Chapter One:

The Schismatics

The northern zodiacs glimmered in the faint violet dawn, keeping watch over the distant mountains. It was just before the hour of sunwake. The Sands-Where-Greatdrakes-Prowl were still cool from the night, but there was light enough for travel. So it was that Novitiate Oxyria had purchased tickets scheduled for the train’s earliest departure, despite Novitiate Wyrethia’s complaints about the early rise.

The locomotive chugged along through the rocky badlands, billowing a long black tassel of smoke. It was guarded inside and out by the railroad company’s greatdrake wranglers, who scanned the land’s fissures for any signs of the amber drakes at play. The young drakes enjoyed the sport of chasing down and gnawing the caboose cars of passing trains during the spring moons. Their play-calls would mix with the shouts of both terror and amusement that rang out from the caboose passengers. For those entertained by firsthand danger, it was one of the few perks of riding in the caboose; most who rode the caboose did so because they could afford nothing else.

In this case, however, the train’s caboose car was packed, even beyond usual capacity restrictions. Persons of myriad castes and trades rode here – they had been desperate to take anything they could get. Had it not been for the train passing through greatdrake territory, many more would have hitched onto the outside of the car. Most of the riders were escapees from one Holy City or another. This train was southwest bound, and these escapees had come aboard seeking refuge in the colonies out there. Yet aboard the train, rumors of the schism’s ongoing violence circulated, dashing hopes left and right of finding peace. Every day, it seemed, another Holy City among the colonies had come under Cenotaphic attack. It was starting to sound like only the heart of Centheosia, and the church-empire’s outermost frontierlands, could hold fast against the schismatics. How long that would hold true was anyone’s guess.

Novitiate Wyrethia had hoped they’d get to ride caboose. He’d get the chance to see a greatdrake attack, maybe even join the wrangler crews in fighting the beasts. And while he was out actually having fun, he figured Oxyria could listen in on the rumors, gather info or something, since she always insisted on working nonstop wherever they went. Plus, she’d get to save money on tickets. It was a win-win, right?

Novitiate Oxyria had denied him this, to his great annoyance. She got them tickets for one of the middle cars. Not the cheapest, but there they had a private room, with a locking door. They would need it – for any onlooker would see plain that they were armed combatants.

The two Novitiates sat across from one another, watching the tapestry of the badlands through the window. With neither greatdrakes nor the forward cars’ performers for a distraction from their worries, they had to take what they could get.

Novitiate Oxyria, the leader of the duo (by her own unanimous nomination and vote), was a young woman, taller than Novitiate Wyrethia by a small measure. Her dark ruby hair was kept in a neck-length bun. Not a hair misplaced, the picture of order – with the exception of the skyward-pointing cowlick atop her head. Nothing, not even a habit, could make it bow. However, it made her seem taller, so she embraced it. Wyrethia looked a mess in comparison; he would not have appeared to be cut from the same cloth as the orderly Oxyria, had he not been wearing the same style of monastic robe as her. His pink-gray hair, despite all the efforts of Oxyria and the well-meaning Sisters of their Abbey, tangled about his head, threatening to blind him if he didn’t keep his bangs parted. They both hailed from the People of the Desert.

Both Novitiates wore the blessed dark robes of the Cenotaph, which had earned them many sideways glares from their fellow travelers. The Cenotaph’s highest echelons had issued a dispensation for all its adherents to disguise themselves when crossing unfriendly territory. Oxyria, ever burning with zeal, had rejected this, and wore the labels of schismatic and heretic as a crown of honor. Wyrethia would have liked to follow the dispensation, but a disguise would have been rather useless with him following Oxyria.

The Sands-Where-Greatdrakes-Prowl was once a colony of the Centheosian church-empire. But, even after the Cenotaph forcibly liberated the Sands, the majority of the native inhabitants insisted on standing independent from both the imperial church and the rebel heretics. Mass protests followed the Cenotaph’s bloody coup, and the people of the Sands ousted the Cenotaph’s provisional government – far more peaceably than the way the heretics had deposed the region’s god-king. Both Centheosian colonial loyalists and Cenotaphic rebels were still permitted to come and go, but had to do so in peace, and were bound by strict treaties and weapon regulations.

And so, the Novitiates’ weapons sat nearby, in their luggage. At Oxyria’s side was a small, well-maintained leather case, bound with three locks, all in accordance with both spirit and letter of the law (for even if she found it meet to reject a dispensation, there was something about a written law that she found herself driven to obey). Inside the case was a leather codex, resembling a hymnal – except its pages were all blank. It was bespoke, commissioned for this very expedition. Across Wyrethia’s lap sat a long, battered leather bag, held with only one cheap lock (for this was about as close as he ever got to following laws he found bothersome). It carried his shortspear. Weapon regulations were a pain to work with, but until the Sands fell back under the Cenotaph’s banner – one way or another – he’d just have to live with it.

Wyrethia peeked through the room’s curtain to survey the other passengers. Among the greatdrake wranglers guarding this car was a mixture of displaced tradesmen, scattered families – and a handful of Centheosia’s pilgrim-supplicants. No group held many possessions, save a few bags or bedrolls, a divine idol or codex, whatever they had the wherewithal to grab as they fled the violence of the Holy Cities.

