Chapter 53:

  Closing Perspectives (3 of 5)

  Father Elias reclined in his favorite sitting chair within his quarters after finally completing his long journey home. The capital city welcomed him with its familiar comforts, and he allowed himself to indulge in them as was his custom after a job well done. Weeks spent traveling the eastern half of the kingdom had left him tired to the bone, and while The Belt was full of charm and honest hospitality, it simply didn’t have the level of craft the bakeries in the capital possessed.

  A small plate rested on the side table beside him, already dotted with crumbs and smears of lemon glaze. Elias reached for another tart and bit into it with a satisfied hum. The crust flaked apart at once, buttery and delicate, and the sharp sweetness of citrus spread across his tongue.

  “Simply divine,” he murmured to himself.

  The chair beneath him creaked and groaned in protest as he shifted his considerable bulk, but Elias merely adjusted his weight and continued chewing as though the furniture had no right to complain.

  As Elias reached for yet another tart, a sharp knock rang out through his chambers, followed by the muffled greeting of someone making themselves known at the grand wooden door.

  With a sigh, Elias reluctantly set his lemony treat back upon the small plate and called out toward the entrance.

  “Enter.”

  The door opened at once, as if the visitor had been waiting for permission only out of courtesy. A young acolyte slipped inside and approached Elias with a worried expression upon his face.

  Elias grunted in welcome as Melidos hurried into the room, the hem of his robe swaying with the speed of his steps. He slowed only when he reached Father Elias’s chair, and even then his hands were unsteady as he bowed in proper respect. His eyes flicked to the half finished tarts and the crumbs on the plate.

  “Forgive me for interrupting your time of indulgences, Father,” Melidos said, “but I was sent by Priest Laythom to inform you that the auditors are ahead of schedule. They may arrive here within the hour.”

  “Within the hour?!” Elias wheezed, his voice thin with disbelief as he tried to rock himself up from the chair. The worn cushions clung to his weight stubbornly, and for an embarrassing moment it felt as though the chair itself wished to keep him there.

  Melidos, ever the faithful and helpful acolyte, moved at once to assist him. He caught Elias by the elbow, steadying him with surprising strength for someone so young. Then, with practiced motions that spoke of long experience, he brushed crumbs from the front of Elias’s robes as though this were no more unusual than adjusting a collar.

  Elias’s cheeks flushed despite himself, and he cursed inwardly at his foolishness. The information held within his journal was of the utmost importance, and yet he had failed to resist the temptations the Capital provided.

  How far he had fallen from the famed healer he had once been in his youth.

  “Melidos,” he said quickly, forcing his voice back into something resembling authority, “fetch my notes and my finer robes. I must make my way to the Archivists with haste.”

  Within a few minutes, Elias and Melidos were making their way down the long corridors that ran through the heart of the Church.

  Though Elias had said “with haste,” he noticed that Melidos politely refrained from commenting that their pace was anything but. That restraint only made Elias’s opinion of the young man all the more favorable.

  Melidos was a good lad with a big heart, and had proven himself time and again to be more than worthy of one day becoming a recognized Priest of The Path.

  Marble stretched beneath their feet in pale, polished sheets, and the stonework around them rose in clean, elegant lines that spoke of careful and reverent craftsmanship. This church, unlike the other humble abodes throughout the kingdom, had been built with a singular intent.

  Preservation at all costs.

  This was where the local records of the kingdom were kept, where more than three hundred years of history had been written down and safeguarded by the clergy.

  As Elias and Melidos continued their hastened journey, the nearest lamps stirred as if waking from a shallow sleep, their light blooming into a warm golden glow that washed over the marble and stone. The runes hummed softly for a brief moment before the lamps began to dim once again as the pair passed beyond them.

  Light followed in a slow wave down the corridor, revealing carved arches and sealed doorways for only a moment at a time before letting the shadows reclaim them. The effect made the halls feel endless, which in itself was a reflection of each person’s individual path.

  Elias heaved desperate lungfuls of air as he walked, doing his best to keep a steady pace as he approached his destination. He noticed the many worried glances Melidos cast his way, but he did not dare slow down, for if he lost momentum it might halt his journey entirely.

  Damn it, Elias. Look what’s become of you.

  The bitter thought struck him as they made their way deeper into the vaults, descending further into the Church’s depths where the Archivists kept their holy records.

  Elias hadn’t always been a large man. In fact, for much of his youth, he had been the very definition of discipline, not only in his duties but also in physical performance. There had been a time when his hands were more calloused than soft, when sweat and blood were as familiar to him as the finery he now wore.

  He had spent many years assisting and supporting foolhardy youths who chased their paths with reckless abandon. He had patched torn flesh by torchlight. He had whispered blessings over broken bones. He had visited outlying townships and healed those who had been forgotten on the outskirts of the kingdom.

  It had been a good life. A meaningful one. Elias had walked his path with pride, and his steps had been strong with purpose.

  That was well over forty years ago.

