Angel's Creed, one
[NOTE:] The first scene is revised. After a lot of feedback, I was given advice on how to make the very beginning of the story more immediately accessible and less of a confusing infodump. So, to make it easier to start reading and get into the rest, I have posted the revised first scene with this chapter. The rest of it is the original rough draft version; any discrepancies between things are because of this. [/NOTE]
Angel's Creed. Rewrite chapter one. In which we are introduced to the world and the characters and hopefully that does not drag on and make you want to stop reading right here. 7,132 words.
FEEDBACK IS AWESOME. I would like to know:
- What you like
- What you dislike
- Whether anything pulls you out of the reading (poor phrasing, something happens that you have to stop to puzzle out, a world-specific thing is ill-defined enough to stop your reading inertia, can't tell who's speaking for a certain line or set of lines, etc)
- Impressions of characters, setting, or story
- Is there too much at once? Do you feel like you're being expected to pick things up too quickly? Is there too much information? Not enough?
- If you pulled this book off a shelf at a bookstore and read this first chapter, would you be inclined to continue reading the book?
- Other thoughts, comments, or concerns
Chapter 1
The day had begun innocuously. Major Matthew Christopher Richards had woken, dressed, reported for morning formation, and eaten breakfast as per the usual routine. It was somewhere in between leaving the mess hall and hiking into the icy foothills alongside a spoiled twenty-year-old to talk to a condescending otherworldly draconic creature that he realized his day had suddenly gone to hell.
The talking terrain feature looked like the result of a sordid affair between a mountain and a block of ice, sculpted into the shape of a lizard by the hands of a blind man. "It is said that Alm, the dragon-headed god of the sky, created man," said the creature, a mountain Spirit whose name, Matt had been told, was Terrate. "Daruma, the wicked goddess of the Fae, grew displeased with the new race in her land and demanded that Alm destroy his creations."
Matt restrained a sigh as he folded his arms over the seven white stripes running across the breast of his red uniform coat. The young woman beside him listened with the intent boredom of somebody following a conversation only in the hopes of hearing a reference to herself.
"Do you know how Alm responded?" the Spirit asked, swinging its draconian head toward Amelia Varista.
"Uh." She set her hands on her hips and gave the Spirit a look more appropriate for a simpleton than an ancient, unfathomably powerful embodiment of the elements. "Obviously, he didn't do it."
"Obviously," Terrate echoed. "And this displeased Daruma enough to warrant a declaration of war. The ensuing battle lasted one hundred years, elves against humans, even Takkarav's Molge against Katanivka's Molge." This time its ice-encrusted snout turned to Matt. "And do you know what they called this war?"
"The Gods' War," he answered, flat and simple.
"Correct. The Gods' War ravaged Threa for a century. Daruma's Valkyries - how many-"
"Seven," they both answered, before it could even finish the question.
"And what were their names?"
They both stared at it silently.
With something disturbingly close to a smile, it said, "I suppose they don't teach you that part. No matter. Daruma's Valkyries were battle incarnate. They left oceans of blood in their wake, towers of corpses - back in those days, of course, the dead did not turn to ash - and for quite some time Alm's people feared that they would never win this war. That they would be exterminated utterly, and it would take only these seven Spirits to do it. But one clever human devised a way to capture the ghost of a Valkyrie, removing him from the war without needing to kill him.
"The loss of that one shattered the group, eventually leading to Alm's - and the humans' - victory over Daruma. And, furthermore, the one captured was Molge. Katanivka's, of course. Do you know the difference between Katanivka's Molge and Takkarav's?" The question was addressed to Varista.
Her arms fell as her eyes widened. It was the face of a child in a classroom who doesn't even remember what subject's being taught, much less the answer to the question just asked. She threw a desperate glance at Matt.
He held back another sigh. "Takkarav was the city in the desert, allied with Alm. Katanivka's the floating city, allied with Daruma. The Molge were having a civil war and they used the Gods' War as an excuse to kill each other off."
Terrate gave a faint rumble of disappointment at Varista's failure to answer, then turned and nodded at Matt. "Correct. Takkarav succeeded, because the capture of one of Katanivka's Molge allowed them entry to that flying fortress."
"So what happened to Takkarav?"
A silence hung in the air, Matt and Terrate both staring at Varista as she slowly realized that maybe she shouldn't have interrupted.
After letting that awful silence settle into the snow around them, Terrate answered. "Takkarav was later destroyed by an earthquake which buried the entire city under the desert. Thus, the Molge, one of the five Fae races - you know the others, of course: the elves, yosunei, faeries, and arch-fae - were completely eradicated, long after the war's end. And how did that war end?"
This question was pointedly directed at Matt, but Varista bounced on her toes, throwing one hand into the air. "Ooh! Alm split Daruma into 11 pieces!"
The attempt to make up for her earlier failure only seemed to exasperate the Spirit. He sighed and elaborated. "Correct. With the Valkyries all dead or incapacitated, Alm himself strode into Daruma's stronghold. He tore her asunder, ripping her body into eleven parts, and sealed each piece within the body of one of her followers. Those eleven followers were then sealed away beneath the earth in locations across Threa. This took its toll on Alm, and once it was done, he slept, and he still sleeps to this day. And do you know where it is he sleeps?"
That one wasn't directed at either of them, but Matt glanced at Varista and she took it for the cue it was. "They built Alrael over him! He's right underneath the Cathedral."
"Hmm." It wasn't a sound of dissatisfaction; it was knowing, like she'd said something wrong but it was true enough that one couldn't argue. "Yes, Alrael was built over Alm's resting place. That is, in fact, the reason behind its title of 'The Holy City.' But the story doesn't end with that."
Matt was beginning to wonder if the painful numbness spreading through his toes might be frostbite. Maybe that was the spirit's goal in wasting time droning on about history lessons every Almslander learned as soon as they were old enough to read: to keep them there until they froze solid, giving it an eternally captive audience. Or maybe Terrate was just in the habit of being an insufferable bastard.
Suddenly that stony gaze swung on Matt, snout thrusting itself into his face and interrupting his cynicism. He leaned back instinctively, arms unfolding in an effort to maintain his balance. "Do you," the Spirit asked, in a voice like particularly smug gravel, "know what happened to that final, eleventh piece of the wicked goddess, boy?"
He rolled his eyes at being called "boy," but didn't comment on it. Twenty-six years was a paltry sum in comparison to whatever untold years the Spirit laid claim to. "The Carrier of Daruma's ghost killed herself before Alm could seal her," he answered.
"Yes." The Spirit sounded pleased. "Leaving the Ghost to be reborn again and again and again into new Carriers throughout the ages. But, should the other parts be released from their seals, what of the Ghost?"
Something about that intense gaze was beginning to unsettle him. He shuffled his white boots against the snow and turned his eyes away from that smug rock. "Daruma resurrects."
The head retreated and its stone smile turned instead to Varista. "Your friend is smart. He knows what they tell him."
"Everyone knows that." But her exasperation quickly turned to indignation. "Hey, I answered your questions too!"
"I suppose you did," it replied, the ridges over its eyes rising in amusement.
Arms akimbo, she demanded, "Are you done? Can I Contract you now?"
The Spirit laughed, sounding disconcertingly like an avalanche, then suddenly stopped. "No."
She cocked her head with a disapproving frown. Matt shook his head; unbelievable, this girl was unbelievable.
"I know the church likes to send its fledglings to consult me, but do ask the High Father to inform his students that Terrate no longer Contracts them."
"Fledgli-" She went ignored as Terrate laid its head over its claws and settled into an oddly-shaped, ice-encrusted lump of rock, effectively terminating the conversation. Throwing an arm out at the Spirit's dormant form, she directed her anger instead at Matt. "Fledgling?"
"Well aren’t you?"
She fell into a silent glare.
He turned away, unslinging the rifle from his shoulder, and started down the trail toward the city. She followed with a frustrated sigh, an exaggerated, "Huhhh."
"Are you always that rude to unimaginably powerful forces of nature, Varista?" he asked, eyes on the ground as he picked his way through the snow.
"Ugh! Terrate talks to every summoner that comes out of the Cathedral. He has to know that everyone already knows about the Gods' War. Why did he just go on about it?"
"Beats me, you're the summoner here."
"I just summon Spirits! I don't get to know their inner workings! I'm not psychic!"
He didn't grace her with an answer.
Matt had only just met Amelia Varista that morning, when his commanding officer (one General Sterling - a story unto himself) had called him into the office and informed him that he'd been assigned as a summoner's escort. The mission was four hours in and he was already entertaining thoughts of going AWOL. This was going to be one long mission.
"Oh, you're back. Took you long enough." The comment came from a three-inch high faerie alighting on Matt's gold epaulet. That would be Bernard, who had accompanied Matt as long as he could remember, invisible to everyone else.
And since nobody else could see or hear him, Matt was in the habit of ignoring him in the company of others, and thus he received no reply.
"Well maybe we would've been back sooner if that stupid Spirit knew how to shut up."
Five steps later, Matt froze, dropping his weapon into the snow and gaping at the girl in front of him.
She stopped, turning to face him. "...What?"
"You can see him?!"
She recoiled in surprise. (It was a pretty strong reaction, given the apathy Matt had displayed all morning.) "I'm a summoner!" she said, as if that explained everything.
"I'm not crazy," he realized.
In twenty-six years, not one person had ever responded to Bernard - and the little bastard provided ample opportunity. Matt had always believed he was not, in fact, insane, and that there really was a faerie following him around for no particular reason, but when not one person would corroborate it, when even his mother was telling him, before his age was in double-digits, never to mention the faerie again lest they take him away, it got harder and harder to hold onto that belief.
But here, in one sentence, the seed of doubt slowly taking root in his mind was ripped out, hole filled by confirmation.
