Chapter 1- A Child of the Church

Eight Years Later

People often said Nyril looked like she was up to something, and as she slipped through cathedral halls, this happened to be true. She hid the forbidden text under her sleeve, positioning her hand so no one would notice she was carrying something. It was an art she had long since perfected. She knew the cathedral from the crypts to the towers, and where she would be least likely to be found.

The rookery door lock had been neglected. A few jangles and a good push were all that was required to open it. As Nyril entered, the falcons eyed her suspiciously. Ignoring them, Nyril climbed up the ladder and onto the roof. It was a sweltering cloudless summer day. During days like this, Nyril could not help but wonder if the heat was the wrath of the All Father. If it was, she told herself, he certainly had more to be angry about than reading something long dead bishops had forbidden.

After situating herself in the pocket of shade, she unfolded the text to find it titled “Theology of the Cult of Doammas. An Essay by a Knave of Logic.” The works of the Knaves of Logic were banned in the church, especially those on theology, were strictly forbidden. However, Nyril always found that reading their works was stimulating enough to be worth the risk, even if they were occasionally blasphemous. Many people called her ethereal and some whispered that she was creepy. Nyril liked to think it was her ability to quote texts by memory with quiet confidence that lead to these labels, neither of which she particularly liked.

I speak not as a member of the Church. she read, As a matter of propriety I attend services on Holy Day, but my beliefs in the hereafter and that beyond our comprehension is irrelevant to you whoever may read this. Theological beliefs are not set it stone. They change, not merely in rapid upheavals and revelations but in smaller ways, as a wave battering against rocks. Unseeable to a mortal eye, but with an everlasting eye the changes come to view.

Though I call it Cult in the title, I only use the term that most of my readers will be familiar with. The beliefs of Doammas form a quite functional and cogent series of beliefs, built upon the grey spaces of the identical text held highest by Lonara. Referring to the Religion of Doammas as the “False Church,” is a rhetorical fallacy. Mark you, I write not on rhetoric, or history, but shall examine the beliefs of Doammas on its own terms, at times using Lonara, or the (so called) True Church as a counterpoint.

As I set my terms thusly, I shall now delve into the religion perhaps made greatest by its claim that in the eyes of the Father, no man is greater or lesser.

Nyril froze, hearing a voice beneath her. This would not be the first time she would be caught reading something she was not supposed to. Being the only child of the Archall, the Head of the Church and Voice of the All Father, she had the benefit that few had the nerve to discipline her. Priestess Vay would ruffle her feathers and deprive her of a few week’s allowance, but for any real discipline Nyril would be sent to her papa. All her papa would usually do in these situations was give her a half-hearted lecture, before moving on to tell her about the goings on in the church or ask her about her studies. Everyone, especially Bishop Uran, whispered that the Archall was weak in this regard.

After a few moments of silence, she guessed one of the falcons must have made a human-like noise. Once she was quite sure no one was below her, she edged back against the stone wall of the cathedral and continued where she had left off. Then without warning the rookery trapdoor sprang open. Nyril jumped in a start, her hand grasping for the eemen necklace her papa had given to her for her tenth birthday, but a moment later she was relieved to see that it was not a priest as she had feared. It was Leif.

Leif was the only one of the Church Orphans in Flyanka who was in truth an orphan. Two years younger than Nyril, she had taken him under her wing when he was six, having always wanted a little brother. He had been small and slight in his early years but now at sixteen he had developed as the priests called it, “a warrior’s build and ardor.”

The unspoken rule was that Flyanka Cathedral Orphanage was for the children of the priests and priestesses who took oaths of chastity to don the blessed cloth. At least, those lucky enough to be both acknowledged and born to powerful enough members of the church. Leif was the exception to this rule, a true orphan abandoned by unknown parents.

 “So Nyril,” he teased, “What blasphemer is it this week?”

“Oh shut up,” replied Nyril with grin.

“By the way,” said Leif, hopping onto the roof with a practiced agility, “If you ever want a watchman when you’re reading your stuff…”

“That’s a terrible idea, because what in all of wraithsland would Leif Navarro be doing hanging around the rookery?”

“Oh I dunno. I could ask Priest Targor for an apprenticeship.”

“That’s a worse idea because then Priest Targor has an apprentice which means extra time for him hanging around here to make sure you don’t burn the place down. And aren’t you going to take an apprenticeship to prepare you for the Holy Blades. Warcraft? Horse Riding?”

