Book of The Dead

The ceiling of the Grand Cathedral was a remarkable piece of magick engineering, and Lady Recillia Erryn couldn’t help but feel a stir in her heart every time she saw it.

Held up by massive pillars, each weighing thousands of tons, the peak of the arches reached over a hundred metres from the ground. That vast empty space was filled with enchanted illusions of clouds, streaks of sunlight, angels, and, perhaps, a glimpse of the gods themselves. There was a shimmer to enchanted marble that no other substance could quite replicate; it seemed to glow in the sunlight, reflecting a radiant glory that seemed holy to all who beheld it.

Perhaps that was why the material was restricted to the temples.

Seated in her alcove beneath a breathtaking painting of the first martyr, Dimitri, who had given his life in the service of the newborn gods in the first crusade, she heard the priest approaching well before he reached her. No matter how they muffled the floor with thick rugs, or covered the walls with elaborate tapestries, even the softest footstep seemed to echo within the hall.

When Father Chirn stepped into the alcove, he found the Lady Erryn already staring at him, her piercing ice-blue eyes seeming to look straight through him.

A formidable woman, she hadn’t made it to her current position through luck. It was always worth watching those who rose so quickly. They would either be snuffed out after a blaze of glory, or sustain their rise all the way to the top. The trick was trying to work out which was which.

“The Bishop is ready to receive you now, Lady Erryn.”

“My thanks, Lord Chirn.”

He smiled thinly.

“Please refer to me as Father Chirn. All claims I had to my noble house were relinquished when I donned the cloth.”

“That is the tradition, yes.”

Unhurried, the diminutive noble brushed down her immaculate skirt before she rose, posture perfect, eyes steady. Father Chirn mastered himself enough to keep the sneer from his face. There was no arena in which the noble houses wouldn’t squabble with each other, even within the church. As she had subtly pointed out, it was tradition for those of high birth who joined the church to sever ties with their families, but in practice, they seldom did.

From the main hall, down a broad, spacious hallway, the pair arrived outside a large, polished oak door. The Priest knocked once and opened the door without waiting for a response, then stepped aside to allow Lady Erryn to step through. She walked past him without a glance and entered an office that put her own within the Magisters’ tower to shame. Opulence dripped from every wall, every inch of floor. Statues, carvings, paintings, even the ceremonial robes displayed in the centre of the room gleamed with enchanted gems, cores and gold thread.

The Bishop stood as she entered, a reserved smile on his face. Hands clasped behind his back, he walked out from behind his desk and approached the entrance.

“Thank you, Father Chirn, that will be all.”

“As you will, Bishop.”

The priest closed the heavy door behind him, leaving the two alone in the room. If the Bishop’s expression softened in front of his daughter, she couldn’t detect it. She imagined, briefly, what more common families would do at times like this. Embrace? Exchange pleasantries? She couldn’t imagine it. There wasn’t time for such things, not when the game was on and the stakes were so high.

And the game was always on.

“Daughter,” The Bishop Erryn greeted her, rings gleaming on his fingers as he folded his hands atop each other. “What news do you bring?”

“Perhaps a drink and a seat, Father? If I must make my way through the city to the cathedral to satisfy your curiosity, you should offer refreshment at the very least.”

He grunted, half amused, half irritated before he invited her to sit and made his way to the decanter at the side of the room, filled with ruby-red wine.

“How do you keep all the names straight,” she asked as he poured glasses for the two of them, “considering more than two thirds of the clergy come from the same five families?”

He was ‘Bishop Erryn’, but was hardly the only member of the family serving within this one cathedral, let alone in the church as a whole across the province. There may have been dozens of ‘Father Chirns’. Probably were, considering how useless they were. Promotion was unlikely for the rabble of that house.

“Here, drink,” the Bishop said, a touch ungraciously, offering the glass to his daughter. She accepted it with magnanimity.

“You are acting a touch impatient recently,” Lady Erryn observed. “Perhaps there is movement amongst the clergy?”

“When is there not?” her father grunted as he sat opposite her.

The chairs were luxurious, and as she always did, the Lady surreptitiously slid a hand along the fur. She would have to get some, if not for her office, then her residence. Which kin did it come from?

“The arch-bishops have been jumpy lately. Or, perhaps more accurately, they are still jumpy. The break at Woodsedge seemed to set them off, which is to be expected, but they haven’t calmed down since.”

The Lady took a sip of her wine. Delicious. Her father refused to drink anything that hadn’t been aged at least five decades. The depth of flavour, the perfect sour notes. She swirled her glass. Truly an excellent wine.

“Do we still have no leads as to the source of their… unease?” she asked, and her father scowled.

He was off balance, normally he wouldn’t show this much emotion. Tensions within the clergy must be running high.

“Am I reporting to you, or you to me?” he asked evenly.

She raised a brow.

“This is a mutual and fair exchange of information, Father. We must support those with the closest blood ties within the family, after all.”

Left unsaid, was the difference in their positions. She was second in line to be head of the house, behind her cousin, whereas her uncle, the current head, had shipped his brother to the church upon his ascension. Lady Erryn was in a position of strength within the house, her father was not.

