Spring 64
Prayer circles ran shifts at the Conclave.
By day and by night, they pressed their hands to the Azure-tainted walls and exhorted, “Begone! Demon, begone! By the authority of our Lord above, you have no power here!”
Around them, the crowds circled from deacon to deacon, drinking in the promises of their glorious future.
“Now is our time, children! Now is the dawn of our Fire! Stand firm with me and…”
“That fool wouldn’t know piety from a horse’s tail! He dines with whores and dares to speak of purity!”
“Lies and slander from the bastard son of a noble House! Turn your ears from his lies!”
Each offered black armbands with a little extra – an insignia or a crest.
Not a House crest, mind. Simply a way to distinguish support for one’s favorite deacon!
They pontificated, and the prayer circles ran their shifts.
For most the deacons, this carnival was a pulpit, and they performed as such.
Father Maxwell, meanwhile, bent his shoulders to prayer in the middle of the prayer circles. He clasped shoulders with farmers and bricklayers, exhorting them to find strength. Promising them that the Conclave would be whole again – Ruhum’s jewel restored.
“We lost the Cathedral. We will not lose the Conclave!”
Late in the day, news arrived from the east of defeat and disgrace.
Briarwood’s ambitions brought to ruin on bloodied fields by the Tempest herself.
A wail rippled through the square. Sensing the opportunity, the deacons shouted, “We must rise now against the Tempest! As Keeper, I will…”
Only Maxwell spoke what the people yearned.
“No! No work of man will topple her. Only the Serpent will save us. Only the Serpent will finish what was started!”
Will usher forth our dream
The Conclave shivered under his hand.
“God sent us a messenger!” Maxwell said, fever building in his eyes. “Sixteen years ago, God sent us his sign!”
“Yes,” breathed the prayer circle around him.
“But in our weakness, we turned away! We longed for the false richness of modern comforts! We looked to what was easy instead of what was right! No longer! No more!”
“Yes!” shouted those nearest to him.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
“We must embrace our penance!” Maxwell roared, his voice rising across the crowd. “We must embrace the Fire and be purified! Only then will we be reborn!”
His earnest call caught the square’s ear.
Beneath, the stones rang with a pained sigh.
Was it a mistake to hide this world’s decay?
Shall I show them the forests and hills consumed to buy one more day?
But for the meddling of Fire, my Work would be complete…
Why? Why do you yearn for the Wyrm’s calamitous certainty?
Maxwell tore at his breast, letting all see the scars from Penitent penance. “Listen to me! The way is known! The way is known! Our salvation waits in the rhythm of history! Harken to the Serpent – remember that terrible day! Who was it who stood against the Tempest sixteen fateful years ago?! The Serpent!”
A few among the crowd stumbled; they remembered otherwise.
Suddenly they beheld their fellows like ravening beasts, and they found themselves in hostile waters.
“I tell you truly – the Serpent sent a vision this very spring above Sevensborough. It was a warning, but we were too foolish to heed! Listen now! Cleave now to the righteous path and none shall touch you! Cleave now, and the Tempest will have no power over you!”
The stones offered a pained laugh.
No, your heart’s desire is the familiar yoke
You have spurned my every offer
Scorned my people for their shade of blue
Cast yourself the victim of the play, then!
Of the pain my children feel as they flee this homeland, I have surrendered every complaint
Of the children who have fallen in the journey, I have wept in your stead
Yet still you demand more for yours and yours alone
Ruhum shuddered in its bones. In the marrow, stitches of gold and blue withdrew from their bed.
Very well
If you despise this new covenant, then take no part in it
Flickers of blue played across the crowd, picking out the handful with the doubt enough in their hearts to answer the Stormmother’s call.
In the east, a great flash of the same announced Walter’s final withdrawal, and the Cathedral of Fire faded from Lumia. It left behind Ruhum’s share of the inheritance: the shattered shell of gold.
Everything of value hurried south at Lynne’s bidding.
Though it cost the Work greatly, she even surrendered the nexus of gold beneath the Conclave.
For those in the square, the Conclave rippled with power. The tendrils of Azure power wavered. Then, imperceptibly at first, they began to fade.
“Look!” shouted the crowd. “Our faith at work!”
Azure color flinching away from Maxwell’s maddened touch.
Leaving in its wake the sun-bleached bone of desert and wasteland.
Maxwell stared, as shocked as any other. Then, regaining himself, he shoved his other hand against the wall. “Pray with me! Pray for deliverance from our sins!”
The crowd rushed forward, tearing at each other for a chance to press their palms to the Conclave.
“Begone, foul temptress!”
“The Sun take you, harlot!”
“Tempest be gone! Tempest be gone!”
On the edges of the crowd, they shouted, “Maxwell is banishing the Azure taint!”
The square filled with cheers and praise for Maxwell. All beheld their savior!
Though ‘twas bleached ruin that spread before them, the Conclave’s metal gone soft to the touch.
The stones attempted to counsel, though who remained who would hear?
There is power enough beneath to salvage your course
If you will but hear it
A world may die, but that need not be your end
A dozen, perhaps, in a crowd of thousands, noticed how the distant flicker of the western mountains seemed to grow brighter by the moment, ripe with the promise of ash enough to choke every field…
Half that dozen thought they heard the whisper of a path away from madness; half of that half began the glacial work to accept and repent from folly.
As the Stormmother surrendered her Work in Ruhum to the winds, she offered her mournful parting words.
What more can I grant?
Here, then, my final blessing
Your fate is your own