“Not sure anymore.”

Nyril sighed. “Let me guess. Because all the priests said that’s exactly what you should you do, you’re not sure you want to do it anymore.”

Leif patted Nyril on her shoulder. “You know me too well. Anyway, Vay’s looking for you. I said I saw you praying at the altar.”

“You didn’t have to lie,” said Nyril, edging towards the trap door, and Leif snatched the text out of her hand.

“Hello!” he said waving it in front of her.

“Well I don’t go around announcing it to everyone. Just…could you hide it in that drainer there?”

“Sure thing,” said Leif, his interest now on the text.

Nyril climbed down the ladder, careful not to look down until she was a step away from the floor. The falcons all watched her with slightly suspicious eyes, as though they were aware she was doing something she probably should not have. When she was about half way down she heard Leif yell, “Father’s blood, this thing’s a bore.”

Nyril made her way through polished halls, with marble halls in soft greens, blues, and whites. Soon Leif was by her side. Multiple visiting priests had told her they were amused at the sight of them walking through the halls. First Nyril, slender and graceful, with carefully groomed ginger hair and perfectly formed freckles across her face, speaking softly in a sweet alto voice. Then Leif lumbering about a half step behind her, stouter, but about a thumb shorter than her, and his piercing tenor voice which bounced across the walls.

Leif was someone who always attracted attention, most notably by the color of his hair. It was yellow. As a child, his hair had been white, so none doubted he had albinism, but as he had hit puberty, his hair had darkened into a fine golden shade that had never been seen or recorded. When this had happened, Nyril had done her own bit of research on albinism and found that had they invariably had milky Sythian-like skin, and watery blue eyes. None would say Leif was not light skinned or blue eyed, but from studying the colored illustrations, his skin was not pale enough and the blue of his eyes were more green than watery, so she suspected that Leif had some other unique condition. She had asked her papa if he could request some professors from Ozylmn University could come a see what they might be able to learn of Leif’s unique case, but her papa had so far not shown any interest in this venture.

“Did Vay say why she wanted me?” asked Nyril.

“Nah,” said Leif, “But she seemed urgent. I saw her talking to this Holy Blade who looked like he nearly killed his horse from riding. So, have you let Eirin kiss you yet?”

“Leif!”                      

“You use him to smuggle in your stuff, least you could do is give him a little peck on the cheek.”

“I do not ‘use’ him,” said Nyril, “And I did give him a little peck on the cheek if you must know.”

“So he’s what? Your fourteenth suitor, right?”

“Twelfth,” said Nyril, “I don’t count Borin. And…well I’d really like to not count Cald.”

Leif let out a little snigger at the mention of Cald, but his smile quickly faded away and he sighed.

“Do you like him? Eirin,” asked Nyril carefully.

“Actually, I do like him. He’s probably my favorite. Because-”

“He doesn’t like lords?”

“He hates lords,” said Leif with a wide grin, “A lord screwed his papa out of part of his farm. Please in his name don’t marry one of those prissy arrogant pricks.”

“What about gentry?” said Nyril, humoring him, “Can I marry a gentry?”

“Depends on the gentry. What’s your papa said? He’s not going to use you like a lord’s sex chip right?”

Nyril bristled, not just at what that implied of her papa, but at the suggestion that long tested practice of both bishops and lords having the daughters cementing alliances made them “sex chips.” Leif had clearly taken to heart modern ideas of the rioters and industrialists.

 “No, he is not,” said Nyril, “He told me to take care with the men who seek me out, and that if I choose a good man, he’ll give his blessing. I might seek out that lord from Ozylm who sent me those flowers, he was a sweet thing.”

“Him? He’s a ponce.”                      

 “Don’t forget, a lord would give me great comfort, and soon I would have a brood of little lordlings I could train to become bishops and gain seats in the Council of Nobility.” She watched in amusement as Leif cringed, “I am a woman after all.”

“Unofficially,” said Leif, “Promise you’ll stay here till you’re twenty.”

This was the third time this month Leif had made her promise. By that point they had reached the mahogany door to the staircase with an impressionistic image of the Revelation of the Ten Chosen carved into the door. Nyril was about to open the door and tell Leif that she intended to stay as long as she could when the door burst open and Vay came through.

“Found her!” cried Leif, pointing at her with both fingers.

