For the first time in my life, I was invited during Saintsday inside the church; the only time the villagers were allowed in the monasteries. I could not contain myself after being so alone with just Knox for company. Every evening, I ached to see Wilbur, but all I had of him were the meals he prepared. I relished each bite, and each bite was delicious.

I was eager to welcome the villagers, even if they hated me. All I longed for was another face apart from Knox. When they entered through the great doors, I saw that the villagers of Saint Korbin were dressed in tattered, faded clothes, all huddled together and afraid of being inside the cold stone walls. But, where are the statues? I heard them whisper. They were looking for alcoves where the Saints usually stood; the traditional layout of churches from the books Knox gave me. During the day, I read the real scriptures and compared them to the ones Knox was writing. I was not allowed to read history books or any texts about raising livestock or craftsmanship. Each night, Knox taught me and questioned me about what I’d learned. I didn’t like it; my memory was filling up fast and my storage was limited. I was beginning to forget Wilbur’s plants and ores.

The things that occupied my mind now were stories of the chaotic world before the Saints. Much like our story, they simply were gifted, seemingly randomly, with dominion to fight this Great Chaos. Saint Esmond of Highvault made the dry earth fertile, spreading flowers and encouraging crops to grow. Saint Cerelia of Vlue calmed the turbulent rivers, and then the seas that made trade and transport possible. Saint Oswald was the mightiest, harnessing the power of light and hope itself to vanquish most of the Great Chaos.

Then, finally, Saint Gaelmar of the River Rae, whose powers were abstract, kept the Great Chaos from spreading. He prayed and chanted constantly, sang songs to lift the spirits of his companions. He was titled the Lock and Key. He was the blueprint of all other clergies; the one thing that they all have in common though they pray to different patron Saints. All monastic orders and nunneries took inspiration from Saint Gaelmar's quiet servitude, devotion, and humility. He vowed to never marry and never have children, only loyal followers to spread the Saints’ teachings. In doing so, we may keep the chaos at bay.

His sermon started out harmless enough. But by the end, he was introducing our ways; of bloodletting and servitude, rather than emphasizing humility and generosity. The main lessons in all of his sermons were, I would learn, that monks know better, and to trust us in how we would run their lives. I looked around the church. They were lost souls; poor and hungry. They would believe anything if it meant that they had homes to return to, to have food in their bellies.

It was in the middle of his sermons that Knox showed me a taste of his powers. When I locked eyes with him, he made a motion as if to lift my hood off my face. Then, I saw it: the church was brighter than before, and on the sides of the church were alcoves with faceless saints in their mighty poses. I looked around to see the villagers intent on listening to Knox, calmed by this illusion. Knox belonged at the pulpit. It was an art form in itself, his words, like Woodrow and Wilbur. His eyes did not glow, but it was the way he used his gestures and his words. I can feel this wave coming from him.

In the end, they returned to their work outside the fields. I ached to be with them. I wanted to run up to them and tell them to flee, to cover their ears and not believe their lies, but they didn’t even notice me. I was ordered to be lurking in one corner of the wall where the candles did not reach me, but I was sure that at least somebody would glance in my direction.

I wanted to ask any one of them, “Have you seen my brother Wilbur? Have you seen a giant building the walls, building your houses? Has a fair-faced, red-haired pale elf brought you your supper?”

All of them closed the door of the church and stomped slowly to their quarters. In the silence, Knox called, “Lock the doors, Ryne, and go to your tower.”

___

After weeks or months of this routine, I grew impatient. I slammed the book onto the wall and screamed, my voice echoing inside the tower. Knox merely waited for my outburst to calm. “Are you quite finished?”

“I want to see Wilbur!” I demanded. “I won’t listen to any more lectures until I see that my brother is doing all right.”

Knox sighed and snapped his fingers, looking away. I knew it was Swithin that would come. He opened the door and looked at me with frightened eyes. Knox revealed a metal chain that slinked on the floor. “Subdue him.”

Swithin didn’t even put up much of a fight this time. He recoiled a little, but ultimately, his body bent to the ground and once more leaped behind me. The breath was knocked off my body. “Ryne, please,” he whispered. “Behave yourself. He’ll only hurt you more.”

“Don’t listen to him, Brother! I need to see Wilbur! Just let me see him!” I was angrier than last time when Woodrow didn’t allow me to join in the harvest festival. I hated that he was seeing me cry.

“Well, I was planning on giving you a free day on the cloisters this Saintsday during my sermon, but alas, the privilege is revoked.”

“Liar!” I spat. This was his way. I now knew how cruel he was. “This is how they torture the desperate to keep their hopes up. You can’t fool me.”

“Well, look at that, he learns still.”

Exchanging words was pointless. Swithin chained my torso to the walls. My hands and feet were free, so that I may read books and eat my supper. Knox dismissed Swithin and turned the book that I threw to the correct page. “Read.”

___

There was a familiar scene playing out in the church after mass. A young farmer has sought an audience with Knox. I stood in the dark corner, watching them. His head was bowed, his hat clutched near his chest. He was asking permission for marriage.

Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

“How many animals do you own?” Knox asked, bored.

“Two, brother.” the young man’s shoulders had already dropped. His voice shook.

Knox tutted, relishing in the man’s misfortune. “That won’t do at all. Wait until they grow to at least five, and give us three sheep in exchange for your maiden’s hand in marriage.”

