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  Tarrean may have been a prideful, haughty man, but he had an obvious soft spot for the wellbeing of his boy. Not even he had the heart to send his son away. This also meant Irene would remain; the reason she gave was that the Fringe let her study the scriptures in peace, that there was no better place for her than a cloister. The expedition force might have even believed that reason too, had an Initiate not seen Jin asleep in her lap on the edge of the salt flats.

  This sparked a whole new round of gossip, as a surprising number of recruits hadn’t known she’d been in a relationship with the Head Cleric. The fifth member of the cadre had volunteered at the last moment, to the utmost grievance of all but one gambler. Yvessa would remain since someone was needed to attend to hospice care. With her cultivation stuck and stifled and the clear skill at handling what many of the other Initiates considered a chore, there were no complaints.

  The surprise for the group came when Tarrean rose at the end of the daily prayer and promoted Jiivra as the new Head Cleric. Rounds of applause met the increase in station as several Initiates were lifted to Acolyte, creating a cascade of cheers each time another name was called. The Head Cleric had the paperwork all prepared, signed, and ready to hand out. When they reported back, many of them would be able to benefit from their new rank.

  The rise in status was well-founded with the individual's accomplishments, requirement of cultivation standard, and more. Such glowing accommodations would be enough to give several Acolytes the opportunity for even greater advancement in the Choir. There would be a small celebration in the evening before the tent encampment was to be broken up the following morning, leaving only the wooden cloister, defenses, and several minor structures behind.

  The festivities saw the resurrection of the Salt village’s bonfire pit, and after, it doubled to serve as one big cleanup pile. Before the sun dipped under the horizon, a guard called out that a merchant caravan had been spotted in the distance. The path taken by the caravan allowed the guard to determine that the merchant must have gone to Lapis, then come to their new cloister. While that in itself added to the celebration, certain deliveries were cause for concern. That very concern was what had the new Head Cleric knocking on a small door with all the mirth of an unamused lioness.

  The zealous Battle Leader didn’t wait for a reply. As far as she was concerned, bedridden, old men weren’t supposed to answer the door even if they were awake.

  “Come in,” Jiivra heard a tired and half-asleep voice mutter the words and realized that her entrance had cut off whatever else the old man was going to say. His surprised look was distant, though it focused as he observed her. “Good evening, Artorian. I trust you remember me?”

  The tired Elder squinted at her, face neither fully awake nor aware. His words reflected that, being pensive and uncertain. “I’m familiar with your voice, my dear. I hear it in the mornings during drills. You take care to consider the well-being of your people rather than their readiness. Jiivra, If I’m correct?”

  “Head Cleric Jiivra, now,” she corrected swiftly.

  “Oh, congratulations, Head Cleric.” A slow smile flashed to her, the uncertainty removed from his face. “I don’t believe you’ve come to visit before. As I recall, you’re not too fond of me. May I take it this concerns more… official issues?”

  Jiivra watched the old, well-bundled, and seated Elder regain his poise before she began. She set her heavy helmet down on the small table and leaned her war spear against the wall. It gave a gentle, metal *tink* as it bumped against an iron pot on the table. Jiivra remained professional and at attention, her voice holding a surprising amount of smooth depth. “I don’t dislike you personally, Artorian. However, I have a strong dislike of things that disturb the unity and order of the Church.”

  “I have had to throw my weight around to keep these slacking recruits and Acolytes in place and on their toes ever since the rules became lax. It’s not good to let things skew from regulation, and I’m against such poor work ethic. As the new Head Cleric, I will train this expedition crew back into a respectable shape long before we reach the Choir. I will not arrive with some chatty, haphazard force.” Jiivra stopped as the tiny, persistent smile on the old man’s face unsettled her. “Something tells me you knew about my promotion.”

  Artorian quietly nodded. “It may have come up in conversation. I also may have recommended you for the position when the topic came up. I have a nose for talent. Won’t you please sit with me, Head Cleric? I feel that we have much to discuss.”