The sight of Centheosia’s devout made Wyrethia tense his arms, and he thumbed the grips of his spear through the leather bag. These were, only seven years ago, their brothers and sisters in faith. The Cenotaph had been busy with revolution, and lacked time and luxury to fully differentiate their conventions from those of Centheosia. The two churches still used the same style of robes, most of them hand-me-downs, patched and threadbare in places. If a battle were to break out on the train, it would be a coin-toss as to who among the passengers would be friend or foe. Oxyria had to have known that Centheosian devotees would be on this train, didn’t she? Treaties, laws and regulations were just paper, at the end of the day. Was Oxyria looking for a fight?

“No, but we would win if it came to that,” she said. “Peace be with you.”

Oh, that’s a relief…

“W-wait, I didn’t say that out loud!” Wyrethia protested. Had she read his mind? Weren’t her dwellings all related to that book of hers? She’s not one of those psykonics, is she…?

“I’m not; it was just plain upon your face,” Oxyria said. “You have never been able to keep a secret, not from me, at least.”

Oh, that’s worrisome…

Wyrethia sniffed the air, glanced through the window of the door, and grimaced in dismay. The food-cart had passed them by while he had withered under the thought of having to accompany a mind-reader. He gripped his spear through its bag, tilting it so that the very tip of the spear’s jeweled pommel poked through a small hole in the bag’s corner seam. He cracked open the door, and tapped the pommel to the carpet that covered the train car’s central aisle. Without flash or flourish, the carpet instantly turned about; the only indication was that the pattern printed upon the carpet had reversed. The server, who had been pushing the food-cart down the hallway, was turned about along with it. The server walked a few paces more before she stopped with a confused frown. Wyrethia had already hidden his spear, and he waved her over.

“Stay within the budget,” Oxyria adjured him.

“Uh-huh,” Wyrethia said. Really, that was her concern, not him visiting dwellings upon the public? It was kind of a violation of church ethics, and wasn’t she all about those?

“That’s bad, yes,” Oxyria answered.

“Would you quit that!?” Wyrethia grumbled.

“But of course that’s secondary to my main concern,” Oxyria continued with a frown. “This money has to last us until the Knights-Penitent send us more.”

“Yeah, and they gave us those shells so we could spend ‘em, not let ‘em collect dust.”

Oxyria looked like she meant to argue further, but as the food-cart drew near, she could not help but turn her nose toward it. The steaming coffee-pot caught her eye more than anything else. By the way Oxyria eyed the ceramicware, Wyrethia sensed that the throbbing headache that she had endured for the last two days hadn’t abated. He asked the server for the menu so Oxyria could blame her broken fast on him. She grimaced, but a light in her eyes told him she was glad for his service as scapegoat. They argued back and forth for a little time over what to order, what was and wasn’t in the budget. The server sighed and waited.

“It’s simple arithmetic, we can’t afford to get used to eating so well,” Oxyria said, after shooting down Wyrethia’s suggestions.

“What? C’mon, that’s not true,” Wyrethia insisted. “And don’t say ‘a-rith-mah-tick’ when ‘math’ works just fine! Fine, look at it this way: This could be one of the last days we’ll have a chance to pig out.”

The server shuddered and cursed under her breath at the words, last days. Wyrethia winced, realizing too late his faux pas. He had meant his words in reference to the journey ahead of them, all the dried food lousy with salt and the tinned food dripping cheap oil they’d have to sup on. But the times had given an unavoidable double meaning to his already pessimistic statement: The collapse of Centheosia, and with it, the collapse of the Epoch of the Gods. Social anxieties giving rise to rumors of the end times, the last days. The proliferation of apocalyptic cults, elevating those rumors into prophecies soon to be fulfilled. For many, being frugal with their money seemed a worthless endeavor, leading them to splurge on what could be their last meals, their final small joys, what with the world about to–

“Enough,” Oxyria said with a leer. “We’ll eat here on our way back home, so save some money for then.”

She reached for her pack, and withdrew the communal coinpurse. Despite her reprimand, it was Wyrethia’s victory. Oxyria bought them two burrowbird sandwiches, a gold-choco wafer each, and – more tantalizing than the chocolate – a spot of dreamherb tea for him, and a mug of bitter, powerful coffee for herself. Wyrethia tipped the server from his own pocket money, both in apology for him using his dwelling upon her, and for the uncomfortable reminder of the world’s woes.

*** * ***

The train pulled into the station before the Novitiates could finish their breakfast, so they wrapped what remained of their meals in kerchiefs, downed their drinks, and disembarked once most of the other passengers had departed. They stepped onto the old wooden platform, and beheld their destination – the vast, walled mountain town of Singing Waterfalls. The great town was all built into the side of a mountain that bore the same name, and consisted chiefly of structures of lumber and stone. Mechanical lift systems, bridges and switchback roads connected the town’s many terraced strata. Donkeys hauled carriages over designated streets built with grooves for their wheels. At many junctions, there awaited caravaneers who sought to make a little money offering rides across town to weary refugees.

The Novitiates proceeded through the inspection station, where the town sheriff and his deputies verified the containment of their weapons, and their lack of firearms. The sheriff’s men eyed their Cenotaphic symbols with displeasure, but lacking any legal grounds to detain them, the lawmen waved them through.

They walked to a fountain plaza, and Oxyria stopped them at a bench, where the sunwake light was visible over the eastern ridges. She produced from her bag a small parcel. Inside was a letter, as well as a sketched town map. Though both sheets of papyrus were not especially old, they had been worn down by the amount of reading and re-reading they had endured after their arrival at the Abbey. Oxyria read them yet again, and with displeasure confirmed their destination: The Sanctuary of the Infirm, run by the local Branch of the Mending Hands.

