Chapter 2: The Shrine

Utterly drained and light-headed, Rhys arrived at the House Of Mercy, the small stone shrine dedicated to the village’s patron deity.

Calling it a “House” was a bit much. It was smaller than the barn back on Padec’s farm, just big enough for the altar, the confessional and four pews. Large gatherings and ceremonies had to be held on the village green, with a small portable icon as replacement for the altar.

Rhys knocked at the door. During daytime, Celeste usually was in the chapel, ready to treat the wounded. With the sorry state of most of the village’s tools, hardly a day went by without one unexpectedly breaking, hurting or killing some poor soul.

“Come!”

He pulled the door open, fighting the old wood. It squealed like a bunch of lost souls. Mother Celeste sat on the steps in front of the altar, the small circular window over the door bathing the icon of Mercy in a shaft of light. The Goddess was portrayed as a naked, winged beauty, her hair spun locks of gold, her wings shafts of pure radiance as she offered her garment to a pair of bloodied soldiers.

Next to her on the highest step, a small oil lantern provided enough illumination to read by. Celeste lowered the old tome she had been reading in.

“Hello Rhys, so nice of you to stop by,” she said, rising. “You look different.”

He chuckled weakly. It still hurt, if only a bit. “Well, probably like I’ve rolled around in the mud a few times.” He took a few tentative steps and crumpled on the pew nearest the door.

Celeste joined him, brushing the hood of his head. “You’re as pale as a ghost! What happened? Did Padec-?”

Rhys shook his head. Bad idea. A sudden bout of vertigo hit him and he sunk against Celeste. “I- I think I need to make a confession,” he panted.

“What you need to do is tell me where it hurts so I can help you,” Celeste countered. She rose and retrieved her healer’s bag from behind the altar. The cleric resolutely sat down next to him again, taking his hands. “And you’re ice-cold!”

“I can’t. Need to make a confession first.”

“Screw this,” Celeste snapped. She dug around in her bag, pulled a small metal flask from it and uncorked it. Gently, she cupped Rhys’ chin and applied pressure to his jaw. His mouth opened and she poured the flask’s contents down his throat. A good slap on the back made sure he would swallow, not spit.

He coughed again, groaning. The liquid tasted like something vile, long dead. But it had an immediate effect, relieving some of the pain. His cheeks flushed and suddenly, he clamped his hands over his crotch. “What in the blazing hells was that?” he complained.

“A simple healing potion. And don’t worry. That wood you’re trying to hide is a simple by-product of the increased blood flow the potion stimulates.” She grinned playfully. “Better?”

He grinned back at her and placed his hands by his side. “Yes.”

Two days ago – it really felt like a lifetime – he had blushed like a little girl when she spoke to him. Now, he openly looked at her, at the concern in her gentle, brown eyes. His gaze traveled down her body, clad in the simple white robes of her faith. He remembered Dara’s lewd comments and decided to focus on her face instead. No need to make this more awkward than it already was.

“Mother, I need to make a confession,” Rhys repeated, using the formal appellation.

“You know you can talk to me about everything. It’s not like I haven’t seen the worst Padec has done to you,” Celeste said, locking eyes with him.

“Gran told me it has to be done this way,” He took a deep breath and patiently recited: “Mother, I need to make a confession.”

Celeste raised an eyebrow. “I dimly remember Ilva saying something about special confessions.” She got up and went back to the altar, taking her holy symbol from it. She closed the heavy golden chain, fashioned to look like Mercy’s wings, around her neck and walked to the confessional, opening the door to the supplicant’s booth. Rhys joined her and slid into the cramped, stuffy seat. The tiny space smelled of cabbage, farts and guilt.

Celeste entered her side of the confessional, separated from his by a thin metal mesh which did a surprisingly good job in distorting her beautiful face into an expressionless mask.

“I need to confess, Mother,” Rhys began, reciting the traditional words.

“Whatever you have done, Mercy forgives,” she replied. “She is sworn to carry your burden.”

There was only the sound of his breathing, then, almost a whisper. “I have cast magic.”

Celeste waited quietly, creating the kind of silence which begged to be filled. Rhys went on.

“To be perfectly honest, I have used magic several times by now.”

She waited.

