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  Tibbins did his best to keep his tone neutral as the corners of his mouth lifted. He could not afford to laugh. Not here. Not now. “They… tell him what’s bothering them, sir.”

  The Head Cleric looked like he was about to have an aneurism. “They can come to me! I am their superior!” Tarrean flopped down on to his seat, needing to rub his forehead.

  “You are, sir. However, you are also busy all the time, and it’s well-known you dislike being disturbed. There’s also a punishment for entering your tent unannounced.”

  “About the chairs and pillows…?” Tibbins got the ‘move on’ motion, and so he did. “You did say to get the man what he asked for, sir.”

  Tarrean squeezed the bridge of his nose again, recalling that rather late and only because his subordinate had mentioned it. “Just… give me your report, Acolyte.”

  Tibbins unfurled some vellum. “As of the return of the hunting party, Jiivra has provided her report.”

  It didn’t take more than a glance at the painfully thin stack of vellums to know what the news was going to be. “While she found the tracks and the caravan belonging to it, it had been emptied and abandoned by a fishing outpost at the closest point one could reach a river. The raiders did away with the fishing crews and likely took all the boats. No raiders were captured. No goods or gold were recovered. Tracks were found, and they do include small-sized feet. We have confirmation the children from the village are alive. Since it seems unlikely they would be kept for ransom, we expect they are being kept for more… nefarious purposes. The boats went upriver.”

  The Head Cleric stopped him. “Upriver?”

  Tibbins nodded. “Yes, sir. We expect someone with some intelligence is part of the captured group. Jiivra found ripped apart flowers littering the bank of the river in a rather odd pattern. She described it as flowers being ripped apart and thrown on the bank, in ever-decreasing quantities. We think someone gathered flowers on the way and left them for any possible pursuers to find. Which, by itself, is odd. I don’t know why some of the captives were expecting that we would come. We never had a chance to interact with them, but it’s in the report.”

  Tarrean rubbed the side of his head. “I believe it’s good for the captives to have faith. In who or what isn’t important until their rescue by the Church. Their devout thanks will fall on sanctified ear every noon.”

  Tibbins said nothing; his superior was assured of the facts the Acolyte had stated, and he chose to continue his report, “We suffered no casualties, just more tired troops. They’re all resting and performing expected duties per your wishes on the growth of the forwards base. Anything useful found in nearby wreckage goes to the effort. Otherwise, a logging camp is planned to be established near the closest forest.”

  “We cannot find the logging site the village had, and the Elder does not know. The other old person that we found a week ago is still catatonic and neither moves nor speaks. She simply eats when directed, and we have some junior priests practicing hospice care on her. While usually the expedition group would ask for follow-up orders, the entire camp is suffering symptoms of severe exhaustion and mental fatigue.”

  Tarrean sighed in defeat. “Leave it is then, though I don’t know to what or where. There’s nothing to do here, nowhere to shop, no money to gain or spend, and gambling is forbidden. I will set expected tasks to the minimal work required, and everyone may have the rest of the time as leave. I know the Fringe can be taxing, away from everything they know. One week, Acolyte.”

  The superior exhaled the order and re-folded his hands. Seeing Tibbins was at the bottom of his list, he decided it was time to press the personal matter. “I take it our guest is uncooperative per my… request?”

  Tibbins put the vellum down. “Artorian spends the majority of his time bedridden, sir. He has perhaps an hour or two per day where he can get up and move, and anytime I’ve seen him lately that isn’t during visiting hours, he is sickened or exhausted.”

  The Acolyte stiffened as he relayed the next bit of news. “Any time that he does get up… well… he does strange things: putting mud and water in a cup and spending an entire hour stirring it only to pour it out and do it again; hitting the flat of his palm on still water just to watch the ripples; lying in the grass with only his pants on in various parts of the village at various times of the day and night; randomly stopping and standing there. You know he’s gone mentally as he looks off in the distance. Or he visits a home and breaks down in tears as he weeps for a lost villager.”

