A chorus of laughter rang out.
“And who are you, to speak to the Exalted with such irreverence?” Lady Bhelios asked.
“The new High Healer,” the foreigner replied.
Laughter erupted once more, but Oreltia had had enough.
“Still your tongue, wench!” She pointed, arm outstretched, a single finger levelled at the girl like a sword in judgement. “I do not know how things were done in the dell of miseries which spawned you, but here in the heart of civilisation we have laws against sacrilege. Failure to recognise my station is not only a sin, parting you from the Maiden’s light, but also a crime, for which the watch themselves shall sanction you. Yet despite this, once more according to her will, I extend the hand of mercy for all to witness.” She stopped pointing, instead holding her palm face-up as though to reach across the street, beckon the cleric closer. “You are a stranger to our ways, a battle-priest of the wilderness. Come inside, confess, and find the peace you deserve in the Maiden’s warm, loving arms.”
Come inside. Confess. Find the peace you deserve in the grasp of the Mother’s cold, uncaring embrace.
“Very well.” Kanthyre’s voice and eyes were harder now, and she moved towards the gates. “As you say, Oreltia.”
There, again, that hateful recalcitrance, the smarmy ease of her familiarity. Oreltia would’ve struck her right then and there if not for the onlookers.
Still, she mused as she too turned to re-enter the temple, the watchers serve their purpose. None can doubt my fairness. And if she should disappear tonight, without a trace, what will the magisters say then? They shall have no evidence – Mekesta will see to that, swallowing it up in her darkness – and –
She froze. Kanthyre was on the other side of the threshold, framed against the green and silver of the grounds, the Warden-Sister hovering uncertainly just behind her.
Oreltia was on the outside, in the shadow of the gatehouse, and suddenly the wind blew long and cold, robbing the air of its wintry warmth. She was lifting her foot – she was trying to lift her foot – but the motion that would bring her striding forwards simply didn’t materialise. It was like trying to feed herself with her third hand – there was no muscle there, no limb to carry out the command.
As the instant became a second, became two seconds, she started to panic. Quickly she shifted her weight, tried the other leg.
Nothing.
They will notice! They –
“High Healer?” Sister Morrowost said dubiously from behind her.
“Yes,” Kanthyre answered. Voice like a diamond-edged blade.
Oreltia met the girl’s eyes, then looked away, her soul sliced by the contact.
She couldn’t look at Kanthyre. She shut her eyes instead, sensing the waves of bewilderment spreading over everyone present – why does the Exalted not proceed? what possesses her to let this upstart mock her so? – and she no longer cared. She felt the hatred in her soul rising, like gone-off milk in her gullet, like flames through a dry summer canopy – it was irresistible, its absence inconceivable –
“This is some spell!” she hissed. “A sorcerous shield!”
“You bearing her ill-will?” one of the nearby magisters asked, their confusion plain in their voice.
“I can’t see any shields, m’lady,” another said, more respectfully.
“Then black magic, some dark god’s doing,” Lady Bhelios intoned from behind Oreltia, quiet, implacable. “Arrest the girl at once.”
Oreltia still had her eyes closed, but the pulse of golden light that Kanthyre emitted wasn’t just some glamour, a snatch of illumination. It entered her heart, its purity making her reel. She’d forgotten what it was like, Wythyldwyn’s true power. She thought she knew, but she didn’t. Bit by bit, for months, maybe years, she’d watered down the potency of her faith, replacing it with mundane concerns, replacing it with…
The darkness.
“Can you do that?” Kanthyre asked gently. “Can you call on the goddess for us all to witness?”
Oreltia knew in that moment that she couldn’t. The light was gone from her now. Now she could only take light away, make them blind like her.
She was still screwing her eyes shut, so that she wouldn’t have to see their faces, the stupid looks of horror as they realised what was happening. The initiates with the Warden-Sister – the onlookers on the street – she could sense their disappointment in her.
I – don’t – care!
The moment Oreltia opened her mouth to speak, birth a tirade of scorching spite that would leave no room for doubt as to her new affiliation – it was then that Kanthyre chose to say the words some part of her had always been waiting to hear, cutting the former Exalted off before she could begin.
“Miss Overbrent. The survival of the church was never in question. Healing will always be needed. The Faith was never in danger. What was it that made you decide to fracture the Maiden’s blessings on the healer’s rings? Was it greed? Was it a desire for yet-greater eminence, having the ears of your rulers, stealing the secrets of princes? For what, Oreltia? For what exactly did you throw it all away?”