In other words: The lair of a devil-woman, a Centheosian Occultress. A dread sorceress, one infamous for her accomplishments in the imperial mission, who had corrupted the holy men and women of the Cenotaph, who had made martyrs of many others. One who commanded wicked spirits, who cursed and blessed with the might of the dreadful gods. The letter and the map that Oxyria held had come from this very Occultress to the Cenotaphic Abbey that the Novitiates called home. The Occultress’s proposition had been approved by the Abbot – and now the Novitiates were here, armed and blessed by the Knights-Penitent, to fulfill the Cenotaph’s end of the bargain.

Oxyria’s mouth bent with reflexive disgust. But she repressed it, for they – indeed, all the Cenotaph – had a holy mission, whose gravity eclipsed the Novitiates’ individual reservations, their health and their selfish lives. Oxyria formed the first of the meditative logoi with her ring finger and thumb, then sighed, adjusted her pack, and gestured to Wyrethia, urging him in silence to follow her once more. She made for an upward road, per the guidance of the map.

Though Oxyria’s headache was probably gone by now, Wyrethia could see that she was more tense than she had been on the train. And why shouldn’t she be? It’d be the first time in a while he’d seen her have a sensible reaction to anything. He winced, expecting backlash for this thought too, but while Oxyria gritted her teeth, she said nothing. Perhaps she agreed with him. The fact that Singing Waterfalls was neutral ground between the imperial and the rebel church meant nothing at the street level. The sheriff and most of his men were stuck at the inspection station, for the new arrivals were as numerous as sand. The lawmen wouldn’t be free to patrol and enforce treaties. If someone jumped them, they’d be on their own. Oxyria looked around, and seeing no lawmen about, she loosened the locks on her hymnal’s bag – disobedience to the law of a state, for the sake of obedience to the greater law of the Apostates, so she rationalized. Wyrethia did the same, turning aside to hide his grin, needing neither law nor rationalization.

They continued to walk onward. Wyrethia had slowed his pace – just by a hair, knowing that Oxyria was intent on making haste. He hung back to gauge the town’s atmosphere. Like in other towns they had visited on their journey here, the townsfolk were caught in a peculiar limbo. The word of the violence besetting the Holy Cities was enormous, both the credible reports and the rumors. Yet those troubles were distant, and the mundane troubles of life in the badlands were close. Hunger and thirst, harsh sunlight, wind-blown dust that made mud out of sweat. Some believed the world was near to ending, but that didn’t ease the sore knees and aching backs of laborers, nor change that debtors and landlords would come by week’s end to demand their supposed due.

As they continued to walk, Wyrethia observed a number of refugees who had turned to begging for aid. The young and old, separated from their families. The injured, who had survived attacks by bandits – or zealots. The displaced, and the desperate. Some sat at busy corners with alms bowls, many of which were improvised, like tattered ranchero hats or half-broken stoneware. He slowed his pace a little more, invoked the saints to distract Oxyria, and dropped a shell or two each into the bowls they passed. But the saints did not, or perhaps could not hide him from Oxyria, and she heard the money leave his hand. A worry gripped her stomach. Their budget was tight, and it would only get tighter as the journey went on. She worried of supplies to purchase, toll roads to pay, ransoms and bribes, if need be.

Then, those worries twisted into guilt. The woes of the world were ancient, and ever-present. And yet who could deny now that the miseries of the people around them were the Cenotaph’s doing? Such evils, wrought under the pretense of freedom– Heresy! Oxyria castigated herself. Her eyes widened and breathing quickened, as the impulse fell like lightning through her. It was Centheosia who took captive and exploited these people, Centheosia who forced the Cenotaph’s hand… But they will be our responsibility when we have liberated them. So she answered to the devils of doubt and weak faith. She blinked as rapid as her heart thumped, but she began to breathe in the method of the seventh logos… and the devils left her. The guilt receded, but only a little.

She saw a young pauper sitting with an older one. A sun-burnt little brother, and a rail-thin older child, by the looks of them. She dropped three coins into their cup. The little brother said something to her, but she had already turned away, unable to meet his gaze. Wyrethia gave the siblings a wave and a kind reply as he followed after her.

Over broad mainroads the two Novitiates walked for some hours, and they made their way to the narrower roads of the older districts, ascending the strata of the mountain. The first inhabitants of the town had made their original abodes here. The older the areas, so too were they poorer, less repaired and less populous. The sounds of the town below faded. Silence pressed in where once they could hear life. The town’s chimes rang from far below, heralding the hour of suncrest, but the Novitiates felt little warmth from the light. They at last turned down an alleyway, where the shade left them even colder. Soon, the two stopped dead in their tracks. They beheld a certain adobe hostel, with an ikon-marked doorway. Above the doorway was a signboard. Though the sign’s paint had faded from wind and rain and age, the characters were etched deep, and faintly visible even from a distance. It read, “The Sanctuary of the Infirm; Branch of the Daughters of Tjorna, est. EG 1368.” Faint protective ikons adorned the name, carved in the simple Centheosian method. Wyrethia took little notice of the ikons or their style, but Oxyria was more versed. Such ikons were often erroneously called the “simplified” style, suggesting a lineage from an older and nobler system. Yet the simple pictographs had come first, and the so-called “liturgical” system preferred by Centheosian aristocracy had been a later development. The wooden signboard before them bore its original, simple etchings, refreshed in recent days with a little paint. The sign was nearing its three hundredth year of service. The power of the old ikons was still palpable, thrilling the air about them. A ward against evil spirits and the schemes of wicked men. The Sanctuary’s facade, despite some damage, stood tall, as if the adobe itself held a vital spirit. The windows were clear, and the door was sturdy. Overall, it was… well, a little unremarkable in itself, and really only noteworthy by comparison to the dilapidation of the nearby establishments, which were scantly populated, and less well-maintained. The Sanctuary was perhaps so mundane as to disappoint the zealous youths who stood outside it. Despite this, neither Novitiate approached the door. They wore blessed robes, blessed medallions, blessed weapons, all for their protection against the wicked servants of the occulted divines. But, now that they stood outside the lair of the blood-soaked Occultress, the two felt themselves exposed and unarmed, even before so ordinary a building.

