Chapter 2- The Demon

Everyone at the lake seemed to be happy and Nyril felt rather perturbed at this. She sat away from everyone else, staring into the vast Jabit Lake where the Ten Saints and famously come together to share in their revelation. She had spent many a long hour there lying in the lap of multiple young lads, letting them stroke her hair and kiss her forehead. The thought of it now made her feel almost nauseous as the sapphire blue water sparkled at her as though to mock her with its beauty.

A mere month since the Church had lost the Archall and no one at the lake seemed to care. Nyril tried to tell herself that many people did care and she was avoiding those by her own volition. Not everyone could overwhelm themselves about the great movements of churches and states. They had their little lives to contend with, and that was often more than enough.

Then out in the distance, she heard the Great Bell gonging. It rang out ten times, one for each saint. The final round of voting had concluded. The church had a new Archall. Most of the people in the lake let out whoops and cheers, and in the distance, the cheers of the crowd outside the cathedral could just be made out. At least the people did give some care to the election. It was still strange to think of the fact that it was no longer her papa. In spite of all the historical Archalls she had read about, in real life, her papa was all she had known. Her brief wave of anger was quickly replaced by an overwhelming wave of sadness.

Before she knew it, Leif stumbled up to her. He doubled over, panting like he had just run a marathon. Nyril could not help but notice he was wearing street clothes rather than church robes. He must have listened from outside the chapel as the final votes were read out, prepared to dash out immediately to bring Nyril the news.

“It’s Uran isn’t it?” asked Nyril.

Leif just nodded, still gasping for air. After an attempt to gain his breath, he collapsed to his knees, then fell onto his back.

“So,” said Nyril, “What was the final vote count?”

“Two,” breathed Leif.

“Two?”

“Two…for Vaiket…the rest…to….now his Holiness…Head of the Church and Voice of the All Father, Archall Uran.”

“Any abstains?”

“Oh…yeah…three abstains….”

“IT’S URAN!!” cried one of the boys, who had eavesdropped on their conversation, “THE LAD OF THE FOREST GOT THE CHAIN!”

Nyril felt a smirk on the edge of her lips. Common people called Uran the “Lad of the Forest.” The now Archall had spent his childhood in the Ooiag forest, and the title of the “Lad of the Forest,” clearly implied his connections to an idyllic and mysterious woods. Nyril always thought that Uran looked more like something that had crawled from a dank cavern.

“So,” said Nyril ignoring the voices rising around her, “you’re telling me Uran got the other ninety-five votes.

“Yup.”

“Did…did it turn out Vaiket was a part of the False Church?”

“Nah,” said Leif, “Everybody just wanted Uran…He’s not for starting inquisition of the king like Vaiket wanted to. Think that killed his chances. All the bishops are ‘fraid of taking on his majesty….Don’t blame ‘em. Did you hear how he trounced those Sythians that rebelled? Bloody brutal.”

Nyril considered this. The Nameless King, or the B*****d King depending on who was speaking of him, had made disparaging remarks about the church. Some bishops had even accused him of atheism. Though she had not heard about what he had done in the latest Sythian Rebellion, she had heard countless nasty stories about what happened to those who defied the king and with what little Nyril knew, it was clear that the king had utilized at least some of his influence to encourage the anointment of Uran. Nyril liked to think this to be the main reason Uran had been chosen. She had overhead some novices gossiping that Uran was mainly getting support because he was everything Archall Fasta was not.

“Well…” said Nyril, curling a bit tighter into a ball, “he’s the Archall. The Father guided the hands of the bishops, and Uran is his voice. I’d best get used to it.”

“You don’t have to pretend you like it,” he said. He removed from his pocket a ten-bit coin and began to practice the palming technique he worked on ever since the illusionist had come to town.

Nyril glanced at Leif with a rueful smile. He was always so naïve in matters of the church. Whatever he might become, he was one of the few Church Orphans who without a doubt could never make a good priest. The thought of Leif as priest conjured an image of him telling a young woman in confession, “Well the Book clearly says that’s forbidden but…nah…I think that Father would give you a pass.”