  His voice was passive and a little too smooth for the zealot’s liking, but she found no reason to distrust the man; in fact, she had to admit that she felt curious. A few deft, heavy steps sounded as she made her way to the pillow-covered chair next to the invalid’s bed. Well, mostly invalid. She saw him every now and then as she went about her day but never for more than a few minutes. Usually, though, this codger was up to something. “Talk, I can do. In fact, I’ll just get right to it. Did you by chance have Tibbins order a… pillow? I believe there was a mix up.”

  Artorian’s smile grew thrice-fold, and Jiivra suppressed a sigh as his raucous laughter split the air in the small space. After taking a deep breath to firm up her self-control, Jiivra’s voice was able to remain steady. Yet, the undertone showed a lack of patience that would have been clear even to small animals. “Twelve… by twelve.”

  She received some giggling nods in response as the old man was beset by helpless laughter, trying to catch his breath as he patted his chest. “I believe I can safely assume you meant this as some kind of prank on the Head Cleric?”

  Artorian, having gotten a hold of himself, gently shook his head in the negative and explained, “I very distinctly made it clear that my requested item would be costly. It was brushed over, considered not to be a problem. In fact, I was ordered to just note it to Tibbins. I received no further retort. That I put down feet instead of inches, well…”

  The sly, old man had a smile plastered on his face that simply would not budge. Tarrean’s fuming outburst could already be heard near the storage site where the caravan had been allowed to pull in and where twelve men had been required to unload the puffy beast. Jiivra’s words were cold, pushing on to other business. “Since that monstrosity is already paid for, and I am now responsible for explaining that expense to the Choir, I was hoping that we could come to an… agreeable compromise. You’ve put me in a very unpleasant spot, and that is even before we have the talk about this.”

  From her belt pouch Jiivra retrieved a very finely wrapped, small object. Upon unfurling the Memory Stone, it gave off a minor radiance. Artorian locked his eyes on to the small rock, and his hands were already squeezing each other. He very dearly wanted to reach out and cradle it—all that beautiful knowledge, answers to the holes in his reasoning that he had not managed to figure out. It was indeed going to take years to figure this all out on his own, but if he had more access to the basics… he could do more. So much more.

  “I am quite interested in what you have to say, Head Cleric. Please do begin.” His words had some haste in them, not wanting to tarry. A sharp nod from Jiivra was all he got before she folded the stone back up.

  “As authority of the expedition force now lays in my hands, I am fully entitled to rescind offered gifts. Now, I have heard rumors of what caused Tarrean to make such a ludicrous deal with you. However, those details don’t concern me. I am an instrument of the Church, and the wellbeing of my Choir must come first.”

  “That giant pillow is ridiculous, and I have no interest in carting it with me. The trader equally refuses to take it back after it was unloaded, and there’s no space for it anywhere except the middle of the cloister. That's an irritation but not my main focus. No, providing you the stone is what I’d like major compensation for.”

  “To this effect, newly minted Acolyte Yvessa has provided me the full writ of various philosophical papers and thought on cultivation that you’d like to have delivered to the Skyspear Academy. Whil
e this is a kindness we will gladly do, I would like a personal copy as a donation to the Church. I don’t need to explain to you that this is valuable material, and as an aspiring Paladin, I must seek to grow the Church. I will, of course, remove your name from all future interactions so that you are not hunted down and squeezed for all the information you can provide.”

  The Battle Leader paused to take a breath, planning to continue with some other ideas. She’d prepared an argument that would hopefully convince him to give up something far more valuable than some borderline useless cultivation technique. She never got the chance; Artorian instantly agreed, “I accept.”

  “The Church I…” Jiivra brushed aside his objection and then began her attempt to convince him. Her brain took a moment to catch up with the information she’d been provided so calmly. “You… accept?”

  Jiivra’s expression finally faltered from her previous stoic countenance, melting into surprise and cautious confusion. Her fighting sense told her this must be a trap; everything too easy was always a trap.