Vay was known for constant cheery disposition like an overgrown child, which was probably why she had been tasked with raising the children of the orphanage. She had been the daughter of a gentry family who based in Fisfor, the coastal city just down the river of Flyanka. By all accounts she had been heart-slayingly gorgeous in her youth. Even at fifty in her brown priestesses’ robes and head cover which in theory was supposed to make the wearers plain looking, she was still a pretty thing to look at.  However, as she stood before them, she looked like she had just been hit in the gut.

“Nyril….” she said, and then there was silence that hung over them.

Then the Great Bell rang out, startling Nyril. Leif looked around in confusion. It was neither the Holy Day of the week, nor any other Church holiday. If the Great Bell was rung out of that strict schedule, something of great significance had happened. It signaled all those under the Cathedral to go to the chapel where the Archall, or in this case since he was out of town, his Shadow, Bishop Pettir, would announce what had happened.

“Something wrong?” he asked tentatively.

“There is…” said Vay, and again she could not finish what she was trying to say, bringing about a long spell of silence, “Leif would…you kindly go to the chapel, I must… speak with Nyril.” 

Then the Great Bell gonged again. It was not as loud this time, giving it a slightly low and mournful tone. Leif glanced from Vay to Nyril. It looked for moment like he was about to protest, but then he darted past Vay and down the staircase, his feet echoing loudly. Normally Vay would have told Leif not to run in the halls, but Vay’s attention was singularly fixed on Nyril.

“Vay…” said Nyril, feeling a wave of cold fear rushing over her, “Just...tell me…what’s going on?”

“Your papa’s dead.”

Nyril was not sure how long she and Vay stared at each other. Their silence punctuated only by the mournful tone of the bell. Vay, sniffling silently watching Nyril, probably expecting that at any moment Nyril would collapse onto the floor wailing in misery. Nyril’s only movements were in her fingers as they brushed against each other. Eirin had just told her how soft and gentle her hands were, but they felt clammy and bony. All Nyril could focus on was the minute details around her. The folds in Vay’s headcover. The faint smell of cleaning solution that had been applied to the floor. The slight distant echo of each bell ring.

When it was clear that Nyril was not going to move any time soon, Vay edged forward and gave her a hug. Nyril entirely forgot to return it, standing still as though her hands were tied to her sides.

“You don’t have to go to the announcement if you don’t want to.” whispered Vay, “I can…”

“How?” said Nyril.

“It was an accident. He was enjoying the hospitality of the Ulfgarn Lighthouse. It was drizzling and it was slippery and…he fell.”

Vay did not have to say that her papa had been drunk. Bishop Uran had once said that her papa’s excessive drinking would someday spell the end to him. Nyril had never liked Uran after she heard that. Her papa never presided over ceremonies drunk, and the only time she could recall him being cruel to her, or to anyone else for that matter, he was entirely sober. He often quipped that he was far better company after a few drinks, and indeed, it was hard to argue the contrary. For a brief moment, Nyril almost wished her papa had been killed by foul play. She hated it when Uran was right.

“Will you get Leif for me?” said Nyril.

“What? Oh yes…I’ll get him. I think…Yes, Pettir’s making the announcement now. Shall I send him…”

“Tell him to meet me at the graveyard, by Kirdin’s Ashes.”

Nyril expected that Vay would protest to the morbidity of such a request, but Vay nodded and hurried off. Nyril supposed she had a right to be a touch morbid. She felt like she was drowning in heat as she walked outside. The monument to Saint Kirdin was the largest monument in the cemetery, a great thick pillar with the visage of Kirdin, who though she had been a dwarf, stood taller than any man. Interred beneath the pillar were scatterings of the ashes of the stake she had been burned at for refusing to worship the emperor. Legend had it that Saint Fleeth had risked her own life to gather those ashes to give her friend a proper burial.

Nyril let herself collapse to the grass which to her relief was damp from being watered recently. She flopped onto her back and stared up into the pure empty blue sky.

Soon enough she felt a presence over her. Leif was panting. He had discarded his grey robes as well as his shoes which hindered his running, wearing only trousers and a sleeveless undershirt. A few lines of tears were visible down his cheek.

“Well,” said Leif.

“Yeah,” said Nyril. Strangely, in spite of everything, Nyril was overcome by a strange desire for Leif not to hug her and tell her it that he was here for her.

“S**t,” said Leif. His face was a cocktail of raging emotions, sadness, shock, anger, but what prevailed was concern. “Did Vay say how it went? Pettir just told us that….you know and left it at that.”

