Chapter 22: Rian Inkwright in Temple
In the years after Rian was taken from his father and made a novitiate Friar, he ran up and down the Spear of the Lady, playing “Lion and the Heretic.” What Friar did not dream of advancing to such a position much less a twelve-year-old boy? Like bishops to abbots and the patriarch to bishops, the Lion held absolute authority over all the Friars of Aman’Brin. The current Lion, Jhon, had been raised by the church since infancy and became a novitiate younger even than Rian himself. Such a fact had only fueled the boy’s imagination. And now, a decade later, he would finally meet the man and speak to him face-to-face.
He should have been excited. He would finally meet his life-long idol. But he wasn’t excited. He was nervous. And not the nervous anxiety one gets when trying to make a good first impression with someone important. No, it was the kind of nervous one gets when he knows things are going wrong despite any empirical evidence. Things seemed calm, but they felt as if they were sliding sideways. Were things calm? Or was it merely the calm of a raging storm before it bears down on a man and sweeps him away?
It was the patriarch that had made him so uncomfortable. The Word spoke of the coming of God’s descendent, the vessel of God Himself. All the Scions of God were instructed to look for signs of the coming as well as all the other miracles foretold in The Word. Here a haen had appeared, the first since the Days of Prophets, and proclaimed that Bishop Tayfan Aster was the next Prester. What a glorious thing to happen to Aman’Brin. The Days of Glory would soon be at hand. And honor above all honors, Rian Inkwright had been tasked to herald this message to Patriarch Pol Yorek. But when the patriarch received the news, the head of the faith did not celebrate. He did not sing God’s blessings. He did little of anything. He just sat on his chair and stared at the young Friar, tapping his fingers together.
“Amazing news, Friar Rian Inkwright,” he had said. “You should go immediately to Heart’s Chapel at the corner of Elm and 1st Street across from Thames House. There you will find the Lion. Deliver him this announcement. When he asks, tell him you have presented at The Mount and have been dispatched to him by me.”
So here Rian found himself across from Thames House, wondering why Patriarch Pol Yorek did not sound amazed when he spoke of amazing news. It was amazing. It was the fulfillment of God’s promise to His people. Who would doubt it? Who could doubt the words of a haen?
Patriarch Pol Yorek doubted.
And the Lion?
Rian Inkwrigt should have been excited, but he was not. He was nervous and not in the good way.
He looked up at the building in front of him, a lump in his throat. Heart’s Chapel must have been a private place of worship. Its architecture looked unlike any chapel he had visited before. Its façade was plain, void of any religious symbols or iconography. If not for the patriarch’s instructions and the lion’s head carved onto the front door, Rian would have assumed he was at a residence rather than a chapel.
An iron bell was bolted to the stone next to the door. The ringer was rusted in place. Rian reached forward and traced his fingers across the door’s carving. He had read about lions, but never seen one, not even an illustration. It was not what he had imagined, although now looking on it, he was not sure how he could have imagined anything different.
The door opened and Rian jerked his hand away. A young boy in monk’s robes stood in the entryway, staring at him with an annoyed look. Neither spoke, and neither moved. They just stood and stared at each other. What kind of boy, he wondered, would dedicate himself to the life of a monk at such a young age? All boys, Rian had assumed, wanted to be Friars, to fight criminals and punish sinners. A life of solitude and study seemed hardly fitting for one so young.
“You’re a monk,” he finally said.
“You’re a friar,” the boy replied.
“I have been dispatched by Patriarch Pol Yorek to speak with the Lion.”
The young monk gave Rian an incredulous look. Why not simply say he was on a mission from God, yeah? This irritated Rian, shaking off his hesitation.
“I am not here for queer looks, boy. I am here for the Lion. Admit me or step out of the way, but do not waste any more of my time.” Out of the corner of his eyes, saw the red leather of his baruq move as he rolled his shoulders back and puffed out his chest.
At the Lady of the Northern Waters, Rian was still the youngest Friar. He was the inkwright that had stood next to Bishop Tayfan Aster always doing what he was told. He felt different now. He looked at his feet. In that instant, it felt as if he had just shifted sideways and he wondered if he was still standing in the same spot.
