The next morning, the flight met up in the kitchen of the fortress over breakfast. None of us were really expecting this abandoned castle to have any food stores left over for us to raid, but the discovery that the previous owners had left a bunch of food in the pantry when they left the place put everyone off their rations some.

"I think Grace and I should go meet with the archvicar," I began. "The rest of us can split up and investigate elsewhere."

"Are you sure you two are the right choice?" Rosalie asked. "I don't think there is anything wrong with your communication abilities, but if the archvicar is a person of peerage, it may be best for them to meet with someone on their level."

"We don't know anything about them," I said. "How much weight do you think your name carries in Yorving anyway?"

Rosalie glared at her biscuit, mixed expressions on her face. "Not much, I would presume."

"Right. So apart from Emrys, we don't have much in the way of prestige. It shouldn't matter anyway. We're all dragoons now." I looked around the rest of the group. "So, we can regroup outside the south gate at noon. The rest of you, I want to know the basic layout of the city, and which areas our murderer is killing in. If you can find people who were attacked but survived, that would be best for information." I stretched and stood from the table. "Sound like a plan?"

"On your point, I think that I should come with you to meet the archvicar," said Emrys. "Otherwise, yes."

There were murmurs of assent, and in short order we gathered out on the ruined terrace in front of the hall to take off for the day. Once again, I knelt to allow both Emrys and Grace on before leaping into the sky. Carrying the both of them was becoming a regular enough occurrence that I was starting to consider modifying the saddle to fit two riders, but figured we could worry about that once the murders had been dealt with.

«The archvicar should be in the city's cathedral, right? Assuming he's not out right now?» I asked.

"Should be," confirmed Grace. "Although with how big that thing is, 'in the cathedral' might not narrow it down much."

The city came into view once again soon, and I angled down for the massive cathedral. It really was a monumental structure, bigger than I ever thought one could be built. The outside was so laden with little details—tiny engravings of the Luminary Cross, ornamented buttresses, stained glass windows depicting the prophet's sacrifice, minute iron spikes protruding from roof overhangs, and the like—that it almost gave it a kaleidoscopic effect, with each tiny change in perspective I had as I glided down towards the yard in front changing the apparent shape of the outer walls.

It was full of activity, even this early in the morning. The green hedge gardens that hemmed it in had a handful of guests, strolling through to view the late flower blooms or finding quiet spots amidst the foliage to meditate. I landed in a small plaza where the road met the edge of the yard, letting Grace and Emrys down on the polished tiles. As soon as they were off, I slapped a hand over my nose. There was a thick smell in the air, strongest where it wafted from the cathedral's enormous open doors, though some strands of scent seemed to trail from pots in the gardens. It wasn't a bad scent—woody and smoky, with a hint of honey-like sweetness—but it immediately gave me a vicious headache. For some reason, it stirred Fiendish thoughts, though they seemed to come from a place of fear rather than anger or greed.

"Something wrong?" asked Grace.

«The incense….» I shook my head. «I'll live.»

She gave me a sympathetic look, but sighed and led the way towards the cathedral. It seemed grand from the air, but was intimidating from the ground with how it towered over our small group. As we moved closer, I saw swelling earth in the gardens to either side that seemed like earthworks, defensive ramparts dug into the soil, rather than artistic landscaping. The towers that rose from the corners of the cathedral were more like watchtowers than religious spires, too. They even had crenellations for bows or guns.

The place was outfitted for war. Whether it was a war they remembered or a war they were expecting remained to be seen.

The painful scent only grew stronger as we passed through the doorway. We entered into a relatively small, simple, and unadorned vestibule, sporting only a banner of the Luminary Cross that hung in front of the entryway into the nave, and the familiar font of pure water to the side, continually refreshed by a small stream flowing from the traditional wooden channel emerging from the wall. Grace respectfully took the ladle to rinse her hands and sprinkle some of the water over her head, before drying herself with one of the nearby towels.

Emrys furrowed his brow. "Is this a custom here?" he whispered.

"It's a Cèlisian custom, yes," said Grace. "You're supposed to cleanse yourself before you enter a holy place." She shrugged. "I'm not really one for church, but I don't want to be rude before meeting the vicar."

