Chapter 5: The Gray Priesthood
Landar
When the ceremony was finished a powerfully built, heavily armored Cleric escorted us into a back room. The room had several small bookshelves with dozens of leather-bound tomes, and more scrolls than I could count.
At the center of the room was Mother Margaret and two elderly looking men sitting around a small circular table. One wore gray robes, the other deep blue with silver trim.
“Thank you Brother Cline, you may leave us now.” Margaret said, and the Cleric bowed and left. “Gentlemen, this is the Gaudhaus family. And this,” she gestured towards me. “Is the boy I was speaking to you about. Landar.”
The elderly man in gray robes inclined his head towards me in a sign of mild respect. “It is good to meet you, young man. The Mother Superior has told me many things, in particular, about your enduring spirit to survive. Something you would need to overcome mana poisoning for so long.”
I gave a bow, but I wasn’t exactly sure what to do in this situation.
“At least the peasant has good manners.” The blue and silver robed man said with a huff. He had a glorious mustache and a full head of silver hair. But it did little to ease the extremely punchable expression the man wore. I’d personally killed men for looking at me with less disdain.
Mind you, that was in the middle of a war zone. And they’d been holding rifles, pointed at me. But still. I didn’t like it.
“High Priest Damion, this is Sigvold’s table and my investigation. Either you hold a civil tongue in your head or I’ll call Cline back to escort you out. Understood?” The elderly woman locked eyes with the sneering jackass and the jackass backed down. He nodded curtly and settled into his chair with obvious annoyance.
“Now. High Priest Sigvold, can you please take the Guadhaus family into the other room and begin the questioning there?” Mother Margaret asked. “Me and Damion would like to speak with Landar alone.”
My father looked uneasy, but he followed without complaint. My mother cleared her throat and spoke up. Not something I expected from someone so devout. “Excuse me, Mother Margaret. But this is my child you are speaking of. I would know why you wish to speak to him in private.”
Tomas looked taken aback, but after only a moment’s hesitation and a smirk of satisfaction at his wife’s boldness he returned to her side. “With respect, of course, I would like an explanation as well please.”
Sigvold was about to respond unbothered by the question. But the white-haired jackass had decided it was his turn to speak. “Peasants, questioning high priests? I shall provide no explanation. Do as you are told, or you shall be executed and the boy taken from you. And your girl will be sold off to pay your debts towards the priesthood. Or better yet, we’ll keep her as—”
A loud crack filled the room. Pieces of wood shrapnel exploded in every direction. I had to cover my eyes as Mother Margaret’s wooden switch exploded on impact with the jackass’s forehead.
That old bat has some serious grandma energy, I thought as I watched in complete fascination as High Priest Damion winced and held his head. Blood trickled down his forehead, and he swooned in his chair.
“That is for issuing demands in the presence of Sigvold, without his leave, in his domain.” She pulled out another switch and struck him across the arm, cutting the robe and leaving a red mark the size of a pen. “And that is for forgetting the teachings of our Goddess, and threatening a child with slavery as a concubine. And this,” she brought the switch down again, this time on his knuckles, which were still protecting his wounded forehead. The knuckles blacked and bruised visibly. “Is for being an idiot, and doing all of that in front of me!”
Signold shook his head and sighed. He stood and walked over to his fellow high-priest, who whimpered in pain. He stopped Damion from falling off his chair and placed another hand on his head. A white light filled the air and a moment later High Priest Damion sat in his chair completely unharmed.
“That was foolish.”
“Indeed! She will be brought up on charges!”
“No brother. Mother Margaret was in the right. Look around.” Sigvold motioned to the room, and I took it in. The place was well made, but relatively spartan. The books and scrolls were clearly well used, and the table while quality craftsmanship was far from ostentatious.
“You are not in your chambers. You are in mine, and yet you attempted to exercise your authority of judgment. That was foolish. The Mother Superior’s reaction was—tame. Compared to what some of my clerics would have done since I was present. It violated our goddesses law, and my personal honor. One I suggest you not repeat. This is my domain, by the Mother’s gifts and grace. Best you remember that.”