He wasn't crazy. She could see the damn faerie.
"I...guess you're not?" she said, brow furrowed, mouth quirked curiously. No idea. She had no idea how profound this was.
"Wait." Wait. Maybe he was crazy, and now he was imagining, instead of faeries, girls who could see faeries. Was this a dream? No, that impending frostbite felt too real.
He stepped forward, stopping when his foot nudged his fallen rifle. Whoops. He picked it up and shouldered it (on the shoulder opposite the one Bernard occupied).
He reached out to touch her. She seemed solid enough.
"Uh." She rubbed at her shoulder where he'd poked it. "Are you okay?"
"How?" he asked, turning his eyes up to meet hers. "How can you see him, I mean?"
Bernard, with an exasperated sigh, said, "She's a summoner, princess."
That didn't tell him anything.
Thankfully, Varista picked up and expanded on it, smiling brightly (if a bit uncomfortably). "Right! Summoners can see things on the Spirit Plane, and faeries are creatures that exist on the Spirit Plane. If you're a summoner, you can see them no matter how well they hide! Right now he's projecting - um, you know, projecting an image of himself onto the Mortal Plane - and I can see that. If he wasn't, I'd have to turn on my Spiritalker's Sight, but I'd still be able to see him on the Spirit Plane."
"You're real. This is real. He's real."
"Um." Now she was looking at him like he was crazy, when this whole thing was because he wasn't. "Are you sure you're okay?"
"I am-I am sookay, Varista. I am better than okay. I am great. Let's get back to Alrael."
"Ooookay." But she followed him down the trail without comment.
* * *
Oriole was pacing.
"Would you stop that?"
He did stop, but only to glare up at the elf making the request.
"You're going to wear a rut in the road and the city will fine us and we'll be too broke to get back to the Nenakret and it'll all be your fault," Zahn said, from behind the painted-on mischievous grin of a typical goblin mask.
Oriole folded his arms and continued glaring.
"I'm just saying."
"We're never going to find him, this is stupid."
"Patience, Oriole."
People told him that a lot, and being ten, he hated it with a passion. He turned away, glaring instead at the gates of Alrael Cathedral up the road. "Maybe he's not coming back. Maybe he already left and we're wasting time waiting here."
"Hey. Who's in charge here?"
"Maybe Qiver should be!" Oriole whirled around, pointing at the goblin sitting at the edge of the road.
Qiver's blank slate of a mask turned toward Oriole, and he pointed at himself with a tiny green finger.
"Oh, come on." Zahn's head shook disapprovingly, or at least Oriole assumed that was the emotion behind it. "Qiver's too shy to be the leader. You know the fiery one is always in charge!"
"Being fire innate doesn't give you leadership skills."
"That's not what-" Zahn sighed. "Never mind, Oriole. Look, here's how the summoner's quest works. The summoner is assigned a guard, either a fighting priest, an ANG soldier, or an ANGEL. The summoner leaves the Cathedral with its escort and talks to Terrate who spouts off some nonsense that is interpreted as 'guidance.' The summoner returns and reports Terrate's words to a senior priest. The summoner then leaves Alrael to travel across Threa, along with its escort."
"I know. We went over that."
"So, if we have a summoner whose quest began today and an ANGEL who is guarding her, where do you think the best place to find them is going to be?"
Oriole looked down the path to the Cathedral again. It really was the best place to wait, but that didn't mean he wanted to admit that Zahn was right.
Zahn being right was infuriating, because Zahn in general was infuriating. The elf was weird, on several counts, and weird in ways that made absolutely no sense to Oriole. On the surface, Zahn could have been a fairly typical elf: slender figure, pointed ears, thick blond hair in the usual half-short-half-long style most elves wore. But Oriole (and most other people) could not tell whether Zahn was a boy or a girl, and Zahn insisted on wearing that goblin mask and acting like a goblin, not to mention being an elf at the mostly-human magical institution of the Nenakret was weird enough on its own.
So Zahn, as a person, made no sense to Oriole, thus when Zahn, as a leader, began making sense, he rebelled against it.
"There," said Qiver.
Zahn and Oriole both turned to see where he was pointing. In the distance, Oriole could make out the ridiculous frilly dress of a summoner. There was an ANGEL walking beside her, easy to see in his red and white uniform, even though he looked too average to stand out.
"That's them, isn't it?"
"Looks like it." Zahn leaned over and pushed Oriole toward them. "Go check."
"Wh-" He stumbled, clamping a hand over his wide-brimmed mage hat to keep it in place. "Why me?!"
"You've got that trustworthy face."
"What's trustworthy about it!"
Zahn knelt beside Qiver, throwing an arm out to Oriole. "Don't you think he's got a trustworthy face?"
Qiver shrugged.
"Why don't you go check?" Oriole threw back.
Zahn straightened, and tapped a finger against the white center of the mask, where the nose underneath would be. "I don't have a trustworthy face."
With a frustrated growl, Oriole turned on his heel and stalked off.
* * *
Bernard's vague warning of, "Uh oh, incoming," came seconds before the voice calling out, "Excuse me, sir?"
Matt stopped, turning to face the voice. It turned out to belong to a boy dressed in Nenakret garb, who slowed from a run to a stop only a few feet away from Matt. The clothes alone were out of place enough to be interesting, but they still weren't the most interesting thing about him. A slit in the wide brim of his hat revealed one very gold eye, and his skin was a light chestnut red in colour. Matt pegged him immediately as a half-beastman.
Amelia's uncertain hovering seemed to indicate that she had no idea what to think of the kid.
"Can I help you?" Matt asked, professionally polite.
The boy's gaze was focused on the second white stripe of Matt's uniform, specifically on the name RICHARDS that was embroidered across the left half of it. That gold eye moved up from the stripe to Matt's face. "Richards, right? Captain Matt Richards?"
"Major," he corrected, "but that's a recent development."
The boy's face, what could be seen of it, lit up. "Wow, I can't believe it! You're the guy who won the fight with the Formicidae this year! That was great!"
A hint of a smile graced Matt's face, but he shook his head. "I just did what needed to be done."
Amelia let out a gasp, splayed fingers covering her mouth. "That was you? I heard about the Formicidae Year from my Uncle Esteban!"
That hint of a smile turned into a hint of a wince.
The Formicidae were something like giant ants. Giant ants that spent the majority of their time hibernating under the D'Naba desert before rising up to advance on the city of D'Naba every seven years like clockwork. Formicidae Years, as they were called, were the years during which ANG and ANGEL forces were dispatched en masse to stave off the threat. Matt had spent that summer in D'Naba doing things that had earned him a promotion two years before he was even up for one.
He didn't realize he had fans.
"Like I said, Varista, it's not a big deal."
"Can I have your autograph?"
"My what."
Before he could even blink, a pair of black-gloved hands presented him with a pen and what looked like a playing card. He looked down at the boy's expectant grin (marked by hints of pointed canines - definitely beastman heritage).
He sighed. "What's your name?" he asked, reaching out to take the card and pen from the boy.
It was an Esca card. An official print, too - the back even had the watermark. Esca was a deceptively simple card game created by a few mages at the Nenakret, so it wasn't terribly surprising that a kid who looked like he was from there would be carrying a card. What was surprising was the fact that it was a Dragoon card, the black and white image on the front showing a mounted rifleman in the midst of battle.
Matt, of course, was a dragoon, and being asked to sign the Esca card pertaining to his job was a strange feeling.
"My name's Oriole." The boy leaned in conspiratorially. "You may have heard of me. I'm a prodigy at the Nenakret."
"The name is familiar." He'd never heard it before in his life.
He signed the card, right across the description space underneath the image, and handed back both it and the pen. Oriole eagerly inspected the card and then slipped both items into his pockets as he grinned up at Matt. "Thanks, Capt-Major Richards!"
"No problem, Oriole."
With that, the kid ran off, and Matt turned away to continue walking up to the gates of the Cathedral.
He was stopped by Amelia standing in his path, giving him a smug, amused smile. He frowned in return. "That was really sweet of you," she said.
"Don't sound so impressed," he muttered, sparing her only a glance before walking right on by.
She followed. "I didn't think you seemed like the type to play along with kids like that!"
"It's all a put-on, he's a big softie. You should see him with his war-steed. Emasculating."
Bernard's comment went ignored. Well, almost. Amelia acknowledged and responded, much to Matt's chagrin. "Really? Is it like with old ladies who talk to their cats?"
"Worse."
"Bernard." But the damage had already been done; he could hear Amelia giggling. He decided the best course of action was silence.
It didn't last long. Amelia skipped in front of him, walking backwards with her hands clasped behind her back. "So you're really that guy? The one everyone was talking about back at the end of summer?"
The end of summer - the month of Secundus, specifically - was when the soldiers sent to deal with the threat had been returned to their original stations. He hadn't exactly heard the gossip about himself, but it made sense that would be when it started spreading. He just replied, "I guess so."
"Uncle Esteban said he saw you out there - he said it was really impressive!" When he didn't respond, she dropped back to his side, walking forwards again. "I didn't know they were going to send me somebody famous!"
"Yeah, well, the thing about getting promoted. It leaves you between jobs."
"And his general hates him," Bernard added helpfully.
"What's that got to do with it?"
"Bernard." Matt was not going to let him answer that question.
Amelia seemed annoyed by this, but they fell into silence until they got to the gates. The two ANGELs on duty snapped salutes as Matt passed, and he returned it as he said, "Carry on."
The Cathedral was the first thing to come to mind when people thought of Alrael. ANGEL - the Alrael National Guard Elite Legion - was the second, and that was no coincidence. The High Priest of Alm was the ultimate authority of ANGEL, and they served as the Cathedral's dedicated guard. The red and white uniform of ANGEL was almost more iconic of Alrael Cathedral than the uniform of its priests.
