NOVEL NEXT 196. [INTERLUDE] To Catch an Oathkeeper
196. [INTERLUDE] To Catch an Oathkeeper
[Designation: THE PRESTIGE]
[Instrument Class: PRIMAL]
[Anchored Realm: TIDEREIGN (+2)]
[Item Description: We sentient souls are endlessly fascinated by the obscure. The boundary between light and dark where any color is possible. The shadows that dance from one heart to another's eyes. The pledge, the turn, and the final reveal. The question that germinates from the earth, and the answer that hangs from the sky.]
***
For much of her life, Peridot aft'Sheeran had managed to stay on the straight and narrow, as was only expected of one of the faceless herd.
A farmer she was born, and a farmer she would remain to the end of her days. Get up at the crack of Dawn to feed the chickens. Breakfast of plain porridge, then off to the fields. Weed, plant, harvest as the seasons demanded. Muck out the stables. Wash the linens and hang them out to dry. As Dusk approached, she'd return to the safe shelter of her clay house, where she'd scrub herself clean of the Day's sweat and toil. To ready herself for the next.
Farm work came with variety, and there was always something for her to do. But variety and diligence could only get you through the Day. When the same cycle repeated itself again and again with no end in sight, an inquiring mind had to wonder: what is it all for?
One day, she found the answer where she'd least expected it.
It'd been the start of planting season then, not two Days past Peridot's oathing age. She'd got up at the crack of Dawn and fed the chickens. She'd dressed herself and marched to the fields, ready (and now oathbound) to face the toil of another Day. And that was how she met him.
"Good morning."
A fresh-faced smile, missing one tooth to make him look even younger than he already did. A jolly paunch around the waist that his starched Templar's robe couldn't fully hide. The smile had taken on a shy flush as it was met by Peridot's doe-eyed stare.
"Good morning."
She'd forgotten to salute him, even though she knew the custom for greeting a member of the Templar Order. A second or two had passed in awkward silence then, as the man's face darkened another shade, enough for his embarrassment to show through his russet fur. In the end, he'd merely flashed his youthful smile anew, instantly folding himself and Peridot into a conspiracy privy only to them.
"My name is Drumlin aft'Rafferty. Erm, Bishop Rafferty, I suppose I should say. I'm meant to start my patrols this Morning, but I've already managed to turn myself around. I'm looking for"—he'd peered down at a parchment in his hand—"the Sheeran farmstead. Would you happen to—"
"You're looking at it. My name is Peridot aft'Sheeran."
Drumlin had blinked a few times, before his face had lit up with an even bigger smile.
"Well, it seems the Keeper hasn't forsaken me yet. Erm, let's see, then. Where to next?"
"I could help you."
"Hm?"
"Well, I reckon I'd know most if not all the names on your list. I could take you around and make introductions."
Drumlin had looked up from his parchment and blinked at her again, obviously nonplussed. It'd been Peridot's turn to flush a rosy tan.
"That is," she'd turned her gaze away and mumbled, "only if you'd like me to, Bishop Raf—"
"Call me Drumlin," had been his quick reply, "and, erm, may I call you Peridot?"
She'd nodded, eyes still turned to the patrolman's boots.
"Well, Peridot, if you don't mind, I'd love for you to take me around your neighborhood."
And that had been that. The answer to the question.
It was so simple in the end. All Peridot needed to understand the why of it all—to look forward to the start of each and every Day—was to have someone to share it with.
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***
Outside the refectory, Daylight dimmed rapidly, faster than could be accounted for by the passing of the hours. Dark clouds had gathered in the skies over Dawnwick, and already the streets were mottled by the evening's first drizzles. Welcome tidings for farmers, yet Peridot couldn't find it in her to celebrate the rain.
I should be getting home soon. The notion came to her unbidden, almost like a reflex. I wonder if the Viceroy's carriage is still waiting for us outside.
Even as she had the thought, she knew its futility. Barely past her oathing age though Peridot might be, she was no dullard. She could tell which way the wind blew, and it certainly wasn't homeward.
The man sitting across from her wore the same Templar's robe as her Drumlin, if somewhat exaggerated in pomp and ceremony. But Realgar aft'Enright's 'smile' showed none of his teeth, missing or otherwise. Indeed, it barely even reached his eyes.
"You do understand, don't you, Goodlass Sheeran?" The Viceroy broke the silence. His voice was dulcet in an almost doe-like way, yet it somehow carried an undeniable finality. "Understand the role the Keeper has envisioned for you toNight?"
Peridot hesitated, then nodded quickly to mask her hesitation. Not quick enough, apparently. The Viceroy's smile froze upon his face.
"Need I remind you," he said, voice as tender as if he were a father speaking to his child, "the why of it all? You're far from the only soul to have suffered at the Butcher's hand."