“Please enter, friar,” the boy said. Rian looked up and saw that the monk had stepped aside, holding the door open for him. He smiled, nodded his head, and entered. The heel of his boot slapped against the tiling as he walked with an invigorated authority. “Please wait in the foyer until you are announced.” The boy turned and walked away without waiting for a response.
Rian looked about. He had been more right than he knew when he questioned Heart’s Chapel as a place of worship. While the walls held the obligatory icons, there was nothing to suggest it as a place one could come and bow to God. Tables, a small sofa, a couple chairs lined the foyer. It was a home, just like any other. Rian felt a twinge of indignation toward Jhon, though they had not met. He felt it wrong that a man name his home a chapel when it was clearly a home.
“What is your name?” The boy had returned. He stood on one foot, leaning forward.
“Friar Rian Inkwright.” Necessary information to announce him. It was not a chapel nor was it a functioning house. Bishop Tayfan Aster’s coming was a blessing if this was how the leader of the friars conducted his own household.
The boy rocked back onto his other foot and slipped back through the door.
“Friar Rian Inkwright on behalf of Patriarch Pol Yorek,” he heard echo from the next room. He straightened himself and stepped forward. The boy appeared in the doorway and stopped him. “You have not been admitted,” he whispered. “You cannot enter until so permitted.”
Rian, bolstered by their previous exchange, wanted to push the boy aside. He was on a mission from God. He should not have to wait until the Lion found it convenient. He stopped, though, when he saw the room on the other side of the little monk. It was not a parlor or a bedroom or an antechamber. It was a chapel. Rows of benches lead to an altar and atop that alter was a suit of armor. Brinlanders did not wear armor. The heavy leather of a friar’s baruq was the closest that still existed in the land.
“Is that…” Rian raised a shaky finger at the suit of metal plate.
“Is that Armor of Ascension? The armor worn by God when His heart was pierced by a spear and He did not die? The armor left behind when He ascended to heaven?”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
“God in heaven…”
“Last we checked, yes,” the boy answered, wrinkling his nose.
“Rian, show him in,” a voice echoed across the chapel. The monk tugged at the friar’s sleeve.
“Now you may enter.”
“Your name is Rian?”
“Me, you, the guy that sells nightcralwers on the pier at Southport. Now get in there before you lose your chance.” The monk gave him a little kick.
Rian Inkwright stumbled forward, tripping over his own feet as he continued to stare at the suit of armor. In front of the altar, a man rose from a bench. Its cushions were flat from extended use, and he stood slowly. Without turning, he reached and drew his coat from a nearby pedestal. He pulled it on, straightening the hood around his neck. The barug’s fir trim was so thick that the man looked to have a mane of his very own.
“The Lion,” Rian whispered to himself. He needed to relieve himself.
Jhon turned and looked at him. His eyes were sea blue and piercing. Rian was taken aback when he realized that he was actually taller than Jhon. The man had prominent Amani features and had already reached his full height while Rian with his Brinish heritage would grow another few inches at least. Regardless, the man seemed to fill the room and Rian forgot about the holy relic that lay immediately behind him.
“Welcome, Friar Rian Inkwright. Though I have little, what I have is yours.” Jhon held up a hand and beckoned him to a side parlor with a fireplace, a small table, two wooden cups, a flagon of wine, and a bowl of apples. “You must need some respite after your visit with the patriarch. You may rest here if need be.”
Rian thrilled to the man’s hand on his shoulder and he walked to the parlor without speaking. The Lion kept a proper household, he felt. It was good and appropriate to offer food and drink to a traveling friar. Rian smiled, poured them both a cup of wine, and drank heartily. It was crisp and fruity, a better vintage than any wine he had in the Highlands where they preferred beer.
Jhon sat in a chair adjacent to Rian, crossed his legs, and waited patiently until the young man had his fill of drink then offered him an apple as well, drawing a knife from his belt and cutting it in half, taking some for himself.
“I have not seen you on The Mount before,” Jhon said. “And you have the look of the Highlands about you. But you say you come on behalf of Patriarch Pol Yorek?”