Emrys switched his look between the basin and the ceiling, pausing a moment in thought while I hesitantly did my best to rinse my own larger hands and head.

"Don't want to be rude…" he echoed to himself in a mumble before copying Grace and me.

Grace peeked through the banner. "I think he's giving a sermon," she said.

I knew already. I could hear the fiery, emphatic speech well enough through the banner, though the words were too echoed and distorted for me to make them out. «We should wait then. The morning is getting along, he should be done soon.»

She nodded, and we silently pushed through the banner into the cathedral's nave. It was a massive chamber, easily the largest indoor space I had ever seen. It went up what looked like four storeys, with balconies and crosswalks hanging in the air above us below the massive vaulted ceiling. Pillars were everywhere, each heavily ornamented the whole way up with carvings that seemed to depict the life of the prophets Gideon and Cèlis, along with a general watery motif that reflected the local sect. Water was also a decoration in itself, with channels carrying it into smooth, glassy curtains where it fell surrounding some less adorned pillars, and massive fountains creating carefully-controlled waterfalls that tumbled down the walls.

A large crowd had organised at the far end, sitting on their knees below a balcony where the vicar stood in all his finery. He was a surprisingly young man for such a high position, with a shaved head and a relatively thin dark brown moustache and beard. He was draped in the white cloak of a high cleric, though his was laden with jewels in a rainbow of colours that formed the trim. He had a similarly bejeweled mitre in the typical teardrop shape, which was dyed red, outlined in white, and adorned with numerous rubies and sapphires. His cassock had the blue trim of a Cèlisian vicar, and his pendant had golden depictions of both the Luminary Cross and the waterfall-shaped Cascade of Cèlis symbol. He was flanked by two more of those uncanny "deacons", these ones apparently weaponless apart from their canes and holding their hats up to cover their faces rather than wearing them on their head.

The vicar's arms were outstretched as he spoke with a zealous fervour that made me distinctly uncomfortable as we manoeuvred to an out-of-the-way corner to wait for him to finish.

"…this Beast that walks among us," were the first words I could make out in the echoing hall as we drew closer to the balcony, "that curse which transfigures our loved ones into the wolves that hide within the flock! We tell you this day, We have been granted holy vision." He lowered his hands to a more conciliatory posture. "There are some who say that this plague was sent by the enlightened Great Ones or their saints who have attained the same holy wisdom, that we may face trial to temper our devotion in the flames. There are those who say this is the hand of the gardener, ripping the weeds free from the flowerbed. There are those, who, indeed, say that this curse is of divine provenance. That it is a winnowing."

He slammed his fists on the balcony. "We say to you now, those who speak these lies are deceivers! Serpents, who speak with the tongue of the Weaver of Lies! Wrought by the hand of man, this plague was made, and within the heart of man shall it find purchase! It was crafted to tear away all that renders us superior beings, to destroy the path to enlightenment and befoul the soul, wrench the insightful far from the light, and into the den of savagery that defined us before the coming of the prophet!"

A couple of people from the crowd called out "Yes!" as the vicar backed up, slowly walking back and forth on his balcony as he surveyed the gathered souls. I leaned back, hoping he wouldn't see that I was failing to conceal my expression of contempt.

"Who is this man?" hissed Emrys. "He is only a vicar, but he speaks as though he has the ear of Gideon himself."

I nodded. I wasn't a regular attendee of any church sermons, nor was I particularly pleased with the Church as a whole, but this was…definitely a lot more direct than the messages I had caught in passing were.

"You of course wonder who would do such a thing," the vicar continued. "Who among us would cast the whole of our people into the fire? What reason could possibly drive them to such heinous acts of evil?" He stopped pacing, leaning over the railing as his voice grew cold and severe. "Gathered faithful, there is an enemy who wears our skin. There are people who wish for naught but suffering. Who devote their lives to the perfection of pain and the confusion of truth. A cult of defilement pervades the people of this city, this shire, the whole of the Vale. More than any fiend, they will show you false smiles, give you false promises, and pretend to be those that you love and care for. And more than any fiend, they hunger. For blood, besotted as they are by the impurity that flows from the claws of their creations, which festers as it grows through our people like a cancer. Gathered faithful, as you return to your homes this morning, We would have you remember this: The only way to remove a cancer is excision. It must be…cut…out."

