Stormcallers: Chapter 8

News came on a cold misty evening, when the fog of Greater Norrholt spilled down from the mountains and crept across the land towards the edges. A merchant caravan brought news from the capital, the King had surrendered. They were to be Wendshan no more, but citizens of the Empire.

All through Jarhaan, the people were frightened of what would come of their town. They knew the price of surrender, but never had surrender come without war. Would the armies of Herathia march through their village, burning and pillaging without resistance? Would they be taken as slaves and gifted to high Herathian officials?

Friar Henrik soothed his frightened flock: “Peace is nothing to be feared, and by the will of the Light above, our village will survive. Let us not fear, but hope.”

But Ysalla was afraid, because she saw how Friar Henrik stayed awake long into the night, his hands clasping and unclasping, tears threatening to run down his cheeks. She wondered what could make a man so afraid yet still counsel others to hope? In the language of her heart, it was a cruelty; those who were not cautioned were not prepared.

Friar Henrik’s heart, however, was full of the teachings of the church, and thus he knew the how dangerous a frightened people could be to themselves. He knew their fears would not prevent what was to come.

Soon enough, news came on the swift wings of half-voiced whispers in the local drinking den, carried on trader’s lips as carefully as the wine on their carts. An official caravan was to pass through Jarhaan in the coming weeks; not to bring news or royalty, but to bring change.

The whole village gathered in the town square to await the caravan’s arrival. Ysalla had never seen a Herathian coach before, nor a Herathian soldier. Both were dark as burnt wood, rimmed with silver and draped in red cloth. On the carriages’ doors and the soldiers’ chests hung the flag of the Herathian Empire. The soldiers held long spears and looks of disinterest. Were the villagers of Jarhaan not hushed with nervious anticipation, it could have been a parade.

At last, the soldiers and coaches pulled to a halt in front of the gathered crowd. The only sound, the snorting and whinnying of the horses.

Then the front coach opened to reveal a man dressed in fine furs and a long red cloak. Addressing the assembled people, he spoke in a thickly accented Wendshan: “I am the High Proxy of Minister Sarnta, and speaker for the Wise King and Council of Wendsha. I come bearing news, tidings, and good fortune for all. By high order and agreement of the Council of Wendsha, all high courts in agreement and accounted, all ministers and courtiers in deference; It is said with all due authority that upon this day, all within the boarders of the Kingdom of Wendsha are now duly titled and enjoined as citizens of the Empire of Herathia. The Emperor of Herathia offers peace, prosperity, and stability in return for a minor tithe and monthly tax. Through this devotion shall he know your fealty, and provide all that is due a citizen of the Herathian Empire.”

He went on for almost an hour, reciting out the new laws and edicts the people of Wendsha were now subject to. Ysalla and Friar Henrik did not listen, for Father Henrik had spied the last carriage in the caravan, marked not with the Red Saqur but with the Holy Solmontix.

In this carriage sat the Bishop Sindre, holy minister of the Fellowship of the Light and Friar Henrik’s superior. It was Bishop Sindre who sent the Friar to Jarhaan, and provided guidance to all the missionaries of Greater Norrholt, of which there were many. His robe was blue instead of white, his solmontix was golden instead of silver, and he wore a stiff blue cylindrical hat with a tiny brim at the top. When he left the carriage, both Friar Henrik and Ysalla knelt before him, and when he spoke, he spoke first, as this was the way of the church; one did not speak to ones superiors unless they spoke first.

“Well met Friar Henrik, once blessed,” the Bishop rested his hand on Henrik’s head for a moment before allowing him to rise. “By the word of his highest, the Ecclesiarch, I bring blessings and tidings from your brothers and sisters abroad.”

“We are honored by your presence, Bishop Sindre, twice blessed and held in light, Minister of the Greater Norrholt Priory. You are most welcome here in Jarhaan.”

The bishop did not respond, for his gaze was resting on Ysalla, who had yet to rise from her kneel as he had not bid her rise. The bishop was confused by this, though he did not allow himself to show it, because Friar Henrik had not seen fit to inform the church of his acolyte. If the church knew about her, he had feared she would have been taken to Orghasa to learn the ways of women in the church, and never be allowed to speak again.

“Who is this,” the Bishop asked, pointing with a holy finger at prostrate Ysalla.

Poor Friar Henrik, he could say nothing but the truth. “This is Ysalla Aloni, my charge and acolyte. She has been learning the ways of the Fellowship for twenty seasons now.”