Wyrethia cleared his throat, and started to speak, but caught himself as his voice cracked on the first syllable. His ears and chest burnt hot with embarrassment, but Oxyria said nothing. A sip of water later, Wyrethia tried again. “It’s… mere superstition to fear the workings of an Occultress,” he said, paraphrasing a half-remembered snippet from their catechism; he seldom studied it, but kept a handful of phrases he thought useful, like spare change. “Her power can only hurt us if we give it authority through our belief… right? Uh, besides, she invited us, and the Knights-Penitent approved. They wouldn’t just send us off to die for nothing.”

Oxyria shuddered, and for a moment, said nothing. Wyrethia was surprised. Usually when he got church teachings only half-right, Oxyria was quick to correct him with the very words from the page. But then, she braced herself, forming with her shivering fingertips another of the meditative logoi. “Right,” she said. “Guess you did look at the primer I wrote you.”

Huh? She wrote me a prim– “Er, of course I did,” he lied.

Oxyria let this one slide. With a deep breath… she pushed upon the heavy wooden door. The door opened… though it seemed to take an age. And beyond it, there seemed to be nothing but darkness, as far as they could see, for their eyes were slow to adjust. Once more, hesitation stayed their feet. Until– “Ah.”

A young woman’s soft, airy voice drifted from the shadows, and found them.

“How good. At last, we can get started. The murderers have finally arrived.”

*** * ***

Neither Novitiate acknowledged the accusation, and instead they scanned the hostel’s common room once they could see the candlelight within. The commons was filled with many tables, benches and chairs. Moth-bitten cushions and cloths covered them. There was little consistency to the furniture, whether in the make or the age, suggesting it had been acquired piecemeal over the years, taken from donations or the discarded. Thick lumber stringers supported the ceiling, and they were etched with more Centheosian ikons. Some were indwellings to keep away rot and pests, and others were graffiti. There was a stairway to the second floor in one corner. A trapdoor to the basement was in the far corner. Near it was a kitchen, separated from the commons by a wall with a long opening and a countertop. Beyond it, Oxyria heard muffled voices, the clatter of cookery – must have been the kitchen’s staff. The front room was lit by a small number of candles in cheap crystalware. They were spread apart across the commons so as to stretch out their light coverage in spite of their small number.

At last, the two Novitiates willed themselves to look straight ahead, at the figures who sat at the round table in the room’s center. There, they saw the one who had called them – a woman clad in a poncho, a coarse belt, and a boot-length skirt. Her clothes were all of such a deep black shade that it seemed it was woven without seam from the very night itself.

The Occultress.

Oxyria’s hand receded into her sleeve, and she gesticulated one of the logoi for protection.

Though the Occultress’s voice had given the impression that she was not much older than them, the flickering candlelight sharpened the lines around her mouth, and beneath her dark eyes. Her hip-length hair seemed to have once been as black as her clothing, but it now went gray, and the waves it formed around her head seemed like an old, unraveling bird’s nest. Like the Novitiates, she appeared to hail from the People of the Desert. She was flanked by two men, one who sat at her left hand, the other at her right.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

“Do you think…” Wyrethia at last forced himself to say, after some mental rehearsal. “...We could get some more candles lit? It’s kind of gloomy in here.”

“We’re in lean times,” the Occultress said. “But I think this lends a more appropriate atmosphere, so my answer would have been ‘no’ anyway.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” Wyrethia said. He glanced sidelong at Oxyria. The devil-woman had taken the initiative when she called them out at the threshold. He failed just now to regain it. Now it was Oxyria’s turn to try. But, she was busy sizing up the Occultress’s companions.

At the Occultress’s right hand sat a stout man with a beard, bright eyes, and arms toughened by thick scars. He looked younger than the Occultress, but still older than the Novitiates. He dressed in the hardy shirt, trousers and moccasins common to the People of the Clouds. What marked him strange was the peculiar cloak he wore, crimson and gold-trimmed, yet tattered. The cloak was clearly of an eastern gentry make, no doubt hailing from a long way away. He kept a club wrought from a monster’s bone at his side in a rough leather holster. Being kept out like that violated local weapon treaties… but Oxyria could guess that few lawmen would be willing to approach him and demand this to be rectified.

At the Occultress’s left hand – the Novitiates froze as they beheld the broad-brimmed hat that rested on the table near the second man. There was a crest in silver adorning it, depicting six crimson swords, and one white, crossing around an ash tree in an astral pattern.

This man was a veteran of the Deicide.

And answering to a damned Occultress, no less…! Oxyria thought.