One of the deacons handed him a silver chalice, large enough to almost be called a bowl or cauldron, but small enough that the vicar could still hold it in one hand by the stem. "Now, We offer you this gift of communion. May your minds touch the saints'."

He held the empty chalice forward, and raised his other hand above it and clenched his fist. Blood leaked from his enclosed palm, descending into the chalice in heavy rivulets, though there didn't seem to be any wound or cut to draw from. The blood flowed as easily as water, and soon, the great chalice was full. I felt a little sick just watching. That amount of blood loss would surely knock me down, even as a dragon. Yet the vicar didn't even seem a little pale, as though he still had blood to spare.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

"What is he doing!?" hissed Emrys. "Communion blood comes from sanguifers! That's what makes it holy! Vicars can't use their own!"

I glanced at Grace for confirmation on that, and she just shrugged. "Never heard of any church doing it this way," she added. "Maybe it's a local practise?"

Emrys huffed, but that suggestion mollified him for now. We watched as the vicar passed the chalice to a deacon, who disappeared behind a door on the balcony and reemerged moments later at ground level, passing the chalice to the first person for them to sip from. Those congregants who partook sat for a moment in silent contemplation before standing and making ready to leave. Once the first people began heading for the door, the vicar nodded and disappeared deeper into the cathedral.

«He's done,» I said, standing myself. «Now's our chance for an audience.»

The nave was far more than large enough for us to skirt around the dwindling congregation without disturbing them, heading for a more reasonably-sized door at the back of the massive hall. Now that the vicar's sermon had finished, there was another sound echoing from above. A small choir had filled one of the many balconies on the upper floors, and had begun chanting ceaseless hymns. The echo made their voices feel omnipresent.

Two ministers were standing by the door, adorned in clerical garb and having a quiet conversation. When we neared, one of them cut himself off to shuffle backwards and block the exit.

"Hold!" he said. "His Holiness has not yet opened the galleries for the day. You must wait for evening if you wish to view the hall."

"His Holiness?" Emrys whispered.

«We're not here for viewing,» I said, stepping forward. The priests seemed shocked at my speech. Hadn't Elvild said that dragonspeech was a relatively common skill in city-dwelling dragons? «We're from the Dragoon Corps. We came to speak with the archvicar, so that we can deal with the "Pillory Butcher" we've received word of.»

The priests shared a glance, and the one that had blocked our way moved for the door. "Allow me a moment to confer with His Holiness," he murmured before disappearing behind it.

The vicar must not have been terribly far away, because even with the echoing chants and the thickness of the walls, I could just hear the muffled conversation if I tilted my ears just so. The remaining minister didn't seem to notice that I was listening.

"Your Holiness," said the minister. "You've a request for audience."

"Schedule it for tomorrow then," said the vicar, his grandiosity vanished now that he was done speaking to the people. "I've no time for every complaint that arrives at our doorstep. Not when I'm so busy preparing for the equinox."

"They are from the Dragoon Corps, Your Holiness. They said they're here about the Butcher." The minister's voice fell to a whisper, and I could only partially make out his next sentence, "…looks like what the Hosks described…."

There was a long pause. "Hmph," the vicar huffed. "Very well, I shall handle this then. Deacon, make yourself useful and prepare coffee…how many visitors?"

"Two humans, one dragon, Your Holiness."

"Six cups," the vicar finished. Only a moment later, the door opened, forcefully but with grace to reveal the vicar, with the minister behind him, still dressed in his most formal attire, with seemingly no intentions of dressing down. He gave our group an appraising glance.

"Greetings, honoured guests," he said. "We bid you welcome to the grand city of Yorving. It has been a long time since we have seen knightly assistance here, so while ordinarily I would only accept a scheduled audience," he punctuated his word with a pointed glare at Grace, "I will allow you the dignity of a brief meeting for such an issue as you have presented, though I urge you to consider coming to set a date for such a meeting well beforehand in the future. As archvicar of Yorving, I have a great many duties to attend to, not all of which can be easily pushed aside."