  Tibbins closed his eyes and shook his head. “I assume he must have had a great amount of family here. We’ve caught him talking to himself on multiple occasions, and there’s an actual report of him crumpled at the village lumber storage site, sobbing that he was sorry. We don’t know for what or why. Nobody has the heart to ask him. He’s a man being eaten by his regrets.”

  The Acolyte began to furl his vellum back up. “A priestess tried getting him to open up once, but he got up, had a fierce expression on his face, and just told her that, ‘He was going to do it, for them,’ with such strength of character that she lost her voice for a moment.”

  Tibbins quietly kept to himself that the priestess had then sat down with him and had been the person to break down in tears while getting grief off her chest. That it was the Initiate being consoled and supported and had, as thanks, started the pillow smuggling operation. He doubted his superior wanted any words of that. “I do have one spot of good news per your specific request, sir.”

  Tarrean raised an eyebrow. “Go on?”

  Tibbins straightened himself, picking his words carefully, “He wants an item that is… a little too expensive to just write off. However, he mentioned he’d be willing to barter for it.”

  Tarrean’s eyes began to hungrily glint, his posture warming up as he finally got something to work with. “Go on.”

  “He said it might be too much, and it might be too late, however, if possible, he wants to buy or barter for a Memory Stone containing a simple cultivation technique.” Tibbins buried his face into his hands from frustration. “I’ve tried to talk him out of it. He’s nothing but corruption. It roils inside of him like nausea manifested. Looking at it makes me physically ill. I’ve already told him a Beast Core would just kill him, but he doesn’t relent. A cultivation technique is only going to give him hope, and then… then he’s going to expire when he tries to use it. All that corruption will be forced…”

  Tibbins silenced himself at the sickening thoughts. Tarrean remained all business and mentally compared costs to benefits. “Those are expensive indeed, Acolyte. Bring him in. I’ll see if I can’t barter something of value with the man. I see no reason to deny him life’s last little pleasures or any hope he wants to gratuitously pay for. If Artorian believes that some knowledge of a cultivation spiral will make him feel better before the poor old man slumbers to his end, then, why, Tibbins… we ought to take care of him.”

  Tibbins felt frozen solid to his chair. He so hated this side of his slick superior. Always looking out for number one. The Acolyte gabbed just to feel better, “He seems plenty happy spending his days with many of the recruits. Initiate Yvessa and several others who were injured in the tent at the time he was there may as well be called his personal attendants. Oddly enough, those same Initiates have gotten their hands on food we didn’t know was available in the village. Certain secrets are being shared with them, and they’re silently reaping the benefits.”

  He mentioned it purely to dig something unpleasant into his superior’s kidney. “I’ll fetch him for you, sir. You’re far more skilled at negotiation than me.”

  With a respectful salute, he left the Head Cleric to simmer. Tarrean spat, “Dismissed.”

  Tibbins exclaimed with surprise as he left the tent flap, “Oh, Artorian!”

  A broad smile warmly greeted the weary Acolyte. “Tibbins, my boy! I’ve been looking for you.”

  Artorian’s smile grew even further. “I have news.”
/>   Chapter Twenty-One

  Tarrean heard a hug-in-progress and cringed. Likely because he was still envisioning the old man half-naked; that view was going to scar him.

  “Artorian, great, you found me. I was looking for you as well. The Head Cleric has need of you. Could we speak after? I have tasks that I am in a hurry to complete,” Tibbins excused himself with as much smoothness as he could.

  “Of course, young man. Take good care of yourself. You look a little pale. Get some sun; it’s wonderful for you. I guarantee it!” With a pat on the back, Artorian stepped back into the tent, fully clad in the wealthy lapis lazuli robe. For an old man on the verge of death, a man that should be falling over in a few weeks, he was awfully chipper and well-kept. His snowy hair had been trimmed, and his long beard cleaned up quite well, though it remained at a healthy length.

