Bladeshire 10
By David C. Daoust
Night had fallen, despite the monks usually being ‘early to bed’ types, this night, they all stood about the abbey’s courtyard, pleased Khadory was home and healthy.
Brommus listened silently as Khadory relayed his morning to him, the extra work that he had taken on. The boy confessed that he had tried to cover for Braidon’s absence…
“Braidon was brought to Lyonsette Keep,” the Abbot interrupted when the subject of the missing boy came up. “He has been elevated in the Baron’s estimation… and is to be trained in his service.”
The abbot said it proudly, but he seemed fearful for the boy.
Khadory was clearly taken aback; his face begged answers, though was apprehensive to question the senior monk.
“By all accounts, our Braidon, had bravely charged into danger to save another life,” the abbot explained further. He turned to Khadory, “I apologize that you were not informed earlier, lad. I had awaited your return from morning chores… But… it seems the good Lord needed you elsewhere.”
The boy was mystified; not at the good Lord needing him, that Braedon was a hero…
They all listened intently as the girl added her own experience. Her father stood by sternly, shocked at what she suggested to the priest. No mention of ‘lost time’ was ever brought to him before this. The pinder did not press or even interrupt; wise enough to remain silent. He did look a bit uncomfortable, surrounded by monks, as his daughter expressed her fears…
The priest announced that such experiences were surely not a good sign and claimed the courtyard was not the place for such discussion. With this, he led them all into the monastery. To a place he, Khadory, Chantilles, and Arugan could rest… and talk.
He led them to an old stone den, deep in the heart of the Abbey. One the Priest of the Night Sky favored when he had company. Walls lined with bookshelves; a fire already burned in the fireplace and candles pocked the room, casting light throughout. He felt such a space would do nicely. They could get to the bottom of what haunted the two young people.
Brommus was not quite ‘old,’ just yet. The white in his beard was a new invader, and his temple held only a streak, here or there– straw-colored hair yet dominated his scalp and beard. His sharp blue eyes scanned the room; everything was in order. Someone might have even tidied up in his absence, probably whoever lit the fire.
He flipped the dark traveling cloak from his shoulder and laid it over a nearby chest as he invited the visitors in. His garments were not the simple brown robes of the monks. His were a dark indigo, layered over a dusky leather vest buttoned over a thick cloth shirt. Breeches and boots covered, all of it synched with a fine leather belt this day. A little finer than he’d normally wear, (He had, after all, been visiting the Dawn) but not a far cry from the norm. His heavy beard hid his collar.
Twelve or thirteen years of age, the girl was pallid as she explained her experiences. She was scared; it was probable she was not sure she could even trust him. She sat close with Khadory, whose attention seemed to help as she talked. Such tales could call you out of favor with your peers, especially in such a small village. They could get you called a witch, accused of ‘casting curses on your fellow parishioners.’
Of course, the Tesserae taught that this was simply nonsense. The one God turned all curses to blessings as one of his first acts. Such ill-will may hurt the bearer, but never the target; never a victim. Tantamount to a prayer, a curse only called His will upon the subject. Such actions were not done by ‘witches,’ this, according to the Church, was called ‘being human.’ In fact, claiming you were such would only get you laughed at.
Villagers, however, forever feared such things as witches and curses. It was hard to explain, or even keep up with the tales. Most, such tales, came from Savvant; it could be difficult to battle disinformation. While the Crones of the Nightrealm had proven problematic, none of them had ever started out ‘human.’ Any such curse, even by fae, would be used in the one God’s favor.
The truth is something had surely made this young girl vulnerable. Brommus knew that if she were to bring this to the Dawn, they would proclaim it a test from the one God. A challenge for her, or all of them, to overcome. While the Sword would say she was surely not ‘properly’ given to the church. Not if she was susceptible to the will of such a being. And they would say that the one God would never allow a true follower to be used in such a way. She probably knew this as well, lest she be sitting in front of the local parish priest, which certainly made him want to explore a different avenue. Brommus did not want to agree with either, but what could break the girl from the church? The idea was bewildering to a Priest of the Tesserae. One truly devout would never fall.
“It created a staff…” Brommus stopped the girl to ask, “From a snail?”
“Yes,” Chantilles answered easy enough, though referred to Khadory as it was his part of the story she relayed.
Khadory nodded, he had told her that, “But we left it behind… we did not want to touch it.”
“That was probably wise,” Brommus agreed, but would have preferred a chance to free the life-force from within. He could only guess how long it might remain trapped. He may take to searching for it in the morning. “It certainly sounds like dark magic.”
The whole thing was quite the puzzle.
Brommus could only ponder the possibilities. When the one God ascended, tales of the old gods were lost to mortal minds. In fact, all names of the patrons were lost to mortal minds. This was connected to why naming the one God was blasphemy. A name simply did not matter; there was only one. Yet, among the mortals effected, there proved to be those truly favored by the old gods, whose faith elevated them above even the one Gods will to remove their patrons love from their hearts.
It was not until much later, that it was learned that the Demons of the Vale were also unaffected. Those of the darkest depths still held all the names, all the tales. All the stories of the many, many pantheons that ruled the realms of Drue, for eons, before the opening of the Gates that heralded the one God’s Ascension.
This proved to be a major threat, as the demons could just wait, and listen. Listen for the old names. Names meant to be called upon before the Ascension. Names meant to be lost. Through this, these demons could locate the favored. The demons could take the place of the old gods, answer prayers, lead people away, cause strife, most of all—raise followers. Hordes of followers.
What Brommus feared, this little girl knew the name of an old god– and had called out to it. A demon answered.
Yet she was too young, by far, to be a true-devout of any old patron.
There was also the matter of possession. The horrors of a demon possession did not actually start until the demon was long gone. They burrowed in tight, set up thoughts that would surely hurt the victim once it was gone. But while the demon held the mind in thrall, no one would ever guess… Given the boy’s claims, the mysterious entity broke character because it was intent on finishing what it came to do… Either way, the girl would be suffering madness had a demon set up shop. And from what the children relayed, he doubted the demon was still in there somewhere.
The Priest of the Night Sky looked closely at the girl. To his eyes only, the world fell away, and a glitter of stars wrapped her like a cocoon, they pulled in tight to her core and shattered into star dust. This gaze did not break until her father cleared his throat when she squirmed. He detected nothing.
Maybe a demon wasn’t the culprit.
“You say the entity disintegrated in the light?” Brommus followed up.
“Yes,” Khadory answered for the two of them, “With a shrill scream —I had never heard anything like it.”
Brommus knew demons were immortal, they could be banished back to the Vale in the right circumstances —but never killed. He knew this from extensive experience. He had personally witnessed what had become of a demon thought to be ‘disintegrated’ with shear power.
The blessing that had saved the pair… It was a simple invocation, strong enough to pull the threat from the girl, but to banish it? He doubted it.
The tale left him with nothing but questions. Yet the real question: What could he say to the children without leaving them scared out of their wits for the rest of their natural lives?