Ezril sat uncomfortably in his seat. The cushion was plush, a very delicate touch to his butt. It was greatly unlike what the seminary was prone to offering. Its size was massive enough to accommodate a second person. It was decorated with embroideries of such beauty that only the best in the art could have done it, and the wood was carved beautifully with intricate designs of its own. It was a throne in itself.
However, what Ezril sat on was not the source of his discomfort. It was where he sat: The sanctuary of the Ardin head church of Truth, the biggest church in the city. Every other church was referred to as outstations. Ezril had been directed by the seminary to serve within the church for what they called a spiritual season. The same had been done for all his brothers.
It was supposed to be a good thing, a time without rigorous training and bodily harm, but Ezril found he did not like the discomfort of sitting within the sanctuary during masses.
The congregation within the church seemed to observe him more than they observed the Mother of the Parish celebrating the mass of Truth. Father Kazaril was absent from the celebration today, as was usual. As the parish priest of the church, he was prone to such stunts. Arguably, masses were not the reason priests were assigned to parishes but the church did require that they attend them.
Mother Nervia began the consecration of the blood of Truth, and as the congregation rose, so did Ezril. The church stood over forty feet tall. Its ceiling stood just as high, but the sanctuary placed those upon it above the congregation. So many people frequented the church every Frostiff, so much so that Ezril knew counting would be a waste of even Truth’s time.
But the number was not what always amazed him. It was the value of the congregation. Every woman adorned themselves with the finest of jewelries, and the biggest of stones always graced their necks. Rumor had it that most of the riches of the kingdom found its way to the church in the form of offerings.
Ezril wondered why the women saw it fit to paint their faces in so oblique a manner that with enough skill it could be pried right off like a mask… And Truth is expected to identify them in their passing, he thought absently.
This was another problem he faced with these masses. They left his mind idle and he thought of useless things.
The congregation descended to their knees on cue and Ezril took it as his cue to approach the alter. He had seen the priests do it countless times at the seminary during their morning masses enough times to know the process as if it had been honed into him over the years. Mother Nervia had practiced it with him, too, so perhaps it added significantly to the ease with which he played his part in the celebration. Every night before such masses she brought him to the sanctuary. There they practiced the sequence of the mass.
Ezril aided Sister Alanna, a nun in training from the convent, in organizing the placement of the chalices and the presentation of the wine. The wine served as a representation of the blood of Truth. The task complete, Ezril knelt beside Alanna, facing the congregation. The hem of his cassock proved incorrigible. It bundled to the floor in front of him where it was meant to lie beneath his knees, as the back laid above his calves.
“Blood of Truth?” Mother Nervia offered Sister Alanna.
Alanna nodded, giving consent. She sipped from the cup as Nervia tipped it to her mouth.
Nervia moved on to Ezril. She was an aging woman, and despite the large amount of coins they received as offering, her habit spoke of similar age, bearing as much wrinkles as her face, and fading in places like her weathered skin. Her lips were almost always kept in a thin line, and Ezril often found himself lost on what color they were, or had ever been.
She stood, chalice in hand, obstructing Ezril’s view of the congregation. It was a convenience for what was to come as the action also hid Ezril from the congregation.
“Blood of Truth?” she asked, frowning, yet clearly hoping.
Ezril moved his head to the side slightly. Today would also not be the day he partook in the wine.
She delayed for a moment, scowled, then moved on. It was a pretext, one Ezril saw no need for. No one in the congregation would suspect he refused to sip from the cup. The continued façade was proof of the importance Nervia placed in public opinion. Clearly, she would not have the parish name besmirched by the presence of a brother who would not partake of the blood of Truth.
It happened during every mass, and the Parish Mother was yet to ask him why. Ezril knew she would eventually do so. Such things were only a matter of time.
The mass came to an end eventually. Mother Nervia offered the congregation the closing rites, wishing them the one thing only a Sister of Truth could: His love and care.
All we will ever offer is his wrath, Ezril thought where he stood.
As the congregation pooled out of the massive hall of the church, those on the alter retired to the sacristy behind it.
Hidden comfortably within the backroom, Ezril sighed in relief. In the years his dislike for mass had never waned. It was not that he had hated it, he had simply not cared for it. Then his time in the seminary had made him dislike it because it ate into his sleep.
“Brother Antari,” Mother Nervia addressed him shortly after they had retired. “A word.”
A counsel. Ezril frowned as he walked up to her. She only addressed him by his adopted family name when she chose to lecture him. It was a trait she shared with Father Talod.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
The sacristy would have been drowned in darkness if not for the single window at the wall opposite the door to the sanctuary that allowed the morning light into it.
Ezril’s cassock swept with each step, its hems barely an inch from the floor as he approached her. He hated the white color because it made washing a necessity. The grey clothes he’d worn in the seminary had required lesser attention. They could be worn for longer hours at a time before needing the touch of water.
Ezril was barely standing before Nervia when she spoke again.
“You have been with us for a while now, Brother Antari,” she said. “And yet, you still reject the communion shared in the blood of Truth. I believed time would have solved this problem.” She sounded like an old mother scolding her child. “Alas, it has not.”
I do not refuse it. Ezril kept his silence. I simply do not accept it.
“Three weeks,” Nervia continued. “Three weeks with us. Is that not enough time, child? How long will you wait before you accept the love of Truth?”
Three weeks, Ezril thought. It came with a fatigue.