Oreltia screamed in frustration, opening her eyes at last. Her desire to cause this girl’s torment finally manifested as she flung out her hands, aiming them like weapons, clawing at the air with twisted fingers.
“Just die!” she shrieked.
The black fire from her dreams leapt up around Kanthyre’s feet, not a circle like the flames of sorcerers – it was a star, a huge star with thirteen points that sent the temple guards stumbling back in fright, and at its centre was the sweat-soaked white robe of the cleric.
The flickering tongues of darkness rose up – four feet, six, eight, ten – then closed in, falling down on the pretender like thirteen blades.
Yet when the black fire spent itself, splashing aside and petering out in the space of instants, Kanthyre remained. The amber light of the goddess was upon her, within her, suffusing her flesh, pouring out from her eyes.
Oreltia was forced to look away again.
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A full fifty percent of those watching must’ve started running, yelling – the magisters had glyphstones in their hands, another was going for a wand – the initiates’ looks not those of disappointment and loss but of betrayal and fury –
“I stand on the sacred earth.” The cleric’s voice was solemn, self-assured. “Your goddess cannot harm me here –”
“Step forth, then! Contest me on even ground!”
Oreltia heard the words split her lips, felt the savage grin that accompanied them. She stepped back, inviting the upstart into Dandelion Way; she turned, a quick glance telling her that Morrowost, Xalior and Bhelios had deserted her. The trio had retreated into the crowd, just three more shocked onlookers now. But Faylena still had her back – Lena was still close by, her expression inscrutable –
Oreltia returned her gaze to Kanthyre only to stumble, seeing the gold-glowing cleric step out of the gateway towards her, pressing her back with sheer presence. The hair which had hung wet and limp now cascaded in ripples of warm wind. The lines of fatigue and doubt on the cleric’s face had been smoothed away, replaced by an expression of righteous resolve. In her hands were the glittering mace whose handle had gone unnoticed amongst the folds of her cloak, and her medallion with its chain wrapped about her fingers.
“The Starless will not save you,” Kanthyre shouted. The change that had come over her was terrifying. “They bear no love for their tools, and readily melt them down to make new ones once they break from wear. Reject this path before it is too late!”
“They may not save me,” Oreltia snarled, “but they will slay you regardless!”
She put out her hands once more, fingers like talons, and this time the black fire came crackling out from inside her, her spirit itself working as the conduit for the waves of hateful darkness that would reduce the Sister of Wythyldwyn to bloody cinders.
Yet Kanthyre merely put out her medallion and glanced aside, trusting to the shell of shining mist the holy symbol evoked to protect her.
It did. The black fire broke apart and fell smoking to the paving-stones, unable to penetrate the softly-stirring amber smear.
Oreltia gritted her teeth and redoubled her efforts, the hate flowing freely, oh so freely –
Why is she not even looking at me! she howled internally.
Faylena – it was to gaze at Faylena that Kanthyre was looking aside.
“Do you stand by her?” the cleric roared over the snapping and sputtering of darkness upon light.
Faylena merely smiled thinly.
“So be it,” Kanthyre said.
She raised the mace, and swung it at Oreltia, only the once.
Oreltia wasn’t even struck by it, not bodily – as far as she could see with her eyes, it merely swept in a downwards arc through the air in front of her. Yards away.
She didn’t feel anything, but the physical effect of the spiritual blow was far greater than she’d anticipated. It was as though she’d been knocked down by a carriage – one moment she was emanating gouts of searing shadow, confronting her enemy head-on –
The next she was flat on her back, staring up at that boastful blue sky.
Not one single muscle responded to her; every part of her body was unfamiliar, unresponsive territory. She heard the cries of terror receding, becoming cries of awe, cheers.
“What of you, Miss Seabreeze?” she caught the new High Healer saying. The form of address wasn’t lost on her, and wouldn’t be lost on Faylena either.
Then – it was the strangest thing. The sound of Oreltia’s colleague sighing.
“Fourteen years.” Faylena didn’t actually sound that frustrated, but it could be inferred. “Fourteen years, wasted. It was all about the power to you, wasn’t it, Oreltia? Money, authority, all of the bowing and scraping – how banal all of your amusements have seemed to me, down the years. I sculpted you, perfected you, only to see you break at a young girl’s displeasure! Ah, you never could’ve hoped to comprehend the Mother’s goals – you were a useful tool, nothing more. In that at least this girl speaks truth; your soul will go screaming through the shadowland, and once your journey’s done, once you come home, you will be put in the furnace. I’ll even visit, ensure your comfort personally.”