The man was of a towering stature, and wore a vaquero-knight’s poncho, once colored by the same patterns and blessings of the Cenotaph as the Novitiates’ robes, though his had long since faded beneath sun exposure and wind. His trousers and boots were old and scuffed, and a bandanna hid most of him from shoulders to chin, although he looked to be of the People of the Steppes. He carried no visible weapons, but wore gauntlets upon his hands, despite there being no battle here. The gauntlets paired with the silver crest gave the Novitiates a terrible inkling of the man’s identity. Oxyria tried to hold on to her slipping composure, gritting her teeth. How could a Venerable – a Living Saint! – sit beside this wretched...

“Did you want to take a seat?” the Occultress asked. She waved a hand, and the chairs on the Novitiates’ side of the table scooted out, pushed by an unseen force. “Or is standing around awkwardly part of the Novitiates’ training these days?”

Oxyria barely managed to suppress a retort. Then, after a moment more of hesitation, she blessed the chair and sat. Wyrethia did so as well.

“Can I offer you anything?” the Occultress asked. “Water, perhaps? It’s already pretty hot this morning. That’s springtide for you.”

“We’re fine,” Oxyria said. Wyrethia, however, stole a glance at the menu-board above the counter.

“I see,” the Occultress said. “Well, since you two are our last arrivals, we had to put off the big group meeting for you, so why don’t you give your introductions first? Take the cold opening to make the lost time up to us,” she added with a laugh.

“Very well,” Oxyria said. “But we’re going to give our religious names. I am Novitiate Oxyria of the Cenotaph.”

“And I’m Novitiate Wyrethia, also of the Cenotaph,” Wyrethia said.

“Now,” Oxyria said. “Regarding your lett–”

“Sister Ox and Brother Weird,” the Occultress laughed. “Got it. Nice to meet you. I’m–”

“Gah!” Sister Ox snapped. The Occultress’s unexpected jab had pierced the tension that the girl had held in her chest for the week she had prepared for this very confrontation. “Huh!? Nice to meet you!? Neither of those are our names or titles!”

Brother Weird couldn’t help but laugh. “I dunno, don’t they kinda suit us?”

“N-not in the slightest!” Sister Ox stammered. “Naming something is the first step to controlling it! In the name of the Cenotaph we rebuke these names!”

“Fine, fine,” Novitiate Wyrethia sighed.

“Sister Strong-as-an-Ox, then?” the Occultress suggested.

“I completely rebuke it,” Sister Strong-as-an-Ox snorted.

“I think that one was more of a compliment…” Wyrethia said, but Novitiate Oxyria had already returned to her facade of composure, and she did not even acknowledge him.

“It honestly was,” the Occultress said. “Besides, your names are awfully similar, y’know. Ox-y-ri-a, Wyr-eth-i-a. Four syllables, both ending in ‘ia.’ Ja, I think it’d be better to differentiate, don’t ya agree?”

“We are here…” Oxyria grumbled, with a twitching eye. “...On account of the summons you sent us, not to collect unsolicited nicknames.”

“Oh well,” the Occultress sighed. “Gosh, zero for six. Nobody’s liked my nicknames so far.”

“Six?” Wyrethia asked, and did a headcount. “There were two others besides us?”

“Yep,” the Occultress answered. “A Centheosian Magister and her Acolyte were supposed to be here. They arrived yesterday, way ahead of schedule. However, they decided to proceed ahead at their own pace, following certain disagreements we had. But, I have a feeling we’ll see them again soon, so don’t put them out of your mind. We can all still be friends.”

The Novitiates frowned at this suggestion.

“But before we get to my companions,” the Occultress continued. “I’m overdue for my introduction, as both our host and your guide.”

She gave a smile, and waved as if she were greeting an old friend. “You can also have my religious name. I am called High Priestess Nacta, in persona of the Mending Hands of the Sanctuary of the Infirm, Leaf of the Branch of the Daughters of Tjorna. It’s a mouthful, so just call me Nacta. High Priestess if you’re feeling fancy. With you being from the Cenotaph, and me from Centheosia, I guess this makes me your big sister in faith, Novitiates!”

Wyrethia narrowed his eyes, while Oxyria clenched both her hands in the second meditative logos, trying to keep herself aligned. The two Novitiates tensed as this unsavory association. They corrected her silently – Occultress Nacta, no sister of theirs.

Wyrethia stood, and Oxyria suppressed a small gasp, fearing he was about to do something dangerous. But, he just went to the counter to place an order. Oxyria forgot him for now, and held the Occultress’s even gaze. She set her jaw, and kept her breathing slow, yet her mind ran wild with questions. Who was this, this Occultress, who could sit so calmly next to an old hero of the Cenotaph – a slayer of Centheosia’s wicked gods?

As if on cue…

“Y’know,” Wyrethia said, as he sat back down. “You call yourself our ‘big sister,’ but I have to wonder: When we arrived, you called us ‘the murderers’…” Wyrethia looked at the Vaquero-Knight sitting at the Occultress’s left hand. He prayed this Living Saint would forgive the irreverence, and continued. “…Even though you have Venerable Sir Creosote the Dismantler sitting at your left. Wouldn’t that make us ‘the rest of the murderers’ or ‘the other murderers’ or something like that? Surely you of all people would know the Venerable’s accomplishments…”

The man of towering statue – the Venerable – offered no reaction to Wyrethia speaking about him so. His eyes were set on the mug before him, a dark drink swirling within.

“Indeed,” Oxyria said, finally energized enough to take the opening Wyrethia had cut. “The Cenotaph has anathematized and declared void the priestly orders of Centheosia. Any who still revere the gods, living or dead, are guilty of the heresy of worship. It is the great heroes of the Cenotaph – heroes like Venerable Sir Creosote – who are liberating us from the gods, Occultress.”