Claws sharp enough to slash open the very skies. Drumlin's lifeless body, torn from throat to navel, his missing tooth now making him look deader than he already was.
Rationally, Peridot understood that her Drumlin would come back to her on the Morrow, 'as good as new'. Yet, somehow, that only made his death all the more gruesome and senseless.
The farm girl retched, and not for the first time during this conversation. But she managed to hold it together. Had to hold it together, both for her own and Drumlin's sakes.
"For far too long, this vile beast—this outsider—has brought our whole city to heel," the Viceroy continued, carefully watching Peridot's reaction all the while. "But no more. ToNight, we finally have the means to put an end to it once and for all. The Keeper has summoned for us a new and indispensable ally from the beyond. The Keeper has shown me the way—a vision of the future where we stand victorious over the Butcher's carcass. But you, Goodlass Sheeran, must lead us there. Do you think you can do it?"
Peridot aft'Sheeran was no dullard, and she knew the difference between question and command. She was oathbound to serve the Keeper any way she must. Thankfully, on this occasion, her oath happened to be in perfect alignment with the fury that roared within her heart.
She nodded again, eyes hard and absent hesitation.
"Good." For a moment, the Viceroy's smile took on a hint of real warmth, something a father might reserve for his child. "Well, with that settled, I turn you over to the capable hands of Bishop Hanafin. Sister?"
The young woman who'd accompanied Viceroy Enright to the refectory had done so with an escoffion upon her head. It was a bulky, veiled headdress certain Mriga women wore on their wedding Days or otherwise during rituals where privacy and anonymity were paramount. And as soon as this Bishop Hanafin lifted her veils to reveal her visage, Peridot implicitly understood the escoffion's purpose.
The Keeper save me, Peridot swore inwardly, thankful the Templars weren't mindreaders on top of being spellcasters. With a face like that, she could bring the whole city to heel just by walking through the streets unveiled.
To the farm girl's shame, her first inclination was to meet this effortlessly, inescapably, upsettingly beautiful creature with a kind of guarded hostility. The shame only grew as the woman regarded her in turn with nothing more or less than an equanimous smile.
"The Keeper be with you, Sister Sheeran," Bishop Hanafin said, breaking from convention in more ways than one, "and thank you kindly for assisting with Templar work. I'm going to anoint you now, and entrust one of my veil-wings to you. As long as one butterfly is tethered to your person, it should guide you through the Night while also keeping you 'moored' to the Day."
At this, Peridot couldn't help but frown. But the woman's smile never faltered.
"I know it doesn't make much sense," Bishop Hanafin went on, voice surprisingly throaty yet all the more soothing because of it. "Often, I too have trouble understanding my own power. Which is why it's best experienced rather than explained. May I?"
Soothed and coaxed by a woman who couldn't be that much older than herself, Peridot nonetheless nodded her obedience. She had no earthly idea what she'd just consented to. Then, she sucked in a sharp breath and held it, as Bishop Hanafin suddenly glowed the color of raw umber.
A butterfly with variegated wings left its roost and floated toward Peridot's face. It then hovered and fluttered in place, asking a soundless question of its temporary host. The farm girl answered instinctively and without hesitation, cupping her hands together and offering their hollow as the butterfly's new perch.
As soon as Peridot felt the touch of the so-called 'veil-wings', her whole world changed.
Grief. Guilt. Love. Yearning. Lust. Envy. Fear. Fury. Hatred and the thirst for vengeance.
For one Ksana, every individual element within her roiling tempest of emotions roared aflash and made itself known. Then, just as quickly, they all flattened and merged into a single, uniform flame.
Understanding came to her in an instant. Duty and desire. Affirm and breach. Day and Night. They were all two sides of the same coin. Nothing for her to fear or be ashamed of. And everything for her to accept, to exalt, to feed upon as kindling to a roaring pyre.
There was no trick to it. No rigid dogma nor complicated magic. All Peridot needed to brave the fast-approaching Night—to face the monster of her nightmare and her dream—was to follow her heart. And only her heart.
Bishop Hanafin's impossibly beautiful visage disappeared once more behind an elaborate veil. Beside her, Viceroy Enright studied Peridot's expression with a faint, pensive frown. He must've liked what he'd seen, for his own face soon broke into a self-satisfied smile, showing just a sliver of a perfectly intact set of teeth.
"Good," he said again, and for the last time toDay. "Be off with you then, Goodlass Sheeran, and may the Keeper guide your soul. I promise that you shall have your vengeance, ere the sun rises anew."
Outside the refectory, the clouds gathered in darkness and the rain gained in strength. Somewhere lower down the hill, the farmers of Dawnwick would be rejoicing as they readied themselves for another Day. But right now, that was none of Peridot's concern.