Chapter 9

The sun held stubbornly onto the horizon and painted the belly of the clouds a pinkish-gold color. Chill Winds swept through the narrow streets. Shadows stretched across the streets of Fael and choked out the light. People emerged from buildings and hung lanterns that carved out orange globes of light from the growing darkness. The color of the lantern light reminded the priest of the spirit within the wood, and he took it as a positive omen. The priest and the miller’s son hurried to the temple in hope of reaching before sunset.

Navigating Fael proved challenging. The priest understood that Fael was a small city when compared to others in the realm, but the maze of narrow, choked streets that zigged about at the foot of the Keep didn’t feel small. Up and down stairs, passing between buildings in alleys just wide enough to shuffle through sideway, the oppressive squeeze of Fael felt endless. And the streets remained crowded even as night called people into their homes.

When they found the steps that led up to the temple of Ilsa, the priest sighed. He lumbered up the tight steps first. The miller’s son followed close behind. He heard the miller’s son laugh. “We done passed these steps a dozen times, gotta be” he said.

The priest faced the miller’s son with a challenging raise of his brows and said, “Oh did we?”

“Sure as shit we did.” The miller’s son enjoyed this.

“And you never once thought to point that out?”

“You’re the aego. I was dutifully following you.”

The priest closed his eyes and slowly let out his breath. He started off again. His breathing labored.

“You might want to loosen that belly of yours.”

The priest stopped again. “Look,” he said sharply, then he paused. The miller’s son looked up at him, in the failing light the priest could make out a kind of sincerity in the boys expression.

“You passed out once already. And I hear ya huffin’. That’s all.”

The priest slowly nodded, then started back up the steps. He left his binds tight but he proceeded more slowly.

“Sides, you’re no fun to poke at when you’re pissy. You get this vinegary look on your face. It sucks the marrow out of my funny bone.”

“Marrow out of my funny bone?” The priest repeated without stopping. The words popped out between deep breaths.

“You like that? Been working on that one for a while. See? I can speak dumb and silly as good as you, when I want to.”

The priest was undecided about the goodness in the miller’s son. The priest, maybe because of his standing in the community, maybe because he lacked a child of his own to grow and shape, found himself thinking of the miller’s son as someone he should mentor. At the same time, he disliked him. And that admission bothered him. The priest liked to think of himself as an accepting person, who took people as they were and found the goodness within them. Yet, he thought the miller’s son simple, insecure and judgmental -- all traits the boy used to hide his insecurities. And it got in the priest’s way, slowed him down, kept him away from his wife longer than necessary.

The priest worried for the miller’s son. The boy had charm. The priest had seen lots of bad people whose personalities drew you towards them. And those people usually learned to use that power selfishly, dangerously. Whether this was a cause of the priest’s dislike or a conclusion looking for a justification, the priest didn’t care. The boy is dangerous, and his likability won’t hide that from me.

They reached the entrance. A broad courtyard stretched across the top of the prominence dotted with odd pillars that stood like limbless trees. Holes riddled their length. The priest turned back to look at the city stretch out below them. A strong wind lifted his cloak and it fluttered behind him. The wind whistled through the pillars, each at a different pitch. At the peak of the gust, the voices of the pillars combined in a harmonious tone. A voice given to the goddess, he thought. The priest closed his eyes and felt the song all around him, and let the goddess fill him with her presence.

Two statues stood guard at entrance. On the left was a woman whose hair was lifted as if by some ever present wind: Ilsa, The goddess of the winds and heavens, the god-motherer. On the right was a rugged man in repose, a shroud wrapped around his otherwise naked body: Ulso. The god of the ulth, the god-fatherer, the husband of Ilsa.

The miller’s son covered his ears. “God awful shrill,” he muttered to himself. He stared at the temple. It reminded him of an arrowhead protruding from the ground and pointed heavenward. A arched double doorway was open, and a faint light spilled out onto the courtyard, too faint to paint a shadow, just bright enough to bathe an arc of the courtyard in a faint glow. Over the doorway were five tall, narrow windows, that looked as if they were squeezed and stretched to fit the narrowing steeple of the temple. In the doorway stood four people crowded around a small table outlined by the light from behind. They counted coins in baskets. One of the people, a chubby silhouette of a chubby man in robes that draped over one shoulder, leaned forward, peering into the darkness, in their direction.

