“Brother Vi Antari.”

Ezril turned at the sound of his name. Father Talod approached him and he offered the man a respectful nod. “Yes, Father.”

“I am no longer a father to you,” Talod told him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You are now a priest of the seminary. We are both fathers to the children of Truth. To each other, we are brothers.”

Ezril was taken aback by the acknowledgement in Talod’s voice. He always felt the Broken would make a comeback before the man would ever acknowledge him.

“Yes… Brother,” he corrected.

Talod clapped Ezril’s back jovially. The gesture made him flinch. “The Monsignor would like a word with you,” he said.

Crowl stood at the west entrance of the church. With him was the Bishop and Arch-bishop. The bishop was flanked by two priests of whom had been present at the altar. The Arch-bishop was flanked by two sisters clad in black habits whom Ezril hadn’t seen during the mass. Priestesses, he guessed as they approached them.

“Ah, Father Vi Antari,” Bollis addressed him. “It is an unusual thing to carry your title after seven years. And into the priesthood, too.” His attention swiveled to the Arch-bishop. “Now this is a priest you can ask a question you cannot ask any other priest,” he added with a smile.

“I do agree,” Arch-Bishop Grenis said. “So tell me, child. How does it feel to be a priest?”

Bollis frowned.

“It’s not what I was expecting, Your Eminence,” Ezril answered respectfully.

Grenis scoffed and waved a dismissive hand. “None of that, child. Call me Mother Grenis,” she said with a smile. “You are the mistborn, I presume. The convent is riddled with talk of you. The boy who helped one of our young sisters.”

Ezril gave an almost indiscernible nod. He wasn’t sure it was a conversation he wished to have with her. But he was a priest now. Its details could only do so much to cause damage. The loss of fear of expulsion was refreshing.

Crowl patted his shoulder. “What you are feeling is normal Father Vi Antari,” he said. “Every priest expects more from the ordination ceremony.”

Crowl had completely ignored everything the Arch-Bishop had said and done, starting a topic of his own. They don’t like each other, Ezril noted. They don’t like how she’s chosen to treat me.

Crowl turned to Grenis. “If you’ll excuse us your eminence,” he said, “we did not call Father Vi Antari to meet you. We called him for a different reason.” He turned to the bishop with a small nod. “Your Lordship.” Then he led Ezril away.

Ezril observed the celebration around him, or rather, a lack thereof as he and Crowl walked. He knew his brothers celebrated, if not at becoming priests, then at no longer being brothers of the seminary.

Crowl turned to him after they’d covered a distance. “The man you are about to meet is one of import in the kingdom. I will advise you show as much respect as you can muster. But do remember, you are a priest of the seminary, not a brother. Carry yourself as one would.”

They approached the only carriage present, the one without the royal insignia. They came to a stop in front of an old man who regarded Ezril, again, with disdain as openly as he had done during the ordination.

“Father Ezril Vi Antari,” Crowl introduced him. “This is Lord Edavi Antari and his family.”

Lord Edavi regarded Ezril before he spoke. “So this is the adoption.”

“Father! Behave!” The woman beside him chided. “You will be on your best behavior or we will have words when we return.”

“I do not have to be,” Edavi insisted with the stubbornness of the elderly. “He is not my grandchild.”

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

The woman shook her head. It seemed she would rebuke Edavi more if he wasn’t so old. She turned her attention to Ezril. “Thank you for seeing us, Father Antari. I am Fionis Nirlu,” she drew his attention to the man beside her, “and this is my husband Lord Cridge Nirlu.”

The man she referred to seemed to force the authority into his stance. It wasn’t working. He seemed a simple man forced into the position of Lordship. He was better suited to the role of scribe or a simple frontline soldier than a lord.

“And this,” she continued, indicating the second man, “is Lord Balvik Antari, and his wife, Lady Delfin Antari. I and Lord Balvik are, by law of the kingdom, your aunt and uncle.” She smiled.

Ezril didn’t know how to respond. He was grateful when Edavi spoke.

“You are no grandson of mine.” He had a nagging voice, something with a nasal touch to it. But there was no croaking to it as Ezril was used to hearing in the elderly.