Rian nodded until he found his voice. “I come on behalf of Bishop Tayfan Aster to deliver a message to Patriarch Pol Yorek. My duty fulfilled, the patriarch bid me deliver that message to you.” He took a bite of the apple. He felt a shift as he had before and looked at the floor to steady himself. If dealing with the monk had made him feel more of a man, speaking with the Lion made him feel like a boy once again.
“An important message indeed to send by messenger not courier all the way from Watertown,” Jhon said. Rian nodded and set the remainder of his apple on the table.
“I am instructed by Bishop Tayfan Aster to announce to Patriarch Pol Yorek that a prophet has arrived in the North and given testament that Tayfan Aster is a descendent of the Prester and marked to be the vessel of God upon His return to Circadia. A son lost to the fog of history will be named and known to the people. Men will cheer his name and women will cry at his feet as he passes.
“The Days of Glory approach.”
Rian watched the Lion, praying that the man might celebrate such news. He did not want to return to Watertown and inform the bishop that he had been twice denied. He looked in Jhon’s blue eyes and begged him to understand.
“You presented this at The Mount?”
Rian gave a half-smile. “Patriarch Pol Yorek said you would ask and that I should tell you that I come from him directly.”
Jhon paused again. His eyes wandered, running from Rian’s hair to his feet and back. “That is a sizeable trim on your coat for one your age,” Jhon finally said. Rian did not know where he was going, so he followed in hopes that they might reach the same conclusion. “How long have you been a Friar?”
“A decade now, Lion Jhon.”
“So you knew your parents?”
“My father, yes. An inkwright by name. My mother died from the winter when I was very young. Highland winters are harsh and unforgiving.”
“So I’m told,” Jhon answered. His voice was level, honest, forthright. “And your father, was he a good man?”
“My father was a great man, Lion Jhon,” Rian said defensively. “He taught me how to read and write. He taught me The Word well in advance of my years. He loves God and loves me.”
“He must be very proud of you to choose to take your vows at such a young age.”
Rian opened his mouth but hesitated. Jhon smiled at him a knowing smile.
“Bishop Tayfan Aster took you from your father, did he not? He chose you to be a friar?” Jhon’s voice was sympathetic.
“Such is the right of a bishop…”
“Do you believe Bishop Tayfan Aster to be God’s chosen vessel?”
“The haen, Lion Jhon. I have seen her. I have heard her words. The woman has power. ‘A son lost to the fog of history will be named and known to the people. Men will cheer his name and women will cry at his feet as he passes’ she says. So she says, so it is.”
“And you are bid to tell this message to Patriarch Pol Yorek?”
“And all I should pass on my return.”
Rian heard the clatter of the chair fall to the ground before his mind understood what was happening. The Lion stood and grabbed Rian by his shirt, wrenching him from his chair and slamming him against the table. He saw stars in front of his eyes.
“A more committed evangelist would be beheaded for spreading such heresy, Rian Inkwright. But you are blessed by the ignorance of youth and the circumstances of your vow. It would not be fitting to take your life.” The Lion pulled the young man’s mouth open so far that Rian feared it would be ripped from his skull. Jhon took the knife he had cut the apple with and jabbed it into Rian’s mouth. The inkwright began to cough as his throat clogged with his own blood. He saw the knife extracted with a lumpy piece of flesh on the tip. His tongue.
Jhon pulled a poker from the fire and pushed it into Rian’s mouth, pressing it against his wound. He screamed, but felt the bleeding slow. Tears poured down his face.
“Your vows to God and the church have been fulfilled. You are stripped of your authority and your rank. Never again shall such heresy pass your lips.” He pulled Rian forward, holding onto his baruq so that the young man fell out of his coat. “I am sorry that you must be punished for the bishop’s sins. Know that he will not know mercy. Go now and reclaim the life denied you for the last decade.”
Rian stumbled down the steps from Heart’s Chapel, falling to the ground coughing and gagging. He could not stop his tears, and his head thundered from the pain. By God, what was happening? He looked back up at the door, trying to talk but all he could do was scream savagely. Rian, the cocksure young monk, closed the door slowly. The boy’s look was sad, pitying. Inkwright spat burnt blood at him. He tried to run into the street, but could only make it a few steps before falling over again. A sea wind carried salt from the nearby harbor, but all he could smell was burnt flesh and acrid blood. Everything spun in circles and he had to hold onto the walls of nearby buildings to remain upright.