Once they were past the ANGELs at the gate, on church grounds, Amelia stopped and turned to Matt. "Hey, do you wanna come in with me?"
"And do what?"
"Well, I have to give my report to a senior priest, maybe you should be there since you heard what Terrate said too?"
"I guess." He wasn't very enthused about it.
"It won't take long - Oh!" She snapped her fingers to go along with the sudden realization. "I can talk to Joel about it! I keep forgetting he's a senior priest!"
There was an instinctive urge to respond asking who Joel was. He contained it. Best not to get her started.
"Who the hell is Joel?"
He wanted to punch Bernard into a wall.
"He's my best friend! I've known him since I was little. Actually, he's my Uncle Esteban's best friend too, and my dad's before he died. They were all together during the war, you know, with LaoZhen? Anyway, when my mom died and I came to the church to study as a summoner, Joel looked out for me. He's really nice. He used to-"
"Sure, Varista. I'll come in with you." He only acquiesced to get her to stop talking. He couldn't see Bernard's face, but he was entirely certain it contained a smug grin that would just make Matt want to punch him even more.
"Oh!" She practically bounced as she smiled back at him. "Okay, then. Let's go."
Rolling his eyes for what felt like the thousandth time that day, he followed her to the Cathedral's front entrance.
Alrael Cathedral was all spires and buttresses and ornate glasswork. It was built to be eye-catching, because it was the symbol of Alrael. Even Castle Ramsthus, not twenty minutes away, was nowhere near as impressive or renowned as the Cathedral that served it.
The front was, of course, the most intricate part of the design, because it was the section that the majority of Alrael's citizens saw most often. A set of wide stone steps, lined by an ornate balustrade on either side, led up to a broad landing onto which the front doors opened. The dark wooden doors were arched high, carved in artistic detail, and gilded with gold. They were flanked by tall, thin windows made up of a mosaic of small glass fragments.
In the summer, one or both doors would be propped open. But it was Quintilis and the dead of winter, and so the doors were shut tight.
Amelia surprised him by bypassing the stairs entirely and heading for a ground level service entrance with a much lighter, less decorative door. That was something of a blessing; he knew from experience that those main doors were not easy to handle.
He pulled the door open for her and pulled it shut behind them as he swept off his cap, tucking it under one arm.
The church was moderately warmer than the frigid air outside. That was solely because the biting wind was gone.
Amelia led him down the hallway, which was notably less ornate than the main halls of the Cathedral. Even though he'd been to Alrael Cathedral plenty of times in the past, he had a tendency to avoid it as much as he could. Something about Alm's church just felt uncomfortable to him; he'd never quite been able to place it. As such, he hadn't traversed the off-hallways much, and this was a relatively new experience for him.
She led him into the depths of the Cathedral, away from the nave and toward the parts that casual visitors didn't even know existed. He tried not to look like a tourist. It wouldn't do for an ANGEL to walk around looking like he'd never seen the place before.
"Are you from Alrael?" she asked as they walked, throwing a glance back at him.
"Yeah. My whole life."
"Oh, you must be here every Almsday, then." She didn't seem to hear the snickering that elicited from Bernard. "They give you guys Almsday off to come to the service, right? Oh, but, I've never seen you here before... I guess I wouldn't have noticed anyway, you're pretty normal looking. You're not the kind of person who stands out in a crowd, huh?"
"Can't say that I am." Matt was well-aware that he had a generic sort of face, and his blond hair and blue eyes made him blend in rather than stand out. He had One of Those Faces - he was constantly being mistaken for somebody else.
"But you're probably here all the time. There's always so many ANGELs around. Have you ever heard High Father Vladimir's service?"
"Shock, but he ain't a good little Almic boy, doll."
Matt sighed at Bernard's desire to do as much as possible to make his life more difficult.
Amelia stopped and looked back at him, surprised. "What?"
"I don't come to service very often, Varista," he said, casually shoving his free hand into his pocket and leveling an impassive stare at her.
She frowned. "Why not?"
There were plenty of reasons, none of them ones he cared to tell her. The sort of people who did come to church every Almsday and assumed everyone else did too were also the sorts of people who started hours-long arguments about why everyone else should be that sort of person. "I just don't."
"But..." She seemed to struggle with the idea. "Where did you grow up? Were you on the outskirts or something?"
"Castle Ramsthus."
She stared.
"Amelia, there you are. I was wondering when you'd be back." The welcome interruption came in the form of a grandfatherly man wearing the uniform of a senior priest. He had appeared from one of the hallway's nearby doors; he motioned her toward it. "Come, child, speak with me."
She gave Matt an apologetic shrug and then followed the priest back through the door, leaving Matt to wait for her out in the hallway.
"Joel?" Bernard wondered aloud.
"Who knows. Ask her when she gets out." He moved over to wait beside the door. His hand was still in his pocket; unprofessional, but with only Bernard around he couldn't bring himself to care.
They waited by the door for quite some time. As a soldier, Matt had a lot of experience in waiting, but even he was starting to wonder what was taking so long. Just as he began debating whether or not to go into the room and check on her, he was struck by a sudden feeling of foreboding.
His hand went from his pocket to rifle strap over his shoulder as he looked down the hallway. The only new development was a girl standing at the end of the hall. She was dressed in the general style of summoners - garishly impractical with too many ruffles - and she carried a broom. She seemed to notice him not long after he'd noticed her and she stopped, staring back warily.
It was then that he noticed her ears and realized she was an elf. Her hair was black - a very uncommon colour for elves - and that had thrown him off initially. There was something familiar about her, but he couldn't place it. That was strange. He was sure he'd have remembered any black-haired elves he'd met.
"Oh," she said, barely audible. She clutched the broom to her chest. "Are...are you waiting for somebody?" She looked like she'd stepped into a dense forest full of eyes glowing from the shadows.
Matt just felt like it. "Amelia Varista," he said, nodding toward the door beside him.
"Oh. Alright." She went silent, shifting her weight nervously, and glanced down to her left before looking back up toward Matt. "Um. Excuse me, then." She took off the way she'd come, trying not to let on that it was an escape and failing.
That unsettling feeling vanished along with her. Matt let out a breath he didn't even realize he'd been holding. "Did you catch that?" he asked Bernard, under his breath.
"Catch what?"
The fact that Bernard didn't bother making some jab about the girl made Matt suspicious. There was a plethora of comments he expected to come out of the faerie's mouth and to hear nothing was more disconcerting than that sudden foreboding feeling had been. He was hiding something. "Never mind."
Eventually, Amelia emerged from the door. "Oh, good, you're still here!" she said, brightening when she saw Matt. "Sorry about that, Father Harrison wanted to hear about Terrate. It took longer than I thought it would."
"I figured."
"He said that Terrate doesn't just say things without a reason, so there's probably some hidden meaning behind why he told us about the Gods' War, but Father Harrison wouldn't say what he thought that meaning was. I think Terrate just says whatever he wants and everyone just thinks he's being deep about it, so they make up interpretations for it to make themselves feel like they didn't just waste an entire day hiking into the mountains to talk to a boring Spirit about nothing."
"Absolutely."
"Hah, I'm not the only one!" Her satisfaction turned to curiosity as she leaned in to scrutinize Matt. "So what were you saying earlier about being raised at Castle Ramsthus?"
He shrugged. "It's not important."
"You can't just say that and then say it's not important! You're not secretly Prince Ismae or something, are you?"
He couldn't help it. He snorted back a laugh. "What?"
"Are you?"
"No, Varista. Wow." He shook his head. "Just, wow."
"Well what, then!"
"It's really not important." With absolutely no warning, he changed subjects. "Hey, do you know a summoner girl, elf, black hair?"
The subject-change managed to catch her off-guard. Her arms fell to her sides and she stared at him for a moment before collecting her thoughts and answering. "Oh, Naomi? Why, did you run into her? She's got cleaning duty this week, so she probably came by this way."
"Yeah, I guess so. Is there anything weird about her?"
"Nope, just a normal summoner in training - Oh! But she has a faerie with her, like you have Bernard! Normal people can't see her, but the summoners all can. Her name's Heather!" Her voice dropped to serious, "She's actually nice. Unlike yours."
"A faerie, huh?" He wasn't sure if that explained it, but it was better than nothing.
"Yeah, she came along with Naomi, she's-"
"She's dumber than a sack of bricks," Bernard cut in.
Amelia stomped a foot and glared at the faerie perched on Matt's shoulder. "She is not! Heather is very sweet and you're probably just jealous because nobody likes you!"
Matt held up a hand to stop her tirade. "Varista."
She huffed, turning her glare to Matt.
"Is there anything else you need from me tonight?"
"Oh." Her anger faded and she straightened, letting her arms fall. "Um, I guess I could still introduce you to Joel. Maybe he'll have some better advice about the Terrate thing?"
He gestured toward the hallway. "Lead on."
Lead on she did. They got about three steps before she started talking again. "Do you really know Heather?"
Matt's, "Huh?" was cut off by Bernard answering the question. "Yeah, sure, back in Sureloum. Most faeries know each other, we're like one big happy family." That last part was said with plenty of surly irony.
She either ignored it or didn't catch it in the first place. "Faeries don't really leave Sureloum much, do they? Heather left with Naomi, so I can understand that, but why are you here?"
"Eh."
She frowned, about to speak again, but Matt interrupted her. "Don't bother, Varista. He won't tell you."
The frown turned pensive. "But-"
"I've been trying to get an answer out of him for years. Trust me."
"Queen Ljasame sent me to watch over the last true heir of Ramsthus," Bernard said, nonchalant.
Matt cringed, ever so slightly, and settled his fingers against his forehead with a sigh.
True to what he expected, Amelia ground to a halt and stared back at the both of them, wide-eyed with enthusiasm. "Really?! I knew it! You are important!"
