An Oath Where Ashes Bloom
Within the Great Hall of the manor house, the party was fed a lunch of cold meats and herbed cheese. Their foreign spice was not unpleasant to Isodor and though a few of the others complained, none said anything against the generous pour of peat mead that they served with it.
Afterward they sat, sated, as Sir Daniel delegated to them their roles in the day’s affairs.
They were split into two groups: one to oversee the midday sermon, where they were to note anything out of the ordinary amongst the parishioners. The others were to go on patrol along the outer embankments of the town under the presumption of finding the defectors’ encampments or some other form of heretical organizing.
It was obvious by their bemused moans which of the assignments the squires were more excited for.
Some part of Isodor felt relief at being grouped with the ones chosen to go to the chapel along with Maglen and a few others. They weren’t quite ready to step back out into the marsh wilds so soon after that unexplainable event.
They wondered if they would get a moment soon to debrief Dawnwarden Aeric on the attack, when their face dropped crestfallen. They saw that Justin had been chosen for the group going on patrol.
Isodor didn’t envy him, but instead felt vulnerable at the prospect being split apart. They hoped that Justin would at least take it upon himself to tell his group of their incident in the woods. They also knew it was unlikely of him to do so after Isodor’s show of defiance, and that Isodor speaking up to Dawnwarden Aeric alone would be a just punishment.
Edrick, whom Isodor had scarcely glanced at the whole trip, was also singled out for chapel duties. He scoffed before stepping in line.
Isodor noted how he sneered at them as he passed.
Edrick promptly let out a groan behind Isodor.
“Perhaps there’s been some mistake! You can’t actually expect to squander the strongest of our rank on church duty?” He exclaimed defiantly.
His cohorts laughed dutifully at this.
“Not with the likes of this weaker lot.” He groaned.
As emphasis to his point, Edrick took his toe swiftly to the back of Isodor’s knee. Not hard, but with enough force that their leg buckled and Isodor stumbled forward.
They straightened and sheepishly scanned the room to see who had spotted this new affront but cowardly, Isodor did not retaliate.
Maglen glanced back pityingly at Isodor.
Sir Daniel strode forward, having heard Edrick’s outburst, and with an air of amusement addressed him.
“Young squire, is it not taught to you that all children of Aevyra are equal under the watchful gaze of her guiding light?”
Edrick stood at attention, staring straight ahead.
“Of course, my lord.” Edrick replied.
“It would be wise to always remember that then, in the case you were ever to rely on their fellowship.” Sir Daniel stated this with a smile, his hands clasped over his large midsection.
“May her light rise within you!” He boasted, dismissing the remaining group.
“Until darkness fears to tread!” The group responded as they moved to exit through the gatehouse.
Isodor could swear they heard Edrick’s teeth grinding behind them as they walked, though they did not dare turn to see.
Kallus had visited Greengraevs on a number of occasions under the pretense of receiving the Dawnmother’s holy word.
The Lord of this land had been instructed on leaving the gates open to the faithful from midday to dusk, as their chapel was the only one between the Capitol and the lesser, more rural surrounding regions, for it was essential that the teachings be accessible to her growing throng. All non-residents were ordered outside their gates by nightfall.
For this reason, the traders from Velkura who passed through always made sure to leave a few empty spots in their wagon—and in their pockets—for the dutiful few not wanting to make the daily journey on foot.
The horse-drawn wagon Kallus rode in slowed just enough for the guardsmen to count the heads of the visitors: himself, a single mother and her two children, as well as an old woman who appeared to be sleeping.
They waved them through, but not before being tipped by the reinsman for not slowing them down.
He could have walked–but he would have been stopped and questioned on his town of residence and his proof of devotion, and Kallus didn’t have time for that.
He needed to find someone.
And find them before dark.
The caravan passed over the causeway and beyond the palisades, and Kallus signed the crest of Aevyra over his chest, sliding into the image of the devoted villager like a second skin.