The shirt he had worn beneath his baruq was common homespun. The world felt so much colder.
He should have been excited. He would finally meet his life-long idol. But he wasn’t excited. He was nervous. And not the nervous anxiety one gets when trying to make a good first impression with someone important. No, it was the kind of nervous one gets when he knows things are going wrong despite any empirical evidence. Things seemed calm, but they felt as if they were sliding sideways. Were things calm? Or was it merely the calm of a raging storm before it bears down on a man and sweeps him away?
It was the patriarch that had made him so uncomfortable. The Word spoke of the coming of God’s descendent, the vessel of God Himself. All the Scions of God were instructed to look for signs of the coming as well as all the other miracles foretold in The Word. Here a haen had appeared, the first since the Days of Prophets, and proclaimed that Bishop Tayfan Aster was the next Prester. What a glorious thing to happen to Aman’Brin. The Days of Glory would soon be at hand. And honor above all honors, Rian Inkwright had been tasked to herald this message to Patriarch Pol Yorek. But when the patriarch received the news, the head of the faith did not celebrate. He did not sing God’s blessings. He did little of anything. He just sat on his chair and stared at the young Friar, tapping his fingers together.
“Amazing news, Friar Rian Inkwright,” he had said. “You should go immediately to Heart’s Chapel at the corner of Elm and 1st Street across from Thames House. There you will find the Lion. Deliver him this announcement. When he asks, tell him you have presented at The Mount and have been dispatched to him by me.”
So here Rian found himself across from Thames House, wondering why Patriarch Pol Yorek did not sound amazed when he spoke of amazing news. It was amazing. It was the fulfillment of God’s promise to His people. Who would doubt it? Who could doubt the words of a haen?
Patriarch Pol Yorek doubted.
And the Lion?
Rian Inkwrigt should have been excited, but he was not. He was nervous and not in the good way.
He looked up at the building in front of him, a lump in his throat. Heart’s Chapel must have been a private place of worship. Its architecture looked unlike any chapel he had visited before. Its façade was plain, void of any religious symbols or iconography. If not for the patriarch’s instructions and the lion’s head carved onto the front door, Rian would have assumed he was at a residence rather than a chapel.
An iron bell was bolted to the stone next to the door. The ringer was rusted in place. Rian reached forward and traced his fingers across the door’s carving. He had read about lions, but never seen one, not even an illustration. It was not what he had imagined, although now looking on it, he was not sure how he could have imagined anything different.
The door opened and Rian jerked his hand away. A young boy in monk’s robes stood in the entryway, staring at him with an annoyed look. Neither spoke, and neither moved. They just stood and stared at each other. What kind of boy, he wondered, would dedicate himself to the life of a monk at such a young age? All boys, Rian had assumed, wanted to be Friars, to fight criminals and punish sinners. A life of solitude and study seemed hardly fitting for one so young.
“You’re a monk,” he finally said.
“You’re a friar,” the boy replied.
“I have been dispatched by Patriarch Pol Yorek to speak with the Lion.”
The young monk gave Rian an incredulous look. Why not simply say he was on a mission from God, yeah? This irritated Rian, shaking off his hesitation.
“I am not here for queer looks, boy. I am here for the Lion. Admit me or step out of the way, but do not waste any more of my time.” Out of the corner of his eyes, saw the red leather of his baruq move as he rolled his shoulders back and puffed out his chest.
At the Lady of the Northern Waters, Rian was still the youngest Friar. He was the inkwright that had stood next to Bishop Tayfan Aster always doing what he was told. He felt different now. He looked at his feet. In that instant, it felt as if he had just shifted sideways and he wondered if he was still standing in the same spot.
“Please enter, friar,” the boy said. Rian looked up and saw that the monk had stepped aside, holding the door open for him. He smiled, nodded his head, and entered. The heel of his boot slapped against the tiling as he walked with an invigorated authority. “Please wait in the foyer until you are announced.” The boy turned and walked away without waiting for a response.