"He's. Lying. Varista," came out through grit teeth.
"Ah hah! You would only deny it if it was true!"
He started to answer. He stopped before anything came out. His face was the definition of incredulous; there was nowhere to even begin on picking apart that logic. Instead he settled on, "Can we just meet your friend, Varista?" And get this over with, went unspoken.
"Oh, right. I'm pretty sure he's probably in the library." And just like that, she dropped the previous line of conversation to start off down the hallway again.
Matt hung back just long enough to grind out a warning at Bernard where Amelia wouldn't hear. "Would you stop that."
"Aw, but it's so fun to watch you squirm, princess."
He had more to say, but he'd rather put it off for later than fall behind and get lost inside a building he was theoretically supposed to know. He caught up with Amelia and fell into step beside her.
She was, thankfully and suspiciously, silent for the duration of the journey to the library. Probably thinking up things to talk about during the voyage tomorrow, Matt thought. Had to plan ahead so she wouldn't run out.
They reached the library before long. It was marked by a plain-looking set of double-doors that swung inward, one of which was propped open by a wooden wedge. The library, he had to admit, was another part of the Cathedral he'd never visited before. (Why should he, when he had access to the much more familiar library at Castle Ramsthus?) He found it interesting that the doors seemed so plain.
It wasn't until they were inside that he realized this was only because they weren't the main doors. This set opened onto the back section of the library, where a few rows of shelves ended to create a small entry hall's worth of rectangular space with a wall of shelves to the left and several book-lined corridors on the right. Amelia led him down one of those paths, through what felt like a maze, and into the main hall of the library where he could see the predictably ornate, arched doors of the main entry.
This part of the library was obviously designed to impress. It was a large circular area, lined with shelves, with tables for reading arranged neatly throughout the floorspace. There was a second floor overlooking the first with railings in place to keep unfortunate visitors from stumbling off the edge. The night sky could be seen through the domed glass ceiling; doubtless the sun lit the room during the day, but currently the job was taken by a series of lamps mounted along the walls above the shelves.
That glass ceiling seemed like such a security hazard. He wondered how the architects had ever thought that was a good idea, and how much that glass had to have cost.
The only occupant of the library seemed to be blond boy dressed in the white uniform of a priest. The uniform of a senior priest, to be precise, white complemented by gold and violet, with the heavily embroidered cape-like vestment that differentiated it from the usual priests' garb.
"Joel!" Amelia called out, running to his side.
He gave a start, nearly fumbling the book he held in his hurried effort to slam it shut and whisk it out of sight behind his back. "Amelia!" He met her cheer with the wide-eyed surprise of somebody being caught red-handed.
Matt approached at a more reasonable pace. Now that the kid was facing him, he noticed a few more things. Most notably, that this boy dressed in the vestments of a senior priest of Alm looked like he was about fourteen years old. But he had the pointed ears of an elf, which meant that despite his looks, he was much older than fourteen.
The kid was almost a perfect example of stereotypical elven looks, actually: a rounded face with soft features, slanted green eyes, and blond hair so thick it could almost be mistaken for a halo at a distance. The only part that wasn't stereotypically elven was the way his hair was kept relatively short, though it was still just long enough to fall in his eyes. Most elven men wore the bottom half of their hair fairly long.
"I'm glad I found you here," Amelia was saying as Matt walked up. "I didn't want to have to look all over the Cathedral for you."
Matt stopped beside Amelia, arching an eyebrow at the boy's nervous smile.
"Oh," he said, eyes darting from Amelia to Matt and back, "it wouldn't have been too difficult to find me anyway, you know. Am I to assume you've come back from visiting Terrate?"
She huffed, setting her hands on her hips, turning instantly angry. "Yeah, and he didn't tell me anything, he just-"
The boy's smile solidified and he held up a hand to cut her off. It was a strange kind of smile to see on a face as young as his - the sort of knowing, wise smile that is reserved for kind, elderly...well, priests. "I believe you're forgetting something, Amelia."
"Huh?" It took her a moment to notice the way he flicked his eyes toward Matt, but when it finally registered, she jumped to introduce him. "Oh! This is my escort, Matt. Matt, this is my friend Joel!"
Joel leaned forward slightly and offered his right hand, his left still holding the book behind his back. He wore white gloves, with the symbol of Alm's cross embroidered in gold on the back. Standard fare. More notable was the fact that they included bronze plates, which indicated a functionality one didn't immediately associate with priests. "Father Rafsjalel Ahmnratasa," he said. "Joel."
Even his name was typically elven. So typically elven, if fact, that Matt had met at least two other Ahmnratasas before. It was like the elven equivalent of Almsland's "Smith."
Like most elves who left Sureloum, he'd picked up a pseudonym that the people around him would actually be able to pronounce. And like most Almslanders, he introduced himself with his full name followed by his preferred name. That meant he'd been living here a while.
But of course Matt had already figured out that last bit. People didn't earn senior priesthood overnight.
Matt's own white-gloved hand met Joel's. "Major Matthew Richards. Matt."
"Oh." It was a sound of quiet recognition, accompanied by his eyes widening slightly. "The same Richards who was in charge of the Delta 88th?" he asked, as he pulled back his hand.
"Yes." He really was more famous than he'd thought. Wow.
"Ah, ANGEL sent you somebody quite formidable, Amelia."
"Yeah," she chirped, "I feel pretty lucky!"
Thankfully, Joel dropped the subject before Matt had any need to get modest about it. He turned back to Amelia and said, "You were saying, about Terrate...?"
"Ugh!" That immediately sparked the fire again; she threw her hands up. "Terrate didn't tell me anything! You know how he's supposed to give you some insight into your quest and tell you something deep and meaningful? All he did was ramble on about the Gods' War! Everyone knows about the Gods' War! Nobody else goes to Terrate and comes back saying, 'oh he gave me a history lesson on things everyone already knows!' It isn't even like he gave me a neat first-hand account of things or anything, either! It was basically straight from scripture!"
Joel's smile did not waver. This, Matt decided, was a man of infinite patience. "I'm certain it had a reason, Amelia. Have you talked to anybody else about it, yet?"
"Yeah, Father Harrison, but he just said that I haven't figured out what it means yet and 'that's something you need to figure out for yourself, my child.'" Her voice dropped an octave in a comically serious impersonation of the older priest.
"Was there anything strange about it?"
"No, Father Harrison was just Father Harrison, it wasn't weird or anything."
"Terrate, Amelia." Even the correction was uncannily patient, without a hint of exasperation.
This man was a saint.
"Oh! No, I don't think so...I mean, aside from the Gods' War thing in the first place..."
Matt decided to provide some insight where she wouldn't. "Actually, there was something." Joel's attention turned to him. "Terrate kept asking me questions, instead of her."
"Oh?" he prompted.
"Yeah. He asked..." What had that thing asked, again? It had been several hours ago now and the memory was starting to get fuzzy around the edges. "Some things about Daruma. I had to quote a couple passages for him, stuff from the Writings of Vasilis."
"Interesting that it would ask you and not the summoner for whom it was theoretically providing guidance."
"Is that weird?" Amelia asked, suddenly seeming concerned. "Do you think it means something bad?"
"I don't know what it means, Amelia. I'm sure that will become clear in time."
"Huhhh," she sighed.
"You're leaving tomorrow, yes?"
"Yeah, I guess so." She went from resigned to enthusiastic instantly. "Hey! You should come with me. You're a fighting priest, you can be an escort, right?"
His smile didn't waver, but his eyebrows drew downward just slightly. "You already have an escort, Amelia."
"Yeah but-!" She gestured vaguely at Matt, as if that explained it. He arched a brow at her. "It wouldn't hurt, right? Besides, you're always talking about how you miss the days of being on the road with Dad and Uncle Esteban. Coming along with me is almost as good, right?"
He gave a good-natured sigh and a shrug, rolling his eyes to the heavens. "Who am I to argue you? I'll ask the High Priest for permission." His smile turned to Matt. "Assuming your current escort has no qualms with that?"
"Knock yourself out." Maybe not the most formal response to give a priest, but somehow he didn't think that would matter with Joel.
"Excuse me, then. It wouldn't do to interrupt the High Father's sleep for something so trivial. I should find him before he retires." He gave a polite bow of the head, and then swept past them to the main doors.
Through the entire process of exiting, including pulling open and shutting one of those heavy doors, he kept that book perfectly out of sight. That just made Matt's curiosity burn.
After he'd left, Amelia turned to Matt, expectantly cheerful. "So? What do you think of Joel?"
"Kid looks too young for those vestments."
She tsked. "Don't say that to his face, okay? He's actually really sensitive about his age. He's been a priest for about twenty years though, so he knows what he's doing."
"Holy-twenty years? That kid?" Bernard speaking up after such a long silence seemed to surprise Amelia. Matt, however, was well-accustomed to the way he would drop silent to listen to whole conversations before commenting. "Are you kidding me? He's, what, he can't be over a hundred."
"He's a hundred and four."
Bernard let out a low whistle. "I bet his mommy's wondering where the hell he is."
She frowned, but didn't say anything. That alone was plenty suspicious.
But welcome. Matt didn't care to change it. "In any case, Varista, it's getting late. You should get some sleep. I'll come pick you up in the morning."
"Oh. Okay. Right." She tucked her bangs behind her ear. "What time?"
"Sunrise. We need to get an early start."
That got a pout out of her. "Sunrise? Are you serious?"
"The days are too short in the winter, Varista. Can't burn daylight."
"Ugh, but it's my quest! What if I wanted to burn daylight?"
"Then it's too bad you requested an ANGEL escort, isn't it?"
"But it's my quest. I'm in charge!"
"Are you going to fight me on it?"
She just glared back back at him.
"I'll see you at sunrise, Varista." He turned to leave.
