13. Father Roman

They called themselves scholars because they gathered in the former quarters of Arcanist Whitefellow.  They would be hard-pressed to study much of anything, given the state of Whitefellow’s library.  Someone had pulled down the several volumes owned by the man and torn them to pieces.  The abused pages had been gathered together by the Scholars into a few stacks and tied together with string, but that was as far as they were willing to go with preserving their old schoolmaster’s library.

The four of them spent the afternoon baking apples in a thick clay pot in the fireplace and eating them.  Sour and hard when raw, they came out of the post sweet and soft and steaming.  After what the guards took and setting aside a few for the night shift, there were enough cooked apples for them each to have two.  The other scholars ate the apples in their entirety except for the stem and seeds.

While the food cooked Fernie told his story of his parents’ death by manticore, his long walk south to the town he’d never seen, and his mistreatment at the hands of the guards.  His audience didn’t gasp in surprise or lean forward in suspense.  They just nodded along as if the whole thing were expected.  Their own lot hadn’t been any better.  “I’m afraid I have bad news for you Fernie,” said the girl Tyra, “if you were getting away from manticores.  You kind of walked into them.”

“They belong to Sharn,” said Karl, the older boy.  “There’s a huge one he rides, it’s really terrifying.  He lets the whole pack hunt in the valley, so if anyone tries to escape this place...”

Fernie pulled his knees up to his chin and wrapped his arms round them.  “I should have gone North.  How many of these things are there?  And who’s this Sharn guy?”

“Sharn the Ruthless.  He’s got about forty elves and humans, and about a hundred goblins.  And the manticores.”

“We used to get along with the goblins,” Tyra said.  “Sometimes they would kill an animal, but the Captain could always work out a trade.  We weren’t friendly, exactly, but we never had any bad trouble with them.  Now they’re like in all the stories.”

“Small but vicious,” agreed Karl.

“I want them all dead,” blurted Wrenn.  It was the first words he had spoken since voting Fernie into the club.  “All of them.  They deserve it.  They took Mom and Pa...”

The group fell silent for a while, watching Tyra fidget with the coals around the pot.

“I made a mistake,” Fernie said, “I shouldn’t have come here.  I should leave.”

“No, you can’t,” Tyra insisted.  “they’ll drop you.  We have to take him to the commons,” she told Karl and Wrenn, “he has to see.”

There was a shared dread on the trio’s faces.  “I can’t,” said Wrenn in a whisper.  “someone has to watch the animals.”

“I’ll take him,” said Karl, “alone.  Nobody else has to come.  Anyway, nobody’s going to stop us.”

An adult wouldn’t have taken Fernie to the commons.  An adult wouldn’t have shown him anything so terrible.  But the Scholars knew most of what the adults knew, and they didn’t see a reason not to share it.  Karl lead Fernie east through the town right to the wall, then they climbed the wood scaffolding and stood on the defender’s walkway.   From there they could see the land sloping gently down for a mile before turning up towards Mt. Stamhead.

Fernie could see what kept the townsfolk so cowed.  His first impression was that of a grotesque garden where corpses had unexpectedly sprouted up from the earth instead of the expected runner beans and squash.  Sharpened stakes the height of a man were planted there, perhaps a hundred a few feet apart in a neat grid.  Onto these the citizens of Stamfield had been dropped from a great height.

“He gets his big manticore to carry people up high and drop them.  People who run away, or try to fight.”  Karl’s forced his tone to be casual.  “The minions place bets on how good its aim is.”  Fernie counted some corpses piled five deep.  Bodies sometimes lay on multiple spikes, and sometimes they fell between spikes and were killed by the fall alone.  A few had missed the target area entirely and lay like broken dolls, bloating in the morning sun.  “Some people are still alive after they get dropped.  If they live, you can’t help them.  Sometimes he makes us all stand out here and watch.

“I have a brother.  Had.  He’s in there somewhere, near the bottom.”

“How many manticores, did you say” asked Fernie?  

“Why?  You planning on killing one?”