The man strode over and greeted them.

“Yes, yes,” said the priest, “I must speak with the Archaegus (Hight Priest) about a most urgent finding! Please fetch her with all haste!”

The miller’s son looked at the priest with some confusion. He had never heard him speak with such enthusiasm. It felt old and showy to him.

The man who greeted them, who happened to be the Zaephorus (attendant to the temple warden), smiled wryly, “For one, the temple is closed. But don’t bother to return tomorrow unless you come to worship. The Archaegus does not make a habit of greeting beggars.” He looked to have more to say by how he held a finger aloft, but it was difficult to be sure in the growing darkness, and with the light coming from behind him.

The priest cut in, “I am no beggar, Zaephorus, I am an aego of Ilsa the splendid. And I have come from Nemheim with a great discovery.”

“By your smell I’m guessing that this discovery is not soap.”

“Pardon?” The priest’s voice was saturated with indignation.

“Don’t fret. It’s not unusual that the foul can longer smell their own ... foulness.”

The priest bit his lip. “This is a most important discovery. It should be examined outside, rather than in the temple. If only you would get the Archaegus I’m sure she would would see the relevance.”

“If only ...” said the Zaephorus.

“Well, then as an aego of Ilsa I request hospitality.” The priest said this proudly, like the hand of a nees (complex board game of strategy) player pushing forward a piece that marks the end of the game.

“The river is the most hospitable in all of Fael. It runs fast, smooth and cold.”

“He wants us to bathe in the river?” The miller’s son’s voice was confused and insulted.

The priest sized up the situation and decided this wasn’t the fight he wished to have. He regretted getting there late, when it was less likely to speak with a proper official and instead be confronted by glorified caretaker for whom the rhythm of the day was of the utmost importance. He nodded his head, his free hand held up, “Yes, yes, we’ll return in the morning after we’ve refreshed.” Then he led the miller’s son away.

The Zaephorus (attendant to the temple warden) remained for a moment and then turned and walked back to the temple. He ushered the others inside (and two of then lifted the table with the baskets of coins like a litter holding cherished child and carried it inside) and then closed the first door. He gave a dismissive wave before he closed the second door. The courtyard fell into darkness.

The miller’s son stifled a laugh. The priest heard him and in the dark he snapped to face him. The miller’s son couldn’t make out the priest’s face, but he knew enough to say nothing. And yet, he still said, “Vinegar face.”

They walked in silence. It seemed as if they were going about aimlessly, the priest in the lead. The miller’s son behind him. After a time, the miller’s son asked, “Are you looking for an inn?”

“What else would I be doing?” snapped the priest.

The miller’s son took the lead and led them directly to an inn a couple streets over. “Your sense of direction sours under all the vinegar.”

“You know, for someone who likes to mock my speech, you sure are getting good at it yourself.”

“It’s not that hard, is all.”

The miller’s son used the remaining coins from the soldier’s aegenti (silver coin) to pay for their room, bath, and a hot meal. “Here’s your hospitality, aego.”

The priest thanked him with a curt, “Thanks,” and said nothing more that night.

TT 22 Isildane 1772

(22 Firedawn -862)

The next morning, bathed and fed, they returned to the temple. The courtyard was filled with people streaming in and out. An aego stood atop a table and waved a large fan to those that walked by as he muttered prayers. At his side was a basket. The worshipers, some in tears, dropped coins into the basket and then kissed the hem of the aego. He acknowledged each coin given and cried out in aen, “Gifts to the goddess for prayers for her favor!”