Sigvold turned to my family and inclined his head slightly. “I apologize for that display. Peasentry should not be burdened with the internal—dynamics of the church. Please, if you will follow me, I will explain everything. But it is best we not taint the examination of your son.”
As he left, I saw Margaret glare daggers at Damion who visibly flinched. Don’t piss off Margaret, got it.
She turned those dagger eyes at me and I felt ice forming along my spine. Or was that just fear? I wasn’t exactly sure.
“We have some questions, boy.”
“I am happy to answer.” I tried to keep my voice calm and my facial expression neutral. I had stared down tyrants and been forced to glad-hand mass murderers in my time as an ambassador. But Margaret’s gaze was something else. If my voice shook a little, and my right foot stepped back a bit, it was only natural.
“Good. Now, High Priest. You may ask your questions.” Damion flinched a little as she turned her attention back to him, but he straightened and did his best to imitate her as he glared at me. But it came off almost petulant.
“Thank you, Mother Superior. Now boy, where did you get your hands on monster cores?” Margaret rolled her eyes, but he ignored her.
“I uh. I am sorry, High Priest, but I don’t know what those are.”
“Monster cores. Things left behind when a monster is killed.” I stared blankly at him uncomprehending what he was saying. “Oh, by the mother’s gifts. Do you really expect me to believe that you don’t know what a monster's core is?”
“Again High Priest, I am sorry.” I bowed slightly out of habit. It was a Keirei bow, one meant to show appreciation for understanding. A slight apology for a mild annoyance, or respect for a client, depending on the situation. It was my go-to bow in formal settings. And this had the air of a formal setting.
“Odd behavior is noted as well. Why do you bow like that, boy?”
“This?” I asked, showing the bow again.
“Yes.”
“I uh, well. I saw adults doing it a lot to a noble on the street. I thought it was polite when speaking to your superiors. And—” I put on a purposefully inquisitive expression. “You are my social superiors—right?”
Mother Margaret just about to burst out laughing. She only barely contained her barking laugh by covering her mouth with a hand and practically suffocating herself. Mr. Jerkface, on the other hand, went beat red.
I was a child. I was expected to ask such questions.
“Yes. Yes we are.” He finally got out after nearly thirty seconds of floundering for the right words.
“It is good that you are trying to be respectful, Landar.” Margaret said, her face now a mask of complete control. “But excessive bowing is annoying. Leave that for nobles, shall we?” The high priest nodded in agreement.
“I understand. Thank you for the instruction.”
“I told you he was strange. But strange does not mean dangerous.” Margaret whispered to the old gray-haired fart.
The High Priest nodded. “Yes. Well, there are still some questions.” His eyes went back to me. “Like how your spiritual and mental foundations jumped three stages literally overnight.”
“Uh—I, I don’t know how High Priest sir. Mother Margaret said it could have been a side effect of my fever, I guess. I—I remember seeing a lot of things while I was dreaming.”
I thought it was a safe explanation. Fever dreams were real, and even back on Earth if someone had a fever for too long, it could end up effecting their mental health. And even their outlook on the world. Prolonged fevers did strange things to the mind.
Damion’s expression changed from one of frustration to actual curiosity. “Dreams? During a mana fever? Those are rare. Tell me, how many did you have?”
“I—” I didn’t know how to answer that. Perhaps I can claim my entire past life was a fever dream? That is probably safe, if he pushes too hard. “There were a lot of them. I remember little from them until something reminds me.”
“Can you give us an example, Landar?” Margaret asked.
I thought about it for a moment, then decided on something that seemed to fit. “I had never whittled wood. But, when my father invited me to learn with him, I picked it up quick. After I touched the wood and felt the grain and how knotted it was, being a piece of scrap wood, I remembered one dream. I was sitting on a porch, or a swing out on a farm. Someone was sitting beside me and showing me how to tell which way the grain of wood went. And that I should try to cut with the grain, not against it. I then used that knowledge to help my dad improve his wolf figure he gave as a tithe.”
Damion took notes as I spoke, and when I was done, he looked up at me. “Do know remember who it was sitting beside you?”