  Tarrean carefully dissected the entirely different-looking Artorian. The bald, old man was clean. Well washed. Nails trim and even. This man wasn’t at all the crying wreck he’d seen a week ago. That made no sense… Artorian’s condition should have been deteriorating; instead, it seemed to have stabilized. Tarrean noticed that his gawking had not gone unnoticed and coughed into his hand to regain composure. He seated himself in a more refined position on his fancy stool.

  “I usually declare when people can enter my tent, Artorian. Since you’re already here, please, do sit.” He spoke with forced kindness and an equally forced smile. The Head Cleric may have had his pride stepped on a little, but the land-ownership vellum was burning a hole in his pocket. The matter needed attending. “Before we get to business, how are you feeling?”

  Artorian shook his head left to right, eyes gently closed. “Contrary to what my appearance may be, being up and about takes more out of me than I’d care to admit. The amount of time I can be out of bed is in decline, but that’s alright. I’m going to go ahead and address your silent query. Yes, I do look well. It’s for the sketches Yvessa and some of the boys are making of me. They’re caring kids, granting an old man a kindness. I expect I’ll be stuck in bed for quite a long time, and having a visual reminder of when I appeared healthy will be good for everyone.”

  The old man mused to himself, “I won’t hold you to my ramblings, Head Cleric. Shall we bicker and barter? I’m convinced you’ve already heard what I’d like.”

  Tarrean nodded and pulled some pieces of paper and vellum on to his desk. Artorian beamed a fox’s smile at him. “So… how large of a pillow can you get?”

  The Head Cleric dropped the inkwell at being so startled. “A what?”

  Artorian carefully tilted his head to the side. He repeated his words, pretending that the short man had simply not heard him, “A pillow. What did you think I was referring to?”

  Tarrean scrambled to prevent anything else from falling, adding item after item on the desk in neat little rows. “The, eh, the Memory Stone. I thought.”

  Artorian nodded in understanding at the mention. “Oh, that minor thing? I thought that would be a trifle for you. Initially, I thought it may have been difficult, but when I heard it was Maccreus Tarrean leading this expedition team, I chuckled at my own ignorance.”

  Tarrean twitched. Where had this old man picked up his full name? Still, if it gave him some leverage over the nosy old-timer, he’d take it. Some part of him also felt soothed, his pride fluffing up like an attention-seeking kitten. “Ah, well. Of course!”

  He felt off-balance, yet the matter appeared to be leaning in his favor. Tarrean decided so simply go with the tide and see where this landed. He regained his composure with this line of thinking and leaned in. “I doubt a large pillow would be particularly difficult to b–”

  He stopped himself, realizing that he was about to fall into a pit trap. “How large?”

  The Head Cleric’s eyes squinted at the wizened, sly, old man. “Oh, I was hoping for a… *hmm*… twelve-by-twelve?”

  That was an average-sized pillow, and Tarrean didn’t see what the problem was. He’d been expecting something extravagant, but the old man must have been joking about. Yes, clearly, that’s what this was. This sly fox was trying to distract him from the huge cost of a Memory Stone. The cleric waved off the issue. “Just give the details to Tibbins. I’m sure a meager pillow is fine.”

  Artorian brightly smirked. “I shall certainly do so.”

  Tarrean sifted some pages, then lifted his porcelain cup, sipping at some water. “Now, about the stone. You mentioned you had something to barter with?”

  The old man folded his hands over one another and nodded slightly. “Land.”

  The Head Cleric felt like he got kicked in the sensitives as he choked on his water. Coughing into his sleeve, he had to look away to hide his expression. His greed. Artorian half-stood. “Head Cleric, are you quite alright? You appear ill! You’ve been coughing and dropping things since I entered the tent. Please do go and get looked at.”

  The short man bit back fury; he was being played like a stringed instrument. “Yes. Yes, land will do for a stone.”

