5 - Custos Sanctorum
5 - Custos Sanctorum
"The Archbishop shall keep the faith, shall be granted the right to bear immortal authority to the mortal plain. But through his three lieutenants he shall act. First, the Pontifex Maximus, who transcribed the holy word. Second, the Talon General, who leads the army of faith before the final days. Last, the Grand Inquisitor, who shall watch over the others, keeper of sanctity and sacred things." - Codex Lux Vesperis
The eye of Cain watched from every street corner, from every church door, from the home of every heretic that had been dragged to the dungeons to serve penances. The eye, ever open, unblinking and inescapable, shed a single tear, for those lost from the path of righteousness. But atop the eye was set a flame, the terrible burning anger felt towards those self same who had denied the Raven's will. Both weeping and burning, the eye watched. And beneath each eye was marked two words: 'Cain Spectat'. Cain watches.
And so the Grand Inquisitor did, for his agents were widespread and skillful. Two days ago a rogue mage was caught practicing her arts in the old merchants' quarter, doing tricks for a few coppers. She had been dragged away at once, along with her idiot audience. Just yesterday an illegal alehouse had been found in the sewers. All within were detained for chastisement, and the house itself had been hacked to bits and dumped, plank for plank, into a nearby stream of filth. A fitting fate.
Cain lifted his large, clawed hand to his skullcap, shifting it backwards, wrinkling his broad snout. More reports sat stacked on his desk, in his office deep beneath the Raven's Cathedral. Candles, set on the walls, cast flickering light over the documents that Brother Barnabas had brought him just an hour ago. Citizens who had failed to appear at church every day. Citizens who were straying from the path.
The Grand Inquisitor sighed, lifting the first and examining it briefly before pressing a claw to the bottom, placing the burning eye seal on it with a single scorching touch. This particular Jackalman would be flogged in front of his own house. Cain took some satisfaction in knowing that this wayward soul would soon be shepherded back into his care. Alas that it should come at the price of the Jackalman's suffering, both their suffering.
For, despite what satisfaction he might draw, he took no pleasure in ordering such violence. He was a priest, ordained and mantled, and priests work to alleviate suffering. Yet he was an inquisitor first and foremost. He was the conscience of the Church, the keeper of those things most sacred. He had advised the Archbishop and the clerics for many years, seen them ignore him, seen them drive the Church deeper into failure, losing followers constantly to the false faiths of Oraclean Lucifer and the Enoch Pantheon. In the end, he had stopped advising. He had acted.
That, too, had pained him. Ordering the trials, organizing the tribunals, executing the failed priests. He had enjoyed none of it. But faith was not about enjoyment or pleasure. It was about doing what must be done.
There was only one window in Cain's office, a stained glass panel depicting the death of Saint Jerrard, the great Chosen One of the Raven, who had taken up Stratka Blade and struck down wickedness wherever it reared its head. The scene, done in colored glass. showed the mighty saint, impaled upon a ballista bolt, sword held aloft over his life long nemesis, and infamous traitor, Captain Marken. The artist who had wrought this window had added a touch that Cain thought was sheer genius. The pain on Jerrard's face was obvious, beautifully rendered, and the triumph on Marken's face mocking. An ignorant seeing this window would think the great Jerrard defeated, and Marken spared. But Cain knew the whole story, as would any of the faithful. Even in the fullest extent of suffering, with his lifeblood spilling out of him, just after this one captured moment, Jerrard would plunge his sword into Marken's open mouth, slaying the vile traitor at once.
This never failed to comfort Cain. Whenever his stomach seized in the chambers of penance, whenever the cries grew too loud even around the gags each and every sinner wore, he remembered that moment, remembered Jerrard's pain, and knew he must not dishonor the Chosen One. Knew he must not let Marken's smile last. Knew he must strike out, even in the fullest extent of suffering, to banish sin. It was his task, his calling.
There was a faint glow on the wall to Cain's right. He turned his eyes. On that wall were pinned up a virtual mural of papers, some blank, some with red lettering. One of these papers was emitting a low, golden light, as red letters traced themselves on its surface. The Grand Inquisitor rose from his chair and moved, taking the bottom of the page and lifting it slightly. On the very top of the page was the letter 'twenty-three' in black ink. Brother Ishmael's group. The ones he had set to track the Sabelites. They had news. Cain scanned the message, which had ended with a quick sketch of the eye.
'Grand One, we have caught the Sabelites out. We followed them, as you instructed, to their way point shrine. Not long after they made camp, we observed the high priestess opening the Arc and releasing two individuals, one a Jackalman, one a Hlessi. We moved at once to intercept a member of their sisterhood that strayed from the group. She was chastised, but even under chastisement refused to admit sacrilege. We left her body as a warning to the sisterhood. They will fear our justice.'
Cain was struck with two opposing emotions. First he felt pleased, pleased that what he had suspected had been confirmed. The sisterhood of Sabel, recalcitrant and contrary, but almost untouchable, were heretics and traitors. He had known it to be true, but even he could not act against such a well seated order without proof. This was a great stroke of luck.
At the same time, he fumed at Ishmael's imprudence. He had tortured and killed a sister, alerting the whole order to their peril, and had failed even to gain anything by it. Cain suspected Ishmael had let his resentment at being defied by the High Priestess, and event he had related with perceivable anger, get the better of his judgment. Such an action was understandable, but certainly not acceptable. Cain would have words with Ishmael.
For now, however, Cain would have to think quickly to recover the situation. Stealth was no longer an option. They would too watchful for even the best of the Inquisitorial Police. No, he would need to use might; he would have to call upon the Paladinic branch. The Brothers of Bestilir, the homeguard of the church, were ill suited for the task: in the holy texts the Forge God and the Moon Goddess were often written of as close. The Brothers of Vilfang, then, would take it up. The Sword of the church, the Vengeance Goddess's knights, were depleted in number after the disastrous battle of Menith against Enoch's Pantheon, but Cain felt that this task was too important to delegate to the civilian Faith Guard. The chosen weapons of the Church must strike down the deviants.
Cain plucked the parchment from the wall, returning to his desk. He took up the shiv that rested there, and slit his finger, letting blood drip into an inkwell, walls lined with dried blood from other such correspondences. He plucked up a red quill, whetting it, and began to write a reply.
'Report back to Gorn at once. You have served your purpose. The matter is being placed in the hands of others.'
He pressed his cut finger to the bottom of the page. There was a short hissing, and when he lifted his finger up, the wound was burned shut, and his eye, marked in reddish brown, gazed up at him. Cain waited as the letters sunk into the page, slowly being drawn from view, carried along ritual paths, to the page that Ishmael was doubtlessly watching with avid anticipation. He would be disappointed that he could not continue the work, but one must serve righteousness.
Even when it pained one deeply to do so.
(Copyright Phillip Alexander Lobo, 2005, bitches!)