Fernie shrugged.  “I just want to know is all.”

“Six, including the big one.  We think she’s the mother.”  The two boys turned away from the commons and retraced their steps.  Fernie seemed weighed down, hardly able to pick up his feet.  “On the first day,” said Karl, “one of the guards put a spear into the smallest one.  The really big manticore tore him to shreds.  Bits of him were everywhere.  That’s why we think she’s their mother.”  The walked on for another block, peering around corners for patrols before crossing streets.  “The whole time, Sharn was riding on her back, laughing.”

“Don’t you have a mayor or something?  Can’t he do anything?”

“The Captain was the only one who could do anything, but Sharn has him in a dungeon.  We have a Laird, but Kelowind is useless.  He tries to act like he’s in charge even though he’s been thrown out of the castle.  People mostly ignore him.  Father Roman is alright though, at least he tries to do something.  There’s not much he can do, but at least he tries.”

“Can I meet him?” asked Fernie, enthusiastically, “I’ve never met a real priest before.”

“I guess,” said Karl, shrugging.  “I’ll take you to the temple.  But then I have to get back to the animals.  People will be pissed if anything happens to them and I wasn’t there.  You can find your way back?”

The old temple building was still in use as such.  It was one great room dominated by a plinth in the center, on which should have stood four larger-than-life statues.  All that remained of the gods were their feet.  At the far side of the room the broken remnants had been gathered: big chunks of stone heads and hands and limbs and torsos.  Each of the four gods had been dismembered, painted plaster still shimmering in the sunlight streaming in from the high windows.  The stones were sorted into piles by color scheme, waiting for their followers to rebuild them.  A domed ceiling looked down on them, tiled in the same shade of deep blue inlaid with bright yellow stars.  The usual iconography required a sun and a moon often covered in real silver and gold, but maybe the bandits had taken them.  There were other signs of recent damage, too:  faces in the wall murals were gouged by sword marks; there was the lingering smell of fire.  Tad wondered what had been burned.

By some clever trick of the windows the light fell mainly into the center of the temple in a golden beam.  The rest of the temple was in relative shadow, and Fernie became aware of people moving about only gradually.  A man and a woman were sweeping, the swish swish of their brooms pushing constellations of dust motes into the light.  Fernie slipped to one side of the doorway, into shadow to watch.  The sweepers worked in tandem according to some long-standing arrangement, each overlapping the other’s work a little in a pattern that would cover the entire floor.  Another man, in a long priest’s cassock, stood by a mural with a paintbrush in hand.  A kind of little bookshelf on wheels was next to him, filled with jars and rags and other artists’ tools.  

Fernie padded closer to see.  The frocked man touched the face of some local saint with delicate stokes of a small brush.  The figure in question thrust one hand forward to abjure a pack of undead back to grave.  Fernie could see the defaced surface had been filled in with plaster, and the priest was smoothing a layer of flesh-colored paint over the damaged areas of the face.  

The priest’s cassock was less fine than Father Ambrose’s, and much more worn.  The cloth at his elbows was worn down to a shine and his buttons didn’t all match.  The man himself was tall and lean with a full head of white hair and a mustache whose corners drooped down to his chin to end in sharp waxy points.  His head tilted back slightly to look though the magnifying spectacles perched on the end of his short nose.  His face was wrinkled with age but he seemed less tired than patient.  Resolved. 

“Feel free to make yourself useful young man.”  The brush dipped into small bowl in the priest’s left hand and rose again to the mural.  “Find me some light, will you?”  He pointed with the handle of the brush to the altar.  A large bronze platter leaned, just inside its shadow.

Fernie shuffled over uncertainly and, after some experimentation, moved the platter to where it would shine light onto the priest’s work.  “Much better,” sighed the priest.  Fernie stood near him to watch, careful not to cast a shadow over the saint.  

“Who is he, Father?”

“Don’t you know?  Haven’t you been paying attention in temple?”  The priest admonished Fernie with a look, given by elders everywhere to their young charges who seemed incapable attending even the most elementary of lessons.  The boy caught the barest glimpse of his white brows before they shot up into his bangs.  “Good heavens!  Who are you?”