“What’s so funny?” asked Leif. With one hand behind his back he ate the coin, showed his hand to be supposedly empty from both sides, then made it appear behind her ear. That was a trick Nyril had never seen him use before.

“You,” said Nyril elbowing him lightly on the side, “You are.”

A year went by, but Nyril could rarely tell one day from the next. The Cathedral was alive with gossip and intrigues of the rise of a new Archall, but Nyril preferred to spend her time living in musty books, often in the more hidden nooks and crannies of the cathedral.  Every now and then someone, usually Vay, would try to talk about her loss. Though there were times that Nyril almost did want to talk about it, she could not think of anything else to say. He was dead and that was all there was to it. Talking of it only made her miserable.

Nyril was working on a theological essay regarding Saint Trissan’s views of love, writing incessantly until interrupted by a novice, saying that Vay had some good news for her and some of the other orphans. Nyril doubted the news would be all that good, but she came none the less.

Vay was in the cathedral’s courtyard. With her were Garret and Tlig, the children of Bishop Romn of Liveral from different mothers. Garret was an excitable young lad of eighteen, and Tlig a small, round, and a rather melancholy girl of seventeen who seemed almost to enjoy talking about how miserable everything was.

“I have some exciting news,” said Vay. “Ricco Lamboth, the King’s Shadow, is celebrating his birthday on the fourteenth of the Cougar. As is the way of the Lamboths.” Leif snorted slightly. Vay gave Leif the most severe face she was capable of, which, was hardly intimidating. “The Lamboths invite members of the Church to their events, and the Archall has chosen me to take you to represent our orphanage and church.”

Leif winked at Nyril, who managed a grin back. Of all the noble families, the Lamboths had the most intertwined relationship with the Church as their jurisdiction was within Flyanka. A word from the right Lamboth could make nearly any priest into a bishop, and no less than fifteen members of the Lamboth family had risen to be the Archall. However, Ricco Lamboth, though he was pious and retained some connections in the Church, was despised by nearly everyone else in his family. His true power was not drawn from the church or his family. It was drawn from the king.

Nyril thought back to a breakfast she and her papa had in Liveral when he had told her all about the peculiar situation of Ricco Lamboth. From the moment the nameless b*****d who became the king had entered the field of politics, Ricco Lamboth had been there. It was more than likely that he planted the idea for the king to take the throne. The Nameless King himself was first to admit that he never would have gained the throne had it not been for Ricco, and that the kingdom would fall if Ricco was not there to handle the day to day tasks of rule. It was said that Ricco was the only man who truly had the king’s confidence. Some men called him the Queen of Balrin, though never when they suspected the wrong ears were present. Nyril’s papa had chuckled when he had related that little detail, though it had not been until later that Nyril had considered the implications of what that nickname could mean.

 “We will ride by horse to the capital with Bishop Jaran and Bishop Pettir. We leave tomorrow, and Lord Lamboth was able to pull a few strings and get us some soldiers to escort us there.”

During past trips Nyril had never felt unsafe, and she recalled the Balrinian highways being well paved and marked, with dommers patrolling it in case of robbery or any other mischief. Nyril considered asking why escorts were needed, especially being in a group with two men. She then remembered the Pettir’s son had been lost on the road. Pettir was still to recover from this tragedy and had probably been the real reason behind wanting an escort.

She had enjoyed her previous trip to the capital, but she could not bring herself to be excited for this trip on the coming day. She felt no urge to immediately pack, and her hand was severely cramped from writing for hours without respite. More than anything else, she wanted to be alone, so she did the only thing she could think of doing.  She trudged to the highest Cathedral balcony looked around. Aside for going to the rookery, it was the only place she could almost guarantee was empty in the Cathedral. No one in the congregation needed permission to go there, but most people always assumed that only the bell ringers were supposed to be there.