“Right,” Wyrethia added. “You called us murderers, but neither of us has had the pleasure of killing your gods. Guess we were too late to the party, Occultress.”

High Priestess Nacta did not stir, appearing unmoved by the Novitiates’s provocations. These young adults might as well have been children sticking out their tongues, for all it bothered her. However, the Novitiates were clearly not so calm as her. Nacta watched Oxyria’s hands, folded so tight together as to make her fingertips burn bright red. She could hear Wyrethia driving his boot against the floorboards to keep himself from shivering. Nacta’s gaze softened, and she noticed Oxyria grimace for it. The lack of hatred in the High Priestess’s eyes was an insult to the young zealot.

“Hmm,” Nacta said. “I suppose you do look somewhat young to have participated in the Deicide… but I wonder if that means you haven’t killed in other circumstances. Is the Cenotaph still training you two on small animals?”

The Novitiates burned for a moment… but restrained themselves. They realized only now how easily this Occultress could reach her claws into their heads, and yank whatever reaction she wanted out of their mouths.

“Ah, don’t worry,” Nacta continued, trampling upon their silence. “The Sanctuary has never once turned away a soul, be they thief, heretic or murderer. But to answer your earlier question: My buddy Credo here has allowed me to introduce him.”

The Novitiates’ restraint slipped, and scowls showed through.

“Venerable Sir Creosote the Dismantler!” Nacta announced, spreading her arms wide like an ecstatic homilist. “The sole survivor of one of the deadliest raids of the Deicide: The assault on the Beldam of the Wastes – or the Protectress of the Trampled Lands, as she was worshiped by us of Centheosia. Despite being the only one to walk away from that slaughter, Creosote prevailed with not so much as a single injury. What a legendary victory!”

Oxyria and Wyrethia furtively exchanged glances, then observed the expressionless Sir Creosote. The summary was just as the Cenotaph canonized it in the Record of Martyrs. Yet somehow, hearing the Occultress declare the very same story made the tale sound like heresy.

“Such a legendary victory… is an entirely impossible outcome,” Nacta continued. “Given what we know of the Protectress’s immeasurable hallowed power. Not even a man as mighty as Sir Creosote could have hoped to survive that confrontation unscathed. Therefore, he had no hand in the murder of this goddess. As far as I and my brothers and sisters are concerned, he is entirely innocent. He is no god-killer.”

The Novitiates – stopped breathing.

Nacta paused to think, tapping a finger against her chin. “But I wonder how he did it… hmm, perhaps he ran away?”

Oxyria launched to her feet, as did Wyrethia, the two grabbing for the knives upon the table. But then, the two Novitiates, each seeing the other quite on the verge of losing their mind at an Occultress, regained a little sense, and each twisted so as to restrain their companion instead. The two ended up a sorry tangle of hands and elbows and knees. Somehow they even managed to headbutt each other. All to keep the other from starting a fight in the hostel… a fight that would have surely ended in their deaths. Or, worse than death – the failure of their quest.

Sir Creosote silently raised his mug to sip his coffee.

With a gasp, the Novitiates untangled themselves, wearing embarrassed grimaces. Nacta, who had not even flinched, just shrugged.

The bearded, bright-eyed man sitting at Nacta’s right hand at last released a deep laugh. “What a spirited crowd you have gathered, High Priestess. Though, not belonging to religion myself, I cannot help but feel like the odd one out.”

“The sad fact is that you are,” Nacta said. “Though, even the very saints themselves required an outsider’s perspective to complete the trials of their beatification. So, please feel welcome to introduce yourself.”

“Very well,” the man said. He puffed his chest, and leaned forward. “I am Vireo tal Raz, and called also the Namebreaker. I journeyed here, alongside the aforementioned Magister and her Acolyte, to answer the High Priestess’s summons. Now, even though those two went off ahead of us, you may rest assured that I will match your pace.”

As the Novitiates returned their greetings to Vireo, a server came forth from the kitchen, and sat a bowl of stew, a mug of tea, and cut potato wedges before Wyrethia. Oxyria balked at the food with disbelief, though whether she was more frustrated about the budget or stupefied by his appetite, Wyrethia could not tell. Oxyria stole a potato wedge at once, blessed it and ate it, for spuds were one of a very few temptations Oxyria had always found insurmountable to resist. Nacta reached for one too, but stopped short when Oxyria shot her a deadly glare. Nacta backed away, with her hands up in a gesture of surrender, and a small smirk.

As the server refreshed the others’ drinks, Nacta nodded. “So then, with all that finally done, let’s get to business. As I promised you earlier, Vireo, I’ll start with a little history...

“Almost sixteen hundred years ago began the Epoch of the Gods. One hundred beloved divine souls, heralded by the sacred Leviathan and his prophets, set foot upon the lands, the seas, and the skies. What they found of our world was a wasteland of chaos and disorder, where the elements and the ten directions distorted, twisting without reason; where neither the bodies nor the spirits of the dead found rest, roaming without end; where demons clothed themselves in flesh and blood, hunting man and beast without mercy. An ancient annihilation left our world that way – a cataclysmic war waged by monsters we call the Tyrants of Old. We know little about them save what the gods attested of them. Our world was but a brief stop to the Tyrants, upon which they one day crashed, and rent with their weapons and gouged with their chariots and upended with their revelries – before they left, as sudden as they appeared, chasing one another to yet more distant battlefields among the stars.”