Before he got two steps, Bernard called back at Amelia, "Oh, hey, now that he's pissed you off, can you show him the way out? Thanks."
It would not be the last time Matt ever wished he could punch Bernard in the face.
Angel's Creed. Rewrite chapter one. In which we are introduced to the world and the characters and hopefully that does not drag on and make you want to stop reading right here. 7,132 words.
FEEDBACK IS AWESOME. I would like to know:
- What you like
- What you dislike
- Whether anything pulls you out of the reading (poor phrasing, something happens that you have to stop to puzzle out, a world-specific thing is ill-defined enough to stop your reading inertia, can't tell who's speaking for a certain line or set of lines, etc)
- Impressions of characters, setting, or story
- Is there too much at once? Do you feel like you're being expected to pick things up too quickly? Is there too much information? Not enough?
- If you pulled this book off a shelf at a bookstore and read this first chapter, would you be inclined to continue reading the book?
- Other thoughts, comments, or concerns
Chapter 1
The day had begun innocuously. Major Matthew Christopher Richards had woken, dressed, reported for morning formation, and eaten breakfast as per the usual routine. It was somewhere in between leaving the mess hall and hiking into the icy foothills alongside a spoiled twenty-year-old to talk to a condescending otherworldly draconic creature that he realized his day had suddenly gone to hell.
The talking terrain feature looked like the result of a sordid affair between a mountain and a block of ice, sculpted into the shape of a lizard by the hands of a blind man. "It is said that Alm, the dragon-headed god of the sky, created man," said the creature, a mountain Spirit whose name, Matt had been told, was Terrate. "Daruma, the wicked goddess of the Fae, grew displeased with the new race in her land and demanded that Alm destroy his creations."
Matt restrained a sigh as he folded his arms over the seven white stripes running across the breast of his red uniform coat. The young woman beside him listened with the intent boredom of somebody following a conversation only in the hopes of hearing a reference to herself.
"Do you know how Alm responded?" the Spirit asked, swinging its draconian head toward Amelia Varista.
"Uh." She set her hands on her hips and gave the Spirit a look more appropriate for a simpleton than an ancient, unfathomably powerful embodiment of the elements. "Obviously, he didn't do it."
"Obviously," Terrate echoed. "And this displeased Daruma enough to warrant a declaration of war. The ensuing battle lasted one hundred years, elves against humans, even Takkarav's Molge against Katanivka's Molge." This time its ice-encrusted snout turned to Matt. "And do you know what they called this war?"
"The Gods' War," he answered, flat and simple.
"Correct. The Gods' War ravaged Threa for a century. Daruma's Valkyries - how many-"
"Seven," they both answered, before it could even finish the question.
"And what were their names?"
They both stared at it silently.
With something disturbingly close to a smile, it said, "I suppose they don't teach you that part. No matter. Daruma's Valkyries were battle incarnate. They left oceans of blood in their wake, towers of corpses - back in those days, of course, the dead did not turn to ash - and for quite some time Alm's people feared that they would never win this war. That they would be exterminated utterly, and it would take only these seven Spirits to do it. But one clever human devised a way to capture the ghost of a Valkyrie, removing him from the war without needing to kill him.
"The loss of that one shattered the group, eventually leading to Alm's - and the humans' - victory over Daruma. And, furthermore, the one captured was Molge. Katanivka's, of course. Do you know the difference between Katanivka's Molge and Takkarav's?" The question was addressed to Varista.
Her arms fell as her eyes widened. It was the face of a child in a classroom who doesn't even remember what subject's being taught, much less the answer to the question just asked. She threw a desperate glance at Matt.
He held back another sigh. "Takkarav was the city in the desert, allied with Alm. Katanivka's the floating city, allied with Daruma. The Molge were having a civil war and they used the Gods' War as an excuse to kill each other off."
Terrate gave a faint rumble of disappointment at Varista's failure to answer, then turned and nodded at Matt. "Correct. Takkarav succeeded, because the capture of one of Katanivka's Molge allowed them entry to that flying fortress."
"So what happened to Takkarav?"
A silence hung in the air, Matt and Terrate both staring at Varista as she slowly realized that maybe she shouldn't have interrupted.
After letting that awful silence settle into the snow around them, Terrate answered. "Takkarav was later destroyed by an earthquake which buried the entire city under the desert. Thus, the Molge, one of the five Fae races - you know the others, of course: the elves, yosunei, faeries, and arch-fae - were completely eradicated, long after the war's end. And how did that war end?"
This question was pointedly directed at Matt, but Varista bounced on her toes, throwing one hand into the air. "Ooh! Alm split Daruma into 11 pieces!"
The attempt to make up for her earlier failure only seemed to exasperate the Spirit. He sighed and elaborated. "Correct. With the Valkyries all dead or incapacitated, Alm himself strode into Daruma's stronghold. He tore her asunder, ripping her body into eleven parts, and sealed each piece within the body of one of her followers. Those eleven followers were then sealed away beneath the earth in locations across Threa. This took its toll on Alm, and once it was done, he slept, and he still sleeps to this day. And do you know where it is he sleeps?"
That one wasn't directed at either of them, but Matt glanced at Varista and she took it for the cue it was. "They built Alrael over him! He's right underneath the Cathedral."
"Hmm." It wasn't a sound of dissatisfaction; it was knowing, like she'd said something wrong but it was true enough that one couldn't argue. "Yes, Alrael was built over Alm's resting place. That is, in fact, the reason behind its title of 'The Holy City.' But the story doesn't end with that."
Matt was beginning to wonder if the painful numbness spreading through his toes might be frostbite. Maybe that was the spirit's goal in wasting time droning on about history lessons every Almslander learned as soon as they were old enough to read: to keep them there until they froze solid, giving it an eternally captive audience. Or maybe Terrate was just in the habit of being an insufferable bastard.
Suddenly that stony gaze swung on Matt, snout thrusting itself into his face and interrupting his cynicism. He leaned back instinctively, arms unfolding in an effort to maintain his balance. "Do you," the Spirit asked, in a voice like particularly smug gravel, "know what happened to that final, eleventh piece of the wicked goddess, boy?"
He rolled his eyes at being called "boy," but didn't comment on it. Twenty-six years was a paltry sum in comparison to whatever untold years the Spirit laid claim to. "The Carrier of Daruma's ghost killed herself before Alm could seal her," he answered.
"Yes." The Spirit sounded pleased. "Leaving the Ghost to be reborn again and again and again into new Carriers throughout the ages. But, should the other parts be released from their seals, what of the Ghost?"
Something about that intense gaze was beginning to unsettle him. He shuffled his white boots against the snow and turned his eyes away from that smug rock. "Daruma resurrects."
The head retreated and its stone smile turned instead to Varista. "Your friend is smart. He knows what they tell him."
"Everyone knows that." But her exasperation quickly turned to indignation. "Hey, I answered your questions too!"
"I suppose you did," it replied, the ridges over its eyes rising in amusement.
Arms akimbo, she demanded, "Are you done? Can I Contract you now?"
The Spirit laughed, sounding disconcertingly like an avalanche, then suddenly stopped. "No."
She cocked her head with a disapproving frown. Matt shook his head; unbelievable, this girl was unbelievable.
"I know the church likes to send its fledglings to consult me, but do ask the High Father to inform his students that Terrate no longer Contracts them."
"Fledgli-" She went ignored as Terrate laid its head over its claws and settled into an oddly-shaped, ice-encrusted lump of rock, effectively terminating the conversation. Throwing an arm out at the Spirit's dormant form, she directed her anger instead at Matt. "Fledgling?"
"Well aren’t you?"
She fell into a silent glare.
He turned away, unslinging the rifle from his shoulder, and started down the trail toward the city. She followed with a frustrated sigh, an exaggerated, "Huhhh."
"Are you always that rude to unimaginably powerful forces of nature, Varista?" he asked, eyes on the ground as he picked his way through the snow.
"Ugh! Terrate talks to every summoner that comes out of the Cathedral. He has to know that everyone already knows about the Gods' War. Why did he just go on about it?"
"Beats me, you're the summoner here."
"I just summon Spirits! I don't get to know their inner workings! I'm not psychic!"
He didn't grace her with an answer.
Matt had only just met Amelia Varista that morning, when his commanding officer (one General Sterling - a story unto himself) had called him into the office and informed him that he'd been assigned as a summoner's escort. The mission was four hours in and he was already entertaining thoughts of going AWOL. This was going to be one long mission.
"Oh, you're back. Took you long enough." The comment came from a three-inch high faerie alighting on Matt's gold epaulet. That would be Bernard, who had accompanied Matt as long as he could remember, invisible to everyone else.
And since nobody else could see or hear him, Matt was in the habit of ignoring him in the company of others, and thus he received no reply.
"Well maybe we would've been back sooner if that stupid Spirit knew how to shut up."
Five steps later, Matt froze, dropping his weapon into the snow and gaping at the girl in front of him.
She stopped, turning to face him. "...What?"
"You can see him?!"
She recoiled in surprise. (It was a pretty strong reaction, given the apathy Matt had displayed all morning.) "I'm a summoner!" she said, as if that explained everything.
"I'm not crazy," he realized.
In twenty-six years, not one person had ever responded to Bernard - and the little bastard provided ample opportunity. Matt had always believed he was not, in fact, insane, and that there really was a faerie following him around for no particular reason, but when not one person would corroborate it, when even his mother was telling him, before his age was in double-digits, never to mention the faerie again lest they take him away, it got harder and harder to hold onto that belief.
But here, in one sentence, the seed of doubt slowly taking root in his mind was ripped out, hole filled by confirmation.
He wasn't crazy. She could see the damn faerie.
"I...guess you're not?" she said, brow furrowed, mouth quirked curiously. No idea. She had no idea how profound this was.