The tired-looking mother and both her littles did so as well.
Kallus gave a friendly wave to them before they ducked under their mother’s robes, showing their shyness.
The old woman coughed, apparently awake.
Kallus noted that she had not made the sign.
She had fixed her gaze on him as they rode, which grew steadily unnerving as they neared the market square. Eventually she broke it with a sly, knowing smile—which he couldn’t help but return.
Kallus opened his nose to the overcast sky, tasting briny wood smoke and bog.
He noticed something different—a quality in the air he’d never sensed before. Like fairy foxglove that had only been watered by the sweetest honeyed wine.
It was faint, but with such a differing quality to him that it stood out just the same.
He was taking this in when the old crone spoke up next to him.
“Looks like the Monastery has stopped in for a visit.”
His head swiveled immediately as he saw her hand raised, one gnarled finger pointing toward the horse shed in the distance.
There he could see a small gathering of Custodia Ignis officials, obvious by their well-maintained equipment and the sashes embossed in Solmyr’s colors slung over their steeds.
The group seemed to be mostly made up of squires and a single Dawnwarden, which allowed Kallus a sigh of relief.
If they had all been full-fledged Flamebearers, he would have turned for the trees.
He knew just how sworn to secrecy their religious order was—locked behind door behind door behind door so that whatever pretense these young folk, barely grown, were led here on it was most certainly not in full transparency of the truth.
“They’re mostly just squires, willfully ignorant at worst. They pose no real threat.”
He said this under his breath.
The old crone laughed dryly, her one green eye glittering with consternation.
The whole of the village was silenced when the bell tower tolled, calling them to midday sermon. The sound carried strangely, softened by the fog overhead.
Kallus blended in easily enough with the growing crowd outside the chapel, although he was many shades darker than their skin, which the cloud-choked sun of their village would not permit them to become.
He had changed his clothes, swapping hide leggings and a stone-washed shirt for ones of woven reed fiber.
Though a few of the villagers eyed him just the same as he ducked under the mantle and seated himself on one of the crowded pews provided inside.
The chapel itself was large and old, built of rough stone that dampened itself with the moss it had grown along the flooring.
Small arched windows held green-blue glass where the faces of the congregation warped back to them, pale lichen spreading across like gossamer veils.
Rows of candles—more than Kallus could remember seeing before—were alight behind the modest pulpit, as if they were trying to banish the clinging dampness of the town.
There was no visage of Aevyra, the Dawnmother, within this chapel, nor was there any known image in any chapel of her honor.
For there is no known image of her at all, just as was decreed within the Aevyric scriptures themselves.
It was a point, Kallus knew, that was a comfort to some while a confusion to others.
How can one worship a god they cannot see? He wondered.
The Luminarii instruct them to visualize her as a flame of pure white light, and for those that this is too abstract, simply perceive the face of their loving mother, smiling.
Kallus tutted for those who had never known a loving mother, much less a kind wet nurse.
He shook his head at the notion entirely.
“Stay steadfast, then. Let thy devotion be as the morning sun. The old echoes fade with each passing age; it is by the constancy of the faithful that they are kept from finding root anew.”
Kallus was used to these sermons.
He had been attending them since his teenagehood and knew this local Luminarii to be a pious, doddering sort. His sermons were as dry as the mouth he constantly had to wet with his tongue as he droned on, no doubt putting a few of his parishioners to sleep.
This time, however, when he started the opening blessing, Kallus heard a forced fervor in the ailing man’s voice—as if it had been practiced in the mirror.
Kallus craned his head to look over the crowd.
Were there always this many in attendance?
The local Luminarii was at the pulpit—but he was twinned on both sides.
Two other pastors faced the crowd in humble servitude.
Their robes were copies, but while the usual speaker’s were frayed with use—his only pair, surely—the others were pristine, the Aevyric script that trailed down their liturgical robes gleaming with silver-spun thread.