“It was an accident,” said Nyril. Leif would find out the truth sooner or later and Nyril had no interest going further.

Leif laid down across from Nyril, basking his bare feet in the sun but still covered mostly by the shade.

“So…” said Leif, he chuckled painfully, “Sorry, don’t know why I just laughed.”

Again, there was a silence, with only the dim sound of a few people moving about in the town over the gates, perhaps wondering why the bell was being rung.

She removed the eemen from under her robes and examined it, not sure whether she was going to pray with it. Like all eemens, it was fashioned in the shape of an eye, symbolizing the eye that the Watchful Father had on all of his children. This one was made of silver the most beautiful and expensive element, all except for the iris which was an emerald, the exact same shade of both her and her papa. Nyril realized what she had been feeling since the moment Leif arrived, a desire to talk about anything in the world beside the fact her papa was gone.

Leif had rolled onto his stomach and rested his chin on his arms. He was watching Nyril carefully. Nyril sat up, and brushed the stray blades of grass off the front of her robes maintaining an aloof ladylike aura.

“I really hope Uran doesn’t become the Archall,” she said in a firm voice.

“What?” said Leif.    

“He’d make for an unpleasant and obstinate one,” said Nyril, desperately plowing forward, “Bishop Vaiket, now he’s got his ties in the capital and is free of scandal, but he just rubs people the wrong way, including me. Archall Pettir…no…Not that I don’t like him, I do. But he frankly doesn’t want it. If he does try to put his foot up, it’ll probably just be so he can make a deal to throw his support behind someone else.”

Leif was silent for a moment reigning in his emotions, before he sat up as well.

“Sounds right,” he said, “What about Jaran?”

“Jaran has a bit too much scandal to his name,” said Nyril, “Even though he renounced it, his early teachings on Revelatory Baptisms has never quite let him go. It might have faded but the fact is that he can’t stop the fact he felt slighted. Sometimes I think it might have been better for him if he had stuck to his ideals, as he’s now seen as both a flake and an eccentric in all the worst ways. Then there’s those who claim he cares more for his family than the church.”

Nyril continued talking and talking about the various candidates to become the Archall. Leif nodded a lot, and occasionally put in his own thoughts, but mostly just listened to Nyril. Twilight came and Nyril’s voice got hoarse, but she had to keep talking, because she knew if she did, she would lose all control and break into tears.  “Keep a firm hold of yourself,” her papa had always said. She found her fingers fidgeting towards her eemen as though they were telling her to pray.

She ran out of things to say about Archalls and shifted into talking about parables in the Book, then historical figures she had read about. By the time the moon rose above them, she was telling stories Leif already knew. At last Nyril paused too long and before she could think of something else to say the silence seemed to overtake both of them.

Nyril looked at the dim outline of Leif. There was nothing more to say. There was nothing she could say. Yet she did not cry as she feared she might. It was though the tears she would have shed had faded away into the night.

“Come on Nyril,” said Leif eventually, “Let’s get some sleep.”

As they trudged towards the Cathedral she was met by Vay and her fellow orphans, all of whom had tears in her eyes. Their embraces and their words felt alien to Nyril, and she did not know what else to do but give an empty thank you to their sympathetic words. As soon as she could, she slipped into her bedroom and hid herself under the sheets. She took a blindfold and tied it around her eyes. Her papa had once told her that wearing a blindfold in sleep would help keep away nightmares. Eventually, though perhaps not as quickly as she should have, she realized that the blindfold was a bit of a fib on her papa’s part. However, she had grown used to sleeping blindfolded and on a practical level it made sleeping a touch easier.

In her dreams she saw herself floating through a land of stars, more frequent and luminous than the clearest night sky and of every color on the spectrum. She was certainly moving, but whether it was up down or some other direction entirely she could not possibly fathom. She could not hear anything, not even her own breathing.

Then she saw she was not floating alone. There was a cloaked form leading her along a path she could not make out. The form did not touch her, but beckoned her in its direction and Nyril followed. She was moving in a strange combination of jumping from unseen stone to stone and moving through a thick liquid.

A star approached her and in it she saw her own eyes which were a glittering white, reflecting her eyes back thousands of times over.

Nyril then saw herself dressed in the purest whites and golds. A circle of men were surrounding her, gazing at her with leering eyes. She closed her eyes and stood straight and tall. There was an echoing crack and she crumpled to the ground. Directly in her forehead was a perfectly circular wound and her white clothes were splattered with red.