A deep intake of breath. Then, “I threw a pitchfork so hard, it punched a smoking hole into our stable wall.”

Celeste raised an eyebrow, invisible to him thanks to the partition. But she kept quiet and waited.

“I made small pebbles fly. When I was angry at my brothers for not doing anything to help Mirrin.”

“You threw rocks at them? Finally, I say,” Celeste muttered.

Rhys didn’t hear that. A bit bolder, as if coming to terms with what he had done, he went on, “I had a pebble on my palm and made it fly on its own. And later, I think, I made Dara’s skirts fly when she was doing laundry by the river.”

“You think?”

“I wasn’t angry when that happened. Normally, when my magic...” His voice drifted off. “Gran says I have the witch blood. It normally works only when I’m angry. I wasn’t angry when I saw Dara’s naked, shaved privates.”

“You know she shaves?” Celeste asked, stifling a snicker.

“She told me last night. You share razors. And she told me how she looked after any missed hair with her tongue.”

“True, on both accounts. I think there is only one thing left to do.”

“And that would be?”

Celeste opened her door and slid out of the confessional. Then she pulled Rhys from his side of the booth, shocking him into compliance by her utter disregard of the ritual. He stumbled along behind her as she dragged him past the altar, through a narrow, almost invisible door behind it. The space beyond was pitch-black. Celeste closed the door behind them.

“Stay still for a moment. You think you can do that?” she asked in the utter darkness. Rhys put an arm around her waist. Celeste smiled in the dark. Something had happened to him, something she approved very much of. He had grown a spine. She reached into a small recess next to the door and pulled a lantern from it. A few whispered syllables and the wick lit up. Rhys twitched against her.

“How-?” he began.

Celeste turned in his half-hug, grinning. “Just like you, I know a little magic,” she purred. Closing her free hand around his, she guided him down a steep set of stairs, into a narrow corridor. Three sturdy wooden doors were on the right wall, another ahead. She led him to the last door on the right and pushed it open. Cool, stale air rushed to greet them as they entered a small crypt, the resting place of the former clerics of Mercy. Celeste touched her holy symbol reverently and nodded towards one of the sarcophagi.

“Forgive me for using your eternal rest as a sideboard, Mother Ilva,” she whispered, gently placing the lantern on the stone slab.

“What are we doing down here?” Rhys asked, looking around.

Celeste dug around in one corner and pulled a tall candelabrum into the center of the room, the three prongs crusted over with waxy clumps.

“I want you to show me what your witch blood can do. Light these candles for me please.” She stepped behind him, brushing his shoulder as she went. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t blush. Celeste crossed her arms in front of her breasts. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Rhys looked at her, a slight look of panic on his face. “I- I don’t know if I can. I’m not angry.”

The not-too subtle bulge in his new pants was a pretty clear indicator of his current state of mind. Celeste favored him with a dazzling smile. “I can speak from experience when I say that your emotional state should never limit your ability to use magic. You just told me you were not angry when you made Dara’s skirts fly.”

“She said maybe it was the old herald-” Rhys muttered.

Celeste shook her head and cut off the rest of his thought with a slash of her hand. “Herald Kierkov can’t do that.”

“How do you know that?”

“He is a wizard of some skill but, because he is a wizard, he has better things to do with his power than to make a lovely tavern wench’s skirts fly. His power is too precious for that. So it had to be you.”

Rhys exhaled. “I will probably make a huge fool out of myself.” He stretched out an arm, pointed at the candelabrum and closed his eyes. “You know, I’ve never made fire before. Not even in our hearth.”

“But you know how lovely a warm fire feels. Or how much it hurts when you put your fingers too close to a flame. Use that knowledge.”

“Should not be that hard then,” Rhys quipped. Somewhere in the distance, water dripped from a ceiling. He hadn’t heard it before but the expectant silence seemed to amplify every sound, every steady breath Celeste took. And every splash meant more time passed without him being able to produce a flame. Did he really want to succeed? There would be more pain, even more pain than when he had made the kitchen rumble in response to his anger.

But what was pain when compared to the shame of crawling back into the village after all that had happened over the past few hours? He wouldn’t be able to look at Dara ever again if he just chickened out because he might hurt a little. And going back to the farm would be impossible. No. I have to do this.

