17ish

The seas were cold as the boat carrying the priests tossed on the northern seas. It was winter here, and the trip from summery Kedon had not been a smooth one. Veren had argued that they stay, and maintain a watch on the village of Kemal, but Reth had over-ruled him, and loaded the boats for home.

The rajik had been rejoined with the priests, to make room on the boats; Veren thought of summoning his spirit-familiar from inside him, but decided against it.. It he rebelled much more on this journey, he might not be allowed to return. He could feel the wolfish spirit stir restlessly, and closed his eyes. The cold did not bother him, and his eyelashes were rimed with frost.

"Come men, a storm is brewing, and we will need all hands at the sails. Up, now, and to work!" Veren heaved himself to his feet at Reth's words, and grabbed a line.

The sea roared and foamed, snowflakes beginning to hiss into the brine. Reth shouted again, and began a temple chant. It was wordless and eerie, and seemed to match the rising wind. The other joined in one by one, and the boat rose on the wave crests and crashed into the troughs. As the chant reached its peak, one of the younger priests stood and, clinging to the mast, began to sing ancient words:

"Let us now shed this empty shell
And plunge into the waters of spirit
Whem we shall have pure hearts
In the land where no shadows lie

Guide us into the morning light
Free us from these bounds of clay
Bring our spirits up from the earth
Into the land were no shadows lie."

The words were strong, and the tune wild and sad, and the boat tossed through the snow-filled air, forward into the northern night.
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The ship landed safely near dawn, and the priests unloaded their cargo in the early morning light. Afterward, many of the younger ones made their way towards the women's island, but Veren had long since eradicated all trace of physical desire from his body. He could hardly look upon a woman without despising her body, her movements, her capacity for seduction. He had spawned the child required of him. After all, the numbers of the priesthood must be maintained until the face of Ersada was scrubbed clean of all but spirit.
He strode quickly up the street of rough-hewn stone, boots clattering on the frozen surface. A few servants were milling around, going about their duties, and they quickly scattered to either side of the pathway. They were a diverse lot; some had the round faces and brown hair of the Ersans, others had the deep brown skin and honey-colored hair of those from the Astaldak islands, and many had the black hair and fine features of the Kedonese. Their diversity was in marked contrast to the priests, who had skin almost as pale as the snow, hair a dull black like the sea at night, and eyes of a brilliant green.

The path lead steeply upward to the top of the rocky hill. At the crest of the hill, a space was cleared, and stone tiled covered the ground to make a floor, and three priests were already standing in their places. Veren advanced slowly, then dropped to his knees and lay prone on the cold stones.

“You may rise, Veren.” The words were half-lost in the wind that whipped across the hill, but Veren had been trained to respond to small details, and he rose to his feet.

“Where is Reth? He was the leader of the voyage, it is his place to make the report.”

“He was delayed in unloading the boats. I am fully capable of making the report.”

The elder priest smirked slightly. “It is not your capability that we are calling into question, Veren, but your authority to do so.”

Veren colored slightly, but restrained his emotions, and bowed. He turned on his heel, and began to retrace his steps when the elder called him back. “Stay, Veren. You must not be so quick to let emotion master you. You take great pride in being impassive to emotions of desire, love, or hunger, but you are still easily provoked by anger. It binds you to this earth, and you must learn to release it.”

Veren bowed again, the fire of his eyes dimming slightly. “I live only to purge this world, master Huil.”

Huil nodded, and spoke the ancient blessing over his bent form: “May He who is spirit alone keep you in his paths, and release you from your bonds when your work is done.”

Veren straightened up, and looked at Huil, a question in his proud eyes. Huil replied, “Yes, Veren, stay. Give us your report, and we will take it into consideration. Reth can give us a fuller report later.”