The fog hung high in the air, giving her a view of most of Flyanka. Flyanka was a town dominated entirely by its cathedral, a great turquoise dome with a twisting spire atop it. Three quarters of the way up the spire, wrapping its way around, was a balcony just wide enough for a single person to walk across. At the tip of the spire was an enormous eemen. “The Watchful Father’s true eye,” the poets called it. In spite of the cathedral’s circular shape, four towers gave the circle corners. They were just shorter than the top giant dome. it was also said that all things holy and unholy happened across the towers. The eastern tower was the orphanage, her home. In the west were the administration offices where the seculars, priests, and priestesses came together to do work in the Church’s name. The north was the quarters of the priests and priestesses. The south had once been the domain of her papa, but now was the domain of Archall Uran. The moment Nyril glimpsed it, she looked away and down at the quaint town surrounding the cathedral.

Nyril saw a small drip of water hit the railing of the balcony. She gazed up to find an early summer drizzle falling down. She pulled down her hood, closed her eyes, and threw back her head, letting the water shower down upon her and for once, she did not feel nearly as gloomy as she had over the past months.

 “Really, Nyril?” came a voice to her right. “What is it with you and rain?”

Nyril shrieked. Next to her was quite possibly the strangest man she had ever seen. His clothes were a deep blue color and were elegant and angular. His face was a odd hue of light orange, and his messy curly hair was a violent shade of orange. He was perched with his feet on the railing and his back leaning against the wall behind him. It looked to be an uncomfortable position but he seemed entirely at ease.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“A visitor.”

“Were you here all this time?” asked Nyril, glancing back. She had been standing right by the doorway. That seemed to be the only way he could have made it onto balcony, climbing up from the outside was nearly impossible.

“Define here.”

“On this balcony.”

“I guess you could say that.”                         

“You knew my name. How did you know my name?”

“I knew your father, better than most actually.” The man slipped from his perch, landed lightly on the balcony and leaned with his back against the railing. He was tall enough that probably one push would send him toppling over. “You know what his nickname was when he was the Bishop of Issit?”

“I heard it was the Sleeping Dragon, because they said he had quite the temper.”

The man chuckled. “He did didn’t he? Mellowed out a bit when he got you. But you did see the dragon once? The time you opened door you oughtn’t have?”

For a brief moment, memories flashed through her mind. She had just turned eleven, and her father was screaming at her to never barge into his office during his private meetings. He had called her a “stupid bonehead,” and would have probably called her far more had Nyril not gone running out into the rainstorm to hide in the crypts. Later that night her father had apologized for his temper.  Nyril had asked him if he had been drunk, to which her father had chuckled and said, “Unfortunately no.” Though Nyril had forgiven him, she could not help but always see him a bit differently afterwards. Still the jolly doting papa, but someone to be feared as well.

“It’s not a memory I like to remember him by, but yes that is true.”

“Funny isn’t it that the giving him of a b*****d was what mellowed him down. Frankly I thought it was going to be the opposite.”

“That was rude,” said Nyril.

“Excellent. Do you deny that you’re a b*****d?” asked the man, and before Nyril could answer, he continued. “Such an elegant solution isn’t it? The holy men and women are forbidden to own their own lands. You can give away land and the land won’t cry for her mommy. But forbidden children, isn’t it charitable to raise those poor little orphans? Why only one of your brood is a legitimate orphan.”

“We are children of the Church, are we not?” said Nyril. “Should we not be raised by the Church?”

“Should you not come to terms with what you came from?” said the man, “Your king himself is a b*****d and freely admits it.”

“Well, unlike the king, I would not attempt to take my papa’s ancestral holdings.”

“Tell me, Nyril,” said the man, “you are nineteen. Boys are sent to war at fifteen and girls made wives. Yet you remain in this youthful place of sanctuary.”

“I’m not the only one who made such a choice,” said Nyril. “The Church is our responsibility until we reach the true age of twenty. We can leave if we please once we turn fifteen. I rather like it here, so I choose to remain.”

The man shrugged lazily as if Nyril had said something too silly to deserve a proper response. He glanced up, and something seemed to catch his eye. Nyril looked in that direction, and she only saw fog.