"Wait." Wait. Maybe he was crazy, and now he was imagining, instead of faeries, girls who could see faeries. Was this a dream? No, that impending frostbite felt too real.
He stepped forward, stopping when his foot nudged his fallen rifle. Whoops. He picked it up and shouldered it (on the shoulder opposite the one Bernard occupied).
He reached out to touch her. She seemed solid enough.
"Uh." She rubbed at her shoulder where he'd poked it. "Are you okay?"
"How?" he asked, turning his eyes up to meet hers. "How can you see him, I mean?"
Bernard, with an exasperated sigh, said, "She's a summoner, princess."
That didn't tell him anything.
Thankfully, Varista picked up and expanded on it, smiling brightly (if a bit uncomfortably). "Right! Summoners can see things on the Spirit Plane, and faeries are creatures that exist on the Spirit Plane. If you're a summoner, you can see them no matter how well they hide! Right now he's projecting - um, you know, projecting an image of himself onto the Mortal Plane - and I can see that. If he wasn't, I'd have to turn on my Spiritalker's Sight, but I'd still be able to see him on the Spirit Plane."
"You're real. This is real. He's real."
"Um." Now she was looking at him like he was crazy, when this whole thing was because he wasn't. "Are you sure you're okay?"
"I am-I am sookay, Varista. I am better than okay. I am great. Let's get back to Alrael."
"Ooookay." But she followed him down the trail without comment.
* * *
Oriole was pacing.
"Would you stop that?"
He did stop, but only to glare up at the elf making the request.
"You're going to wear a rut in the road and the city will fine us and we'll be too broke to get back to the Nenakret and it'll all be your fault," Zahn said, from behind the painted-on mischievous grin of a typical goblin mask.
Oriole folded his arms and continued glaring.
"I'm just saying."
"We're never going to find him, this is stupid."
"Patience, Oriole."
People told him that a lot, and being ten, he hated it with a passion. He turned away, glaring instead at the gates of Alrael Cathedral up the road. "Maybe he's not coming back. Maybe he already left and we're wasting time waiting here."
"Hey. Who's in charge here?"
"Maybe Qiver should be!" Oriole whirled around, pointing at the goblin sitting at the edge of the road.
Qiver's blank slate of a mask turned toward Oriole, and he pointed at himself with a tiny green finger.
"Oh, come on." Zahn's head shook disapprovingly, or at least Oriole assumed that was the emotion behind it. "Qiver's too shy to be the leader. You know the fiery one is always in charge!"
"Being fire innate doesn't give you leadership skills."
"That's not what-" Zahn sighed. "Never mind, Oriole. Look, here's how the summoner's quest works. The summoner is assigned a guard, either a fighting priest, an ANG soldier, or an ANGEL. The summoner leaves the Cathedral with its escort and talks to Terrate who spouts off some nonsense that is interpreted as 'guidance.' The summoner returns and reports Terrate's words to a senior priest. The summoner then leaves Alrael to travel across Threa, along with its escort."
"I know. We went over that."
"So, if we have a summoner whose quest began today and an ANGEL who is guarding her, where do you think the best place to find them is going to be?"
Oriole looked down the path to the Cathedral again. It really was the best place to wait, but that didn't mean he wanted to admit that Zahn was right.
Zahn being right was infuriating, because Zahn in general was infuriating. The elf was weird, on several counts, and weird in ways that made absolutely no sense to Oriole. On the surface, Zahn could have been a fairly typical elf: slender figure, pointed ears, thick blond hair in the usual half-short-half-long style most elves wore. But Oriole (and most other people) could not tell whether Zahn was a boy or a girl, and Zahn insisted on wearing that goblin mask and acting like a goblin, not to mention being an elf at the mostly-human magical institution of the Nenakret was weird enough on its own.
So Zahn, as a person, made no sense to Oriole, thus when Zahn, as a leader, began making sense, he rebelled against it.
"There," said Qiver.
Zahn and Oriole both turned to see where he was pointing. In the distance, Oriole could make out the ridiculous frilly dress of a summoner. There was an ANGEL walking beside her, easy to see in his red and white uniform, even though he looked too average to stand out.
"That's them, isn't it?"
"Looks like it." Zahn leaned over and pushed Oriole toward them. "Go check."
"Wh-" He stumbled, clamping a hand over his wide-brimmed mage hat to keep it in place. "Why me?!"
"You've got that trustworthy face."
"What's trustworthy about it!"
Zahn knelt beside Qiver, throwing an arm out to Oriole. "Don't you think he's got a trustworthy face?"
Qiver shrugged.
"Why don't you go check?" Oriole threw back.
Zahn straightened, and tapped a finger against the white center of the mask, where the nose underneath would be. "I don't have a trustworthy face."
With a frustrated growl, Oriole turned on his heel and stalked off.
* * *
Bernard's vague warning of, "Uh oh, incoming," came seconds before the voice calling out, "Excuse me, sir?"
Matt stopped, turning to face the voice. It turned out to belong to a boy dressed in Nenakret garb, who slowed from a run to a stop only a few feet away from Matt. The clothes alone were out of place enough to be interesting, but they still weren't the most interesting thing about him. A slit in the wide brim of his hat revealed one very gold eye, and his skin was a light chestnut red in colour. Matt pegged him immediately as a half-beastman.
Amelia's uncertain hovering seemed to indicate that she had no idea what to think of the kid.
"Can I help you?" Matt asked, professionally polite.
The boy's gaze was focused on the second white stripe of Matt's uniform, specifically on the name RICHARDS that was embroidered across the left half of it. That gold eye moved up from the stripe to Matt's face. "Richards, right? Captain Matt Richards?"
"Major," he corrected, "but that's a recent development."
The boy's face, what could be seen of it, lit up. "Wow, I can't believe it! You're the guy who won the fight with the Formicidae this year! That was great!"
A hint of a smile graced Matt's face, but he shook his head. "I just did what needed to be done."
Amelia let out a gasp, splayed fingers covering her mouth. "That was you? I heard about the Formicidae Year from my Uncle Esteban!"
That hint of a smile turned into a hint of a wince.
The Formicidae were something like giant ants. Giant ants that spent the majority of their time hibernating under the D'Naba desert before rising up to advance on the city of D'Naba every seven years like clockwork. Formicidae Years, as they were called, were the years during which ANG and ANGEL forces were dispatched en masse to stave off the threat. Matt had spent that summer in D'Naba doing things that had earned him a promotion two years before he was even up for one.
He didn't realize he had fans.
"Like I said, Varista, it's not a big deal."
"Can I have your autograph?"
"My what."
Before he could even blink, a pair of black-gloved hands presented him with a pen and what looked like a playing card. He looked down at the boy's expectant grin (marked by hints of pointed canines - definitely beastman heritage).
He sighed. "What's your name?" he asked, reaching out to take the card and pen from the boy.
It was an Esca card. An official print, too - the back even had the watermark. Esca was a deceptively simple card game created by a few mages at the Nenakret, so it wasn't terribly surprising that a kid who looked like he was from there would be carrying a card. What was surprising was the fact that it was a Dragoon card, the black and white image on the front showing a mounted rifleman in the midst of battle.
Matt, of course, was a dragoon, and being asked to sign the Esca card pertaining to his job was a strange feeling.
"My name's Oriole." The boy leaned in conspiratorially. "You may have heard of me. I'm a prodigy at the Nenakret."
"The name is familiar." He'd never heard it before in his life.
He signed the card, right across the description space underneath the image, and handed back both it and the pen. Oriole eagerly inspected the card and then slipped both items into his pockets as he grinned up at Matt. "Thanks, Capt-Major Richards!"
"No problem, Oriole."
With that, the kid ran off, and Matt turned away to continue walking up to the gates of the Cathedral.
He was stopped by Amelia standing in his path, giving him a smug, amused smile. He frowned in return. "That was really sweet of you," she said.
"Don't sound so impressed," he muttered, sparing her only a glance before walking right on by.
She followed. "I didn't think you seemed like the type to play along with kids like that!"
"It's all a put-on, he's a big softie. You should see him with his war-steed. Emasculating."
Bernard's comment went ignored. Well, almost. Amelia acknowledged and responded, much to Matt's chagrin. "Really? Is it like with old ladies who talk to their cats?"
"Worse."
"Bernard." But the damage had already been done; he could hear Amelia giggling. He decided the best course of action was silence.
It didn't last long. Amelia skipped in front of him, walking backwards with her hands clasped behind her back. "So you're really that guy? The one everyone was talking about back at the end of summer?"
The end of summer - the month of Secundus, specifically - was when the soldiers sent to deal with the threat had been returned to their original stations. He hadn't exactly heard the gossip about himself, but it made sense that would be when it started spreading. He just replied, "I guess so."
"Uncle Esteban said he saw you out there - he said it was really impressive!" When he didn't respond, she dropped back to his side, walking forwards again. "I didn't know they were going to send me somebody famous!"
"Yeah, well, the thing about getting promoted. It leaves you between jobs."
"And his general hates him," Bernard added helpfully.
"What's that got to do with it?"
"Bernard." Matt was not going to let him answer that question.
Amelia seemed annoyed by this, but they fell into silence until they got to the gates. The two ANGELs on duty snapped salutes as Matt passed, and he returned it as he said, "Carry on."
The Cathedral was the first thing to come to mind when people thought of Alrael. ANGEL - the Alrael National Guard Elite Legion - was the second, and that was no coincidence. The High Priest of Alm was the ultimate authority of ANGEL, and they served as the Cathedral's dedicated guard. The red and white uniform of ANGEL was almost more iconic of Alrael Cathedral than the uniform of its priests.
Once they were past the ANGELs at the gate, on church grounds, Amelia stopped and turned to Matt. "Hey, do you wanna come in with me?"
"And do what?"