He gnashed his teeth. Fire.

Celeste inhaled sharply, at the same time as the small lantern began to shake. Rhys could feel the heat course through his body, the all-consuming heat of an oncoming, shameful blush. He was sick and tired of being ashamed, of being weak. He balled his fist, feeling an incredibly hot pinprick in his palm. It grew in intensity until he couldn’t stand the pain no longer. Roaring, he thrust his palm forward and opened his eyes. A blazing gush of fire, like a fan of sparks from a grindstone, poured from his hand. The wax clumps erupted into flames before puffing out of existence as they were immolated. The metal prongs beneath glowed an angry red then white as Rhys poured forth the flame, screaming at the top of his lungs.

“You can stop now,” Celeste said, placing her hand on his wrist.

Rhys fell silent and stared in amazement at the half-melted wreck of the candlestick then at the trail of smoke rising off his palm

“Did I do-” The rest of his sentence ended in a strained whimper as he crumpled to the floor, feebly clutching at his lower back.

“Rhys, what happened?” Celeste knelt down next to him. Rhys groaned and writhed, wracked by sharp spasms. She didn’t hesitate. The cloak was only held with a simple clasp and she pulled it off him. His soft white shirt, showing a slowly growing red stain just above his belt line, she cut apart with Rhys’ own boot dagger. The soft boots were off in a flash. Gently pulling off his trousers, she laid bare his spindly butt. The horrible, criss-crossing set of scars left from years of abuse on his behind and lower back had broken open, oozing fresh, red blood in astonishing quantities. Rhys moaned feebly as another spasm wracked his emaciated body. There was no time to run and fetch her satchel for another potion. Celeste bit her lower lip and placed her hands on his clammy, shivering body. There was almost no heat left in him. Even if it meant risking detection by Carver’s ever-watchful spell casters, she didn’t want him to die.

Celeste intoned a quick prayer to Mother Mercy and willed Her divine energy to pour forth through her hands, suffusing the wrung-out shell before her with new energy and mending the horrible wounds. She had never seen another magic user suffer like this before. Sure, they often tired themselves out if they channeled too much energy. But old scars breaking open like that was new. Maybe her master knew something about that.

Rhys had stopped moaning and lay still. Celeste ended her healing spell and gently touched his neck. His pulse had already slowed and became more steady.

“I said ‘make fire,’ not ‘kill yourself,’” she softly chastised him. “Does it always happen like this?”

He feebly shook his head. “Never ... this ... ow.” He shivered and curled up in a ball.

“Wait a moment, I’ll be right back,” Celeste said, caressing his hair.

As if I’ll be going anywhere anytime soon, Rhys thought bitterly. To him, the unyielding stone floor was warmer than even Dara’s sheets had ever been. His stomach roared worse than after three days without food and his body was a single ache, slowly thumping in time with his heartbeat. Eventually, Celeste knelt down next to him, wrapping him in a soft blanket.

“I’m afraid we will have to walk a bit. Do you think you can manage?”

“No bloody idea,” he muttered, clasping her offered hand. Celeste placed his arm around her shoulders and rose, pulling Rhys along into a standing position. He shook like an uprooted tree in a thunderstorm but his knees held.

“Why am I naked?”

“Because you were bleeding like a stuck pig and I wanted to see why. Sorry about the shirt but I at least managed to save your pants and cloak.” Celeste guided him towards Ilva’s sarcophagus. “Hold on to that for a moment.”

Rhys leaned against the unyielding stone and watched as Celeste flitted through the room, picking up his scattered belongings. He pulled the blanket tight around himself. Not because he was ashamed of being naked in Celeste’s presence. That boat had sailed long past, when she and Ilva had treated him after Padec had been especially vicious with him. All about one egg he had dropped. No, the crypt’s chill was getting to him.

Celeste draped his arm around her shoulders again. “We won’t go far, I promise. Just down the hallway and into the room next door. Now, careful, one foot before the other.”

The whole walk was maybe less than thirty steps but to Rhys it felt longer than the walk from the farm to the village green. His limbs weighed tons and every twitch in his back reignited long forgotten scars. They had been bad enough a few at a time but now every single one of them hurt. Celeste pushed open the door to the next room with her foot, her hands full with his belongings and the small lantern. The room smelled of wood and other, more arcane aromas. The lantern reflected off a large mirror, opposite which the shape of a low, leather-covered bench beckoned. Celeste guided Rhys to the bench and helped him settle down.