“I’ve seen the way you look at the handsome young men of your congregation.” he said, “I think a life of the holy cloth would not suit you. Then again, your mere existence is the living proof that such oaths need not apply fully. Perhaps you ought to continue the family tradition.”

Nyril found herself quite speechless. She had been teased before for her status of birth, but never so flippantly. She wondered if perhaps if she should call for Kilv Snutting, the leader of the Holy Blades, to escort this man out of the cathedral.

Several times she tried to respond before she settled upon, “What in wraithsland are you playing at?”

“Our game,” he replied. “I don’t mean that is, our as in us two.”

“What?”

“Listen carefully next time. I choose my words carefully and rarely repeat myself. It’s a necessity for our kind.”

“Your kind?” asked Nyril. Again the man shrugged as though her question was not worth a response.

“You interest us, Nyril,” said the man. “A mixed blessing. Some that interested us have lived like kings, some have been made queens, others were raped and then tossed into a ditch with a slit throat, and some turned down everything and then were crushed into a frozen river by another who interested us.”

“Who are you?” demanded Nyril.

“Farewell, Nyril Fasta, daughter of a certain young woman and the Archall. I do think we shall meet again.”

With that, the man leapt from the balcony. Nyril shrieked. She reached out and managed to seize the man’s wrist. Nyril was anything but strong, but for a few moments, she managed to keep him from falling. The man glanced up with a mischievous grin on his face. Nyril felt like her arm was about to rip off, but before she lost her grip, the man grabbed her with his free hand and yanked her forward.

Nyril was lifted off her feet. She slid past the wet railing. The wind rushed against her face. A scream was caught in her throat as she tumbled through the air. She had cleared the massive dome, and there was a hundred foot drop below. She caught a glimpse of the man looking down on her, still, as though there was invisible floor high up in the sky.

It was strangely fitting, it occurred to her. The child of the Archall who had fallen to his death, fallen to her own death, splayed out across the steps of the Flyanka Cathedral. She closed her eyes and brought her arms in front of her face in the absurd notion that they would protect her.

She felt herself hit the ground.

The first thing she realized afterwards was that she was still breathing. She opened her eyes to find the foggy air above her. Grass was beneath her. She looked around to find herself lying on her back in the cathedral cemetery. The cemetery was entirely on the other side of where she had fallen. She felt her body for blood or injuries. There were none. She touched the tombstone next to her, half expecting herself to be a spirit and watch her hand go right through it but she felt the hard, mossy surface of the tombstone.

At that moment, she came across Tlig wandering glumly through the cemetery, as though she were envious of those buried beneath the dirt.

“Hey Nyril,” she muttered.

“Hey,” Nyril breathed back, and then reached out and brushed her fingers against Tlig’s forehead as though to confirm again that both Tlig and she were indeed alive. Then she found that she had thrown her arms around Tlig, bringing her into a tight embrace, forcing Tlig’s pudgy face into her breast.

“What’s gotten into you?” Tlig said, her voice muffed by Nyril’s cloak pushed up in her mouth.

Remembering herself, Nyril released Tlig. She took a few deep breaths to calm herself and rubbed her face.

“I’m not…quite myself,” muttered Nyril.

“You almost snapped my neck,” said Tlig, rubbing the back of her neck for emphasis.

Normally Nyril would have assured Tlig that only thing she was capable of snapping was a breadstick, but she found herself entirely unable to say anything. Tlig said something else, but a quiet whistle in Nyril’s ears was the only thing she heard. After a pause, Tlig nudged Nyril expectantly.

“Nyril!” she cried, and now looked genuinely concerned, “Nyril you look ill.”

Nyril tried to say “Nothing’s wrong, I’m fine,” but it only came out as “noth…fine.” Nyril felt not unlike what she had experienced as a child waking up from her constant nightmares, unable to distinguish the fantastical horrors of her imagination from reality. When suddenly every shadow and felt deadly. She heard herself moan.

“NYRIL!” called out Tlig.