The priest and miller’s son wove their way through the crowd and into the temple proper. At the door were two more priests, each with a basket on a small wooden pedestal. Holed were drilled throughout the base of the pedestals and when the wind blew they sang like a strange flute. The miller’s son stopped at the entrance and first looked back at the priest waving the fan. Then he looked at the two priests at the door. One, a middle aged man with a plump, rosy face, smiled and gestured to the basket. The miller’s son tilted his head towards the priest and said in a hushed tone, “I’ve never seen that many coins.”

“The worship of the gods requires a devotion that leaves little time for the fleshly needs. We all benefit from the assuaging works of the priests with the fickle gods. So it only seems reasonable that we all chip in to make their work possible.”

“What language are you speaking?” quipped the miller’s son.

The priest at first took that question seriously, then a quick look at the miller’s son’s face and he saw the mockery and just shook his head in reply.

They found the same Zaephorus (attendant to the temple warden) standing beneath the pitch black statue of Ilsa. He denied recognizing them and had no remembrance of sending them off the night before.

“You say you’re from the hills,” the Zaephorus said in a condescending way. This quickly set off the the priest and they went straight into an argument over access to the Archaegus (high priest).

“Don’t entice me to remind these devout worshippers,” the priest gestured widely to the many worshipers in the courtyard, “That the Imperials outlawed offerings to all gods, ALL the gods, on Rotimun (the fourth day of the Three-tribe week, the name translates to The People’s Day).”

The Zaephorus smiled smugly, “The imperials that are leaving this city?”

“You are a learned man, and you know the very distinct difference in meaning between the verb tenses of leaving and left. And you should also know they are not truly leaving but relocating to Veinheim.”

The miller’s son looked cock-eyed at the priest.

The Zaephorus said nothing.

The priest cleared his throat then, as he turned to face the crowds. The Zaephorus quickly stepped forward and gave the priest a tap on his shoulder. “One moment,” he said and then excused himself under the pretense of fetching the Archaegus.

The miller’s son smiled as this took place, he looked at the priest with a satisfied appraising look.

The priest noticed and harrumphed. He said nothing. He kept his gaze on the door through which the Zaephorus had left. The bundle of sticks, wrapped in a sheet of leather and tied in three places and tucked under his left arm, dropped a bit from his grasp and he hoisted them back up, chest high. He breathed through his nostrils with loud exhales.

The Zaephorus returned, behind him came a tall, balding man with a round face, bright intelligent eyes that somehow seemed melancholy. He wore the grey and black robes of the Neokaerus (temple warden). His hands were clasp loosely in front of him, just below his waist.

The priest opened his mouth to speak but the Neokaerus cut him off. He started speaking in a stentorian tone in his clear, mid-toned voice. He sounded smart. After a few words, when it seemed he felt sure he had taken command of this exchange, his tone became more conversational, but his words remained crisp and spoken with great precision. “Gentlemen, welcome to our temple and shrine to the winds that give us life and drive away the darkness that tempts us all.” His greeting sounded sincere, and not practiced. He maintained eye contact and the miller’s son especially felt as if the Neokaerus was imparting to him something of value. “I have been informed that one of you calls himself an aego and emanated from a village in the fay hills to the east.”

The priest again opened his mouth and lifted a hand to speak but the Neokaerus once again cut over him with a strongly spoken “AND you bring with you some kind of offering from the east. I presume something of great value to for the harsh, primitive lives led in the wilds.”

The priest screwed his face up. “I have no offer but a finding,” he spoken slowly like one might speak to a child, or someone slow to understand. His words came out tentatively, each one given space to be understood. He then paused thinking the Neokaerus would speak up again, but he did not. The Neokaerus stood with a condescending grin. His tiny mouth on his broad face looked prim.

Given the space to continue the priest spoke more naturally. He held up the bundle of sticks. It was then that the miller’s son noticed people had stopped to nonchalantly watch this interaction. They looked expectant in a way the miller’s son recognized. He’d been the object of that kind of look many times, when bystanders expect a dressing down and someone to get ridiculed. He felt sympathy and sorrow for the priest. He had never thought this mission (as the priest called it) made any sense. He had assumed they’d find some kind of ridicule. And he was honest with himself when he admitted he looked forward to it. He wanted the fat priest to get some humbling. But now that they were there, and he saw the looks on their faces, he knew what the priest was likely feeling and he hated to think his aego had to feel that way. So, he looked down at his feet for the rest of the exchange.