  Having just celebrated his sixtieth cycle last season, the years were not growing any kinder. If anything, his body was breaking down at a feverish pace, collapsing on itself as if it had finally decided to collect every debt he had ignored. The only redeeming quality he had left was his ability to heal himself, which by all accounts was the only reason he could still get around at all, despite his egregious lack of self care.

  As Elias lamented the loss of his youth the lengthy walk to the archives finally came to an end as Elias placed his hand upon the heavy door and let the runes activate beneath his pudgy palm. The script flared faintly, warming the metal and stone as it recognized him.

  A moment later, the doors swung inward, and allowed Elias and Melidos to step through.

  The chamber beyond was filled with his brothers and sisters of the cloth, men and women who had devoted their lives not to sermons or battlefields, but to ink, memory, and preservation.

  These were the Archivists.

  Within the Church they were not the most social bunch, preferring to keep to themselves and their notes. They found joy in quieter things, in the artistic and often unappreciated beauty of their order and the steady work of scribes. Many of them treated the act of recording history as a craft in its own right, decorating headings with elaborate flourishes, curling ink into delicate borders, and adding small illustrations to break up long blocks of text.

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  They loved organization just as much as artistry. Shelves were labeled and arranged with obsessive care, scrolls bound in colors that denoted region and subject, and copied texts categorized by age, author, and approval. Nothing here was left to chance. Even the air of the chamber seemed structured, heavy with the presence of thousands of preserved thoughts, each one carefully catalogued and protected from the decay of time.

  And yet, the silence here felt different than usual.

  It was not the peaceful quiet of focused labor, but the strained quiet of people holding their breath, afraid that even the smallest sound might draw attention.

  Several heads turned toward Elias the instant he entered, then quickly looked away again as though eye contact itself might condemn them. Quills hovered above parchment, unmoving, while hands that were famously steady were betrayed by faint tremors. Even their movements, normally measured and filled with purpose, seemed too careful now, too restrained, as if the very floor might crack beneath a footfall if it were too heavy.

  Elias slowed despite himself, unsettled by the minute details his perception was picking apart.

  A knot formed in his overly round stomach, and the ring upon his finger suddenly felt heavier than it had moments before.

  Something was wrong.

  As if waiting for the realization to settle, a man dressed in a fitted black cloak stepped out from behind a nearby bookshelf. A scroll rested in his hands, held with casual irreverence. His fingers pinched the delicate parchment as though it were no more valuable than a tavern receipt.

  “Well hello there, Elias,” he said with a small smile, his voice smooth and unhurried. “A pleasure to see you, as always.”

  Elias, despite the fear that now gripped his already struggling heart, managed to keep himself somewhat composed. He was mindful that every eye in the room was relying on him to stand when they themselves could not.

  “Auditor Merrick,” Elias said with as much politeness as he could muster. “What can I do for you this day?”

  The auditor laughed softly, his gaze settling on Elias with a slight smile that held no warmth behind it at all. Then, as if throwing away a piece of trash, Merrick let the scroll slip from his fingers.

  It struck the stone floor with a dry, papery slap.

  Several Archivists flinched at the sound, and more than one cried out in alarm before quickly clapping hands over their mouths.

  Elias studied Merrick as the auditor watched them scramble with quiet, satisfied amusement, like a man observing trained animals respond to a whip. Their panic pleased him, not because the parchment mattered, but because they did. Their reverence. Their fear. Their obedience.

  He was a slim man, tall without being broad, with the kind of posture that never truly relaxed. Not rigid exactly, but disciplined; every movement controlled and economical, like someone who had learned long ago that confidence did not come from size.

  His white hair was slicked neatly back, not a strand out of place, and it only sharpened the angles of his handsome face. A defined jawline and high cheekbones gave him the appearance of a noble at first glance… if not for the chill in his eyes.

  Those eyes were the worst part.

  Cold, pale green, and utterly unbothered, they rested on Elias with the patience of something that enjoyed the hunt more than the meal. Merrick’s smile never widened, never warmed. It stayed small and restrained, like a man savoring a private joke.

  A longsword sat sheathed at his hip, clean and well kept. Everything about him felt deliberate. Measured. Composed.

  “Tell me, Elias. How was your time amongst the peasants in the Belt?”

  “Well,” Elias stammered, “our trip this cycle was quite a pleasure, as usual. Many young men and women took their first steps, and will surely carry on the Paths of their fathers before them.”

  Merrick stepped closer and brushed a few crumbs from Elias’s robes, as if the priest were a child who had eaten messily at table.

  “Oh yes,” Merrick said evenly. “The rabble carry on as they always have.”

  His pale eyes lifted to Elias’s face again.

  “I’ve heard some… interesting rumors concerning a particular awakening ceremony,” Merrick said, “and I came here today hoping you might be able to provide some insight into these claims.”

  Elias forced his breathing to slow before responding.

  “Well, as we do every cycle, there were a few rather peculiar Paths amongst the youth. A young woman came away as an Arcane Dancer, of all things. The mayor’s son of that same settlement stepped onto the Path of a Swordsman…”

  He spoke on, offering truth after truth that meant nothing of consequence, circling the real matter like a man walking the edge of a cliff in the dark.