“Four years?” Bishop Sindre did not allow himself to show surprise, though he was shocked that Henrik, who he thought a forthright and honorable friar, had seen fit to hide his acolyte for so long. “You may rise, child.”

Ysalla stood from her kneel, only to curtsy as the Friar had taught her. “May the light shine down upon you, holy bishop Sindre.”

Now, Bishop Sindre could not stop himself from furrowing his brow in surprise. “She can speak Orghasan?” he asked the friar, for indeed, they had been speaking Orghasan all the while, and Ysalla had welcomed the Bishop in kind.

Great was the pride in Henrik’s heart. “She insisted,” he said. “She is of a quick mind, and eager to learn. She has become quite well versed in the Fellowship and its teachings.”

“Indeed?” The Bishop clasped his hands in front of him as a teacher at lessons, like this. “Tell me, girl, what are the four holy virtues?”

Now, Ysalla did not know the bishop, nor what he thought of the people of Wendsha. She did not know how the bishop scorned the people of Greater Norrholt as heathens and backwards farmers, in spite of the Empire’s great military might. She did not know how such a simple question could be taken as an insult, so she answered as all Fellows of the Church must when asked of their superiors; with obedience.

“Humility, Diligence, Patience, and Compassion,” she said, for she had learned the Friar’s lessons well.

But the bishop was not satisfied. “And the seven acts of grace?”

“Honesty, Tithing, Devotion, Abstinence, Meditation, Sacrifice, and Courage,” was her reply.

At this, the Bishop turned to Henrik, a look of concern on his face, for he had heard a word that he did not understand. “‘Tithing?’”

“It is a Wendshan word,” Henrik explained as he wiped the worry from his brow. “It is the closest word that they have. Ysalla was quite confused when I explained the concept.”

But Bishop Sindre was not as wise as the friar; he had spent his days in the vaults and libraries of the many Cathedrals of the Fellowship, and he did not know about the language of the heart. He knew only of the language of the pen, and he thought it the truth. “If she does not understand the word, then you should have explained better. It is a simple idea, when understood correctly. Perhaps I should inspect your chapel, to insure the lessons of the church are being taught properly.”

So Friar Henrik and Ysalla brought the holy Bishop to their chapel, a barn which had been built but a year past so the friar’s meager flock could remain dry and safe in the rainy season. More often, the Friar spoke to his gathered flock in the open, whether on the nearby hill or near the village well. Holding services inside had been difficult for the people of Jarhaan to accept; the walls and ceiling blocked them off from something important.

Bishop Sindre did not know this, but he did know the splendor and majesty of the Orghasan chapels and cathedrals; for while humility was one of the four holy virtues, there was nothing virtuous in hiding the glory of the church.

Friar Henrik bowed his head to hide his shame, hiding his flushed face, for he knew this as well.

“You have been preaching the Fellowship from here?” the Bishop asked, hoping against hope that his Friar had not fallen so far from the ideals of the church.

“I have,” Friar Henrik explained, “and the spirit of fellowship has spread far through the village. Why, just the other day, I heard the magistrate proudly proclaim the virtue of diligence.”

But the Bishop was not to be dissuaded. “And in so doing, did he explain its place among the other three holy virtues? Did he encourage the seven acts of grace?” Friar Henrik could not answer, for he knew the Bishop would be disappointed. When he was met with silence, the Bishop pointed his holy finger at Ysalla, determined to discover the depths of the friar’s teachings. “You have learned the spoken creed?”

Ysalla curtsied. “Yes, your grace.”

The Bishop was pleased, as here was a measure by which he could place the friar. If she knew the spoken creed well enough, then perhaps his ministrations were not for naught. He clasped his hands together, like this, and spoke in a strong clear voice; “Profess Diligence.”

Ysalla closed her eyes, as she always did when reciting the memorized creed. “‘Devote yourself to the tasks of virtue you are given. Blessed are those who continue their work with steadfast and rigid dedication to their place in the world.’”

The Bishop was pleased at this, because she spoke the words in Orghasan, and not the Wendshan profession she had created with the Friar. “Profess Patience.”

“‘The Land spins to its own pace. All is given to the worthy, and punishment will come to those who sin. Do not think yourself a greater measure of righteousness than the world itself; it is not you who turns the wheel of justice.’”

Again, she spoke in Orghasan, the exact words as they had been written in the book. “And in unity?”