It was a short time in the period he was to spend in the customary requirement of the seminary. Two months in the spiritual service of Truth to be undertaken at a church of the seminary’s choosing under the supervision of a Mother of the church. The Monsignor said it was meant to give the seminarians an understanding of Truth’s love. Every brother believed it was a waste of time. None—not a single one of them—believed otherwise.
Ezril took a moment to survey his surroundings even if there was no need for it. Their audience was without true consequence. There was a man of considerable age, Mother Nervia, and Sister Alanna. These were the only people in the room with him. Apart from them, his only other companion was the old walls and the smell of candle wax from freshly unlit candles.
Ezril knew the old man to be near deaf, and Sister Alanna was busy cleaning out the chalices with a great dedication to the task. It was more dedication than was necessary, Ezril noted. She was obviously doing her best to pretend she wasn’t eavesdropping. And she was failing. Ezril didn’t blame her for it.
He refocused his attention on Nervia.
“The Credo,” he said, “teaches that only when one is in a state of acceptance does one partake in the blood of Truth. I am not in a state of acceptance.”
Nervia looked appalled by his words. “You’ve not been in a state of acceptance every morning?!” she snapped. “For three weeks?”
No. For far more than that… Ezril sighed internally. In the seminary, the communion of Truth was optional and he had shared in none of it. In Green Horn, the only part of the church Teneri had ever had him attend had been the catechism of the Credo, no more.
Ezril had never tasted or partaken in the blood of Truth.
“So it would seem, Mother,” he answered.
“Why?”
The question was rhetorical but Ezril answered, nonetheless. “Because I have committed sins in the past, Mother. And I will continue to sin even in the future.”
“None of us are perfect, child,” Nervia returned, seeming to think it mattered. “Truth’s love is abundant, and he forgives his children of their mistakes. No matter how great. And though they weigh down on us, he will take the burden from us.” She looked at him with soft eyes. “But only if we ask it of him.”
“True,” Ezril agreed. “And mine haunt me often.”
Her expression softened more. She was a kind woman, regardless of what some of her staff thought. Ezril felt his next words would’ve pained him if he cared much for her.
“But I feel no remorse,” he continued, “and I am yet to seek forgiveness, either. I fear if my sins present themselves to me again, I will transgress, again.” He took a step away from her, hoping it displayed the level of respect he bore in it. “So I will despair a while longer, Mother, and one day I will find remorse. And with it, his forgiveness.” He shook his head gently. “But that day is not today.”
He watched Nervia’s eyes grow wide with shock. Her lips parted slightly as if she had words to speak but they refused to be said. There would be people gathered at the entrance of the church waiting to speak with her by now, and their numbers would only continue to grow. So she lacked the time to do much more than offer him this lecture.
“I will be in my chambers if you need me, Mother,” Ezril added respectfully, and turned away from her.
Her expression was deluged by a silent rage. When it came to Truth, she was either burning or freezing. She was never in the middle.
Ezril took his leave. Closing the door behind him, he stood for a moment in the sanctuary. The voices he expected to hear inside the sacristy came a moment later. First it was Mother Nervia.
“Such a lost thing for a child to say.”
He wasn’t sure if it was rage or pity that colored her voice.
Then Sister Alanna spoke next. “He can be unbecoming sometimes. What would you expect from someone that keeps a wolf in his room?”
Ezril smiled as he climbed down the stairs of the sanctuary, and left the church. They always spoke, but he doubted they knew he often listened.
There was much they didn’t know. The knowledge of what Shade truly was continued to elude them. Perhaps they would never know that Shade was much more than just a wolf.
The church held two masses every day. Frostiff, however, had three. At the sixth hour the first mass held just at the break of dawn. It lasted two hours, twice the period of the masses held on other days. After it, a second mass would follow at the same length. The third mass, like the second of every other day, would be held in the evening, an hour before sunset.
It was the requirement of Ezril’s spiritual work that, among other things, he actively participate in the celebration of one mass a day. It was a requirement he met but never exceeded. He knew Nervia would have done everything in her power to make him accept the blood of Truth, but it was not a requirement. And unlike the convent—from what he saw in the treatment of Sister Alanna—there were things that were not demanded of him. No one in the seminary would spite him for not accepting Truth’s blood. After all, he had never accepted it his whole life, and the seminary had said nothing about it.
Nervia rarely offered her homily from the second half of the scripture of Truth. Instead she always chose to focus on the first which spoke extensively on the law and love of Truth. It was a part of the scriptures so old that the identities of the people who’d written it was one of the unknowns of the church.
The church, established about four centuries ago, was older than the seminary established a century after. Still, it was younger than the kingdom that stood close to seven centuries. The second half of the church’s scriptures which was written mostly by the early priests after the establishment of the seminary was rarely ever touched by Nervia. Perhaps this was because, contrary to the words of love, it shed Truth in a deadlier light. It spoke of nothing but his wrath and vengeance.
This morning Nervia had spoken on the despair in sin. The church called it a sin against Truth’s love. A state where a sinner refused to accept the love of Truth, choosing to wallow in the vanity of their sins. It had grated at Ezril’s ears as she’d spoken, her voice carrying over the silence of the congregation to consume the entire hall even with her age.
It made him wonder what she thought of him now that they had spoken this morning. Clearly he was despairing in sin. Not that he could bring himself to care. He was to be a priest, and priests had greater duties than such little worries.