ONE YEAR LATER . . . IMPERIAL CITY OF RIONILLION, WINTER, 2104 IR
Jerish hit Gibson Sikes because his dead mother told him to. That was the thing he could never explain to those who questioned him afterwards asking why he did it—why he always did it. Jerish didn’t restrict his assaults to Gibson Sikes, he had a habit of punching all the boys at the seminary, but usually for the same reason. The spark that ignited the fire, however, varied. In this case it was a comment about Uberlin.
“If Uberlin killed Novron,” Gibson had stated with his usual condescending tone, partly derived from his being the son of a wealthy grain merchant, and partly from being an ass. “Then that proves Uberlin is stronger than Novron.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Jerish had replied.
“Why not?”
“I just doesn’t.”
“You need a reason.”
“Why?” Jerish had asked.
“Because you do!”
“That’s not a reason, and you just said—“
“Oh, you’re an idiot!” Gibson had shouted. “And you—”
That’s when Jerish closed his mouth with a fist that nearly caused the older boy to bite off his tongue. Gibson screamed, which sprayed blood everywhere and created drips that ran down his chin giving the boy a gruesome appearance.
Jerish Grelad son of Hale, had just turned a lean seven while Gibson son of Sikes was a full-blown ten. The grain merchant’s son stood a half foot taller and weighed a full thirty pounds more. Seeing the shock turn to anger in Gibson’s eyes, Jerish ought to have run for his life, but his dead mother wouldn’t let him.
Gibson punched Jerish hard in the stomach. It hurt and he doubled over, but the real problem came when he tried to breathe and couldn’t. It felt as if he had a cork in his throat. He opened his mouth and struggled to pull air, but only a tiny bit trickled in. Despite all the fights over the last two years, he’d never been hit in the stomach—and never punched so hard. Unable to breathe he knew something bad had happened. Something is wrong. Maybe my stomach’s busted. Jerish stood, both arms folded over his middle his eyes squeezed tight as he fought to force his nose to draw air. Some came, but it was like sucking through a collapsed reed.
“You son of a whore!” Gibson shouted spraying more blood around. His words were a tad slurred, but clear enough.
Jerish didn’t know if Gibson Sikes knew his mother was dead, or how she had died with her arms around him wheezing in his ear and praying for Novron to protect her only son because no one else would. But he was certain the grain merchant’s son had no clue how her death had left him wondering—at the age of seven—if there was any reason to keep living. If he had, Jerish was certain he would have chosen those words more carefully.
Running on just a gasp of air, and a whole lot of stored up heartbreak, Jerish kicked Gibson dead-on his kneecap, and just as hard as he possibly could. There was an awful sound, part pop part muffled crack. This was followed by Sikes’ cry—far louder and longer than before. He fell like a hewed tree toppling over slamming his shoulder and then his head against the wooden floor, which made him scream out a third time—although it was pretty much one long song of agony that Gibson continued to sing at the top of his lungs.
The other boys, subdeacons, and older acolytes arrived. They stared at the scene horrified. Gibson was on the floor of the choir-loft sobbing and holding his leg, blood staining his mouth and, by then his nose creating a mask of gore.
“What did you do?” they all took turns asking.
Jerish didn’t answer. Not because he refused, he had plenty to say. He simply had no air to say it.
The deacon soon arrived. He climbed the metal wrought iron ladder that squeaked with his weight and the moment his head emerged above the floor, he viewed the spectacle with wide eyes. A moment later he focused on Jerish. “You!”
###
Frewin Fassbinder was the parish priest. Jerish had seen him before and he was hard to forget. He had long hair and a longer face, both hung limply as if too exhausted to care anymore. His eyes were those of a hound, sagging and weary, and his mouth completed the picture pulled low in a deep frown. He sat at a table that he called his desk, elbows resting, palms supporting that heavy head as he stared at the problem child before him.
Fassbinder drew in a long noisy breath through his nose. “Jerish Grelad son of Hale,” he said the words as if each were a terrible disappointment. “You have been with us now for two years. In that time you have been involved in twenty-three fights. Thirteen of which drew blood, and five required medical treatment. Including today’s conflict with Gibson Sikes that total reaches six. Master Gibson will be going home and may not return. There is a chance he may never walk again without the use of a cane.”