Rian looked about. He had been more right than he knew when he questioned Heart’s Chapel as a place of worship. While the walls held the obligatory icons, there was nothing to suggest it as a place one could come and bow to God. Tables, a small sofa, a couple chairs lined the foyer. It was a home, just like any other. Rian felt a twinge of indignation toward Jhon, though they had not met. He felt it wrong that a man name his home a chapel when it was clearly a home.
“What is your name?” The boy had returned. He stood on one foot, leaning forward.
“Friar Rian Inkwright.” Necessary information to announce him. It was not a chapel nor was it a functioning house. Bishop Tayfan Aster’s coming was a blessing if this was how the leader of the friars conducted his own household.
The boy rocked back onto his other foot and slipped back through the door.
“Friar Rian Inkwright on behalf of Patriarch Pol Yorek,” he heard echo from the next room. He straightened himself and stepped forward. The boy appeared in the doorway and stopped him. “You have not been admitted,” he whispered. “You cannot enter until so permitted.”
Rian, bolstered by their previous exchange, wanted to push the boy aside. He was on a mission from God. He should not have to wait until the Lion found it convenient. He stopped, though, when he saw the room on the other side of the little monk. It was not a parlor or a bedroom or an antechamber. It was a chapel. Rows of benches lead to an altar and atop that alter was a suit of armor. Brinlanders did not wear armor. The heavy leather of a friar’s baruq was the closest that still existed in the land.
“Is that…” Rian raised a shaky finger at the suit of metal plate.
“Is that Armor of Ascension? The armor worn by God when His heart was pierced by a spear and He did not die? The armor left behind when He ascended to heaven?”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
“God in heaven…”
“Last we checked, yes,” the boy answered, wrinkling his nose.
“Rian, show him in,” a voice echoed across the chapel. The monk tugged at the friar’s sleeve.
“Now you may enter.”
“Your name is Rian?”
“Me, you, the guy that sells nightcralwers on the pier at Southport. Now get in there before you lose your chance.” The monk gave him a little kick.
Rian Inkwright stumbled forward, tripping over his own feet as he continued to stare at the suit of armor. In front of the altar, a man rose from a bench. Its cushions were flat from extended use, and he stood slowly. Without turning, he reached and drew his coat from a nearby pedestal. He pulled it on, straightening the hood around his neck. The barug’s fir trim was so thick that the man looked to have a mane of his very own.
“The Lion,” Rian whispered to himself. He needed to relieve himself.
Jhon turned and looked at him. His eyes were sea blue and piercing. Rian was taken aback when he realized that he was actually taller than Jhon. The man had prominent Amani features and had already reached his full height while Rian with his Brinish heritage would grow another few inches at least. Regardless, the man seemed to fill the room and Rian forgot about the holy relic that lay immediately behind him.
“Welcome, Friar Rian Inkwright. Though I have little, what I have is yours.” Jhon held up a hand and beckoned him to a side parlor with a fireplace, a small table, two wooden cups, a flagon of wine, and a bowl of apples. “You must need some respite after your visit with the patriarch. You may rest here if need be.”
Rian thrilled to the man’s hand on his shoulder and he walked to the parlor without speaking. The Lion kept a proper household, he felt. It was good and appropriate to offer food and drink to a traveling friar. Rian smiled, poured them both a cup of wine, and drank heartily. It was crisp and fruity, a better vintage than any wine he had in the Highlands where they preferred beer.
Jhon sat in a chair adjacent to Rian, crossed his legs, and waited patiently until the young man had his fill of drink then offered him an apple as well, drawing a knife from his belt and cutting it in half, taking some for himself.
“I have not seen you on The Mount before,” Jhon said. “And you have the look of the Highlands about you. But you say you come on behalf of Patriarch Pol Yorek?”
Rian nodded until he found his voice. “I come on behalf of Bishop Tayfan Aster to deliver a message to Patriarch Pol Yorek. My duty fulfilled, the patriarch bid me deliver that message to you.” He took a bite of the apple. He felt a shift as he had before and looked at the floor to steady himself. If dealing with the monk had made him feel more of a man, speaking with the Lion made him feel like a boy once again.