“I don’t. But I remember it was someone important. And someone wise.” That was a perfect description of my grandfather back on Earth. The man had been a farmer, and one of the wisest people I knew. He also taught me wood working in my teens, not just whittling. But that was all they needed to know.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
“Interesting.” He took notes for a few more heartbeats and then asked for another example.
We spent nearly an hour going over several examples of memories of mine from my old life that I made out to be fever dreams. The time my father taught me about taxes, another time my uncle George taught me to fly fish, and an interesting conversation about digging latrine systems I had in basic training with my Drill Sargent.
They were all random things that I hoped would reflect common sense knowledge I might have picked up from my parents talking and me overhearing.
“Extraordinary. Mana fever dreams are usually intense like this. But they’re usually very crisp. I wonder, do you think you could?” Damion asked Mother Margeret, and she smirked pulling out the small eye glass she held in her robes.
“You want me to look for dream mana around him?”
“If you would.”
She examined me for a long moment while looking through her piece of glass. “Hmmm.”
“What?” the high priest asked, almost as eager as a schoolgirl getting asked to prom.
“No dream mana. None I wouldn’t expect there to be, anyway.” The man deflated. “But there is a weak aura of divine magic about him.”
“That’s just residual effects from the gifting ceremony.” He sounded disappointed. “Well, I guess we just chalk this up to strange mana dreams effecting your foundations. That can happen particularly when one’s core is so powerful, so young.”
“Hold on Damion, that’s not right. This isn’t degrading. It’s steady. And I’ve seen it before.”
“Really? Why didn’t you mention it before?”
“I had assumed it was from his mother’s prayers over him. An instinctual blessing, something like that. But this? I don’t think this is an accident.”
“What aspect does it have?”
“Hard to tell. It’s too weak right now, lingering but steady. As if someone is waiting to activate a blessing or protection spell. But it’s unlike anything I’ve seen.”
“May I?” Damion reached a hand out and Margaret shot him a deadly glare. “I’m not going to steal it. Please? I’m a better theurge than you are. It is my specialty, after all.” After a long pause, she handed it over and the white-haired man glared at me with one eye through the glass.
“Yes. I see what you mean. Could be one of the minor gods blessed him during his fevers to make sense and use of them. It’s not unheard of, but is uncommon enough to be noted.”
He wrote some more notes down on his sheet of paper and then seemed to come to some kind of conclusion. “Yes. That is my working theory. One of the minor powers, perhaps the Dream Weaver, or Wisdom’s aspect as Arcana blessed him so he might live and not waste his childhood. Not unlike the blessing his mother received.”
Margaret nodded her agreement. “You’re finally making some sense.”
“Um—what does that mean exactly? If I can ask?” I included the last bit to placate the angry look he gave me for interrupting them.
“It means, boy, your mother’s prayers were answered. You have been rescued from a brutally hard death. Mother Margaret will explain more. I’m finished with my examination and will file my report.” He stood and made for the door before stopping and remembering his manners. He bowed slightly to Margaret. “Thank you for your—hospitality.”
“You’re welcome. And you’re also welcome for the lesson. Remember it, boy.” Damion winced as he opened the door and swiftly disappeared. “Now for you. Come, sit.” She patted the chair the high priest had just vacated, and I hastened to comply.
I was exhausted. My knees were already shaking. And when I tried to climb up on the chair, I nearly fell. A rough hand grabbed my shirt and hauled me onto the chair mid fall. “Thank you,” I said, wiping sweat from my forehead.
“Helping the weak is my calling, boy. That’s why I helped you, and why I was inclined to offer that lesson to the Blue Priesthoods high priest.” She winked at me. “You’re welcome. Now, about all of that. Do you understand what just happened?”
I thought about it for a moment, and then nodded. “I think I do.”
She smiled. “Then explain. I’ll fill in any gaps after.”
This was a test, and I wasn’t exactly sure of what. But she had been nothing but kind and helpful towards me, despite being able to terrify full-grown adults with power and authority well beyond a twelve-year-old peasant boy.