Nacta paused to sample her tea. “That is, at least, the history we of Centheosia, and our zealous little siblings of the Cenotaph, manage to agree upon.

“The gods, in their infinite power and lovingkindness, set about to reforge the chaos left behind by the Tyrants’ rampage, beginning in the Heartland, far to the east, where they planted the seeds of the church-empire. Humanity, in our due awe, formed priestly orders, to which arose those best gifted to offer our eternal gratitude to our goddess-queens and god-kings, and in turn to carry their will to all the corners of the earth. There was, of course, some initial disarray… But after the heretics, traitors and corrupt had been sifted out, Holy Centheosia emerged as the universal faith. You can trace the journey of the gods across the world by the Holy Cities which we founded in their wake. The Holy Empire of Centheosia is a patchwork of uncountable miracles, mended by the gods’s benevolent handiwork. Yet even after 1,600 years, there are yet frontiers we must reach, countries and seas we must cross, wounds we must mend...”

High Priestess Nacta threw a glare like a dagger across the table, and Oxyria and Wyrethia flinched, as if it were a real blade. Vireo smirked with amusement.

“These two, Vireo,” Nacta continued. “Belong to a breakaway cult which believed a different tale altogether, a tale that drove them to break troth with Centheosia – turning holy weapons against the very ones who blessed them. Well, let’s hear it, children, this tale compelling enough to inspire murder.”

The Novitiates swallowed hard, but even when under the High Priestess’s dark glare, they had far less fear now than they had at the front door. They were wholly prepared for this part at least. It was a story they knew well – even Wyrethia, who was no man of letters, took interest in it. Novitiate Oxyria sat herself up as straight and tall as she could manage, and recited from the memorized verses.

“We do not disagree that the gods shaped this world,” Oxyria began. “Yet for all the talk of the Tyrants, you left out certain testaments which emerged from these ancient days. These began with Centheosia itself – instructions for sacrifices due to each god in their kind and after their nature. But, within the past hundred years, all across the Holy Cities and the lands they rule, the sacrifices stopped calling for firstfruits, jewels and perfect livestock, and started calling for the blood, the flesh, and the lives – of humans. The people were hesitant to obey – some even refused. And the miracles of the gods, upon which the prosperity of the Holy Cities depended, ceased to manifest.”

“That all started what we now call the Record of Martyrs,” Wyrethia said, jumping to his favorite part. “The loyal priesthood had their hands full coming up with all kinds of reasons for why the offerings of old changed, and why the riches and victories of ‘the good old days’ had run dry. But soon, a few of the most devout surrendered themselves, and so the priesthood whipped up monuments and a cultus to honor these first sacrifices. Of course, you ate through your volunteers pretty quick – so you had to resort to force. Coercion and bribery. Lotteries of supposed divine selection. Even abductions and war captives taken from conquered people.”

As Wyrethia ranted, Oxyria’s gaze drifted to the side, and darkened – something Nacta did not fail to notice.

“Soon enough,” Wyrethia continued. “Centheosian janissaries made sure people stopped questioning why it was necessary in the first place. But some of us couldn’t help but still wonder: Was it a lack of faith from the people that miracles ran dry when sacrifices were slow coming, or was it just that the gods had grown weak, and put the burden on humanity?”

“The answer was the latter,” Oxyria continued, regaining her focus. “As the first heroes of the Cenotaph learned seven years ago, when Saint Forgone, enraged by the selection of his daughter for sacrifice – snuck into the ceremony, then arose and slew the very god-king who sought to revive himself with his daughter’s heartflesh. The god-king fell, and his heart transfigured, becoming a peculiar, and powerful relic. Seven priests witnessed this and were converted, repenting of the priesthood to become the first Apostates of the Cenotaph. Saint Forgone gave his life to protect the Apostates as they escaped from the mob of believers, and they escaped with the relic. The Apostates discerned the relic to be the source of the god-king’s supposed divine power. And so began the revolution, wherein the Cenotaph exposed the gods as nothing more than mortal men and women empowered by these relics, who had turned tyrant in their own right. So began the Deicide.”

Vireo hummed with thought. This bloody cosmogony was foreign to his nation, had come from the far eastern imperial thearchy – along with their conquering gods. His expression was only of mild interest, and did not betray whether or not he believed either story.

High Priestess Nacta sighed. “Sixteen centuries of divine order and imperial civilization. All butchered and mangled in less than a decade. Well, everything’s going alright now that the Cenotaph’s on a killing spree across the continent, isn’t it?”

“Of course not,” Novitiate Oxyria said. “What remains now is to gather the relics of the god-kings and goddess-queens, and…”

“And?” Nacta prodded, leaning forward with a grin. “And…? You don’t quite know, do you? When your cult gathers every last piece of the divine regalia, and brings them together, what’s going to happen?”

Oxyria and Wyrethia sat back, and looked at one another. But unwilling to surrender, Oxyria looked back at Nacta. “The Apostates will declare it, when it is known.”

“Oh, I’m sure they will,” Nacta said. “They love proclaiming the truth, don’t they? Perhaps the whole world will end, or the Apostates will just make gods of themselves? Hey, don’t give me that dirty look, little sister. Trust me, Centheosia doesn’t know either. It’s the end of the Epoch of the Gods! Anything could happen. Certain Branches of Centheosia have had their own notions of what the end of the Epoch would look like, but certainly none of them thought it would end like this. Most figured that one god or another would bring about some sort of final tribulation against the chaos of the world – but renewal was assumed to follow. The idea that a cult of thugs and murderers would ruin everything for everyone makes for a rotten eschatology.”