"Well, I have to give my report to a senior priest, maybe you should be there since you heard what Terrate said too?"
"I guess." He wasn't very enthused about it.
"It won't take long - Oh!" She snapped her fingers to go along with the sudden realization. "I can talk to Joel about it! I keep forgetting he's a senior priest!"
There was an instinctive urge to respond asking who Joel was. He contained it. Best not to get her started.
"Who the hell is Joel?"
He wanted to punch Bernard into a wall.
"He's my best friend! I've known him since I was little. Actually, he's my Uncle Esteban's best friend too, and my dad's before he died. They were all together during the war, you know, with LaoZhen? Anyway, when my mom died and I came to the church to study as a summoner, Joel looked out for me. He's really nice. He used to-"
"Sure, Varista. I'll come in with you." He only acquiesced to get her to stop talking. He couldn't see Bernard's face, but he was entirely certain it contained a smug grin that would just make Matt want to punch him even more.
"Oh!" She practically bounced as she smiled back at him. "Okay, then. Let's go."
Rolling his eyes for what felt like the thousandth time that day, he followed her to the Cathedral's front entrance.
Alrael Cathedral was all spires and buttresses and ornate glasswork. It was built to be eye-catching, because it was the symbol of Alrael. Even Castle Ramsthus, not twenty minutes away, was nowhere near as impressive or renowned as the Cathedral that served it.
The front was, of course, the most intricate part of the design, because it was the section that the majority of Alrael's citizens saw most often. A set of wide stone steps, lined by an ornate balustrade on either side, led up to a broad landing onto which the front doors opened. The dark wooden doors were arched high, carved in artistic detail, and gilded with gold. They were flanked by tall, thin windows made up of a mosaic of small glass fragments.
In the summer, one or both doors would be propped open. But it was Quintilis and the dead of winter, and so the doors were shut tight.
Amelia surprised him by bypassing the stairs entirely and heading for a ground level service entrance with a much lighter, less decorative door. That was something of a blessing; he knew from experience that those main doors were not easy to handle.
He pulled the door open for her and pulled it shut behind them as he swept off his cap, tucking it under one arm.
The church was moderately warmer than the frigid air outside. That was solely because the biting wind was gone.
Amelia led him down the hallway, which was notably less ornate than the main halls of the Cathedral. Even though he'd been to Alrael Cathedral plenty of times in the past, he had a tendency to avoid it as much as he could. Something about Alm's church just felt uncomfortable to him; he'd never quite been able to place it. As such, he hadn't traversed the off-hallways much, and this was a relatively new experience for him.
She led him into the depths of the Cathedral, away from the nave and toward the parts that casual visitors didn't even know existed. He tried not to look like a tourist. It wouldn't do for an ANGEL to walk around looking like he'd never seen the place before.
"Are you from Alrael?" she asked as they walked, throwing a glance back at him.
"Yeah. My whole life."
"Oh, you must be here every Almsday, then." She didn't seem to hear the snickering that elicited from Bernard. "They give you guys Almsday off to come to the service, right? Oh, but, I've never seen you here before... I guess I wouldn't have noticed anyway, you're pretty normal looking. You're not the kind of person who stands out in a crowd, huh?"
"Can't say that I am." Matt was well-aware that he had a generic sort of face, and his blond hair and blue eyes made him blend in rather than stand out. He had One of Those Faces - he was constantly being mistaken for somebody else.
"But you're probably here all the time. There's always so many ANGELs around. Have you ever heard High Father Vladimir's service?"
"Shock, but he ain't a good little Almic boy, doll."
Matt sighed at Bernard's desire to do as much as possible to make his life more difficult.
Amelia stopped and looked back at him, surprised. "What?"
"I don't come to service very often, Varista," he said, casually shoving his free hand into his pocket and leveling an impassive stare at her.
She frowned. "Why not?"
There were plenty of reasons, none of them ones he cared to tell her. The sort of people who did come to church every Almsday and assumed everyone else did too were also the sorts of people who started hours-long arguments about why everyone else should be that sort of person. "I just don't."
"But..." She seemed to struggle with the idea. "Where did you grow up? Were you on the outskirts or something?"
"Castle Ramsthus."
She stared.
"Amelia, there you are. I was wondering when you'd be back." The welcome interruption came in the form of a grandfatherly man wearing the uniform of a senior priest. He had appeared from one of the hallway's nearby doors; he motioned her toward it. "Come, child, speak with me."
She gave Matt an apologetic shrug and then followed the priest back through the door, leaving Matt to wait for her out in the hallway.
"Joel?" Bernard wondered aloud.
"Who knows. Ask her when she gets out." He moved over to wait beside the door. His hand was still in his pocket; unprofessional, but with only Bernard around he couldn't bring himself to care.
They waited by the door for quite some time. As a soldier, Matt had a lot of experience in waiting, but even he was starting to wonder what was taking so long. Just as he began debating whether or not to go into the room and check on her, he was struck by a sudden feeling of foreboding.
His hand went from his pocket to rifle strap over his shoulder as he looked down the hallway. The only new development was a girl standing at the end of the hall. She was dressed in the general style of summoners - garishly impractical with too many ruffles - and she carried a broom. She seemed to notice him not long after he'd noticed her and she stopped, staring back warily.
It was then that he noticed her ears and realized she was an elf. Her hair was black - a very uncommon colour for elves - and that had thrown him off initially. There was something familiar about her, but he couldn't place it. That was strange. He was sure he'd have remembered any black-haired elves he'd met.
"Oh," she said, barely audible. She clutched the broom to her chest. "Are...are you waiting for somebody?" She looked like she'd stepped into a dense forest full of eyes glowing from the shadows.
Matt just felt like it. "Amelia Varista," he said, nodding toward the door beside him.
"Oh. Alright." She went silent, shifting her weight nervously, and glanced down to her left before looking back up toward Matt. "Um. Excuse me, then." She took off the way she'd come, trying not to let on that it was an escape and failing.
That unsettling feeling vanished along with her. Matt let out a breath he didn't even realize he'd been holding. "Did you catch that?" he asked Bernard, under his breath.
"Catch what?"
The fact that Bernard didn't bother making some jab about the girl made Matt suspicious. There was a plethora of comments he expected to come out of the faerie's mouth and to hear nothing was more disconcerting than that sudden foreboding feeling had been. He was hiding something. "Never mind."
Eventually, Amelia emerged from the door. "Oh, good, you're still here!" she said, brightening when she saw Matt. "Sorry about that, Father Harrison wanted to hear about Terrate. It took longer than I thought it would."
"I figured."
"He said that Terrate doesn't just say things without a reason, so there's probably some hidden meaning behind why he told us about the Gods' War, but Father Harrison wouldn't say what he thought that meaning was. I think Terrate just says whatever he wants and everyone just thinks he's being deep about it, so they make up interpretations for it to make themselves feel like they didn't just waste an entire day hiking into the mountains to talk to a boring Spirit about nothing."
"Absolutely."
"Hah, I'm not the only one!" Her satisfaction turned to curiosity as she leaned in to scrutinize Matt. "So what were you saying earlier about being raised at Castle Ramsthus?"
He shrugged. "It's not important."
"You can't just say that and then say it's not important! You're not secretly Prince Ismae or something, are you?"
He couldn't help it. He snorted back a laugh. "What?"
"Are you?"
"No, Varista. Wow." He shook his head. "Just, wow."
"Well what, then!"
"It's really not important." With absolutely no warning, he changed subjects. "Hey, do you know a summoner girl, elf, black hair?"
The subject-change managed to catch her off-guard. Her arms fell to her sides and she stared at him for a moment before collecting her thoughts and answering. "Oh, Naomi? Why, did you run into her? She's got cleaning duty this week, so she probably came by this way."
"Yeah, I guess so. Is there anything weird about her?"
"Nope, just a normal summoner in training - Oh! But she has a faerie with her, like you have Bernard! Normal people can't see her, but the summoners all can. Her name's Heather!" Her voice dropped to serious, "She's actually nice. Unlike yours."
"A faerie, huh?" He wasn't sure if that explained it, but it was better than nothing.
"Yeah, she came along with Naomi, she's-"
"She's dumber than a sack of bricks," Bernard cut in.
Amelia stomped a foot and glared at the faerie perched on Matt's shoulder. "She is not! Heather is very sweet and you're probably just jealous because nobody likes you!"
Matt held up a hand to stop her tirade. "Varista."
She huffed, turning her glare to Matt.
"Is there anything else you need from me tonight?"
"Oh." Her anger faded and she straightened, letting her arms fall. "Um, I guess I could still introduce you to Joel. Maybe he'll have some better advice about the Terrate thing?"
He gestured toward the hallway. "Lead on."
Lead on she did. They got about three steps before she started talking again. "Do you really know Heather?"
Matt's, "Huh?" was cut off by Bernard answering the question. "Yeah, sure, back in Sureloum. Most faeries know each other, we're like one big happy family." That last part was said with plenty of surly irony.
She either ignored it or didn't catch it in the first place. "Faeries don't really leave Sureloum much, do they? Heather left with Naomi, so I can understand that, but why are you here?"
"Eh."
She frowned, about to speak again, but Matt interrupted her. "Don't bother, Varista. He won't tell you."
The frown turned pensive. "But-"
"I've been trying to get an answer out of him for years. Trust me."
"Queen Ljasame sent me to watch over the last true heir of Ramsthus," Bernard said, nonchalant.
Matt cringed, ever so slightly, and settled his fingers against his forehead with a sigh.
True to what he expected, Amelia ground to a halt and stared back at the both of them, wide-eyed with enthusiasm. "Really?! I knew it! You are important!"
"He's. Lying. Varista," came out through grit teeth.
"Ah hah! You would only deny it if it was true!"