  “Elias,” Merrick said with quiet, deliberate coldness, “Please, do not mistake me for a patient man.”

  His voice stayed calm, but the sense of danger in the room rose to new heights as the man’s aura began to flood outward. It was a nauseating presence, filled with malice and barely restrained bloodlust.

  “Tell me about the boy. Who is he? Where is he? And what do you know about this Path of The Harvester?”

  Elias thought carefully before speaking, as it was well known that Auditors possessed an ability to parse lies from truth as if they were sifting chaff from wheat. Elias did not know if he could bypass such an ability, even with half truths and careful phrasing.

  “Details that I learned about the young man can be found within my notes,” Elias said calmly, gesturing for Melidos to hand them over.

  Merrick snapped his fingers at the acolyte impatiently, and when Melidos did not move with the speed the auditor felt appropriate his station, Merrick’s hand moved out with such sudden violence that it almost seemed unreal, striking the young man across the face before anyone could fully register what had happened.

  The sound echoed through the chamber, sharp enough to make several Archivists flinch, and Melidos’s cheek flushed hot and red as blood rushed beneath the skin, swelling already beginning to form where the auditor’s palm had landed.

  Merrick did not spare the acolyte a second glance.

  He took Elias’s notes and read through them in silence for a time, his expression flat and unimpressed, as if the contents were no more remarkable than tax records or ration tallies, and Elias found himself watching his eyes rather than the parchment, unsettled by how quickly they moved over each line without slowing.

  But then Merrick reached one particular page.

  His lips parted slightly and he broke out into what Elias could only assume was an actual genuine smile.

  “Garner,” Merrick said aloud, in a tone that made it seem as if he had found a treasure beyond the obvious notes regarding Samuel’s unique path.

  When he finally finished, the auditor closed the book and held it firmly in his grasp, as though it were no longer Elias’s property at all.

  “Well,” Merrick murmured, satisfaction threading his voice, “it seems you are useful for something after all. I’ll be taking these notes with me, and I believe I will pay this young man a visit in due time. The King will be most interested to learn such a gem has been discovered within his domain.”

  Then Merrick’s tone shifted, subtle but dangerous, like a knife being drawn from a sleeve.

  “I am curious, though,” he said, eyes returning to Elias. “Why did you not carry out your duty and bring the boy back with you to the capital? Surely you know the cost of such disobedience.”

  Elias hesitated, carefully weighing his words. He did not want to mention anything regarding what Samuel had said about the threat to the Path, nor did he dare speak of the Old Man Samuel claimed to have met while walking it.

  The truth was simple.

  Elias had deliberately let the young man go, hoping it would buy him time, time to grow, time to stabilize, time to become something more than an easy target, before men like the auditor standing before him came to claim him.

  So Elias spoke the truth all priests of the Path knew to be sacred. A fundamental belief shared amongst their order, despite the laws levied against them, and despite the fear Auditors spread in enforcing those rulings.

  “It is not my place,” Elias said quietly, “nor the place of any other, to hinder or forcefully impose oneself upon the Path of another.”

  For a heartbeat, the archive was silent. All eyes were fixed on the pair, and a few Archivists, safely outside the auditor’s view, nodded in agreement with Elias’s words.

  Oddly, Merrick’s expression softened into something that almost appeared pleased.

  “Well,” he said, voice low with amusement, “out of all the things I’ve discovered today, this is the most surprising. Underneath all that fat, you seem to have managed to preserve your spine after all.”

  He turned on his heel, that small, wicked smile still resting on his lips, as if the conversation had ended exactly the way he wanted.

  “Still… what kind of owner would I be if I did not make an example of such a disobedient dog.”

  Without giving Elias a chance to respond, a sharp hiss cut through the air.

  Elias wasn’t sure what had happened at first. Merrick simply walked away, casual as ever, as though nothing had occurred… except the sword in his hand was drawn now, and blood dripped from it in a slow trail across the floor.

  That was when he noticed something was wrong with Melidos, who had been standing faithfully at his side. A thin red line began to appear along the side of the young man’s neck.

  Elias stepped forward on instinct, stirring the potential within himself as he prepared to heal whatever damage had been inflicted.

  But before Elias could reach him, Melidos’s body swayed once, and then his head hit the marble with a heavy crack.

  It bounced, rolled a short distance, and came to rest facing Elias, the boy’s eyes still open in stunned surprise.

  Elias froze.

  For a heartbeat he simply stared, his mind refusing to accept what his eyes were showing him. Then he dropped to his knees beside the body, hands shaking as he gathered the youth into his arms, pressing against the wound as if his touch alone could force life back into him.

  No words came.

  Only a rough, strangled breath as blood pooled and spread across the archive floor.

  “Thank you for your service,” Merrick said lightly, a soft whistle slipping from him as though he were in pleasant spirits. “When I find the young Harvester, I’ll be sure to summon you for an audience.”

  Merrick took a scroll from a nearby table and wiped his blade clean, smearing ink and blood together in a single ugly stroke, before tossing the ruined parchment to the floor and disappearing from the chamber.