The Chosen (The Compendium of Raath, Book 1) (12 page)

Otom tapped his hand against some part of
Ris's body to signal that he was finished.

Ris had won this fight.

S
ilence hadn't wanted me to come.

That was what kept repeating itself in the
back of Otom's head. This tournament was too large, this tournament
was too skilled. The crowd was too large and loud. It was more of a
brawl than a technique fight.

Silence had known, and Silence had tried to
warn Otom, but Otom hadn't listened. That's why he had made the
journey alone: Silence had refused to go with him. Otom's master
had set the whole thing up, but had refused to go along. If he had
thought that might have deterred Otom he had been wrong.

“If he just would have come,” Otom said to
himself as he slammed his belongings into his pack one by one. His
small room atop The Fool's Heart Tavern was just barely big enough
to hold him and his things, but rooms were scarce during the
tournament so he had taken what he could get. “He could have helped
me. He could have done . . . something . . . “ Otom trailed off.
His ear was leaking blood again. Not too painful, but there it was:
some kind of damage that would have to be seen to. His other cuts
were healing nicely and his bruises had faded a little with the
help of some packed snow, but that ear had something wrong with
it.

“Well, dammit!” Otom yelled in a frenzy. He
was probably bleeding all over his wolf-skin coat. He didn't even
check the room to see if he'd left anything as he slung his pack
over his back. He took off down the stairs determined to get as far
away from Kilgaan as he could before anyone looked at him or, God
forbid, talked to him.

He threw some coins on the
bar, being sure to leave a little extra because he was certain he
had bled on
something
, and he pushed through the front door and into the rising
light of the morning.

The worst part was the fact
that in the two days since he had met Allura he hadn't stopped
thinking about her. His anger could not outweigh his attraction to
her and he punished himself repeatedly in his head for it.
Don't be such a stupid fool. You'll never see her
again
.

Otom checked the position of the sun and
started to trudge southeast towards Pakken. It would be a few days
of walking, but it was spring here and the wind couldn't get at him
inside his furs.

Hurried footfalls behind him made him stop
and turn his head. It was early for most people to be up yet.

Allura was running towards him.

His first instinct was to run towards her,
his second was to run away. He did neither.

“Otom, please!” she yelled, still a good
distance away. Her boots were slapping the hard-packed ground, the
sound was naked and alone in the morning world.

He turned and began trudging sullenly away
from The Fool's Heart Tavern and Allura Finny.

A tense moment passed where Otom fought with
himself. He didn't know what to do or how to handle this. What
could she want? Could she want him? No, certainly not. She was
coming to rub it in. Even though Ris had lost in the finals, he'd
gotten to pound Otom.

Otom sighed.

It might have been the beauty of the morning
– crystal skies under a reassuring sun – or it might have been that
he caught the smell of her on the wind – clean and perfect – but
whatever the reason, Otom stopped walking.

She ran up behind him and stopped a few
fingers away, panting. He didn't turn his head to look at her,
instead deciding to stare into the sun. It hurt his eyes but he
didn't care; he couldn't catch a glimpse of her this way.

“I just want you to know,” she said, “that I
wasn't scouting with Ris. I tried to get him to stop talking. I
tried to get him to shut up and leave you alone, but he's a maniac
about that type of thing. If he doesn't know a majority of the
fighters in a tourney, or enough about them, sometimes he'll cancel
out.”

“That's dumb and your boyfriend is an
idiot,” Otom said nonchalantly, hoping to anger Allura with his
bluntness, but hoping at the same time that she wouldn't stalk off
mad. Just having her near to him sent a tingle through his
body.

“I know it's dumb,” she said. “Please. Don't
think I'm involved in it. I saw you sitting there with your wraps
and Skada on and I knew you were giving yourself away too easily,
but before I got around to warning you, Ris came. Is that how you
pronounce it? Skahhdahhhhh?”

“Close enough.”

“We're not even from Marshanti,” Allura
said.

“I don't care where you're from,” Otom said.
“All I know is that Ris doesn't play fair and you like him. I don't
even know why you're wasting time talking to me.” He started
walking away, trying to will his feet to turn around, trying to
force his mouth to say something – anything – that would bring
Allura to him. But he couldn't. A part of his brain was holding him
back, keeping him stubbornly on his path out of the city.

He pulled his hood tight around his head
just as Allura yelled something behind him, but the comment was
lost in the wind, fur, and his injured ear.

The battered fighter walked. He assured
himself for the thousandth time that he would never see her
again.

He would be wrong about that.

O
tom sighed and turned his back to The Frost Bear, even though
to him it would always be The Fool's Heart Tavern. His head hung
heavy with memories and wishes. Wishes that perhaps he could go
back to that day and turn to Allura and start things then and
there. Start things on the right foot, instead of how their
relationship would eventually blossom.

But there was no going back now. The sights
and sounds of Kilgaan hung on him like a yoke as he walked toward
the gate, the same one he had passed through fourteen years
ago.

With every step he took he hoped that her
footsteps would crunch behind him in some sort of weird dream
moment. Somehow God would bring her back here, transport Otom back
in time, or some other equally ridiculous thing. It was a fantasy.
If he did somehow truly relive that moment right now – the perfect
morning, that tragic girl - the emotions would crush his heart and
snuff out his soul.

She had eventually told him what she had
yelled to him that morning. He almost whispered it now, just under
his breath. It was a phrase that had stuck in his mind for so many
years, despite its maddening implications. He wanted to whisper it,
to bring a piece of her back to him . . .

No. His Vow of Silence held him.

He would not speak today.

Sometimes it was less painful to be silent
and alone.