“Mana poisoning, If I’m guessing correctly. Is an illness mainly of the very young.” She nodded, and I kept going. “Because they are too young to learn to use their mana, or give it to someone who can. It builds and makes them sick with fevers until they’re old enough to learn to do the prayers like the one we just did. Is—is that right?”
“For the most part, you got it right. Good job, kid.”
“Is there no way to drain mana from someone involuntarily? I’m guessing that’s difficult to do.”
“And you’d be guessing correctly. Skills or abilities to drain mana are extremely rare. Those that have them rarely have the time to run around saving the handful of children in the kingdom a year that suffer from mana poisoning. They usually will if it’s convenient. But even then it’s only a temporary solution. Items that can pull mana from a person without their willing consent are heavily regulated for good reason, and very rare. Those that exist are usually in control of powerful noble families. And trust me, none of them are going to risk a sensitive enchanted item to save a few dozen peasant brats every year.” She shook her head.
“So we’re stuck with teas to keep the fever down. Blood thinners, and other traditional medicine that are used to treat natural fevers. They help, and can get most kids through until they’re old enough to say the prayers. Even then however, the prayers only work proportional to a child’s spiritual foundation. Those without one, and mana enough to poison them? Well—they rarely last very long.”
We chatted about a few other topics, most of them unimportant. Until I started asking questions about mana and magic.
“So what is mana? I’ve been sick with it for so long, I’d like to know what tried to kill me.”
Mother Margaret smiled and shook her head slightly. “You possess an uncanny mind for an adult, child. Let alone one for someone your age. There are things you need to learn, however. Things like, there are certain questions that not even adults can answer.”
I gave her a questioning look. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s true. I have my thoughts, but honestly, they’re just opinions, really. Everyone has their own thoughts on what mana, or magic is exactly. But no one actually knows. Some say it’s the fabric of the universe, other’s raw energy personified. Still others, particularly from the far east, have completely different cosmological understandings of reality than we do. Studying these things can be the work of a lifetime, if you let it.”
“Then what do we know about it?”
She smiled and leaned back in her chair, then looked over at one of the bookshelves. After a moment, she selected two books and put them out on the table.
“We know only that magic can be split into two distinct categories. Some say three, but that’s a discussion for another time. These two are Faith spells, or Prayers which are fueled by raw mana given willingly and shaped by the will of the Gods through their priesthoods or words in the prayer.” She touched one of the two books.
“And the other?”
She touched the other book. “Is arcane magic. The magic fueled by our mana, but controlled and directed by mortal hands towards ends known only to its user. Each of them has their limits. For instance, arcane power can’t be used communally. At least not with some sort of medium acting as conductor. Most times, spell caster can only cast a spell on their own, no one can help them. Sure, other people can help a spell caster prepare a spell, or even lend mana. But no one else’s will is there to shape it, to give it purpose. If an arcane user’s will slips even for a moment?”
She opened the book to a particular page where a picture of a man standing on top of a tower had been stenciled in black and white. An aura of power surrounded the man, and it looked as if the power radiated off him. The figure had a manic grin as the power suffused him.
Then she turned the page. A new picture, this one of the man kneeling, gouging his own eyes out as the power cooked him from the inside out.
“Spell feedback is often the thing that kills arcane magic users. There is an added benefit, however.” She turned the page again and this time it was a picture of a mage standing next to a smith. He was pounding a sword on an anvil and giving the weapon shape, as a light aura of mana suffused the weapon, giving it strength and power.
“Enchantment.” I said, awe in my voice.
“Just so. And it often acts as the medium through which spell casters can combine their will. Much as say, two craftsmen can work on the same sword, two casters can work on the same enchantment.”
“So—what can faith magic do then? If Arcane magic can do all this really awesome stuff, what stuff does faith magic do?”
She closed the book on arcane magic and opened the book that was supposed to represent faith magic. The picture she opened too was one of a bunch of gray priesthood acolytes. These were the lowliest full members of the order, standing around in a circle and holding hands and sharing their mana together. The spell they cast was massive, and scenes of its effects lined the edges of the page healing sick people, and ensuring crops grew well for harvest season.