“You can lie down here and rest for a bit. There are things I need to do. Don’t worry, I won’t be far. If the pain gets stronger or you start to bleed again, yell at the top of your voice, you hear?”

Rhys nodded weakly. He placed his head on the soft, low armrest of the bench and pulled up his knees under his chin. “Damn that witch blood,” he whispered.

“Now, don’t curse at the gifts the gods have given you,” Celeste said, walking around the room and lighting wall-mounted lamps. Despite his weakness, Rhys couldn’t help but notice the oddities. The chamber was eight-sided, with a large, altar-like structure opposite him, on which rested an octagonal mirror. It was held in place by two thin metal arms and the frame had strange runes carved into it. The floor, unlike the crypt next door, was paneled with wood. His and Celeste’s footprints had left a visible track through the center of the room, through the remains of colorful chalk. Next to his bench was a low chest of drawers from which Celeste pulled two small, rectangular packs. She handed them to Rhys. They were packed in waxed paper and seemed rather light.

“And this is-?”

“I have no idea what just happened to you. But many illnesses and injuries can be mended easier if the body has enough energy. I would love to treat you to my special vegetable soup but we don’t have the time. Eat up.”

Rhys unwrapped one of the packages. It contained two thin slices of a soft, brittle bread, between which was wedged a golden, sticky something. He sniffed. If smelled of honey, nuts, herbs and something else he couldn’t place. “We are in a hurry? Why?” He took a bite. The thing was crunchy and squishy at the same time, rather sweet too.

“Two reasons. You don’t look too well, even after I cast my most powerful healing spell on you. Since I don’t know your condition, I’d rather have someone here who does. And then there’s the small issue of you running around the village using unbridled magic. Together with the spells I have cast already and the ones I will soon, that’s more than enough reasons for Carver’s minions to come over and have a look.”

“He’s not big on magic, is he?” Rhys asked between bites. “And how come you know so much about him?”

“Me? You will see soon enough. Let’s just say the ‘humble cleric’ is an act and there are those in the village not content to sit idly by and let Carver have his say with this corner of the Old Kingdoms.” Celeste picked up a broom and swept the floorboards, erasing the last of the chalk stains. “As for his stance on magic ... Have you ever heard the phrase ‘Knowledge is power?’”

“Not like that, no.”

“It’s a fact. Why do you think most of his subjects can’t even read, let alone count past twenty? It would give them access to knowledge. Dangerous ideas which might one day topple him. Same with magic, even if it’s just a simple glowstone or healing potion. Carver has some powerful magic at his command. Kierov is mainly a user of divination magic but I wager my sweet butt that he has some powerful destructive spells stored in his wands.” Celeste pulled open one of the drawers and claimed a box of chalks. Returning to the center of the room, she went to her knees and began to draw symbols onto the floor boards, alternating between red, blue, ochre and white.

“And let’s not forget Faedal.”

Rhys balled his fists, crumpling the paper of his first package, earning a disapproving look from the kneeling cleric.

“Hey, these elven trail packs are very rare and expensive,” she complained.

“Who is this Faedal? He was the one who dragged Mirrin away.”

“Believe me, I know,” she said softly, a bitter note in her voice. “If there had been more of us, we maybe could have stopped him. But alone? I am sorry, Rhys.” She cursed, erasing one rune with the sleeve of her robe. “Faedal is a fallen paladin. He once was a Fist of Justice, from what I’ve learned, but his ... habits caused him to swear fealty to Desire in the end. He and Carver are two peas in one pod.”

“They both like innocent, little girls?” Rhys nearly choked on his last bite.

“They both hate purity. And yes, they desire fresh meat all the time.” She rose and wedged a piece of chalk into a long stick, which she used to draw a perfect circle around the runes.

“How come they leave you in peace? And Dara?”

Celeste shot him a smile, playful despite her dark mood. “When she was the right age for Carver and Faedal, Dara was a pimply, lanky collection of elbows and knees. Not unlike a certain apprentice spellcaster I know,” she said. “And not shortly after, she began fucking around, which made her utterly unattractive to them.” Switching to another, longer stick, Celeste drew a second, bigger circle.