“My name is Fernie, sir.  Son of Willis.”  He offered his hand for the priest to shake.  “I came south over the hills.”  

The priest put his brush behind one ear and took the boy’s hand.  “Whatever for?”

“I was running from manticores, Father.”  “But I guess I ran in the wrong direction.”

“So it would seem.  I am Father Roman.  Missus Clay, would you get a plate and a mug of cider for our guest?”  The priest sat Fernie down on one of the benches along the wall with the promised food and left him there for a few minutes.  Fernie enjoyed his second breakfast of the day: jerked meat, a boiled egg, a hunk of tangy cheese on a wooden plate.    The cider was scented with valley flowers.   He wolfed it down like he hadn’t eaten properly in days.

Fernie was about to ask where he should put the plate and cup when the priest returned.  “Leave it for now.   Come into the light where I can see you properly.”  Roman looked him over, asked if he was injured, and where he had come from.  Fernie was just starting his story when a group of men walked through the temple’s doors.  

The man in the center was of an age and height with Father Roman but broader.  Behind him loomed four more in hardened leather armed with clubs.  By his steps he came in anger.  As Roman turned his head to face the newcomer Fernie slipped out of view.

“Why did you tell them not to fight, Roman?” The leader was dressed in silk trousers and doublet overlaid with an embroidered coat.  His clothes must have been impressive at one time but were presently faded and threadbare.  They covered a man struggling with his indignities: his mouth turned down; his shoulders sloped; his hands clinched on nothing by his sides.  He stopped just inches from the priest’s face.  “You’re undermining me.  Again!”

“We don’t have enough men to win.  If we fight now the town will lose.”

“We have to do something, before he kills us all.”

“Not suicide,” urged the priest. “As long as the treasure room stays locked Sharn has a reason to drag this out.  Help may still come.  Something may change.  We have to wait for an opportunity.”

“I am Laird here!  I say when people fight.”

“Not any more,” observed the priest.

Fernie thought the man, who must be Laird Kelowind, was going to hit Father Roman.  The men behind him shifted uncomfortably, not wanting to choose between their Laird and their priest.  One closer inspection, they didn’t seem like the regular fighting types.  They didn’t seem very well fit to their armor, and the clubs were clumsy weapons.   “You’re going to regret this.  After this is over, I’m going to make you pay.  Brother or not.”

“Your enemy isn’t in the temple, brother.  He’s in the castle.”  Father Roman said it without a trace of rebuke but it had an effect on the ex-Laird.

Kelowind backed up and struck a more relaxed pose.  “My point exactly.  Let’s work together in these difficult times.  For the good of everyone.  Convince the soldiers to fight, and we’ll forget all about this little disagreement.”

“They’ll fight when there’s a way to win, or when there is no other choice.  The captain wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“The captain isn’t here.”  Kelowind didn’t say goodbye or excuse himself.  He just turned and left.  Father Roman stood for a while watching his brother’s back recede, his forgotten paintbrush tucked behind one ear.  

They boy made his decision then.  He retrieved the gem he had smuggled past the guards and stood in front of the priest.  He threw off the frightened bearing and tremulous voice of Fernie and exchanged it for the confident poise of a gentleman adventurer’s apprentice.  “Father Roman, help has come.”

The old man’s eyes looked down on him sympathetically, “You’re a good lad Fernie, but you’re too young to fight bandits.”

“I’m an advance scout, sir.  The Duke of Corak sent help.  The rest of us are still in the hills.”

The priest paused for several heartbeats,  then took Tad by the arm and lead him into a curiously shaped alcove.  “A stranger out of the north.  I should have guessed!  How many in your army?”

“Not an army, Father,” whispered Tad.  “Heroes.  They’re not many, but they’re powerful people and they’ve sworn to fight your enemy.”  Tad opened his hand to show the flawless clear gem lying in his palm, “Have you seen one of these before?  It’s a speaking stone.”

