The Archpriest’s voice echoed through the long sanctuary, full of strength and certainty. Head bowed to regard the dark, red and orange pillow beneath her knees, Niamh committed each word to her prayer. “Hallowed be his heavens, holy be his people,” intoned their young, dark-haired leader, and Niamh repeated the benediction aloud. Her voice was joined by two hundred others—a chorus praising their celestial guide, their Atmos. The familiarity of this practice stirred Niamh as much as her sense of their heavenly deity.
After the prayer service concluded, Niamh tucked her pillow beneath one arm and smoothed her serene grey robes. She smiled to the brothers and sisters she recognized and waved slightly when she saw Tib on the other side of an aisle. She would catch up with her friends later though, for she had the afternoon off from her responsibilities and had planned a visit to the chapel where she had grown up.
It was a sunny day outside the large sanctuary. The grounds of the Grey Temple were bustling with midday activity. Priests of the Sage’s Creed emerged from the transcribing halls with squinting eyes and ink-stained fingers—eager for a taste of the freshly-baked bread that saturated the courtyard with its rich aroma. Niamh’s kin of the Speaker’s Creed walked slowly, stretching sore legs and backs after their hours of spiritual communion with Atmos. As lunch was to be served soon, everyone was out, flocking to the orchard, dorms, or dining hall.
Niamh ducked into the dormitories briefly to stash her prayer pillow by her bunk, and then hurried outside once more. At least the prayer service had not been as long as the Advancement had been, a few weeks earlier. Her knees had truly hurt by the time the new Archpriests had taken their oaths before Atmos.
Cutting across the clusters of her brethren, Niamh kept her head down. She had nothing to hide, but she was eager to reach the gardens where she had grown up. She caught a glimpse of herself in the stained glass windows of the Cardinal Creed hall—curly brown hair, round shoulders, alert eyes—and then was past, heading through the gate, and out into the streets of the sprawling city.
Saanazar at the sun’s zenith was always overwhelming, though Niamh had never known anyplace else. Merchants and peddlers sold wares ranging from glass and precious metals to dyes and silks, and local foods. Markets guards, mercenaries, and imperial soldiers from Burnt Keep patrolled the crowds for various purposes. Recent travelers, still garbed in revealing tribal attire, wandered amidst groups of sailors and well-meaning labourers. Niamh passed a few other Grey Brethren—as the commoners called them—and bobbed her head to them politely. The buzz of conversation, the smell of seafood dishes and baking, the distant hammering of a metalsmith—the cacophony assaulted Niamh’s senses.
It was quiet in Myla’s garden. The chapel where Niamh had been raised was nearly an hour’s walk from the hill of Grey Temple, but it was worth the walk. The chapel was steepled with a wood spire, painted grey of course, while its sanctuary was only large enough to seat fifty or sixty people. A few small living quarters and a kitchen were built into the side of the structure, forming the second boundary of the small community garden that Niamh sought.
“Sister Niamh,” Myla said, when the younger priestess arrived between the vine-clad fence posts.
“Sister Myla,” Niamh replied. It always felt strange to call her a sister, but Myla had insisted ever since Niamh had left the chapel to join her kin at the Grey Temple. They were only this formal, though, when first meeting.
“How was the prayer?” Myla asked. The motherly abbess had wrinkles below both eyes and creases that gave her a serene but always-present smile.
Niamh rolled her shoulders. “It was better than the Advancement Ceremony,” she said.
Myla raised her eyebrows admonishingly, but then looked back at the garden. Judging by the small blade and the bucket, she had been cutting away any wilted leaves she could find. As Niamh joined her, Myla then said what was on her mind, explaining how historic it was to see new Archpriests appointed—something that ought to only occur once or twice in a lifetime. Furthermore, it showed the perseverance of the Brethren—for the former Archpriests had been lost in that senseless attack in the harbour of Saanazar nearly a year earlier.
It wasn’t that Niamh disagreed, but she had found it physically difficult to sit through the whole ceremony.
Later, after Niamh had shared some stories of her friends, Myla asked her to pick up some new seeds from a larger garden nearer the Grey Temple. It was only slightly out of her way. Myla told her she could return them on the morrow or that evening if she chose. Niamh had been to the other garden a few times before, so she headed there on the way. One of the full-time labourers that cared for the garden pointed the young priestess to the storage shed on the north side of the large plots.
Inside, Niamh found a few small sets of drawers. She scanned the alphabetic labels until finding the one sought by her adoptive mother. The drawer in question was jammed, so she gave it a good tug, but nearly knocked the whole thing over. As it happened, she knocked her back into the other drawers, as the tiny storehouse was incredibly cramped.