Oreltia didn’t see what happened next, but she could infer it all the same, given her dreams. She heard the rush of feet as Kanthyre strode forwards, the hollow hiss of the black flame as it consumed Faylena –
Consumed her, not to destroy her but to remove her –
And then the instigator of this whole debacle was gone.
In the aftermath of her rival’s unholy escape, Oreltia heard many voices: some addressed her, and she couldn’t reply, couldn’t even croak a response; many more spoke of her. The babbling only seemed to increase, bigger and bigger crowds gathering in what seemed to be seconds.
She lay there paralysed, looking up at the blue winter sky, and knew that she was hated. Knew that she was reviled. Knew that her name would go down in history as a black mark, one never to bestow upon your child unless it carried the curse, the curse of Mother-Chaos and the fallen priestess of Wythyldwyn who’d once borne it to her doom.
“What will they do with her?” Kanthyre was saying in a low voice.
I know what they’ll do with me…
“She is a cultist.” Morrowost’s voice was wavering on the cusp of tears. “I – they’ll behead her, for certain… If I had only seen –”
“If the Maiden had shown you in advance, you would’ve died like those who disappeared. You wouldn’t have been able to keep it secret – that’s not your way, is it? You’re Sandanya, right? She’s shown you to me.”
“Sister Sandanya Morrowost, yes… High Healer.”
“Don’t hold back your tears, Sandanya. You weep not for the demon, but for the spirit it consumed. All people are good. All people are corruptible. Oreltia was a person once, and could be again… As to my new position, well – consult with the goddess at your leisure. None of the faithful who do so will be left in any doubt. It’s your own new position that’s going to cause you some alarm.”
“My… my own…? But I never wanted –”
“That’s part of why you’re going to be a perfect fit, I think. There’s going to be a lot of changes around here, unfortunately, and you’re going to have to help me make them. I’ve the strangest notion we’re about to lose almost all of the church leadership in a single evening. I mean, by resignations, of course…”
Kanthyre must’ve indicated Priestess Xalior and Lady Bhelios, because the two burst into exclamations of outrage.
Oreltia caught the Warden-Sister at the gate saying to herself in a hushed voice, “Praise the Maiden.”
“We’re going to heal the sick, for free,” Kanthyre was continuing, “aid the champions in Incursions, no matter where they take place… And you can start by spreading the word immediately that your healer’s rings are hexed, and must be purified in seven-stage light before they’re used again…”
How foolish is this girl! Oreltia exulted from her back. She dares speak openly of this, in front of so many? Who will trust her Church now?
She longed to laugh.
“… The Sisterhood of Mund has fallen so low, it has harboured acolytes of the Cult of the Night – in its upper ranks – for decades. We have abandoned our ways. No longer. I intend to set up talks with the chief priests of the other gods, to take place soon. It’s time we put things right in this city.”
There was a great deal of semi-suspicious murmuring from the crowd, but after a few seconds those listening seemed to approve of the new High Healer’s little speech. Applause broke out, and prayers were spoken – then prayers became hymns, and someone even found a flute; within a matter of moments it sounded like there was an impromptu inauguration ceremony going on right there in the street.
Oreltia closed her eyes on the bitter sky, felt the tears streak down the sides of her head just over her ears. She couldn’t sob – she could hardly move – but she could still cry.
An unknown amount of time later – it might’ve only been a minute or two since Kanthyre swung the mace at her, or it might’ve been a century – her replacement leant her head down over Oreltia, sun-dried hair swishing across her nose and cheeks. She opened her eyes, to see the cleric’s face right there, regarding Oreltia with the same nervous, upset gaze she’d worn when she’d first waddled up the street towards them.
“Oreltia.” The girl spoke so softly, she suspected only the two of them could hear her. “Oreltia, move your eyes up and down for yes, side to side for no. Are you capable of whatever it is your friend did to escape?”
Oreltia just stared.
“I have no interest in being part of your death!”
Well you should’ve thought about that sooner!
She continued to stare, hoping her hatred came through in her gaze, hoping the twisted smile made it partially onto her lips.
From the look of increasing horror on Kanthyre’s features, she thought it did.
Oreltia Overbrent comforted herself with that thought, that last vision of the usurper’s face, as she was hurled with no concern for her dignity into a cart, her knees and lower legs left exposed. She comforted herself with it as she was slung into a spell-warded cell. She even found comfort in it when her neck was pressed painfully into the wooden slot, the axe raised high above her head, so high she couldn’t see it.
Then it fell, and her soul was sent on its way, screaming into the shadowland as Lena promised, all thoughts of comfort left behind within the severed head, rolling across the planks in the fierce glare of the sun.