“Working together, united by the ideals of the god or goddess we serve, the various priesthoods can do grand works of faith magic. But one can only work in unison if one is of similar intent to those they seek to work with. Which is why sharing ideals, the worship of a single or multiple gods, and other various things are important. Mutual faith grants purpose, drive, and direction to our will. Allowing it to harmonize with one another and sharing strength. It also allows amateurs to do work that is far more important than throwing fire or calling lightning.”
She sounded proud of the mundane yet powerful magic.
“So, you help the kingdom while mages help themselves?”
She hesitated for a moment before continuing on.
“Mages serve the kingdom in a direct role. Much like a warrior, or even a paladin. While they might save a family from bandits, or heal someone of a terrible illness. Still they will never reach as many people as we can with one single prayer in the cathedral with the entire gray priesthood working together. Uniting our wills through the power of our faith.”
That brought me to another question I had. “What is the gray priesthood? And why are there multiple priesthoods?”
She smiled bitterly. “Yes, there are multiple aren’t there. The Gray, Blue, Yellow, and Red.”
I thought about it and came up with my answer. “But there is only the Mother and Father. How can there be multiple major organizations claiming authority, when there are only two major gods?”
“That—that is tricky.” She genuinely looked taken aback by the question this time. Apparently, this wasn’t common knowledge. “There are four, because each of us was founded based on a different underlying philosophy. The Blue was founded by researchers, arcanists, theurges, and thaumaturgists. Those who deeply look into the world and attempt to understand it on a fundamental level. The Red was founded by the warriors of the Father, or so the myth goes. They take personal care of the Royal line, ensuring that the descendants of the Mother and Fathers union are safe from outside threats such as assassins.”
So the Blue are the eggheads, the Red are the secret service. Got it. “What about the Yellow and Gray?”
Her smile turned happy then. “The Yellow are those who care for the spiritual needs of the people. But they focus heavily on the noble classes. In some ways, they are our counterparts. The gray serve the people of every station. Though the nobility rarely has need of our services. We are in our own way, servants of all.”
My mind raced with the implications of this knowledge. These were very similar to the holy orders that existed during medieval times. While they served the same God, the Hospitalier’s, and the Templars had very different missions. One healed the sick, sheltered the homeless and pilgrims, and fed the needy along the road to Jerusalem whether or not they were Christian. While the other at their inception fought wars, waged inquisitions, and had the express mission to protect Christendom.
If these things were analogous in any way, I had to tread carefully. But it seemed Margaret, at least, served in a more Hospitalier type order. One dedicated to doing good for others.
I had more questions I wanted answered. “I know what a Priest and Priestess is, I know what a Mother is.” I motioned towards her. “But what is a cleric? And how do they fit into things if faith magic is used in groups?”
She smirked and turned the page. There was another image, one of a single cleric in heavy armor holding a shield against a dark tentacled monster, and bringing down a mighty hammer wreathed in holy flame on the abomination.
“Few of the faithful qualify, but there are those among us who fight evil in a more direct approach. These are the clerics and paladins of the various priestly orders.”
She gave me a severe look as I examined the page. It was truly magnificent artistic skill and dedicated care that went into crafting such art work. It impressed me.
“The clerics might be the least of any order, but never under any circumstances underestimate them. Just because they’re strong doesn’t mean they’re dumb, unthinking brutes. Though their mana pool is usually lesser, their faith and knowledge of faith magic often exceeds that of most priests.”
I didn’t doubt it. It seemed they would have to work alone, where the others could rely on working together. I still had a lot to learn about it all. But it was clear being a cleric carried a stigma with it for being a dumb meathead. A stigma that might serve them well, as it would make those who would oppose them underestimate them.
I shook my head. “No, I won’t. That is a promise. I have a question, if I’m allowed to ask?”
Mother Margaret guffawed. “Boy, half of what you know you wouldn’t know if it wasn’t for you having already asked questions. Yes, ask away.”
“Thank you. What is a beast's core?”
She stared at me for a long moment, before laughing, and reaching for another book.