Again Veren bowed, then began. “We set out eastward from these shores, as you know.While passing through the seas that cover dead Suktis, we came across a boat of Selidian witches performing their rites over the waters. After a short battle, we released the spirits of all aboard, and sank the boat into the depths. We sailed over the seas for three months before we landed on the shores of Kedon. Knowing that our fellow priests were residing in Perzelsis, we decided to visit other parts of the land. We landed on the eastern shore, and docked the boat. We found a dockmaser who agreed to our terms for storing the boat, and left it in his care. We made our way slowly along the eastern shore, heading south. The villagers detained us in each town along the way, asking for judgement on small legal matters. The Kedonese religion is still as barbaric as it ever was, though it seems that some small headway has been made in persuading them to worship one god instead of many. Perhaps in the end they can be brought around to the truth, but I doubt it. They are still so attached to the physical shells that there is not much hope there. They rejoice in their gardens, lands, and possessions. The women spend far too much time and money on self-adornements, and the men do little to correct them. As we made our way south, we came to a village known as Kemal. We spent a week there, camped on the outskirts of the village, and observed many things.”

Veren paused in his recitation, then continued more intensely. “I believe there to be a Selidian witch residing in Kemal. She may even have succeeded in calling down a spirit from dead Suktis to emprison it in a new shell. Her mistress fell ill with a fever, but recovered suddenly on the fourth day. On that morning, as I wandered across the dunes of the desert that stretches for miles outside the village, I saw the housekeeper burn a small packet of herbs, and caught a whiff of the smoke from the fire. It was herkila, I am sure of it. There is no mistaking that smell.”

Huil looked up with a start. “Herkila? No-one knows of its uses for fever except us, and the Selidians. Are you certain?”

Veren nodded. “There is more that eliminated all doubt in my mind. The morning that the first child was born to the mistress of the household, the maid sang while drawing water from the well in their garden. She sang the Dream of Suktis.”

“And the child? What of the child? Was she born with the markings of the Suktisian soul?” Huil’s words were quick and sharp.

“I do not know, Master Huil.”

“You do not know? How can you not know? Do you know how serious a thing this could be? Such a binding of soul and spirit could set our work because a thousand years, ten thousand if the child reaches maturity and breeds.”

The wind gusted through the clearing, sweeping snow across the clearing. The sun was beginning peek through the thick grey clouds, but only as a pale disk, soon covered by the fog again. “I would have examined the child, master, if it had been my decision. But it had already been decided to move on that day, and I could do nothing against the will of the united group.”

Huil scoffed slightly, “You could do nothing against the will of the group? I find that hard to believe, Veren. You seem determined to have your will in everything, regardless of what anyone says. But enough of this, we must consult, and decide what is to be done. We will make our judgement after we hear from Reth. If you see him, please tell him to attend us here immediately. You may go now.”

The priest prostrated himself again, lying face down in the blowing snow; then he rose and turned to go back down the path. Reth stood there, obviously on his way to see the council. The two mens’ eyes met; both paused, knowing what had transpired. Veren’s eyes glowed brightly in the gloom, assured of his victory. He would be sent back to Kemal, and would finally be able to capture the consciousness of the Suktisian priestess. Only a few more years, and he would stand again in the Council Hall fo the Historians, and be acclaimed as a counselor. Reth drew back, reading betrayal and accusation in the others’ eyes. He straightened himself, and turned to enter the circle of the Masters, determined to meet his fate.

