Deadhouse Landing

He stopped, as did the newcomer. He studied the person as one might interrogate a mirage. Female, near his age, a far lower-ranked priestess unfamiliar to him, holding a torch and carrying a small iron box under one arm.

She bowed to him, murmuring, ‘Tayschrenn.’

He answered the bow. ‘Priestess.’

The resins and pitch of the torch popped and hissed between them, unnaturally loud in the utter silence. The torch he understood; and after a moment, the box as well. Many were the annual rituals and observations that the cult of D’rek was required to perform, and this box must be concerned with one such. Few knew the list of all the duties. Perhaps the box held an item that had to be replenished, or a scroll to be read in a certain location, or some offering to be made at a certain day and time. Or, some whispered, unmentionable food for things that had to be fed.

The priestess bowed again, murmured, ‘My condolences,’ and continued on her way.

He turned after her, his brows crimping. ‘I’m sorry – did you say “condolences”?’

She stopped, turned as well. ‘Oh. I am sorry. I thought you knew. Our guiding light, Lord Demidrek Ithell, passed on not two days ago.’

‘Ah – I see. No, I did not know. Thank you for informing me.’

The priestess bowed again, then went away down the tunnel.

Tayschrenn watched the sputtering flame of her torch diminish into the distance, turn an unseen corner, and be swallowed by the dark. He searched his emotions. He knew that the man’s death had been close, was inevitable, and that he should rejoice now that D’rek had taken him to her breast. Yet he was saddened. The man had been a kind spirit. Had shown him great generosity and patience. Had been the closest thing he could consider to a father, given that he possessed no memories of his life prior to his abandonment to the streets. Turning, he quickened his pace and headed to the nearest route up.

*   *   *

He found the main halls of the temple complex given over to the requisite mourning. Candles burned at every intersection and those ranked of the black all walked with cowls raised, heads bowed in prayer. Incantation and whispered songs of veneration murmured through the halls.

He headed for the Demidrek’s private quarters to offer his services, should there be anything to be done.

Here he found his way barred by a lower-ranked priest, one Feneresh, of no particular talent save a rigid unimaginative devotion to the rules and procedural minutiae of the cult.

‘Tayschrenn,’ the younger man greeted him. ‘What is your business?’

He was rather taken aback by the blunt words, but collected himself. ‘I offer my services, of course, should they be required.’

The fellow inclined his shaven head in acknowledgement, his thin lips pursing. ‘All is taken care of. You need not concern yourself.’

‘I see. Well, may I kneel before our Demidrek and offer my prayers?’

‘The remains have been removed for interment. You are free to pray before the icons of the Demidreks in the temple proper, of course.’

Tayschrenn tried to peer in past the shorter fellow to the private quarters beyond, but all was shrouded in darkness and low guttering candles. ‘I see. Very well. My thanks, brother.’

‘Of course. Glory be to D’rek.’

‘Ah … yes.’ He turned to go, but Feneresh cleared his throat and so he turned back. ‘Yes?’

The priest pointed to his waist. ‘Your honorary rank has been rescinded, of course.’

Tayschrenn frowned, confused for a moment, then realization came and he started. ‘Oh! Of course.’ He unwrapped the crimson sash and handed it over. Feneresh folded the cloth and tucked it away.

Tayschrenn bowed his farewell and turned to leave, but the younger priest cleared his throat once more. He swung back, rather vexed now. ‘What is it?’

Feneresh tapped a finger to his cowl. Tayschrenn frowned again, but suddenly understood and offered a stiff smile. He threw up his cowl and marched off.

Twice in his life Tayschrenn had experienced the terror of earthquakes when the very rock shook beneath one’s feet and was revealed as unreliable, even deceptive. And as he walked the dim halls to his cell it struck him as odd that although this time the rock had not moved, he felt just as shaken. Just as in an earthquake, a blow had struck unlooked for and sudden, and he felt knocked sideways, strangely unsure of everything.

He needed to find his centre once more. He needed to meditate. Most of all, he needed to consider why his hands were fists hidden within his robes, why his pulse was a painful pressure at his temples and his breath short and laboured – and why he, a priest, was boiling with rage.

*   *   *

Three days later Tayschrenn was once more sitting in the Great Hall of the temple, a bowl of thin vegetable broth and a crust of dry bread before him. He’d studiously avoided the hall these last few days, but a General Assembly had been called and so he felt obliged to attend. The broad cavernous chamber was now more jammed than he had ever seen it.