  Artorian took over the new conversation, “No need to look so taken aback, my dear. You may have heard much about me, but I have in turn remembered who you are while you’ve spoken. This conversation was not what I expected. I honestly thought you would ask why I recommended you, but I will not press the issue. Yes, Head Cleric, the Church may have a copy of my findings on corruption and the little I’ve puzzled together to form my brand of cultivation. It would be far more beneficial for people to know more about this awful malady. After all, does the Church not provide for those who cannot easily provide for themselves? Hmm?”

  Jiivra regained her stature at the glowing comment about her beliefs. “Yes, of course. Even the Choir, of which we are part, puts the wellbeing of the common folk before the hunting down evildoers. I was… under the impression that, while you may get along with certain individuals, the Church as a whole was the same as Skyspear Academy in your view.”

  Artorian waved his hand left to right to say it was not. “I hold firm to certain beliefs. That your group is part of the Church has never concerned me as much as anyone seems to think that it does. If it helps you reconcile your thoughts, I am not giving this information to the Church as a whole, my dear. I am giving it to you. As in my eyes, you are the true Church.”

  Seeing Jiivra’s features light up, he smiled and continued to lecture, “You are the single most devout upholder of values that I’ve met, and as much as you may silently hold me in poor graces… I do not hold you poorly in mine. I see you weighed with a great burden and that you have laden yourself with a responsibility heavier than the mere tasks of being Head Cleric. I would like to speak with you about this before you go, if that is alright with you. I think that I can help. I will say this—I think you are a good person. A great leader. Someone who stands with her beliefs and her people. Now, would you say our transaction is concluded?”

  “I… yes, I do.” The Battle Leader felt trapped in the chair, and she hated the feeling. An anchor in her stomach kept her rooted as the old man had prodded a finger straight into her hidden worries. To have her fears exposed by an old fool made her anxious and angry. Jiivra tried to hide this in front of him, but her best efforts could not convince herself that there were details he didn’t already know. The old man simply had a reputation for cutting to the heart of matters. She grit her teeth and pushed through, “Yes, business is concluded. I shall hold you to your word.”

  She picked up the finely wrapped lump in the cloth and put it in his cupped hands. Artorian closed his hands so tightly that they shook, and Jiivra didn’t know what to think about the sparkle of childlike happiness in his heavy blue eyes. It was as if he had never before gotten a present and had just been handed something he loved. Jiivra decided to take her leave. “Pressing the Memory Stone to your forehead is all you need to do. The rest will just come naturally.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “Will you leave after I have used the stone?” Artorian carried a somber note in his tired voice. “If that is the case, I’d love to just have a small amount of your time to talk.”

  The weight in Jiivra’s stomach increased, surprised that he hadn’t used the Memory Stone immediately. She hadn’t particularly wanted to stay, but better to just… get it over with. “I was going to, yes, but if you’d like to have a small chat first, I suppose… that would be acceptable.”

  Given the room was silent and Artorian didn’t start the conversation, Jiivra simply opened up like so many others had done. The small hovel felt safe; it was tiny and well-constructed, but more than anything, it was filled with comfort. A small fire burned in the corner of the fireplace, and the square construction of the house made the room feel boxed in enough to make all the little, personal touches feel pleasant.

  The old man had drawings, handwritten notes from Initiates, and several objects just stashed all around the room that seemed more like a container for memories than the stone that sat in his lap. The place had nothing but chairs and pillows, a single bed and table, and a large corner where someone could sit and measure out all that was needed for the day.