Veren’s black robes billowed in the wind as he walked quickly towards the large stone building which housed all priests who resided on the island. At any given time, there might be up to one thousand priests on the island, and as many on each of the other islands in the cluster of islands that made up the Temaltan lands. As many as five thousand priests roamed the other lands under their control, trading goods and services, judging cases brought before them by the people, and slowly cleansing the world of its attachment to the material. The work was slow, but steady; the fall of the heretics in Suktis had quickened the process.
The path to the residence building lead out to the very edge of the cliffs the rose from the beach; he’d been told that the priests made their home here, because of the mixture of the elements. Earth, sky, and sea all met here, and fire was easily summoned. The wind blew in strongly from the sea, and he wiped a thin layer of frost from his cheeks.
The residence was a large boxy stone building built of rough stones, quarried from the nearby stone. As he strode through the entrance, five long columns of stone blocks met his eye. Nothing was laid on them at the moment, but by evening most would become the resting place of a priest or acolyte.
At the back of the building was the storehouse that held all of the clothing and supplies that were available for the priests’ use. He pulled back the heavy curtain, and examined the grizzled man who sat behind the counter.
“Hello Veren.” The man bowed slightly, his rough beard brushing the collar of his cloak. “I see you have returned. Reth just sent back the load of clothing and leathers that survived the voyage. It will probably take my boys two months to brush the sand out of them, not to mention all the salt from the ocean.”
Veren did not respond, but let his eyes roam over the rows of tall shelves stacked with black robes, cloaks, trousers, belts, sheaths, and other sundry items often used by priests when on journeys away from the island. “How quickly could you equip a force of a hundred men, Nahol?”
The other man stroked his beard thoughtfully, and tapped his fingers along the ccounter as if tallying beads. “Let’s see…belts, robes, the basics…But the food could be a problem. Theextra crops have almost been used, and it will be a difficult winter as it is. I do not think we can stock the food you need until next harvest.”
Veren’s green eyes blazed and he slammed a leather-gloved fist down on the stone counter. “And by then it will be too late in the year to set sail, and I shall have to wait until the following spring! It is too long!”
Nahol looked at him unfazed. “Control your anger, Veren. You are acting shamefully. If your journey is so important, it will be worth it to you to take the time to do the thing well, instead of dashing off at the first moment.”
Veren turned away, cursing under his breath, and ran his fingers through his hair, shaking loose a shower of dried salt and sand. “I will see what the council has to say about this.”
“Yes, actually, I think that is a very fine idea.” Nahol turned away from the counter, and went back to checking his tallies of items returned from the Kedon voyagers.

As Veren stormed out of the residence building, his anger began to cool. Perhaps Nahol was right; there would likely be no possible way to prudently set out before the following spring. The idea chafed at him, but facts were facts. He sighed, and turned his steps towards the training grounds on the far side of the priests’ grounds. There was much to be done; the summons from the council would come soon, and he would need to be prepared to present his plan to them.
As he neared the training grounds, he could hear the sounds of shouts and the clang of metal, and occaisionally the softer thump of flesh against flesh. The training ground was composed of large open areas, delineated from each other by thin rows of rocks that traced across the ground. Veren thought back to his own youthful days upon this field. He had spent over fifteen years training daily in the arts of his order; he remembered well the sight of bruises welling upon pale flesh and the color of blood suddenly spilt upon rock. On particularly cold days, one could even see the steam rising from the bare backs of the young combatants like a light fog. Today was too hazy to see any such phenomenon, but the field was full, despite the cold. Towards the back of the field he could see the youngest acolytes learning to duel with the staff; he doubted that the youngest could be older than five summers. In the middle were the boys, perhaps aged eight through twelve, before their bodies had lost the boniness of childhood and gained the muscularity that would mark their transition. The young men trained in the field nearest him, and he watched the mock battles. One team was armed with the thick staffs called gelds; the other had the short swords that were peculiar to the priests of Temalta. The swords had a thick hilt, and a round pommel, and had a deep fuller down the length of the blade. Each blade had a smaller blade that sprung from it, the space between the two blades could be used to trap an opponent’s weapon. The blades glittered in the light as the young men fought, and the staffs landed resounding blows. He knew that those in training were encouraged not to harm their companions, but a few men were lost every year. It was the price of training. When the time came for the young men to learn to land deadly blows, slaves and criminals from other lands were brought in to fight them. Ersan fighters were most prized, since Ersa was well populated, but their people were little more than savages. It did no harm to them if a few hundred of their people were released every year. The priests even did them the kindness of saying the proper blessings over the bodies so that the souls might be free, and never return to the physical realm. It was a kindness that they did not merit, Veren mused, but it was given anyway.
One of the training masters blocked a blow with his staff, and gave the offender a quick blow to the back of his legs, knocking him to his knees. The trainer looked up and caught Veren’s eyes. He raised a hand in greeting, and signaled to the other masters. In a moment, the mock battle had halted; Veren could see blood streaming from several noses, and one or two deep cuts, but no-one seemed seriously injured this time.
“Greetings, master Kaelin. It looks like you have a fine bunch of novices this year.” Veren ran an appraising eye over the crowd of bruised bodies.
“Well, they may do in time. I only have a few ready to take their vows this year, but perhaps more the next. The women have not been producing as many boys lately; we may have to bring some more of them in to boost the numbers in the nurseries. But it will do for now.”
Veren smiled, and stepped forward. “I sincerely hope so. There may be need of them.” A low murmur ran through the crowd, and Kaelin held up a hand to silence it. “Is that so? Well, I take it that nothing has been decreed by the Council yet, since I know of no pressing need, but I shall take your word for it. You can count on me; you will have as many men as you need. I have been thinking of stepping up the training a notch or two for some time now, this will give me a good chance to do so.” A light sparked in the training master’s eyes, and he held out his staff to Veren. “Perhaps you’d like to demonstrate to the children what a fully trained priest is capable of? You may be able to inspire a little life in them.” The older boys stirred sullenly, holding their battered bodies erect with pride.