Without realizing it, Nyril had sat upon one of the tombstones or perhaps slumped down was more apt description of what had just happened. She gripped her eemen under her shirt which gave her the strength to rise.

“Nyril what’s wrong?” said Tlig.

“I’m tired.” said Nyril, “Need a nap.” 

Nyril went back to her room, stumbling as though she were drunk. She climbed onto her bunk and lay staring up at the white ceiling. Her head was still spinning and she doubted that she could even walk if she wanted to. For an hour she lay there before she heard the Great Bell. It was holy day. She had almost entirely forgotten. Now that it was evening, it was time for her confession.

She climbed down from her bunk. Her feet felt unsteady, but she managed to open the footlocker that contained every item in her possession, and exchanged her favorite purple cloak for her grey church robes. A long line had already been made for the hundreds of people in her congregation. It was usually a wise move to wait for late at night when the line would be shorter, but tonight was different.

For nearly an hour she waited until at last find the Archall Uran kneeling in the center of the chapel. Unlike a normal confessor, the Archall wore his full regalia, for any appearance the Archall made was a ceremony of sorts. He was dressed in layer after layer of purple and white robes with not only eemens drawn onto to it, but dozens of symbols, some of which even Nyril could not divine their precise meaning. The great silver bishop’s chain hung around his neck and glittered slightly in the dull light. Nyril always thought that the thick regalia made Uran look like a tortoise or some sort of reptile, especially with his bald head and pointed nose. She approached him cautiously, knelt before him and took his eemen in her hands.

“Holiness,” said Nyril.

“How have you sinned, my child?” he asked.

“I have disrespected my teachers,” she said. “I have looked lecherously upon young boys and men. I have…Holiness, you know the balcony on the spire of this cathedral?”

“Of course we do, my child,” he said.

“Is that considered to be a part of the cathedral?”

“We would suppose so. Why would you ask such a question at time like this?”

“Because…Holiness…I do believe I encountered a demon upon that balcony. What does the Church teach of demons?”

Uran gave Nyril the concerned frown she had always seen him give when her papa would uncork a new bottle of sherry. He glanced up for a moment as though for guidance before he spoke.

“Demons are, as our spirits, the Father, and their servant the wraith, unknowable. They breed upon the shadow and decay of the world, and upon acts of sin. If your actions degrade your soul enough, they may grip upon your soul, weakening it further. They may take physical forms or remain unseen and subtle. Yet a demon will flee from consecrated ground. This demon you believe you saw, what did he say?”

Nyril blinked, the image of the demon’s every feature was permanently burned into her mind. She could see the slightly crooked teeth when it smiled, imitate its theatrical hand gestures and practically count the hairs of its eye brows. The words that it said were more vague in her memory.

“First, it mocked me for the…status of my birth. Oh, first it noted that thirty-three, I think it was, people died in the building of this cathedral. Then it said that I interested them.”

“Do you have any ideas what it meant by them?”

“Maybe the other demons. It said that some that interested it ended up becoming queens, and others ended up raped with their necks slit. It said that we might meet again. Then he jumped over the balcony. I, by instinct reached out to save him from falling, then he yanked me over and I fell from the balcony. When I hit the ground, I found myself lying in the cemetery, on the other side of the cathedral mark you. I don’t know if I went mad for a moment, but…I’m afraid. I’m very afraid.”

“Well that is…disturbing,” said Archall Uran. Nyril could see skepticism in the Archall’s eye. He clearly had not forgotten Nyril’s girlhood days of waking up half the cathedral every few nights screaming of her nightmares. “Pray for the All Father’s guidance, and be vigilant for servants of the wraith. Consult us again if this demon returns.” He tightened his grip slightly, “Your sins are purified from your soul.”

Nyril returned to her quarters. It was the only time she could recall where after confessing her sins she did not feel remotely like her soul was any purer. She silently packed what possessions she could carry, clothes mostly, into her rucksack. Her hands were shaking so hard that with almost every move she made she almost dropped something or tripped. At any moment she half expect a demon to pop out and repeat its sinister words “I do think we shall meet again.”