“Father—” Lady Fionis began.

“It is a simple truth,” Lord Edavi cut her off. “I will have no grandson from the gutters. If your brother wanted a son so badly he could have done away with the frock and come home. I’m sure we could have found him a woman of good repute to be his wife. Rather than have…” his nose wrinkled in disgust, “this.”

“That’s not very nice, father,” Fionis said, now that she had the chance. All the while, the others watched.

“It’s alright, Milady,” Ezril assured her. “I did come from the gutters. And I was not picked from it by your brother.” He turned his gaze to Lord Edavi. The man was hunched with age, and he was certain in the man’s prime he must have been tall and muscled. But time is an unfair acquaintance, and now Edavi strained to stand as tall as him.

“Where I came from showed me a great many things, Milord,” he continued. “Both good and evil. But mostly evil. And now I am a priest of the seminary. Believe me when I say that I have experienced much.” He met Edavi’s glare squarely. “Your opinion of me is the least of my worries.”

“You forget your place, child!” Edavi barked. He seemed to imbue his glare with as much intimidation as he could. Obviously, he was a man accustomed to being feared and respected. Ezril had no doubt of it. But Urden had had a more domineering power than the man’s glare in a simple look. Thinking of it now, Urden was more domineering than everyone Ezril had ever met, even Monsignor Crowl. It was disconcerting to realize. Disconcerting and mildly terrifying. How can a man be scarier than his own father?

“I know my place Milord,” Ezril continued. “It is in service to the seminary. And it would be kind not to talk of a priest of the seminary in such a manner.” He heard Crowl groan beside him, but he continued, nonetheless. “And more importantly, it would do you kindly to speak of the man who pulled me from this gutter we speak of with greater respect than this.” He stepped closer, seeming to forget himself. He towered over Edavi, now, time had done much for his height. When he spoke again, he heard more of the seminary’s menace than himself in his voice. “There is only so much I can overlook.”

Edavi seethed with rage and it took Ezril only a moment to realize what he’d done. Edavi opened his mouth to speak but Lord Balvik beat him to it.

“He even has the same fire as our younger brother.” Balvik laughed. “Do you see it, sister?”

Fionis smiled fondly. “Yes. It would seem he controls that fire in the same way, too.” She stepped closer to Ezril, so that she seemed to stand between him and Edavi. “You may not look it,” she said, “but you do remind us very much of him—”

Ezril stiffened visibly as her hand reached for his face. They suspended without touching him and her smile broadened. “It would seem you also have his dislike for being touched.” Her attention turned to her brother. “Young Urd couldn’t have picked a child any more like himself.”

“I agree.” Balvik smiled, but it did not reach his eyes.

Fionis returned her attention to Ezril. “Father may not like you, but you are ever welcome in the Nirlu house, nephew,” she said. “If you ever need anything, we will be more than willing to help.”

He offered her a simple nod in response. Somehow they had succeeded in subtly pushing Edavi aside. Ezril could still feel the man seething in his anger. Perhaps he had gone a touch too far in his disrespect.

He considered a course of action in apology, thought better of it, and chose none. It did not matter who Edavi was, he had slighted Urden. Anything less than what he’d done would’ve been disrespectful to the man who’d brought him out of Green Horn; the man aunt Teneri had trusted enough to entrust Ezril to.

The family of Antari and Nirlu boarded their carriage and left.

Crowl sighed and rubbed his forehead. “Barely an hour as a priest and you have already found the disfavor of the advisor to the crown on matters of war.” He shook his head, turning to the church. “Try not to stir up too much trouble, Father Vi Antari.”

Alone, Ezril observed his brothers in black as they moved around the cathedral. He felt a loss. Near a hundred and fifty of them had taken the test of the mist. Only forty of them stood in the cathedral, ordained. He wondered how many of them had failed, and how many had died.

The carriages that brought them took them back to the seminary. There, they prepared for their next departure, arranging their belonging. They were allowed one more night in the seminary. When morning comes they would embark on their journey to wherever the seminary would send them.

They had had their spiritual journey in different churches. Now, they would have their pastoral year in places less loving than churches.