He started to answer. He stopped before anything came out. His face was the definition of incredulous; there was nowhere to even begin on picking apart that logic. Instead he settled on, "Can we just meet your friend, Varista?" And get this over with, went unspoken.
"Oh, right. I'm pretty sure he's probably in the library." And just like that, she dropped the previous line of conversation to start off down the hallway again.
Matt hung back just long enough to grind out a warning at Bernard where Amelia wouldn't hear. "Would you stop that."
"Aw, but it's so fun to watch you squirm, princess."
He had more to say, but he'd rather put it off for later than fall behind and get lost inside a building he was theoretically supposed to know. He caught up with Amelia and fell into step beside her.
She was, thankfully and suspiciously, silent for the duration of the journey to the library. Probably thinking up things to talk about during the voyage tomorrow, Matt thought. Had to plan ahead so she wouldn't run out.
They reached the library before long. It was marked by a plain-looking set of double-doors that swung inward, one of which was propped open by a wooden wedge. The library, he had to admit, was another part of the Cathedral he'd never visited before. (Why should he, when he had access to the much more familiar library at Castle Ramsthus?) He found it interesting that the doors seemed so plain.
It wasn't until they were inside that he realized this was only because they weren't the main doors. This set opened onto the back section of the library, where a few rows of shelves ended to create a small entry hall's worth of rectangular space with a wall of shelves to the left and several book-lined corridors on the right. Amelia led him down one of those paths, through what felt like a maze, and into the main hall of the library where he could see the predictably ornate, arched doors of the main entry.
This part of the library was obviously designed to impress. It was a large circular area, lined with shelves, with tables for reading arranged neatly throughout the floorspace. There was a second floor overlooking the first with railings in place to keep unfortunate visitors from stumbling off the edge. The night sky could be seen through the domed glass ceiling; doubtless the sun lit the room during the day, but currently the job was taken by a series of lamps mounted along the walls above the shelves.
That glass ceiling seemed like such a security hazard. He wondered how the architects had ever thought that was a good idea, and how much that glass had to have cost.
The only occupant of the library seemed to be blond boy dressed in the white uniform of a priest. The uniform of a senior priest, to be precise, white complemented by gold and violet, with the heavily embroidered cape-like vestment that differentiated it from the usual priests' garb.
"Joel!" Amelia called out, running to his side.
He gave a start, nearly fumbling the book he held in his hurried effort to slam it shut and whisk it out of sight behind his back. "Amelia!" He met her cheer with the wide-eyed surprise of somebody being caught red-handed.
Matt approached at a more reasonable pace. Now that the kid was facing him, he noticed a few more things. Most notably, that this boy dressed in the vestments of a senior priest of Alm looked like he was about fourteen years old. But he had the pointed ears of an elf, which meant that despite his looks, he was much older than fourteen.
The kid was almost a perfect example of stereotypical elven looks, actually: a rounded face with soft features, slanted green eyes, and blond hair so thick it could almost be mistaken for a halo at a distance. The only part that wasn't stereotypically elven was the way his hair was kept relatively short, though it was still just long enough to fall in his eyes. Most elven men wore the bottom half of their hair fairly long.
"I'm glad I found you here," Amelia was saying as Matt walked up. "I didn't want to have to look all over the Cathedral for you."
Matt stopped beside Amelia, arching an eyebrow at the boy's nervous smile.
"Oh," he said, eyes darting from Amelia to Matt and back, "it wouldn't have been too difficult to find me anyway, you know. Am I to assume you've come back from visiting Terrate?"
She huffed, setting her hands on her hips, turning instantly angry. "Yeah, and he didn't tell me anything, he just-"
The boy's smile solidified and he held up a hand to cut her off. It was a strange kind of smile to see on a face as young as his - the sort of knowing, wise smile that is reserved for kind, elderly...well, priests. "I believe you're forgetting something, Amelia."
"Huh?" It took her a moment to notice the way he flicked his eyes toward Matt, but when it finally registered, she jumped to introduce him. "Oh! This is my escort, Matt. Matt, this is my friend Joel!"
Joel leaned forward slightly and offered his right hand, his left still holding the book behind his back. He wore white gloves, with the symbol of Alm's cross embroidered in gold on the back. Standard fare. More notable was the fact that they included bronze plates, which indicated a functionality one didn't immediately associate with priests. "Father Rafsjalel Ahmnratasa," he said. "Joel."
Even his name was typically elven. So typically elven, if fact, that Matt had met at least two other Ahmnratasas before. It was like the elven equivalent of Almsland's "Smith."
Like most elves who left Sureloum, he'd picked up a pseudonym that the people around him would actually be able to pronounce. And like most Almslanders, he introduced himself with his full name followed by his preferred name. That meant he'd been living here a while.
But of course Matt had already figured out that last bit. People didn't earn senior priesthood overnight.
Matt's own white-gloved hand met Joel's. "Major Matthew Richards. Matt."
"Oh." It was a sound of quiet recognition, accompanied by his eyes widening slightly. "The same Richards who was in charge of the Delta 88th?" he asked, as he pulled back his hand.
"Yes." He really was more famous than he'd thought. Wow.
"Ah, ANGEL sent you somebody quite formidable, Amelia."
"Yeah," she chirped, "I feel pretty lucky!"
Thankfully, Joel dropped the subject before Matt had any need to get modest about it. He turned back to Amelia and said, "You were saying, about Terrate...?"
"Ugh!" That immediately sparked the fire again; she threw her hands up. "Terrate didn't tell me anything! You know how he's supposed to give you some insight into your quest and tell you something deep and meaningful? All he did was ramble on about the Gods' War! Everyone knows about the Gods' War! Nobody else goes to Terrate and comes back saying, 'oh he gave me a history lesson on things everyone already knows!' It isn't even like he gave me a neat first-hand account of things or anything, either! It was basically straight from scripture!"
Joel's smile did not waver. This, Matt decided, was a man of infinite patience. "I'm certain it had a reason, Amelia. Have you talked to anybody else about it, yet?"
"Yeah, Father Harrison, but he just said that I haven't figured out what it means yet and 'that's something you need to figure out for yourself, my child.'" Her voice dropped an octave in a comically serious impersonation of the older priest.
"Was there anything strange about it?"
"No, Father Harrison was just Father Harrison, it wasn't weird or anything."
"Terrate, Amelia." Even the correction was uncannily patient, without a hint of exasperation.
This man was a saint.
"Oh! No, I don't think so...I mean, aside from the Gods' War thing in the first place..."
Matt decided to provide some insight where she wouldn't. "Actually, there was something." Joel's attention turned to him. "Terrate kept asking me questions, instead of her."
"Oh?" he prompted.
"Yeah. He asked..." What had that thing asked, again? It had been several hours ago now and the memory was starting to get fuzzy around the edges. "Some things about Daruma. I had to quote a couple passages for him, stuff from the Writings of Vasilis."
"Interesting that it would ask you and not the summoner for whom it was theoretically providing guidance."
"Is that weird?" Amelia asked, suddenly seeming concerned. "Do you think it means something bad?"
"I don't know what it means, Amelia. I'm sure that will become clear in time."
"Huhhh," she sighed.
"You're leaving tomorrow, yes?"
"Yeah, I guess so." She went from resigned to enthusiastic instantly. "Hey! You should come with me. You're a fighting priest, you can be an escort, right?"
His smile didn't waver, but his eyebrows drew downward just slightly. "You already have an escort, Amelia."
"Yeah but-!" She gestured vaguely at Matt, as if that explained it. He arched a brow at her. "It wouldn't hurt, right? Besides, you're always talking about how you miss the days of being on the road with Dad and Uncle Esteban. Coming along with me is almost as good, right?"
He gave a good-natured sigh and a shrug, rolling his eyes to the heavens. "Who am I to argue you? I'll ask the High Priest for permission." His smile turned to Matt. "Assuming your current escort has no qualms with that?"
"Knock yourself out." Maybe not the most formal response to give a priest, but somehow he didn't think that would matter with Joel.
"Excuse me, then. It wouldn't do to interrupt the High Father's sleep for something so trivial. I should find him before he retires." He gave a polite bow of the head, and then swept past them to the main doors.
Through the entire process of exiting, including pulling open and shutting one of those heavy doors, he kept that book perfectly out of sight. That just made Matt's curiosity burn.
After he'd left, Amelia turned to Matt, expectantly cheerful. "So? What do you think of Joel?"
"Kid looks too young for those vestments."
She tsked. "Don't say that to his face, okay? He's actually really sensitive about his age. He's been a priest for about twenty years though, so he knows what he's doing."
"Holy-twenty years? That kid?" Bernard speaking up after such a long silence seemed to surprise Amelia. Matt, however, was well-accustomed to the way he would drop silent to listen to whole conversations before commenting. "Are you kidding me? He's, what, he can't be over a hundred."
"He's a hundred and four."
Bernard let out a low whistle. "I bet his mommy's wondering where the hell he is."
She frowned, but didn't say anything. That alone was plenty suspicious.
But welcome. Matt didn't care to change it. "In any case, Varista, it's getting late. You should get some sleep. I'll come pick you up in the morning."
"Oh. Okay. Right." She tucked her bangs behind her ear. "What time?"
"Sunrise. We need to get an early start."
That got a pout out of her. "Sunrise? Are you serious?"
"The days are too short in the winter, Varista. Can't burn daylight."
"Ugh, but it's my quest! What if I wanted to burn daylight?"
"Then it's too bad you requested an ANGEL escort, isn't it?"
"But it's my quest. I'm in charge!"
"Are you going to fight me on it?"
She just glared back back at him.
"I'll see you at sunrise, Varista." He turned to leave.
Before he got two steps, Bernard called back at Amelia, "Oh, hey, now that he's pissed you off, can you show him the way out? Thanks."
It would not be the last time Matt ever wished he could punch Bernard in the face.