Now Friar Henrik had not yet taught Ysalla about the unities, as they were a very Orghasan idea. Ysalla did not know what the Bishop meant, and so she opened her eyes and looked at him in confusion.

The Bishop’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Diligence and Patience together means…?”

But Ysalla was a clever girl, who saw the world from the side, and so she was able to think of an answer though she had not been taught one. “Together, diligence and patience build raahn.”

Raahn was a Wendshan word, of which there was no Orghasan word. The Friar knew it word, however, and so tried to explain to the bishop: “she means the two virtues teach us that blessings and rewards may not come quickly. The virtuous continue to strive for virtue, even if there seems no reward at the time.”

Poor Friar Henrik, for so long had he lived in Jarhaan, and so much had he learned, that he had forgotten much of what it meant to be Orghasan. Bishop Sindre drew himself up and looked down at his hapless charge: “I am most disappointed, Friar. The virtue is the reward. One does not strive for it, nor does one attend to the clock when performing acts of grace. I can see I came only just in time.”

“I have made progress,” the Friar ran to his desk and produced a stack of papers, the self-same that he and Ysalla had worked on long into the night, “See, I have even managed to translate the Book into Wendshan. Here; ‘In the first there were two, and the two became three.’ That’s the first line of The Book in Wendshan.”

The Bishop waved his hand to silence his charge. “If only you had told me you were doing so, I might have spared you much effort. Already a group of priests toils among the libraries of Orghasa to translate the holy texts of the church into many different languages, the better to teach the many islands of the cloud-sea; an official codex. The world is changing, Friar Henrik, and the blessings of Herathia come not only to Wendsha, but to the Church as well.”

“What do you mean?” asked Friar Henrik, for he had not heard of Valokakis, the Emperor’s priest.

The Bishop raised his staff and struck the floor with holy pronouncement. “This is a new era for the Fellowship of the Light. We are not some hedge-cult pleading for followers, we are not some back-water heresy. We are a Church, and the Emperor has given us cardinalship.”

At this the Friar gasped in shock, for he had not expected such fortune. “The Emperor of Herathia is of the Fellowship?”

Such was the Friar’s amazement that the Bishop could not help but smile as a father with his boy child. “He is, and in honor of his great wisdom and spiritual guidance, the Fellowship must show its clear supremacy over the other spiritual practices of Wendsha. You will receive a new chapel, worthy of the Fellowship. You will be given the means to minister to the entire town, as well as to the traveling merchants and nobles who pass through to the capital. Jarhaan is to be an important part of this new world, and thus I bring to you a new Codex.”

The Bishop struck his staff again, and summoned from outside his servant who brought with him an ornate wooden box. Opening it with care, the Bishop produced a book twice as large as any other, bound in black leather with the solmontix burned on the front in gold.

The Friar’s heart sank when he saw the book, for he knew what church books were bound in black leather and stamped in gold. “Bishop Sindre, you honor me far too much, I am not worthy of such a gift.”

“It is no gift,” the Bishop waved the Friar closer to take the book from him. “It is a burden and duty most holy. It is from The Path you shall teach your flock, now.”

“But Bishop,” the Friar begged, “The Book has never been superseded by the New Path. The Book has always been the first words of the Light, and it is important for our holy journey to learn first the foundations of our faith, and the holy truths therein.”

“As the winds change, so must the sails,” the Bishop’s gaze was like steel. “As of now, by holy proclamation of the Ecclesiarch, The New Path is the foundation of our faith.”

Poor Friar Henrik, what could he do? He took the holy book and replaced his weather-beaten copy of The Book. If he did not, the Bishop might have taken Ysalla away from him, and she would forever more be silent in the hollow cathedrals of Orghasa. In his heart, he knew it was the calling of the church to minister first to the poor and downtrodden, not to the kings and queens. He knew of the division in the church, between those of old ways, and those of the New Path. This was the Schism of Advancement, and the New Path sought to minister to the powerful so their might and wealth might guide the peasantry towards virtue.

Now Ysalla, pure of heart, knew nothing of this. She knew only the Fellowship and its virtues, and it was to these she was devoted with the whole of her heart. It was this that saved her, and eventually saved us all.

But that did not happen for many seasons. She had not yet met She of Puddle Tears, nor even Atamato Cintiona, the shackled boy. All she had to do was to serve Friar Henrik, as was the Church’s command, and so she did for many seasons after Wendsha became the final piece of the Herathian Empire.