“As for me ... He needs me to keep you all somewhat alive. Strong enough to work but not too strong to cause any trouble. As such, I am somewhat safe from his men and the spell casters. He knows that I have to use a bit of magic once in a while to save someone. Like at the Tithing. I could save Sean Moseley who simply couldn’t keep his mouth shut in front of one of the guards. Caught a spiked mace to the crotch for his mouthing-off. None of the guards were bothered when I used magic to keep him together.” She sighed. “I wished I could have done something for Harrol.”

Celeste stepped back, critically inspecting her handiwork. Rhys sat up. Whatever had been in those trail rations, it had allowed his body to recover somewhat. He fished for his boots and trousers.

“Whatever you do, don’t step into the circle,” the cleric warned him. “I don’t want to do it all over again.”

“What exactly are you doing there?”

“I am going to call on my master using this mirror. The circle I just drew should avert any prying, magical eyes for a time.” She walked carefully around the circle and adjusted the arms holding the mirror until the silvery surface was fully inside the circle. Then she replaced the sticks and chalks and pulled out a small leather pouch. Back into the circle she went, careful not to smudge any runes she had just drawn. From the pouch, she produced a fine, multicolored powder which she sprinkled against the mirror’s surface. Rhys expected the softly clattering particles to simply fall to the floor but some force kept them on the almost vertical surface.

“Master. Master, can you hear me?” Celeste called. The glittering dust began to move, turning into a swirling maelstrom.

A moment later, a deep, rumbling voice filled the chamber. At the same time, the dust formed another shape. Something vaguely head-like, with sharp, triangular shapes sticking to the side. “Celeste?” it asked. Rhys heard it almost as much through his stomach than through his ears. “Celeste? Is it truly you, girl?”

She sighed, a sound of profound relief. “Yes, Master Thurguz, it’s me. Nice to hear none of your other hens have murdered you yet.”

Good-natured laughter. “You know me. I can never resist a damsel in distress. And all of my ... hens you call them? They each have special talents I would loath to see go to waste.”

“I know, I know. You helped me as well. Without you, I would never have reached my full potential.”

“And you squander it in that mudhole. How is Carver doing these days?”

“Still up to his old mischief. He keeps his rotting corner of the Old Kingdoms somewhat safe but I worry about the villagers. His men are savages.” She threw a look over her shoulder. “Especially Faedal.”

“I wish I could do more. Like finally casting that Meteor Strike to level his fortress. But until that day, we have to move carefully. You know I can never repay you for risking your life spying on him.”

“Master, I had a pretty good idea what awaited me when I volunteered.”

Rhys could hardly believe his ears. Was that the same soft-spoken, demure village cleric he had known since Ilva had brought her back from Lordehome, some eight years ago? She sounded like one of the adventurers in Gran’s book!

“Still, I feel bad knowing you are alone out there. You should have taken someone else with you.”

“Two young, beautiful women who showed up in this hell hole at the same time would only have raised suspicion. Don’t fret, master. Carver thinks me under his thumb. And I have made friends in the meantime. The innkeep and her brother try to help as best they can. And it’s about another friend of mine I am calling.”

“I’m listening. You wouldn’t risk a call if it wasn’t important.”

“Rhys. Used to be a simple farmer. Says he has ‘witch blood.’”

“Where is he now?”

“On the bench behind me, completely drained. Master, I have never seen anything like what happened to him. When I asked him to show me what he can do, he cast what I presume was a Scorching Ray, nicely immolating a candlestick I had down here. And suddenly, his whole body deteriorated. Old wounds broke open-”

“His body turned clammy and cold?”

“Yes.”

“How bad was it?”

“For a moment I feared he was done for. Had to put my biggest healing spell on him.”

“Oh, a bad case of Sorcerer’s Burn. How is he doing now and what have you done to him?”

Celeste looked at Rhys, who stared at her open-mouthed.

“After the healing spell, I wrapped him in a blanket and had him eat two elven trail packs. Now he’s sitting upright in boots and trousers and stares at me in disbelief. I think I just shattered his world.”