The priest explained the wood, how he came into possession, the curious draw it had upon him, and the strange aura it emanated when he performed the ritual of Touch, the ritual typically performed to find the nature of a persons well being.

“Well, firstly, I must inform you that the ritual as you described it is not proper. Isla’s teachings, which were you trained here? In a proper temple? Are not done in that manner.”

“I’m well aware of that. The ritual as I perform it,” he wanted to avoid calling it my ritual, “Came from a visit by a god to the village of Balrode.”

The Neokaerus laughed, a polite, arrogant laugh that rolled easily from his closed mouth.

“You don’t believe the gods walk the land?” The priest challenged.

“Oh come now, we all know that gods are amongst us, in disguise, playing their games, toying with us all.” The Neokaerus took a deep breath, lifted his clasped hands from his waist and let them fall back, “But the gods do not bother with trivial, primitive towns any more than they take the time to chatter amongst dogs or fay. But are we here to discuss the actions of the gods? It is the actions of you that I question.”

The priest cut in. “Allow me to demonstrate so you can see what it is we have discovered.”

“I will certainly not allow you to perform a tainted ritual on this hallowed ground. And were I to entertain every wild man with a vision from the gods, our temple would ... would ... is it coin you are after? Or housing? We are a temple, our duty is to our shrine.”

“I am not here for anything. I am bringing the gift from the gods for our benefit, not mine alone.”

“Yes, yes. And I can see how beneficial that kindling may be.”

“This is so much more than kindling!” The priests voice rose, an anger flared in his eyes. Heads in the crowd turned to the priest. A murmuring silence fell over the shrine.

The Zaephorus whispered something to the Naekaerus who brushed him away with a sweep of his hands. The Naekaerus wore a sour expression. His eyes darted skyward. He felt like a man under siege and finding insolence where he expected support and obedience.

The priest’s eyes darted to the side as he became aware of the stillness of the crowd. His eyes smiled mischievously.

The Zaephorus leaned in, a determined and frightened look upon his face. He whispered again, emphatically, to the Naekaerus, who this time listened reluctantly. He said, “Very well.” He exhaled forcibly through his nostrils, clenched his teeth, and a forced smile appeared on his face. “Very well,” he said slowly. “Aeburt,” he addressed the Zaephorus, “Receive the offering. Let us pray upon this gift. Our frontier brethren speaks with great vigor. Let us honor that.”

The priest’s eyes were wary.

The Zaephorus held out his arms to accept the priests package.

“You will indeed examine it?” The priest asked, though his tone sounded unconvinced.

The Neokaerus smiled patronizingly, “Yes.” He then spun on his heels and left. The crowed parted to let him pass. He closed the door behind him with an echoing thud.

The Zaephorus jerked his arms to implore the priest to hand him the bundle. The priest hesitated and then, with a resigned look, set them gently into the outstretched arms of the Zaephorus, who then turned and left through a different door from the Naekaerus, a side door. The priest and miller’s son were remained there, in a bubble of the crowd, onlookers stared and whispered about them.

Doubts raced through the priest’s mind. His eyes unable to fix upon anything as his mind grasped for certainty as to whether or not that had actually worked.

The tension in the shrine relaxed. Voices were heard chatting and talking. The call of the prayer-merchants echoed through the door from the outside.

“They’re just gonna chuck ‘em,” said the miller’s son.

Which was precisely what the priest feared. He looked up at the miller’s son. He saw that smug, wide green on his face. The miller’s son stood sideways to him. The morning sun streamed in through the two high, open doors of the shrine. It lit his face up in a way that suggested the memory of the boy’s bloody teeth as he sat laughing at and punching blacksmiths son. “Don’t you,” stammered the priest. “Don’t you imply. Don’t you allege that, that the good aegos of this shrine would do such a thing. Don’t you impugn the -- “