Emrys gave an inclination of the head. "We understand, of course. I am third—"

"Let us proceed to a place more restful," the vicar interrupted. He glided towards the outer door, his dress, which was far longer and more ornate than any cassock worn by ordinary priests, obscuring his steps so he seemed to simply slide along the floor. "This is a place of worship; I should think it will not be despoiled by discussion of such grisly and distasteful acts as murder, hm?"

Emrys sighed, but followed behind Grace after she gave him a sympathetic look. The vicar led us—very slowly, as it seemed he was loathe to increase his pace and ruin the illusion of his seamless movement—outside and along the cut stone pathways through the hedge garden to a small, white-painted wooden gazebo with a cinnabar cap. A round table stood within, which the vicar and the other two humans took a seat at. The gazebo was big enough for me to lay down at the edge and stick my head through the archway, but nowhere near large enough for me to have a place at the table. "Restful", it wasn't, nor was it anywhere near comfortable. I shifted, trying to find a position where my chest didn't press up obnoxiously against the lip of the wooden base.

So long was the walk there that the deacon the vicar had spoken to behind that door came with a wide plate just as we sat down, laden with three small, ornately glazed porcelain cups, and a larger stoneware bowl, all filled with a dark brown drink. Once the plate was on the table for everyone to retrieve their portions, it stepped back to stand just behind the vicar, its cane in hand and hat back on its head. I kept glancing at it as I took my bowl. I couldn't tell whether the vicar was intentionally being intimidating or not, but the deacon definitely accomplished that much anyway. Even over the strong, delicious scent of the coffee, I could smell gunsmoke as I thought about how it had easily taken a bullet to the chest. I nervously felt my leg, as though to confirm myself the injuries had healed weeks ago.

"A proper introduction is in order," said the vicar. He placed a hand over his heart. "I am Saint-Archvicar Paul Barbosa the First, archvicar of all Yorving and of the Cathedral of the Holy Rosary Bell, which you now find yourselves at." He took a small sip from his cup, which underscored the pretentiousness of that title. "And yourselves?"

«I'm Sir Belfry,» I said simply. I didn't like the way he looked at me after that. I'd thought the brevity of my own "title" would reinforce how stupid Barbosa's sounded. But it didn't. I just felt lacking. I knew he thought he was better than me. What did he know? Nothing about me, that's for sure. I was leagues superior to this snivelling demagogue. All he had were his words. If I wanted to, I could crush him right here and now. Make him regret judging me—

«Belfry, you're losing smoke.» Grace's mental poke came with a physical nudge. I came back to reality, and smoke stopped trailing from my nostril. I held back a sneeze, and decided to occupy my mind with this drink. It was alright, though too bitter for my tastes.

"And I am Emrys Ô Laimnâch, Third Prince of the Kingdom of Laimnâch," said Emrys. He gave the vicar a look like he expected him to be impressed, but Barbosa just stared solemnly. "Ahem. I've never had the…distinction of meeting a living saint before. In my experience, people must normally have passed on before being declared as such."

"Indeed, I would expect that there hasn't been another like me in your lifetime," said the vicar. "Nor would I have expected in my youth to be the sole receiver of such an honour, but there is no arbiter as authoritative as the prophet himself, and he spoke to me through communion. There can be little doubt of my…eminence."

All the fear at being around the deacon was gone. I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him, was the thought looping through my head. Already, it was apparent that this man was a caricature of every insult aimed at the Church's love of pomp and grandeur, and I was hoping that after this conversation, we would never have to speak to him again.

"As to the reason of your coming," Barbosa continued, "I fortunately have very little to say on the matter. To call it an 'outsized complaint' would be an understatement. To wit, there have been a mere twelve killed. I don't doubt your generosity, knights, but this is certainly a matter that can be handled by the Templar Guard, should it make its way into vulnerable areas."

Great, the Templar Guard. Even some priests didn't like the Church's militant arm and had awful things to say about blackmailing and coercing non-members who broke ecclesiastical laws. If this man was in charge here, the Templar were probably the only watchmen this city had.

"What do you mean by 'vulnerable areas'?" asked Grace.

"Wards of the city that can't as easily weather such losses," Barbosa explained. "The Old Quarter, where these murders have been reported, has seen far more crime than a mere twelve murders. The activity of a single killer is a trifle, really, compared to what monsters the Scourge brings forth. Perhaps, even, there could be a few that ward could stand to lose."