H
er room was alive with light and the beams bounced and
jostled as Domma poured the last heavy metal pail of water into her
bath. Steam rose from it as she let her robe drop, stripped her
shift off, and then took a hand at unwinding her
bandages.

She gripped the edge of the tub and stepped
gingerly into the hot water. Her room's eastern view let the sun
stream in at this time of day and she could hear the sounds of the
city through the open window. She smelled bread from the bakery
just down the street.

It had been five days since she had seen
Ormon Stipson, but it wasn't him that kept popping into her mind:
it was Warden Potter. The life of a Cleric could be incredibly
frustrating sometimes and it wasn't always easy to be so
constrained. With her chest bound and her full robe on, Cleric
Domma couldn't be seen for who she really was. That was part of the
uniform. But deep inside of her something burned, as she was
convinced it did in everyone.

Sometimes, even at the expense of heresy, it
was good to acknowledge that she was a woman.

She let her hands – and an image of Warden
Potter - remind her of that fact.

A
n
hour later, Domma stood in front of her congregation. The sanctuary
was lined with full-length stained glass windows and sun poured
through them. Rainbows danced on wood and stone.

“It isn't enough to
want
to be good,” she
said, her voice carrying through the massive hall. “You must
actually
be
good.
To God, and in fact to all of us, actions speak louder than
words.”

She saw someone in the
congregation nodding.
Always a good
sign.

“If we are good, we will be rewarded. The
Five-in-one will judge us, deem us worthy, and we will transcend.
The passage we just read - the one with Gustus and his followers –
reminds us that no one is above that judgment, not even a son of
God.”

Domma ran her hand down the smooth page of
The Book that sat on the podium in front of her. She had translated
this one herself and hours upon hours of her recovery had been
spent writing the characters that filled it. This Book had given
her life meaning when she had hit a dead end. Her Devotee powers
had come at the completion of it. She hadn't truly expected that,
but she certainly had hoped for it.

“No one wants to be Gustus,” she said,
looking up with a half-smile. “Reborn on another world devoid of
God, devoid of all that is good. Here we have families. Love.
Compassion. We sing in harmony with each other not only in the
flesh, but beyond into the spirit as well. Please join me in
singing 'The Soul's Walk'.”

As Domma's voice rose, the others in the
congregation picked up on it and began to sing the familiar tune.
The sanctuary echoed with a hundred voices and, as she sang, Domma
lit the tall candles that would burn for seven days. Today was the
fifteenth of Aphril, and it was the start of a new year for the
Sunburst Clerics.

The last notes of the song faded away and
Domma walked back to the podium.

“I want to thank everyone for praying with
us here at the Sunburst Temple for the past few hours. Remember
that faith in God is seldom rewarded directly, but certainly never
punished. Your time could not be spent more wisely than to follow
the teachings of The Book.”

With that, Domma raised the hood of her robe
and strode down the tall steps, away the tall platform she preached
from. She felt her magical power grow and fill her as it always did
after leading others in prayer.

She felt refreshed and ready to take on
anything.

D
omma heard a light knock on the door of her study not ten
minutes later. She sat at her small desk where she read The Book
and took notes for her sermons. She had a quill in her hand already
because she found that if she procrastinated she would rush out
next week's sermon too hastily. Even if she wrote one sentence she
at least had a start on it, and that made it easier to
finish.

“Come in,” she said, inserting the quill
into her half-empty bottle of black ink.

Her study served as many things: sleeping
quarters, bath, office, and meeting room. This could be someone
coming to talk about the sermon. Sometimes that happened. She
always welcomed it when it did.

The woman that opened the door and entered
was mousy, short, and nervous looking, although Domma perceived –
by the lines on the woman's face and the way she walked – that
nervousness was her natural state. There was nothing out of the
ordinary going on here. But, just to make sure, she Delved quickly,
using a tiny portion of the power she had gained from leading
mass.

Gzzt.

“Muriel?” Domma asked, not rising from her
small desk. She steepled her hands in front of her, waiting for a
response from the nervous woman.

“She said you would likely know my name,”
the woman said. Her voice suited her well.

“Another Cleric said this?” Domma asked.

“Yes. She said you were the best.”

“Well,” Domma said, “I've been told that I'm
good at what I do. But there really is no 'best'. I excel at the
things God has blessed me with.” Domma gestured to the chair
opposite her and Muriel sidled over to it, examined it, and sat
down in a different chair.

“It's about the sermon.”

“It can be a confusing passage,” Domma
said.

“Why did God banish his son? How could he do
it?”

“To the point,” Domma said,
raising her brow. “I like that. Let's not tiptoe, then.”
Gzzt.
Bakery. “You say
'God's son', but in the things Gustus did, and the pride that he
had, you should refer to him God's failed son. If God and Gustus
were both bakers . . . do you know about baking?”

Muriel nodded.

Yes, I knew you
would.
“Right, then,” Domma said. “If God
and Gustus were bakers and Gustus decided to take that knowledge
and open up his own shop, his bread would never compare to
God's.”

Muriel nodded. “But his shop would still
exist,” she said, tilting her head slightly.

“For a time,” said Domma. “He may be able to
fool passersby that his fare was worthwhile, but while he was
selling flawed bread, God would be giving away the perfect loaf for
free. The only problem with God's shop is that it's hidden away
where it's very, very difficult to find. Perhaps Gustus's shop is
right out in the open with a tacky sign painted in blood: bread -
three oplates. That's a high price for mediocre bread. Do you
understand what I mean?”

“There's another world somewhere?” Muriel
asked.

“Yes,” Domma agreed. “But you might not want
to go there. The Book is not without its mystery. There are
meanings wrapped in meanings wrapped in meanings. But the important
tenets are very simple: God is above all. Gustus failed. We are,
all of us, being judged.”