Jerish had recovered from the punch. Air had eventually returned to his lungs and his stomach appeared undamaged. He stood before the table, the top of which aligned with his chest. He kept his hands at his sides, his chin up, and made not a sound. They will execute me now, he assumed. I’m too much trouble and I’ve severely injured a rich boy. But I’ve kept my promise.
“This institution, into which you have been entrusted, is intended to educate and prepare you for a life in the ministry of our lord Novron. But you don’t seem to care about that. All you want to do is fight.” Fassbinder sighed. The room lacked a fireplace leaving it cold enough that the priest’s exhale was visible. “Deacon?”
Behind him, Jerish heard footsteps enter the little windowless cubicle that everyone called Fassbinder’s office. The space was furnished with only the uneven table, two chairs, and an over-turned bucket, even so it felt cramped. And while it was midday, and out of doors the sun along with all the snow was so bright it blinded, Fassbinder’s office was dark as a cave.
Jerish did not turn. He didn’t want to see the disappointment on the face of the deacon as he was one of the few in the seminary Jerish honestly respected. Instead, the boy was a statue awaiting his sentence. He was scared, but he and Death were not strangers. Death smelled of flowers and tears.
“What was it this time?” Fassbinder asked looking up and past Jerish.
“Well, sir, ah…”
“Out with it man.” The priest rapidly clapped the table with a hand encouraging expedience. “Was it name calling? Jealously? Food stealing? What?”
“Actually, as I understand the matter,” the deacon replied. “The disagreement arose because Gibson Sikes claimed Uberlin was stronger than Novron. Jerish was apparently defending god.”
Fassbinder continued at stare past Jerish with those weary eyes. “Are you certain?”
“Yes, sir. We asked Gibson and Jerish, and their stories agreed with what others heard. So I believe it is true.”
Both of Fassbinder’s palms clapped the table hard enough to topple the candle that had previously been glued upright by melted wax. “How can I punish a child for defending god? This is a seminary for the worship of Novron!”
“It does seem awkward.”
Fassbinder sighed, and then refilled his chest with another long and noisy draw through his nose. “I can’t let this go.” He pointed at the surface of the table, tapping it with the tip of his finger creating a hollow drumming. “He’s been in twenty-three fights!”
“Yes, sir.”
“I can’t have a boy picking on younger children even if—“
“Gibson is three years older, sir.”
“Older?”
“And bigger, sir—quite a bit bigger, in fact.”
“But I was told that Gibson was a mess. His face covered in blood, tongue nearly severed, kneecap busted, leg dislocated. How could a…how old is Jerish?”
“Just turned seven, sir. And yes, everything you heard is true.”
“Seven?” Fassbinder leaned forward and narrowed his eyes at him. “That’s a lot of damage for a seven year old. And you say Gibson was bigger?”
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“Taller and heavier, just as you might expect.”
“Well…” Fassbinder practically expelled the word as he sat back, folded his arms, took a moment to wipe his nose, then refolded.
“May I make a suggestion, Father?”
“Absolutely,” the priest said taking that moment to right the candle.
“I believe these incidents are not accidental. Twenty-three altercations in two years bear the suggestion of more than a mere pattern. I believe they may be a message. I suspect Novron is telling us that Jerish doesn’t belong here.”
“That may be, and I am inclined to agree, but his father pays a fair sum of money for his son to attend this seminary, and I hate to say it, but Novron has not seen fit to be generous to his church—at least not here in Rionillion. We can’t afford to expel the boy.”
“I’m not suggesting expulsion.”
“No?” Fassbinder was still fussing with the candle that was not being at all cooperative.
“I was thinking about Bishop Venlin’s comments concerning supplying the world’s institutions with those faithful to Novron in order to spread the church’s influence. He specifically spoke about the Teshlor Guild and how winning them over was a goal. I can think of no better candidate than young Jerish here.”
Jerish felt a hand on his shoulder, and the presence of the deacon behind him. The touch was slight, and yet powerfully reassuring. Since Death had interrupted his mother’s last hug, few people touched Jerish, except to hurt him.
“The Teshlor Guild Academy is in Percepliquis, and as I said financially we—”
“Yes, sir, but I believe if you explain to Master Hale that we are considering the rare step of nominating his son for entrance to the prestigious Order of Teshlor, but can’t do so if it means losing his patronage, he might be grateful enough to continue funding this church and possibly even give a bit more. We are, after all, providing his son with even greater opportunity, which ought to be worth more.”