"I'm sorry?" said Grace, unable to curtail her shock.

"The infected," explained Barbosa, either oblivious to his callousness or revelling in it. "And the godless sorcerers who hide away in the shadowed corners of that ward. It is fortunate that thus far, only such wards as the Old Quarter have been struck by this plague. There are far more valuable parts of the city."

«Valuable in what way?» I growled.

Barbosa finished his drink with a long sip. "I see you have little experience with leadership," he said. "The Old Quarter has long been rife with crime and disloyalty. The people who choose to delve into those depths are ones who have a reason to hide from the light. Many disavowers of the holy precepts live there, as do aberrants of magi. The history that once drenched the ward has long since melted away, leaving only a nest of brambles and thorns in its wake, which have been bleeding the city for years upon years. It is terrible to see them sick of their own malfeasance, but it will give us the opportunity to rebuild them better than they were before."

«Sick of…? You were just talking about the plague being made by people on purpose, not as some kind of punishment!» I stood, heat rising in my blood. It almost felt like he was trying to upset us with how ferociously open he was with this level of callous disregard.

His face finally broke, morphing in to a bemused glare. "I also see you have little experience in medicine," he said. That one stung. "A disease may have one cause, but its spread can be facilitated by other means. It is a shame that the people of this infected ward have been made vulnerable to this wretched curse by their own squalor. But it is their squalor. And as I said, the right way to remove a cancer is to wrench it out." He put on a morose face and clasped his hands. "It's a shame, and I take no joy in that purge that stains our hands with blood. But it is the way to keep our people safe. Once the curse-bearers have gone then we can focus our efforts on repairing the cracks that allowed them to propagate."

«You can't just sacrifice people who depend on you!» I said. «How could you even suggest something like that?»

Barbosa stared at me. "As I said, it is not a task I take joy in. But these are dire times. The risk that would be posed should we allow monsters to roam freely among us is needless. Is it not true that, if we must cut some away, it would be best to cut the sorcerers and warlocks, who fill cramped alleyways and the undercity with stagnant blood and the rot that dwells in it, rather than the upstanding fellows who plough our fields, harvest our grapes, brew our wine, build our homes, pave our streets, and keep the savage wilds beyond our walls?" He shook his head. "I have many a time since I gained rulership over this city attempted to convince these folk of the error of their ways, and yet they have persisted. This is the harvest they reap, much to my grief. Such is the burden of leadership."

He finally stood, motioning for the deacon to follow him. "I am glad you are here to offer us guidance, ersatz. But I see a need for guidance within you, as well. My plea to you is this: do not concern yourself with matters far beneath your station. Not every wrong can be righted, and not every soul can be saved. Do not lose yourself to that path of desperate, foolish hope."

Once he was out of sight, I snarled and marched away, not bothering to finish the drink I'd been offered. The others were right on my tail as we exited the gardens.

"What is wrong with that man!?" Emrys exclaimed once we were past the church's bounds. "I…I have never seen someone spout such vulgar ideas so confidently! I know dwellers of the court who would agree with him, but none of them would have the brazen gall to say it so openly. What if we took his words to the people of the ward he dismissed? I don't imagine they would have a pleasant reaction to hearing their saintly leader talk about how sacrificing them is an acceptable loss!"

«I'd bet they already know,» I murmured. «If he's open with us, he's probably open with them, too.»

"I can't understand how he's still got his seat, then," said Grace. "If he's that careless, he must have pissed off a lot of people."

«But not the whole city,» I countered. «You heard how he talked about the "good" people. The ones who fit that description probably like him. Enough, at least, that he isn't afraid of whoever he's angered.» I restlessly pawed at the ground of the street we had paused it, one that ringed the cathedral. «He's a dead end, but we'll need to keep an eye on him. Just in case he decides to do something stupid. But for now, we learned where the murders are happening, at least, assuming he's not lying or just doesn't know the truth. We should meet up with the others. Get a consensus. And hope we won't have to speak to him again.»

"Agreed," Grace and Emrys said at once.

"Never again," Emrys tacked on with a snarl before we headed out of the cathedral's grounds and into the streets of Yorving.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.