“That’s good to hear. There might be hope for him yet. Make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid, like casting another spell. Keep him warm and travel-ready. I will be there in an hour.”

“Yes, Master.”

The door to Celeste’s small hut closed behind her. Rhys slumped onto a stool at her table and stared at her from under the hood of his cloak which he had wrapped around his naked torso in lieu of his torn shirt.

“Who are you? I thought I knew you!”

Celeste dug around in a large chest at the foot of her bed, a large pile of furs and blankets. She pulled out a ball of fabric and tossed it his way before turning to the hearth, putting water on to boil.

“Have I changed that much over the past half hour?” she asked.

“I have always thought you were a kind, humble cleric.”

Her smile was grim. “Then I have done a good job. Ilva was an impressive teacher and I have become a pretty good healer and cleric by now thanks to her and your Gran. But when I first came here, I was a sorceress and a spy.”

“I don’t understand. Why all the cloak-and-dagger?”

“Carver is a dangerous and powerful man, Rhys. He controls much of the land around Lordehome, including this and six other villages. My master wishes to unseat him. But to do that, he must work quietly and slowly. One wrong move could spell disaster.”

Rhys shook his head. “What is your master doing?”

“I’ll let him explain the finer details. Just know this – he tends to gather promising apprentices and teaches them to become formidable forces for good.”

“Sounds to me he has an axe to grind with Carver and uses any means necessary to get there,” Rhys grumbled. Behind Celeste, the pot began to rattle.

“Had it not been for Thurguz, I would have ended up like your sisters,” Celeste said, taking the boiling water off the hearth. “I owe him my freedom and my life.” She poured liquid into two cups. Moments later, the fragrant aroma of herbal tea filled the hut. She brought the cups to the table and sat down opposite Rhys. “You can take the shirt. It’s not as nice as the one Dara gave you but it will do until you get to Thurguz’ tower.”

He struggled into the garment then looked back at her. “Thank you. And speaking of Mirrin – would you be so kind and look after her once I’m gone? And Gran?”

“Of course. Has she been sent back already?”

“Yes. She is a shadow of her former self.” Rhys looked heartbroken. “Mirrin shied away from me when-”

Celeste nodded knowingly. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they went especially rough on her, pure little dove she was. I’ll go see them once you and Thurguz are gone.”

“And watch out for Padec. I don’t think he took me leaving very well.”

“That’s a surprise. One would think he’d be ecstatic now that there’s one less mouth to feed.”

“Yeah but one less helpless body to batter into submission too.” He took a sip from his cup. “This is really good.”

“Ilva’s personal recipe. One of the many things I’ve inherited from her. Once you’ve downed your cup, you should rest a bit.”

“Thurguz said he’ll be here in an hour. I don’t think I’d fall asleep until then.”

“Even if you only rest a bit, it will help you recover from your Sorcerer’s Burn.”

“Speaking of that – you used ‘wizard’ before when you spoke about Carver’s herald. Yet you called yourself a ‘sorceress.’ What’s the difference? And what about Sorcerer’s Burn?”

Celeste smiled. “That’s a lot of questions. I’m sure Thurguz can answer them much better than I ever could. But the long and short of it is this – sorcerers have an innate ability to manipulate magic, wizards don’t.”

Rhys shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“Sorcerers like me – and you, going by what you did earlier – can manipulate magic in the same way others walk and breathe.”

He sipped his tea and looked thoughtful for a moment. “Now that you mention it. I didn’t have to say any fancy words or waggle my fingers like the elven wizards in Gran’s book. It just ... worked.”

“Those fancy words and gestures are a wizard’s way to focus his mind for the task of bending the magical forces to his will. It’s like the difference between an animal and a trained fighter. One just knows where to bite and rake to kill, the other has to learn the intricacies of a fighting style to be effective.”

Rhys yawned. “Sounds incredibly complicated.”

“There will be enough time to worry about that.” Celeste moved around the table and helped Rhys to his feet. “Now, how about that nap?”

“Sounds very appealing all of a sudden, thank you.” He came to his feet and let her guide him to the pile of furs. “You don’t mind?”

“Absolutely not. Sleep tight, Rhys. I’m sure Thurguz won’t mind if you slept in a bit.”

Rhys was asleep even before his head had touched the furs.