  Artorian nodded and clapped his hands together. “Oh, good! I was thinking about it and came to the conclusion that you wouldn’t accept salt. I’ll speak with Tibbins about having something suitable drawn up.”

  Tarrean waved him off dismissively. “No, that’s not necessary. We can take care of all of that right now. I simply need some signatures.”

  Artorian appeared flummoxed and ponderously stated, “Some… what?”

  “Signa… oh. Your name written out.” The old man’s ponderous expression bent into a frown as Tarrean finished speaking.

  “A signature? For official documents? In the Fringe?” The old man was now giving the cleric a look as if he was insane. “Why would we ever use something so unreliable?”

  Tarrean was suddenly having a crap day. That abyssal vellum was a fake? No. No, it couldn’t be. That would wreck this entire plan. He leaned behind him and fished it from a bag. “I would assume so. Isn’t this a signature from this village?”

  He hastily laid out the land deed vellum for the village of Salt. Leaning rather close to it, Artorian read the document, lifting it and moving the vellum upwards as he read line after line until he came to the angrily clawed signature.

  Switch.

  It had been Switch. Artorian closed his eyes, hands cramping. Tremors from anger-created stress forced him to take deep breaths to steady himself. “I’m sorry, Head Cleric. This is not legitimate.”

  With the tremble only worsening, he rolled the vellum back up and put it on the table. “To think that… someone would want to sell all of this… all the people. For some… for some…”

  He couldn’t bear to finish the sentence, a new hatred for greed finding a place to fester and grow in his heart. To be fair, the mess of corruption still moving through his system may have had a hand in that. Tarrean visibly deflated. The entire, heavily planned investment had been foiled by a piece of abyss-cursed vellum. He said nothing about the old man’s shaking; his own hands were very much unsteady as he sipped from his water.

  “How long was your expedition going to be, Master Cleric?” Artorian slipped in with a weak half-whisper.

  Tarrean mumbled procedure back, too tired and unwilling to think about the next steps to really put thought into it, “Expeditions may last up to three years and three months before a forced return or writ of exoneration is required. Unfortunately, I only retain the full force for the duration of a season before they must return. That is in the event that the immediate threat has been handled. A five-cleric cadre is all that can maintain a stationed position for the full duration.”

  The short man continued to deflate as he saw his dreams caving in. Artorian was the one who sat up with straight-backed composure. “Oh? How curious. A Fringe land transfer takes three full rotations of all seasons, which is about three years. It’s a shame that I’ll likely pass before then. Had you been here that full length of time, I would have been able to confer on to you the required name
that would grant official land benefits in the Fringe. Of course, I’d sign any documents at that point if another country or some such was involved and needed their own version of proof.”

  The heavenly light of hope filled the Head Cleric’s eyes as the old man threw him a lifeline. Then his dreams went a little sideways as he realized the other end of this bargain. “Do you believe you could live for three years?”

  Artorian noisily hummed out a sonorous thought. *Hmm*. Ponderously running hand down his beard, Artorian listed the requirements, “With attentive care, solid bed rest, nutritious food, and pleasant stories about this cultivation stuff to keep my nightmares at bay… I believe three years is quite doable. Besides, I heard the Master Cleric was quite knowledgeable, and I would adore hearing some of your stories and experiences. My love for knowing things has always kept me alive. May I ask what you plan to do with the land?”

  Artorian leaned forwards, pressing the matter. Tarrean, feeling crammed into quite the corner, decided to explain fully, “It’s… I would love to say it’s for a forward operating base for the Church. Unfortunately… that’s not true. It’s for my… son. He’s a good lad but thin and slow to cultivate. He lacks any shred of ambition, and the smallest, dumbest thing makes him happy. As his quite driven father, I must see that I can keep my boy in a safe corner of the world—at whatever cost I must pay to have that done… even my own pride.”

  Artorian let free a long, relieved exhale. “Jin is a very good boy.”