such customs.
“Yes. Every child in the ludher was to participate in this ritual in their eight year.”
“ludler?”
“Blue shoulders.”
Ezril would’ve laughed hard if he’d had the strength, instead he settled for a chuckle. “Blue shoulders.”
Levlin ignored it. “The Merdendi are not one for flashy titles as the realm.”
“My apologies,” Ezril offered, hoping he hadn’t offended the man by mocking his people, not that he cared how the man felt. He just wanted to hear more of the story. “You said they lost you,” he added.
Luckily, Levlin seemed in a telling mood.
“This ritual was every child’s dream. If one were to pass it then they would go on to join the adults in their raids. However, I was too impatient.” He shuffled again as he let out a bout of dry coughs and Ezril felt perhaps it was the thirst that would kill the man first. “I snuck of with the adults one night. They didn’t know until it was too late. When the soldiers of the realm came and the killing began, nobody had the time to check on the child in their presence. The massacre was quick, the ludler adults escaped with what they could, and I hid in an abandoned barn.”
“When were you found?”
“Two days later,” Levlin answered. “A woman and her husband found me, starving and feral. They spent so much time trying to get me to come out. When you consider I couldn’t trust the same people I had come out to raid with and then couple that with the fact that we didn’t speak the same language.” He gave a mild shrug. “Well you can picture how long it would’ve taken to get me out. I took one of the woman’s fingers before I finally followed them, too. Her husband had been so angry I thought he’d kill me. For all my bravado at the time, I’d been truly terrified when he came at me. You don’t have to share a language to understand emotions. So when the woman stopped him after what I’d done to her, I figured I could trust her.” At this point he pulled up his skeletal figure to a sitting position and leaned against the wall beside him. “They raised me well enough, and in two years I could bundle my way around the realm tongue. A part of me had hoped my tribe would return for me, but after two years… well, let’s just say even hope has an expiration. Whenever anyone asked about her finger, she always told the same story: she was in the kitchen, I was in the kitchen, she was a mother not paying attention to her son, I was a child playing with a knife. Those listening always seemed to finish the story themselves. The most loving woman in my life was forced to spend the rest of her life with nine fingers because of me.”
“What of your accent?” Ezril questioned. “Didn’t anyone think it suspicious?”
His cellmate nodded. “A lot of people. But like the story for her fingers we had one for that too. I was her nephew from her deceased sister whose family had been attacked by bandits. As a child I didn’t speak till the age of three, and when I finally learned, it was with a great difficulty. It was why at seven I still couldn’t hold a strong conversation in the realm tongue, I was also slow and that explained my accent. No one had ever heard a Merdendi speak the realm tongue so I guess that was an easier story to believe. Although, I didn’t want to take any risks so I started imitating people’s whenever I met them. People tend to forget such things when you sound like them.” Another barely noticeable shrug. “It made my life easier.”
The story was all well and good but a few things were missing, so he asked. “What of your father? Apart from him wanting to kill you when you met, there’s nothing else.”
“My father,” Levlin frowned in pain as he tried to readjust, “didn’t like me very much. I don’t think a day passed when he didn’t still want me dead, considering he always had to look at his wife’s nine fingers, and my face. Luckily, I think the man loved his wife too much to refuse her anything. Including an obvious Merdendi child.”
“Any siblings?”
Levlin shook his head. “My mother did have two miscarriages before they gave up on trying. But no. No siblings.”
“And the Merdendi,” Ezril pressed on. “Any idea why they never worked together before now? Any idea why they’re working together now?”
“I was too young to know these things when I left.”
“What about the initiation? Any idea what it is or how it’s held?”
Levlin took up a new silence and observed him with suspicion.
“What?”
“Is this a ruse?” the man asked. “You look terrible enough to be a prisoner, but I know you’re a priest. I saw you at the battlefield, we’ve spoken before, in case you have forgotten. If this is a ruse to make me talk, I’ll tell you the same thing I told the torturers in Bavarest; I don’t know anything about them besides their language.”
Bavarest? … “… You were at Bavilstump?”
His surprise must have shown because the man answered with less suspicion than was in his eyes. “Yes. The king had me brought there after some new maid found me without my shirt at the fort and reported a Merdendi invasion.”
Ezril grimaced at the thought. “How long were you there?”
“Four days,” he coughed. “Maybe less.”
Four days? Ezril was baffled. He’d have expected at least a week for the man to look the way he did. Then again, he had mentioned something about torturers.
“How long have you been here?”
He looked up to find the man looking at him, expectant. “Three days,” he answered. “Give or take.”
“Well, you know why I’m here, Father. But I know not why you are?”
“Actually, I know why you were in Bavarest,” he corrected. “Why a scholar is in the hands of the cathedral is still an enigma to me.”
“That part’s simple. The king figured I would serve better questioning my kind than being question. Now, why are you?”
“Some people took something of mine.” Ezril shrugged. “I went and took it back without permission.”
Levlin looked at him sideways. “How?” he stretched the word with suspicion.
“I killed them.”
“And,” the scholar pressed, cautious. “What was this thing they took?”
“A priestess.”
Levlin blanked. “I though priests didn’t have such relationships.”
“They don’t.”
“Then what—”
“—I’ve known her since my seventh winter.”
“Oh…Wait…”
Ezril watched the realization creep into the man’s lazy eyes.
“Are you talking about Priestess Lenaria?”
He gave no answer.
“You know there were rumors about you both, right?” the scholar continued. “Everyone at the tower thought you both had a sexual relationship.”
“They were wrong, at the time.”
“At the time?” Levlin questioned.
But Ezril didn’t explain. This was his fault. He had sought a story to keep his mind from everything else but the conversation had turned and soured his already horrible mood.
“Well,” Levlin continued, comprehension of Ezril’s reluctance dawning on him. “I wish you luck in whatever will be decided for you. As for me, I am to join the twenty third battalion on the morrow on their march to the battlefield.”