“The idle speculation can wait,” Oxyria said. “There’s something I want to know before we go any further. Why you, Occultress, wrote a letter to the Cenotaph – offering to help us ‘thugs’ and ‘murderers’ find one of the relics of the gods.”

As she said this, Oxyria produced the letter of summons and the drawn map of Singing Waterfalls. “You wrote specifically to our Abbey, requesting two Novitiates. We couldn’t believe the stamp and seal were genuine. I take it you sent similar letters to everyone else here… You’ve surrounded yourself with enemies, and the only two who could be said to be on your side – the Magister and the Acolyte – they just… sallied forth? As if they weren’t leaving you at our mercy? Just what were you thinking?”

High Priestess Nacta burst out laughing, and nearly snorted too. Her laughing quieted down after awhile, and as it did, Wyrethia thought he saw the Occultress stealing narrow glances at Vireo…

“Okay, gosh, one question at a time,” Nacta finally said. “Well, in order of asking… Tjorna, the goddess-queen of my devotion and ordination – the original Mending Hands herself – has already been murdered by your cult. Most of my Branch has subsequently dissolved and scattered, some to other Branches, others to seek vengeance, others still to parts unknown… all bound to die in obscurity.”

Her gaze drifted downward to the empty space upon the table before her. “Personally, I don’t see much point in just sputtering out like those pessimists. It’s not easy to sift through the rumors and propaganda for the truth… but from what I’m hearing, the Cenotaph just might seize victory in this schismatic war. So, I suppose I’m just a coward trying to secure her place in the new order. I see the way the wind’s blowing, and I’m putting in my lot with the winning side. Is that so implausible in wartime?”

Oxyria and Wyrethia leered at her, disbelief plain in their eyes.

“And I’ve got just the bargaining chip to guarantee my safety,” Nacta continued. “I know where one of the divine relics can be found. The god who bore it has already been slain… but so too were the assassins. The Cenotaph murdered the divine, but failed to recover the relic, and lost its location in the process. The hard part’s done for us, we just need to pick up the pieces.”

The Novitiates were still silent, until at last, Wyrethia chanced a look at the other men at the table. “You two… er, pardon my impertinence, Sir Creosote, but where do you both stand on all this?”

Vireo glanced at Sir Creosote, to see if the Vaquero-Knight would speak, yet he was as silent as ever. Vireo then cleared his throat. “I am from what your empire calls the ‘frontiers.’ Neither of your religions have held much sway among my people. So I confess that most of this is going over my head. But what’s obvious to me is that we’ve come to a crossroads of history. You, High Priestess, say your gods reshaped the world. Now, Novitiates, you say the Cenotaph seeks to do the same. How inspiring! Even people of humble origin dreaming of changing the entire world in their own image. Of course, they need only claim it first – and chase off the nay-sayers. Even a simple fellow like me can make a name for himself. Or, break one…” He grinned as he trailed off. “Besides, what red-blooded man does not dream of adventure? Divine relics, far-off lands, disasters, battles and monstrosities of ancient times… Why wouldn’t I want to tag along?”

This guy gets it, Wyrethia thought and nodded.

Stay focused, Oxyria thought.

Would you cut that out!? Wyrethia thought back.

“I’m…” a voice began, dry from long disuse. The Novitiates almost leapt from their chairs in shock, and looked about for the source, before they realized that it was right before them.

“...On the same page as you two kids,” Sir Creosote said. He went back to sipping from his mug, and said nothing else.

He spoke! The Novitiates thought, eyes wide in adoration. To us!

Nacta smirked. “Well, there you have it. If you won’t listen to me, surely you’ll listen to my pals here – considering one of them’s your idol, after all.”

The Novitiates fumed, the joy of their dulia snuffed out by the lesson of due reverence.

“Finally, we’ve gotten all that out of the way,” Nacta said. “I’ve already gotten the pledges of the Magister and her Acolyte, even though they decided to head on without us. The rest of you, I want to hear it in your own words. Will you join me?”

High Priestess Nacta set her hand upon the center of the table. With a solid nod, Vireo tal Raz the Namebreaker put in his hand as well. Venerable Sir Creosote the Dismantler put his hand in next. Novitiate Wyrethia looked with apprehension at the pile of hands, then downed the last of his tea, and put in his own hand. Novitiate Oxyria, suddenly contemplating Wyrethia’s warning about enjoying fresh food while they could, scarfed down the last of the potato wedges. In truth, Wyrethia wasn’t bothered by this – he’d ordered them for her from the beginning. Then, Oxyria put in her hand.

“The contract has been sealed,” Nacta intoned, in the drone of one performing the trance of ritual. “Your souls are mi– whoa!”

Nacta blinked with curiosity as the other four brandished their weapons: Wyrethia, his spear. Oxyria, her hymnal. Vireo, his bone-club. Creosote, his empty, gauntlet-bound hands.

“Khahaha!” Nacta laughed. Thick, cloud-like globules of darkness swirled about her person in a protective boundary. Cirrus coils of these clouds extended from that which surrounded her, and had wrapped around each weapon pointed her way before their wielders had even finished raising them. “Relax, relax. This won’t be any fun if we can’t joke around. In any case… the hot weather’s made me tired. I say we get going early tomorrow. Any objections?”

The Novitiates sighed, Vireo chortled, and Creosote was expressionless.

With that, these five of the seven pilgrims gathered their possessions.

Their quest began at sunwake.