Checking that nothing was about to fall, Niamh noticed a small white corner peaking out from below the cabinet into which she had backed. She knelt and tugged at it—a folded sheet of paper slid out. Someone must have dropped their letter in there. She untied the string that held the letter closed and quickly skimmed it: “To end all tears. Thank you for the news from the front, brother. The Creed must convene on this. That sorcerer must be stopped. We will likely meet again at the Redlon Estate—the details will follow.” Aside from the strange phrases, there was no addressee—nor was there any signature.
Niamh didn’t think it would be good for the paper to be in the dirt beneath the drawers, so she retied the string and set the paper in the drawer most directly above it. She finished finding Myla’s seeds, then reported the strange note to one of the senior gardeners of the property. He squinted at her in the sun, then simply nodded and went back to work.
It was a quieter walk back to Myla’s chapel—only the taverns were bustling by this hour. It wasn’t overly late, but most of Saanazar’s workforce returned home for dinner. She didn’t really know what to make of the cryptic letter she had found, but it seemed clear that it was referring to the sorcerer that commanded the foreign bandit armies. She had not had permission to read such a missive—lost as it had been—so she didn’t mention that she had found it.
Instead, Niamh asked Myla if she should be worried about an impending invasion.
“I suppose there’s some cause for concern—these are unprecedented times,” Myla admitted. “But the Atmos Septi are doing their part, Niamh. With the alliances we’ve been forming, we will help protect our good people.”
Niamh nodded. Her mind wandered—what else could the letter have been discussing? She asked, “What do you think of the new Archpriests? If we are facing such unprecedented times…are they, hmm, qualified for this?”
“Of course,” Myla said, with a nod. “Tobud was the closest assistant to Archpriest Morrus, grant him peace. I don’t know the new Archpriest of the Speaker’s Creed as well, but Speaker Serand would not agree to be advised by anyone less than the best.”
“Right, sorry,” Niamh said, shaking her head. “Here I’ve been questioning what is clearly Atmos’ will—and complaining about my sore knees.”
Myla smiled softly. “We all have aches and pains, Niamh. Nothing wrong with that.”
Seeds delivered, Niamh quickly made her way through the growing shadows of the twilight streets. She took the most direct path back to Grey Temple, though she had avoided it during the chaotically busy midday hours. The guards of the Grey Temple let her pass without question—she was a familiar face and wore the familiar vestment. Niamh hurried across the nearly empty courtyard and into the dormitories.
Miril, one of Niamh’s closest friends and a fellow sister of the Reformer’s Creed, was praying at her bedside when Niamh arrived. She said nothing until after Niamh completed her own quick, bedtime prayer. “A little late tonight?” she asked, amiably.
“Had an errand to run for the abbess,” Niamh said quickly. The women’s dormitories were separated from the men’s, so she freely pulled off the grey robe and, in her smallclothes, slid beneath the warm blankets of her cot. It was already quite dim in the dorms, with most of the lanterns darkened for the night. A few minutes passed before Niamh rolled up on one shoulder to face Miril’s adjacent cot once more. “We should always be honest, so…there’s something weighing on me.”
“I’m all ears,” Miril said, rolling to look at her friend.
Niamh sat up onto her bedside. “I’m telling you this in confidence. I told no one else. I found a letter in one of the garden sheds out in the city, not on the grounds—but it was written by a priest, I think. It spoke of a Creed, you see. But it also said that ‘the sorcerer must be stopped,’ and I guess I’m just wondering if this is something I need to pay any attention to…does it seem important?”
“Wait, it was dropped there? Or hidden there?” Miril asked, confused.
Niamh’s eyebrows lifted, stunned. “Why would someone hide it?” she asked, confused. “I thought it was lost. I told one of the gardeners I had found it.”
Miril shook her head with uncertainty. “Well, I guess it’s good that people are trying to stop the sorcerer, but it seems a little beyond us—simple curates of our Creed. And why the secrecy? It’s like a spy with a secret spot for his correspondence.”
Niamh nodded slowly, but she was still at a loss.
“I’m sorry, Niamh, but I really don’t know what to make of it,” Miril said. She shifted deeper into her cot.
“Me neither,” Niamh murmured. She laid back down, but her eyes remained open. She had hoped that, by telling Miril, she might find a definitive answer to the question, “What should I do with this?” but she felt just as lost as she had before. She eventually slipped into sleep, all the while her mind rereading the bizarre letter and what it might mean.