“What if the boy isn’t accepted. The Teshlor Guild is notoriously picky. They don’t take just anyone.”
“You didn’t see Gibson Sikes, Father. I did. I’m confident they will take him.”
Fassbinder pressed his fingertips together and looked though them at Jerish. “More money, less trouble, and a pat on the back from the great Bishop Venlin for a job well done. Deacon Kile, I think you’re right about a message from Novron. When things line up this perfectly, what else could it possibly be but divine intervention?”
“Indeed, sir. Indeed.”
###
The deacon required all the boys at the Rionillion Seminary of Novron to line up in the snow outside and say a fond farewell to Jerish, but he was unable to control their facial expressions and body language. Most grimaced, a number fidgeted with indifference, a few offered obscene hand gestures, and one spit in Jerish’s general direction. In two years, Jerish had failed to make a single friend. He had a talent, however, for making enemies. Deacon Kile did his best to wrangle the boys into a respectful line along the city street where the wagon waited to take Jerish to Percepliquis. These ministers-to-be and one-day representatives of Novron did not make it easy for the man.
Jerish took pity and made short work of climbing up the spoked wheel and throwing himself down on the exposed bed of the cart that had a light dusting of snow. He had no bag, no luggage. Jerish would leave this place without so much as a fond memory. Then Deacon Kile approached with a blanket.
“By sundown you will be in Percepliquis,” the deacon said. “The driver will take you right to the guildhall. I’ve received word they’ve agreed to take you in.”
“I thought I needed to pass a trial—a test or something.”
“That’s true. There will be an entrance exam.”
“What if I don’t pass?”
“You will.”
“But what if—“
“Have you so quickly lost faith in Novron?”
Jerish was caught with his mouth open. He closed it, and shook his head.
“That’s better.”
“May I at least ask what type of place I’m going to? Is it a workhouse or a prison?”
“No.” The deacon laughed, but Jerish didn’t know why. “Prisons and workhouses don’t usually require entrance exams. The Teshlor Guild is the headquarters and chief academy for the preeminent Order of Imperial Knights.” The deacon could have said Jerish was going to the moon and made as much sense. His lack of understanding must have been apparent as the deacon took a moment to rephrase. “You are going to the best school of fighting in the world. Teshlor Knights have no equals in martial combat. They serve as bodyguards to the Imperial Family, and along with the Cenzarium serve as advisors to the emperor, defenders of his laws and keepers of the peace throughout his empire.”
“Oh,” Jerish muttered. He still didn’t understand, but he did feel confident he wasn’t going to a prison.
The deacon unfolded the blanket and threw it out around the boy huddled in the wagon. “This will keep you warm enough for the trip.”
“Thank you. I’ll return it when I can.”
“It’s a gift. A memento of your days here.”
“I don’t want to remember my days here. None of them were good.”
“Is there nothing here you will miss?”
“No.”
The deacon patted his shoulder. “Jerish, you need to have faith. There’s a reason your mother died, a reason she insisted your father send you to the church, and now a reason I am sending you to Percepliquis. It’s all part of a plan, a story greater than yourself. At times, it’s hard to remember that, but this is one of the great virtues of faith. When faced with incomprehensible disaster, when no amount of reason or logic can provide any comfort to keep you moving forward, that’s when faith becomes a lifeline. It’s the rope dropped into your pit of despair. You have no real incentive to climb that rope because in the pit all is darkness and you are utterly blind to everything, even hope. But you can feel the rope. Maybe it’s the only thing you can feel. You don’t climb because you believe it will save you, or suspect even for a moment that it can make things better. You know that’s not possible. Instead you climb the rope because it’s there—it’s the only thing left to you. Years from now, after you’ve climbed out of this darkness and you regain your sight, you will look back and see the reasons for it all. But for now, lost in the dark, all you have is the rope. Climb.”
Jerish had been in twenty-three fights, most of which he could not say he won. Some left him battered and as bloodied as Gibson. Yet this was the first time since he had been dragged from his mother’s death bed that he cried—and he hadn’t the slightest idea why.
“You’ll be alright, Jerish.” The deacon patted his shoulder once more then turned to leave.
Jerish grabbed him by the arm. “I was wrong,” he said. “There is one fond memory I’ll take.” Jerish pulled the blanket tight to his neck. “Thank you.”
Deacon Kile, smiled, nodded, and gave word to the driver to roll on.