“I have given you information. What do you have for me?”

She pursed her lips as she eyed him steadily. He’d given her nothing they hadn’t discussed a hundred times before. Nevertheless, she yielded.

“There is something amiss with the Magisters,” she said, trying to keep her distaste from her voice. Her role was an important one, granted by the Baron himself, yet she couldn’t bring herself to like it. Where she had expected polished professionalism and clear-eyed stewards of the province’s slayers, she had instead found bickering children, comfortable and lazy.

“What is it this time?”

“The reports. Every keep, every rift, every kin, all activity regarding them is documented and collected in the tower for examination. I review as much of it as I possibly can personally, to ensure the mages are doing their jobs.”

“And? Have reports been going missing?”

She shook her head.

“The opposite.”

Her father blinked.

“The reports are… arriving more frequently?”

“Precisely.”

“I’m not sure if I share your concern over this… promptly filed paperwork.”

“It’s significant,” she insisted. “A change in behaviour, a shift in the normal patterns always signifies something underlying. The Magisters have been lax for decades. Slayers hate filing their documents and the mages are getting less and less inclined to make them. If the reports are coming in more regularly, then…” she trailed off allowing her father to fill in the blanks.

“Either the Magisters have developed a work ethic…” his tone left no doubt how unlikely he thought that might be. “... Or the slayers have discovered a taste for documentation.”

Equally unlikely.

“That is interesting,” he father noted. “Any idea as to what may be the cause?”

“Not yet, but I am investigating.”

“How have the Magisters responded?”

“They don’t seem to have noticed the difference.”

“Have they really become so lax at their duties?”

Her father showed a hint, a bare whisper, of true dismay as he said this, and Lady Erryn resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Some nobles, her father among them, apparently, seemed very reluctant to acknowledge that others may be as mired in intrigue and idleness as they themselves. Those blessed with the Divine Right were different, determined, touched by the gods themselves, but others?

Her lip curled despite her best efforts.

Unable to see the wood for the trees, they seemed to believe that their own corruption and incompetence were somehow an isolated occurrence, as opposed to a more universal malaise. The gods saw all, and a reckoning was past due.

“It isn’t that they are lazy, as such,” she answered the Bishop’s question, “but rather they focus on some parts of their duties above others. Rigorous record keeping has fallen by the wayside, it’s true, but they are… zealous, when it comes to meeting out punishment upon the slayers.”

“As well they should,” her father mused, “another slayer uprising is the last thing we need.”

As if brutalising them would lead to anything else.

“Quite so,” she demurred. “Now, I have shared something of value, it is time for you to do the same.”

Again, that hint of a frown, the tightening around the eyes. The old man was slipping.

“I am somewhat reluctant to share this,” he said slowly, “because it is difficult to verify.”

“Rumour, or hearsay?”

“Neither. Rather… rumblings.”

“An interesting choice of phrase.”

The Bishop leaned forward and clasped his hands together, watching her over his intertwined fingers.

“You know of the oracles?”

Lady Erryn nodded, eyes calculating.

“Everyone knows of the oracles.”

“That’s true, but most of what they know is nonsense. Most of us never so much as see them, I’ve never seen them.”

Anything that touched on them was a closely guarded secret. Only the Archbishops were able to come into contact with them.

“There are rumours that space is being made within their compound. Furniture is being brought in. Carpenters and the like have been hired. I’ve seen the accounting books myself.”

The noble lady’s mind raced. Why would they be making space? Increasing the number of residents within the compound? Why would they need to increase the number of residents? As far as she was aware, the number of oracles kept in the province was more or less constant, they were only replaced when they died. In which case, there would be no need to make more room.

“They’re bringing in oracles from outside?” she murmured.

The Bishop nodded gravely.

“So I suspect.”

If they were doing that… then where would they come from? It wouldn’t make sense for them to come from the North or South, which meant….

“They’re coming from the central province? From the capital?”

“It’s difficult to say. I can’t prove any of this,” her father cautioned, but Recillia’s mind was already leaps ahead.

If they were bringing in oracles from the central province, that meant there was an issue, a serious issue. The Archbishops were unsettled, acting erratically. Was there an issue with the oracles themselves? Something they couldn’t see? In which case, the call had been made to summon the high oracles from the central province, perhaps to divine what had been hidden?

The oracles communed directly with the gods themselves…. What could possibly escape their sight?

Suddenly uneasy, Lady Erryn rose from her seat.

“Thank you, Father. I believe this will prove to be useful information.”

He rose along with her.

“Thank you for the visit, Daughter. If you learn anything more, be sure to let me know. Any advantage we can gain within the clergy is worth it.”

If she was right, then manoeuvring for the next Archbishop’s seat was the least of his concerns. After making her goodbyes, she left her father’s office, then made her way out of the temple, mind abuzz. Repeatedly, she had to caution herself not to jump to conclusions. If she made the wrong decisions at this early stage, it could prove devastating.

When the oracles moved, it was a sign the divines themselves were moving. And they were coming here, to the western province. Something momentous was on the horizon. Distant still, but it was coming.

She had to find out what.