“I’m familiar with them,” said the priest wonderingly, “but it has been ages since I’ve used one.”

“I’ll make my report and then introduce you.  You can talk to my companions.”

“Yes,” said Father Roman, louder than necessary, “let’s pray for guidance.”

Taking his cue from the Father, Tad bowed his head with the gem clasped between his hands at his chest.  The priest put his hands around Tad’s and together they bowed their heads.  After a minute of silence the priest asked, “Is it not working?”

“No Father, I’m just thinking about what I’ll say: These things don’t last very long, and my master values concision in any case.”

“By all means, take your time,”  encouraged the priest. To Tad, he didn’t sound entirely earnest.

When Tad thought he had all the important parts covered he reached out through the gem with his mind and looked for his master.  In theory he could contact any one of the three other stones mated to his, but as Mr. Brightstar was the person he knew best he was the easiest to reach.  Tad imagined him, writing in his journal, sitting on a log somewhere in the hills and suddenly the halfling’s mind was present.  Tad could sense himself too, as if from Nolan’s perspective, which was the most confusing part of the experience.  

“You’re early, Thaddius.”

“I’ve made some progress, and I have a report.”  The magic felt like conversing with someone and at the same time remembering that the conversation had taken place.  

“Break, while I get the others.”  Nolan’s presence popped like a soap bubble.

“My master is bringing the others into the conversation, Father.  My report will only take a minute, then I’ll include you and make introductions.”  Just then a whole bunch of somebodies crowded into his head at once and Tad lost sight of the alcove and temple around him.  He was was with the entire party, paired us in twos to share stones. 

“Report, Thaddius.”

Tad efficiently summarized what he knew of Sharn and his forces then tried to explain the political situation.  “We’re short on local leadership.  There was a captain of the guard, but he’s being held in the castle dungeon.  Sharn lets the old Laird run around free, as a kind of joke.  He’s powerless.  People here put their trust the temple priest, Father Roman. Also, I think the priest is hiding fighters somewhere, but he won’t use them unless the situation changes.”

“You think we should work with the priest,” stated Nolan.

“Yes sir.  The Laird isn’t coping well, but the Priest seemed to be expecting us.  He’s been playing for time until help arrives.  He’s here with me now.”  

Tad could feel flashes of emotion from the party members.  Constrained impatience from the sisters.  Aggravation from Minzerec.  Earkey was concerned for the innocents in the town.  Nolan was pleased.    Most astonishingly, there was Familiarity and Danger from Basil.  A pulse of thought from Aidan, querying whether to include the priest in the conversation.  Impress him and he would be more open to them then he would be to their envoy.  Nolan: there is more to know from the priest.  Agreement from all sides.

Tad realized there was a lot for him to learn about this kind of communication, where one could use ideas without words.  Then he was embarrassed to realize his thought was leaking into the mindshare.  Then the embarrassment was received by all parties.  From Minzerec, the word “Practice” appeared in Tad’s mind as if they had been written in chalk on the inside of his skull.

“Give the stone to Father Roman,” ordered Nolan.

Blindly, Tad released one hand and folded the priest’s around the stone.  As the temple swam back into view it was a relief to lose contact with his party.  The talking stones were a little more personal than anyone had told him.  The old priest stood head and shoulders taller than Tad, with his mouth open in amazement.  After about a minute, tears welled up under his closed eyes.  Occasionally his lips moved.  Whatever they were talking about, Tad could see the hope grow in him.  

Roman’s eyes opened suddenly.  “Bless you, son,” he said laying one hand on the top of Tad’s head. ”You’ve journeyed far in the embrace of the gods.  Trust them as you have been, and they will continue to guide you.”  

“I’m to keep this for now,” he whispered, “and give it to you later after we’ve made a plan.”

“Thank you father,” Tad said aloud.  “I’ll go watch the animals with Karl and the others.”

“Oh, you’ve fallen in with them already have you?  Off with you, then.”

Somewhere between the priest and the temple door, Tad disappeared and the orphan Fernie took his place.