Author's Note: I've added renders of Iris and Tsarra up on Patreon so feel free to check them out.
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Tsarra adjusted quickly to her new role as his assistant and proved her intelligence by growing in leaps and bounds. She was reluctant to deal with patients as some had shied away from her deformed claw of a hand. Exill was examining said deformity at this very moment, determined to proceed with a treatment plan.
‘Should I cut it off and start anew or try and save it?’
He had learnt from Old Savta that burn scars, like most bodily imperfections were difficult to completely heal. They were considered a flawed but healthy part of your body and wouldn’t change no matter how much mana you channelled into them. The only solution was to peel back the affected layer of skin and grow it back anew, a long and painful process.
Following this logic, if he tried to save Tsarra’s hand, he would need to incrementally peel the skin to restore it to its original state. He relayed all this information to the apprentice. It was a practical lesson of sorts, both informing and gaining her input.
“Cut it off.” She said without a moment’s hesitation.
“Are you sure? It would take under a month to regrow.”
“I hate it, and I hate hiding it. I want… to start fresh.”
Exill was touched by her bravery. He saw the fear in her pale green eyes that mirrored his own. Cutting someone, especially a person you had grown close to was not an easy task. It was nothing like the impartiality of treating a patient.
“Alright… let’s do it.”
He reached for the dwarven spirit and disinfected her wrist, causing her to wince when it stung against her dry cracked skin. Feeling his hands shake in apprehension, he took a swig from the bottle to calm his nerves, then passed it over to Tsarra to do the same while wiping his lips.
He slowly applied the tourniquet, giving her ample opportunity to change her mind, but all too soon, the scalpel was poised over her forearm – it’s paralyzing runes blazing with power. She gave a slight nod.
Exhaling loudly, he got to work.
The whole process took twenty minutes from start to finish. Although Tsarra looked away at the beginning, she forced herself to watch the procedure, biting her chapped lips as she tried to glean even an ounce of knowledge from the process. He finished wrapping the bandage around the stump, both exhausted and relieved that it was over.
“We’ll give it a couple days to heal, then we can start to regrow it. You did well, go rest in my room for now.”
Exill watched her unsteadily leave the treatment room and sat for a while staring at the disfigured claw that lay curled in a pool of blood. It would have to be disposed of, something he hated doing, almost as much as visiting the slave market.
Grunting loudly, he picked up the deformed hand and left the Clinic, walking down a side alleyway leading northward. He eventually reached a small graveyard, the perimeter fenced off with wrought iron. It was as if the world had grown a little darker, and the stench of decomposing corpses pervaded the sombre atmosphere.
Paying the hooded grave keeper five Denars, he tossed the pitiful claw into a pile of corpses in a quiet corner of the yard. He tried not to look too closely at their emaciated forms haphazardly arranged in various states of decomposition. The Witchdoctor quickly turned away from the sobering sight of Ark’s underbelly.
He returned to the Clinic and was about to enter the treatment room when an unassuming man stepped silently out of the room containing the forge. He was of indeterminate age, with a gaunt lined face, dressed in red priest robes and permeating a disquieting aura. His most distinctive feature was a subdued smile that didn’t quite reach his frosty eyes.
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“I’m sorry for alarming you. I was looking around for the owner when I found the clinic empty. Such a… strange configuration for a place of healing.” The man looked behind him at the dimly lit forge.
“How can I assist you?” Exill hastily gathered himself and motioned him to the treatment room.
The insipid man followed, but remained standing at the doorway. He appeared fascinated with the partition wall and its temporary nature. He finally spoke, enunciating each word precisely: “I am here to investigate your claim that you have been blessed by the World Spirit.”
“What would you like to know?” Exill felt cold sweat nervously roll down his back and his voice wavered just a little.
The man responded with the same uncanny grin, “We know everything, Witchdoctor. The time you spent in the refugee camp, how you won against a noble knight against all odds. Even the fact that you were valued at 4,000 Denars by the Moneylender’s Guild… the list goes on.” The man took a deep breath and his eyes lowered to the congealed pool of blood where Tsarra’s amputated hand had lain half an hour ago. He waved a hand casually, as if dismissing the air of a minor nuisance, “All this is merely a formality, an invitation to our church to take part in ceremony.”
He then handed Exill a pristine white card embossed with the name ‘Inquisitor Deroch’.
“Please come to the Cathedral tomorrow morning at ten. We will be waiting for you.” The Inquisitor stepped back from the doorway of the treatment room and appeared to walk away. Exill stood transfixed for a few moments, staring at the card as if it was a poisonous snake. Exiting into the lobby, he found it empty. The man had disappeared without the front door ringing a chime.
He quickly searched the whole house but found no-one else, Tsarra was sleeping soundly in his bed.
‘What have I got myself into…’
Trying to contain his panic, he decided to consult the only reliable source he knew.
***
Iris was closing up the Guild, chasing out stragglers when Exill entered the hall looking strangely pale. She approached him, reaching for his hand to check if he was okay, “Are you alright, can I help you with anything?”
“I have a few questions, but it can wait. Please finish up, we can talk while walking you home.”
She felt his hand tremble prior to letting go. Worried about his state, she swiftly locked the door and swept the floor, entering the back office to change into her casual clothes. She smoothed her green skirt as she stepped out, concern in her kind eyes while examining Exill.
“I’m ready, let’s go.”
They walked through the South Gate and only then did Exill start firing his questions: “What do you know about the Church?”
“Ah! Did they reach out to you about your encounter with the Spirit? They just record the circumstances of your bestowal and consult with the Oracle on your blessing.”
“Yes, they did… Have you heard of the Inquisition?”
Iris stumbled a bit when she heard the Inquisitions name, and she glanced around quickly to make sure no one was listening, “Hush. They are known to be fair, but people don’t like mentioning them.” She brushed her hair aside, “I heard their members are at the same level as a [Bishop], and that they sometimes investigate blessings…”
Exill sighed upon realizing they had stopped. Iris’s home was precariously perched on the top floor of the dilapidated building. Sensing his reluctance she asked, “If you still have questions, would you like to stay for tea?”
“Sure… thank you.”
They climbed the external stairs up to a walkway that connected to two units on the roof. Iris unlocked her door to reveal a mid-sized studio apartment. Her clothes hung haphazardly from the ceiling beams and dirty clothes were strewn across the floor and bed. A small table and two chairs stood in a corner.
“Sorry it’s a mess! You are actually my first visitor here. When I first moved into this place I thought I would bring so many friends over but…”
She hurriedly removed clothes from a chair that hadn’t seen use in years. Exill found his frayed nerves soothed, seeing her fallible nature helped distract from his own concerns. Once she had settled down and they each had cup of hot brew in front of them, he continued the questions.
“What do you know of the [Oracle]?”
“Not much, I heard she is newly appointed? You know they are closely attuned to the World Spirit right? You could say she is at the same level as the [Archbishop].”
“Returning to the Inquisition, how do they investigate miracles?”
“I don’t understand what your concern is, shouldn’t you be happy?” Iris pointed to him, “It’s a great honour to be acknowledged by the Church as a genuine miracle.” She really didn’t know much else about their procedures, just that they investigated, and verified some cases. People drunkenly lied about being blessed, or encountering the Spirit in their dreams all the time. However that couldn’t apply to Exill because she had witnessed his job change.
Exill paused. He liked Iris, but he wasn’t sure how far he could trust her… however, he needed to know what the worst outcome would look like.
“How do they deal with heresy?”
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Author's note: If you are reading this from other sources, there is a section below detailing the significant rewrites I've made regarding Heresy in the earlier chapters.