###
Jerish shivered the entire trip. The wagon bounced hard on the frozen road that sliced between giant snowcapped mountains. Wind blew through the high pass howling like an angry ghost. He tried to sleep, but the hammering of the wheels jarred him such that at times his whole body came up off the deck. He couldn’t see much of the world, most of it was lost in a white haze, maybe clouds, perhaps curtains of distant snow. All that was left to him was the black rock and sheets of ice that passed by on either side.
Jerish had never seen much of the world. He had been born in his father’s house near the docks of Rionillion. Hale, as he was told, lent money to people who needed it and who agreed to pay back what they borrowed with a little extra. Also, for a small fee, he would often agreed to pay the value of a ship’s cargo if said vessel was lost at sea. All of this made Hale seem a hero, but Jerish never saw him as such, mostly because of his mother. Faye Grelad never approved of her husband’s profession calling it sinful. His mother was a devoted member of the Church of Novron and saw most things as sinful. The yelling was what made Jerish hate his father—the way he shouted at her, insulted the poor woman, called her ignorant for believing in silly lies and fairytales. Jerish had watched as on so many occasions he reduced her to tears. That’s when she would hug her son, and Jerish was never certain who needed the embrace more.
“Don’t be like your father, Jerish,” she would tell him. “You need to believe in the unseen. Protect the faith—defend our lord Novron against any who would seek to raise themselves up by belittling Him!”
She’d told Jerish this more than once, the last time was just before she let go of him and the world. Her final request was that he defend Novron, which was why he had to hit Gibson. Why he had to fight them all whenever they made an insulting joke, or insensitive comment, or swore in the lord’s name. According to his mother such things had the power to actually hurt the god. Swearing by the hand of Novron resulted in severing that part of their lord. Such things could not be tolerated. Jerish didn’t have a choice. He wasn’t certain, but he was pretty sure that failing to obey the last request of a dead mother was a sin of the first order, and as such, he had no choice.
The weather warmed a bit as the wagon descended out of the mountains, but then it began to snow. Jerish pulled the top of the blanket up over his head as flakes gathered on his drawn knees. The driver never said a word. Now that they were out of the pass, the road was smooth and covered in snow making their passage soft and silent. There was no bird song, no wind in the trees despite the road being lined with them. Only the jangling of the horse’s harness and the repetitive muffled thud of his hooves made any sound at all. Jerish fell asleep pulled tight in a ball nestled in the corner crux of the cart that rocked gently.
When he awoke it was dark. Two inches of snow covered him and the cart’s deck, and was still falling. Shaking the snow off his new blanket, he looked around. He was in a city. Rionillion was a city too but nothing like this. Here buildings rose higher than the tallest tree. The road they traveled was wide enough for four carts to roll side-by-side, and two such roads were laid next to each other, one for traffic going into the city and the other for those going the opposite way. Everywhere were lights. Candles shone through every window. Street corners were illuminated by lanterns, and all around were braziers where people gathered to warm themselves. Laughter and song rose above the rumble of conversation, and music spilled out of doorways. He spotted a couple dancing in the street. A man whirled a woman around. Her head was back laughing as she twirled. A black and white dog chased Jerish’s cart for a time barking at him until finally giving up and returning back into the dark from whence he came.
The wagon entered a large paved plaza, and began a wide circle around a magnificent statue of running horses that were covered in a stunning display of ice. Jerish was pulled past a big stone structure with columns and a greenish dome, after that came a much larger white building with an even bigger gold dome. Then the wagon came to a scary place, and there it stopped. To Jerish it looked like a prison, or what he expected one to look like: square and sharp with no curves and no dome. The whole thing was wrapped in a powerful wall. Here the wagon stopped before a metal gate.
The driver climbed down and spoke to someone. The open plaza was quiet compared to the rest of the city. Even so, Jerish couldn’t hear much of the conversation until finally the driver shouted for him to get down. This was it. He was there.
Jerish had expected to take the entrance exam first thing, but instead was given a bowl of porridge, a dry tunic that came close to fitting him, and a cot to sleep on for the night. They tried to take his wet blanket, but Jerish refused. Next to nothing was said—at least to him, which Jerish appreciated as despite having slept partway, he remained exhausted. In general, he recalled little from his nighttime arrival at the Teshlor Guildhall except the snow, the couple dancing in the street, and the black and white dog that had chased the cart.