A waste of good silver, Kallus thought.
Just past them, he observed six other young squires, different from the ones he saw at the stables.
This would certainly cause a stall in his plan.
What Kallus typically did was enter into the chapel like all the rest, make himself unassuming enough until there was a lull in the sermon reading where he could slip off to attend to his actual affairs.
Surely this heightened presence from the Monastery was here to tend to their flock—that is to say, to surveil them for anything suspicious.
Which him taking leave so early into the hour would certainly be noted as.
But he also couldn’t be trapped within this crowded room.
Sweat began collecting on his brow, which he swiftly wiped. His eyes searching for any exits he might not have been privy to.
After the opening blessing, the sermon was passed on to the visiting officials, perhaps to give the local speaker a break.
Someone graciously opened a window near the front, relieving the room of the steadily climbing heat.
A breeze blew in from behind the pulpit, over the heads of the parishioners to the back where Kallus sat.
He breathed, grateful for it.
Then something unexpected happened.
That scent from earlier in the market.
A coiling sweetness that made his tongue thick as it hit the back of his throat.
His heart immediately began pounding in his chest as if he were on the run.
He stood involuntarily, and a few of those in attendance grumbled, annoyed at the blocked view.
Thinking fast, he ushered over one of them who stood at the back—the mother from the wagon, in fact—who had been unfortunate enough to miss her chance at proper seating.
She clasped his hands in thanks before taking his seat, her small children grasping at each of her legs.
Everyone else looked on. The interruption dispersed as Kallus made his way to stand along the wall.
No closer to the front exit—but gratefully cooler against the stone bricks, he tried to process what had just happened.
All he could think of was that fragrance still wafting.
Fresh-cut herbs on an oceanic drift.
Foxglove. Foxglove. Foxglove and—
He was moving forward along the wall, creeping toward the front of the pews.
He didn’t want to be near the front of the pews.
He wanted to get away from whatever of the Gods was causing this state—this entrapment.
Something from the Monastery was doing this to him, and he needed to handle it fast.
He rooted his feet where he was, gripping himself in place against the wall with a clawed hand.
He forced himself to breathe—not through his nose.
Not daring to look up until he felt he could trust himself not to lurch forward again.
Slowly, he slit his eyes open.
Observing anything amiss he hadn't noticed before.
The sermon was carrying on.
The candles—though many—weren’t anything of note.
And the squires looked dull.
How had he not seen him before?
Standing along the furthermost wall with the same rigid stance as the others.
One of the squires was facing away from the group, opting instead to observe a small finchling that had just landed on the stoop of the now-open window beside them.
Saw them seeing no one else in this cramped space except that tiny bird.
Their head turned, obscured by a curious crop of whitish hair that stuck out at odd angles, framing their face like a dove in flight before long locks wandered down their back.
Really—how had he not seen them on first observation?
It was as if a mirage had just been made real.
Or perhaps this person simply hadn’t wanted to be seen and so, by some illusory decree, made it thus.
But that scent was impossible to miss for Kallus.
It wound something tight in his chest—something that made him suspect that for all his effort, that until he had the source of it in his grasp where he could unfold it into understanding, that there would not be any way for him to untie the knot surely weaving itself between his ribs.
Kallus’s eyes were pinpointed on the mystery before him.
He knew what they were now.
And the impossibility of that fact only caused more confusion in his mind.
But he felt more at ease avoiding their face, instead watching their hands.
He would have sworn they were made of the same bones as the kin they’d found on the windowsill—as if this person had only ever been given translucent sap and sunlight to survive.
He was still gripping the wall hard to keep himself in place when a chunk of the rock crumbled under his grasp, causing him to stumble forward before catching himself.
The moment his gaze snapped back to where they had been—
By the sky that was this mystery’s eyes.
Hold-you-to-the-sky-and-never-let-you-go blue.