“An important message indeed to send by messenger not courier all the way from Watertown,” Jhon said. Rian nodded and set the remainder of his apple on the table.
“I am instructed by Bishop Tayfan Aster to announce to Patriarch Pol Yorek that a prophet has arrived in the North and given testament that Tayfan Aster is a descendent of the Prester and marked to be the vessel of God upon His return to Circadia. A son lost to the fog of history will be named and known to the people. Men will cheer his name and women will cry at his feet as he passes.
“The Days of Glory approach.”
Rian watched the Lion, praying that the man might celebrate such news. He did not want to return to Watertown and inform the bishop that he had been twice denied. He looked in Jhon’s blue eyes and begged him to understand.
“You presented this at The Mount?”
Rian gave a half-smile. “Patriarch Pol Yorek said you would ask and that I should tell you that I come from him directly.”
Jhon paused again. His eyes wandered, running from Rian’s hair to his feet and back. “That is a sizeable trim on your coat for one your age,” Jhon finally said. Rian did not know where he was going, so he followed in hopes that they might reach the same conclusion. “How long have you been a Friar?”
“A decade now, Lion Jhon.”
“So you knew your parents?”
“My father, yes. An inkwright by name. My mother died from the winter when I was very young. Highland winters are harsh and unforgiving.”
“So I’m told,” Jhon answered. His voice was level, honest, forthright. “And your father, was he a good man?”
“My father was a great man, Lion Jhon,” Rian said defensively. “He taught me how to read and write. He taught me The Word well in advance of my years. He loves God and loves me.”
“He must be very proud of you to choose to take your vows at such a young age.”
Rian opened his mouth but hesitated. Jhon smiled at him a knowing smile.
“Bishop Tayfan Aster took you from your father, did he not? He chose you to be a friar?” Jhon’s voice was sympathetic.
“Such is the right of a bishop…”
“Do you believe Bishop Tayfan Aster to be God’s chosen vessel?”
“The haen, Lion Jhon. I have seen her. I have heard her words. The woman has power. ‘A son lost to the fog of history will be named and known to the people. Men will cheer his name and women will cry at his feet as he passes’ she says. So she says, so it is.”
“And you are bid to tell this message to Patriarch Pol Yorek?”
“And all I should pass on my return.”
Rian heard the clatter of the chair fall to the ground before his mind understood what was happening. The Lion stood and grabbed Rian by his shirt, wrenching him from his chair and slamming him against the table. He saw stars in front of his eyes.
“A more committed evangelist would be beheaded for spreading such heresy, Rian Inkwright. But you are blessed by the ignorance of youth and the circumstances of your vow. It would not be fitting to take your life.” The Lion pulled the young man’s mouth open so far that Rian feared it would be ripped from his skull. Jhon took the knife he had cut the apple with and jabbed it into Rian’s mouth. The inkwright began to cough as his throat clogged with his own blood. He saw the knife extracted with a lumpy piece of flesh on the tip. His tongue.
Jhon pulled a poker from the fire and pushed it into Rian’s mouth, pressing it against his wound. He screamed, but felt the bleeding slow. Tears poured down his face.
“Your vows to God and the church have been fulfilled. You are stripped of your authority and your rank. Never again shall such heresy pass your lips.” He pulled Rian forward, holding onto his baruq so that the young man fell out of his coat. “I am sorry that you must be punished for the bishop’s sins. Know that he will not know mercy. Go now and reclaim the life denied you for the last decade.”
Rian stumbled down the steps from Heart’s Chapel, falling to the ground coughing and gagging. He could not stop his tears, and his head thundered from the pain. By God, what was happening? He looked back up at the door, trying to talk but all he could do was scream savagely. Rian, the cocksure young monk, closed the door slowly. The boy’s look was sad, pitying. Inkwright spat burnt blood at him. He tried to run into the street, but could only make it a few steps before falling over again. A sea wind carried salt from the nearby harbor, but all he could smell was burnt flesh and acrid blood. Everything spun in circles and he had to hold onto the walls of nearby buildings to remain upright.
The shirt he had worn beneath his baruq was common homespun. The world felt so much colder.