The lad bowed. He did not raise his head as he left the church. “Yes, Brother.”

When the man had left and I locked the doors, I shouted, “You know very well that their animals are dying and Swithin can’t hunt for more food. We don’t need the animals, Knox! I haven’t even seen any of you eat that much except for Swithin, and I could do well with just broth.”

“It’s not about food. It’s about appearance and principles. I told you. We are the laws of this land and part of our masquerade and office is to enact the law. Besides, peasants know to ask us for almost everything. Conducting business, marriage, and festivals. We are part of it all.”

“Can’t you at least reconsider? Just give him four animals.”

He weighed the outcome. He shrugged. “Very well. Just this once. An act of leniency from time to time. But if anyone else asks to loosen my grip, I shall be firm.”

I nodded. Then, another thought suddenly came. “Won’t they remember our faces? Surely, even when we outlive them, they can recount stories of our countenance?” I immediately thought of Ealhstan and Woodrow. The giant bear and the breathtakingly beautiful sprite.

“Disguises are simple enough to make. We can fashion beards, dye our hair, wear wood stumps to change our height. We do what we’ve always done. Make ourselves scarce until we grow too much influence that we won't need to hide anymore. Besides, I have my powers to protect me. Or lest you forget what happened to the two young men, and friends of those Ansel.” He let out a small chuckle. “I did not mean for them to be like the walking dead. That was my mistake for exceeding my power.”

___

I was making candles out of beeswax that Knox handed me when he blurted out a lecture on control and authority.

“We’re hardly the first to use these tactics as control, you know. The other brotherhood of monks, and sisterhood of nuns, use them in their own ways. Whatever Wilbur taught you, forget it, child. The ones on top will always subdue those at the bottom to ensure their survivability and position.”

“But what if they know better?” I asked, scrubbing the floors now. “What if instead of teaching them how to be dependent, we teach them to actually live? Help them until they can help themselves.” Like I thought what the original plan was.

At that, he grew serious and actually stood to his full height and stepped closer to me. “We will not let that happen.”

___

It was the third week of his mass when I noticed a new presence in the nave. He was a tall figure with different clothing than the villagers. He wore animal fur with his linen jacket and a small basic sword at his hip. An actual sword. Even the peasants stared at him as they entered.

Then it hit me. I used the word, peasant. I caught Knox’s eye as he was turning the page of the scripture and he began to speak. As he drawled on, my knees wobbled.

I was more like Knox’s novice than WIlbur’s. It didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel good at all. I hated it. The books I used to draw on were confiscated, of course, and only allowed once a week, but with my faulty memory, even if it was my own handwriting and diagram, I had already forgotten the names of the plants I once held. Even my memories of Wilbur when I wrote them were like something out of a dream. Did that really happen?

Every service, the words he changed were becoming more and more, but the villagers did not notice. They only listened and absorbed.

___

Knox handed me a scroll of parchment. I did not understand the words, but he taught me how to pronounce them. It sounded like chanting, like prayer, but felt wrong.

“What good is saying it out loud if I don’t know what it means?”

“You don’t have to know what it means. Abbott Blake wants you to memorize this. He says you would use this soon enough.”

“What, are you going to make me as a one-man choir?”

Knox did not respond. I can tell that Abbott Blake did not disclose his plan to him this time. What he did do was force me to recite how the prayer worked. The first time I heard him sing, I held my arms and stepped back. The chant was definitely different than the prayers that mothers used to lull their children to sleep. Never mind the words, the notes were somehow wrong, as if it was calling for something instead of offering praise or thanks.

“Keep practicing the lines,” he said. “This scroll would be the first of many.”

I had an urge to clean myself in a nearby river. It left a bad taste in my mouth.

___

“Woodrow can be put in my office, you know,” Knox said as we prepared for the sermon. We’re thinking about it, except his powers of seduction might not activate when preaching.”

I wiped the cobwebs off the benches. “I saw them looking at you, even the soldiers standing about. They are almost mesmerized.” The soldier from before always came, sometimes by himself, sometimes with some companions.

At that, Knox actually fixed me with a genuine smile. I did not want to see it again. “Imagine if a whole army defended us because of what they believe what we stand for. Soon, maybe we won’t even have to resort to using Brother Woodrow or Ealhstan’s powers for protection.”

I was chanting the prayer for Knox every night until I had it memorized. There was that nasty feeling again, like the buildup of bile. After he had left, I summoned the faces of my dear brothers as I slept. I sang a different tune that night: the songs of Saint Gaelmar and how he calmed himself using his own words. I prayed for rebuilding brotherly bonds, of being steadfast amongst great adversaries. I swore to myself that I wouldn’t forget Woodrow and Wilbur and Ealhstan’s faces. I tried speaking to them in my mind before I went to sleep. In my heart, I tried to remember their lessons. Shame that I wasn’t close to Brother Swithin, but he was wild and needed to roam, anyway.

I remembered Ealhstan’s houses. I remembered Woodrow’s charms and wits. I remembered Woodrow’s compassion and dedication to his craft. If they were here, what would they say to me?

Oddly enough, it was Woodrow’s voice that spoke to me, his eyes serious, his smile crafty: play along, plan ahead, wait for an opening.