  It felt awkward to share, but this was fine. It was fine. She carried a burden, and it spilled freely when given the opportunity. “I was supposed to lead my own expedition team before this, but a few… tests went awry. During one such test, my hands began to shake, and I could not focus. What everyone wanted me to do, needed me to do… it just became too much, and it plagued my thoughts like an endlessly ringing bell. The pressure of the test made me collapse in front of a full congregation, and I took that… poorly. I don’t have the luxury to fail! I need to succeed! When I reached D-rank one and I qualified to take the test… it all rushed back and…”

  “Artorian, I am supposed to become a leader of the order—a frontline force and beacon of the Choir. I sought endless opportunities to overcome my fears and cope, but in truth, while I have the title now, it only sickens me. I feel an unbearable weight fill me. Uncertainty creeps into my head, and it screams at me that I will not succeed. I was told, endlessly, that this is my fate. A Head Cleric is just not who I am. I can fight with the best of them, but leading? Being in charge, determining the fate of the people that rely on me? It’s this fearful thing that haunts me with every s-step.”

  Jiivra wrenched her hands together as the words and worries gushed out like water from a broken dam. More of the same message kept spilling from her—with a few repetitions—as the woman started to heavily stutter and lose focus. Artorian patted her hands to break her out the spiral that she had fallen into. “Allow a few words from this old fool, my dear. A truth that is small, like a coddled flame.”

  The old man released her hands. After years of bottling up her fears and anxieties, the invitation of support felt amazing. Jiivra regarded Artorian and, for a moment, was a small girl again. His calm, grandfatherly countenance set her at ease, the crackle of the fire making the back of her neck tingle. Jiivra’s anxious mind craved whatever nugget of hope he might offer that would help her fulfill the duties she so dreaded. She felt trapped by her assigned obligations.

  “Fate this, fate that,” he rumbled the words out, slightly upset with them. “A secret for you is that, in truth, there is no such thing as fate, just as there is no such thing as talent. When someone else wants you to take on a role, it is frequently masked by mentions of ‘fate’. Oh, she’s fated to be this. Oh, she’s fated to be that.”

  He waved that prospect away. “No! You are not stuck being what someone else wants you to be! That’s not their choice to make. A sense of identity, who you are, is decided entirely by you. You can choose to be who you want to be. Fate is a cheap comfort and nothing more. It is the lie someone holds on to when they don’t know what to do with themselves, and we know that is not true for you.”

  Artorian stopped speaking and leaned away, reaching for a small, bound book he’d been gifted. Opening it, he showed her that the entire interior was blank. He flipped the cover t
o the first page, laid a quill next to it, and popped open an inkwell that joined the other tools on the little table.

  “Write,” he said this word with certainty, confident about the message he’d given her. “Write your hopes, your dreams, your wants. Ignore what everyone else has told you. Close your thoughts to such whispers and listen only to the words that come purely from you.”

  Jiivra was hesitant and didn’t particularly feel comfortable with this command. Still, she felt so off-balance that she took the quill, dipped it, and without saying a word, slipped into the mode that made her follow orders. Orders were easy. Orders were convenient. She thought of her dreams when she was in the convent, what she had declared with her prideful mouth. Endlessly getting in trouble and laughing off the repercussions before the rank and file structure became her life and the call to become a Paladin consumed her. The first page was filled before she looked up to notice it.

  Artorian had remained quiet the entire time. He’d not interrupted or even moved. With her realization that she’d written so much, the old man slowly started easing the cover closed. Without resistance, he took the quill from her hesitant grip. Loud, sharp scratches ripped into the cover as he carved colored letters rather than merely scribe them. When he was done and returned the book, she took it and read what he’d etched. Emotions bubbled inside of her, and the weight in her stomach fluctuated.

  The front of the book now read ‘Jiivra’s Fate’.

  Her brow furrowed, and she questioned the old man with a look. Artorian remained calm, merely smiling at her. “Your fate, my dear. Fate as chosen by the only person that has say over it. You. Keep that pocketbook; it’s yours. Together, you’ll journey far.”

  Jiivra didn’t have words as she watched the old man prepare to move to his next task. He unfurled the cloth and pressed the Memory Stone to his forehead. It didn’t seem too exciting from her perspective, but she remembered what it had been like for her. When Jiivra saw his face, she sighed and had to roll her eyes.