The green-eyed priest took the staff, and hefted it, testing its weight. He smiled, and handed it to one of the other masters. “Hold this for me while I prepare.” He stripped off his cloak, and slipped out of his tunic. His body was toned and muscular, though he could count his ribs. There was not an ounce of fat on his body, and every tendon flexed in readiness. He wrapped his sinewy fingers around the staff, and twirled it a few times, accustoming himself to its balance.
Kaelin looked over the crowd of novices, and pointed to a few of them. “You, you, you, and…you. Take a sword, and come test our priest’s skills. See if you can so much as land a blow on him.”

Veren closed his eyes and reached deep within himself to the core of his spirit. He felt his flesh melt into the spirit, and let the spirit suffuse him with its purity. He half heard the ring of metal as the youths drew their swords, and spun to knock away the first of their blows. One quick strike with the butt of the staff knocked a youth to the ground, and he lay there senseless. The others closed in quickly, and he easily blocked their wild slashes.
The other boys stood looking on, amazed at the easer with which Veren struck their comrades down. More than once, one of the novices scrambled back to his feet only in time to be dealt another blow. Soon, only one boy was left conscious, and he danced warily out of reach. Veren waited, holding the staff loosely; the boy was wary to come within his reach again.
Suddenly, the priest leaped forward, and, catching the boy by surprise, knocked him to the ground and knelt upon his back, holding the staff down across the youth’s neck. He caught the young arms and pinned them in one practiced movement. The young man could not move without cutting off his supply of air, but continued to struggle and gasp for breath. Veren leaned down and whispered into his ear, “Let it go, boy. You cling to this life and body too readily. Relish the pain, for it will free your soul from its prison.” He dropped the staff, and rose to his feet as the boy took in great gulps of air, and scrambled back to his companions, bruised and bleeding from a cut across his forehead.
“You see, children? This is what a man who is freed from desire and attachment can do. I garuntee you that there is no pain you can inflict on him that he will not glory in, and death will be his greatest reward. Are any of you ready to die? Are any of you so free of attachment that you would fight with his abandon? None! None!” Kaelin spat into the ground at the feet of the front line of novices. “Until you can relinquish your hold on this world, you will remain infants, babies sucking at the withered teat of a corpse!”
Veren stood quietly, feeling the cold begin to prickle against his skin. He looked out over the crowd, and saw the green fire begin to burn behind their eyes. He smiled slightly; they would be ready.

Two years later, in the spring, a small fleet set out from the rocky shores of the priests’ island. The journey had been delayed for another year; fighting had broken out in Ersa where the natives had begun trying to build a fleet of warships. It had taken the better part of that summer and autumn to defeat them, and there had been no men to spare for his undertaking. But now they were setting out; Veren stood in the prow of the flagship, feeling the spray against his face. With one hand on the curved beam that swept up from the keel, he stood swaying in rhythm to the ship’s rolling, and looked out to the eastern horizon.
Soon.