Chương 8

We were not in the Empire of Zozheim, but the Duchy of Pasheni. Sheltered behind the kingdoms of Ulcath and Tornak, Pasheni hadn't been untouched by the war, but far less so than Zozheim's neighbors. They had sent far more than a token force to the front lines to reinforce their allies. Few of those men had returned alive. When news got out that I was among them, there was some hope that I was there because I had 'returned home,' that I was 'one of them.'

My coloring, dark brown hair and skin that remained tan even in undeath, disabused them of this notion. Pasheni venerated Vorulsht, as it venerated the rest of the departed gods, planning for their eventual return and thanking Vorulsht for his good stewardship in their absence. The empire's blasphemy had not been enough to turn them away from their faith, but rather the proof of the god's remaining power was seen as validation.

All of the sin and cruelty of the war was attributed to the men wearing the crowns, or the rings, or carrying the staffs. All of which were now scattered to the four corners of the world, as the lieutenants and other officers in the armies had been killed and their sacred icons stolen by enemy forces. In the final days of the war, the survivors had turned undead upon undead, ripping and rending until only the living were left. The living, and those like me.

Sacred blasphemies that nobody could agree on how to safely dispose of. Like statues of the departed gods that nobody was willing to take down, lest they return and be displeased. Vorulsht was the only one left, and we were his sacred children, were we not? Who can blame a child for how they were born? Both sides believed that, like a gladius, we were only as dangerous as the one holding our hilt. So the objects of power were taken and given to men like the priest who now held the staff. Good men. Gods fearing men.

Men who thought they understood the consequences of their actions. They would have been better leaving me in that cave for all eternity. Perhaps rescuing me from that fate is all that rescued them from theirs. Regardless, once we were out of the caves, I was brought to a river and bathed, then given fresh clothes. We traveled twenty miles to the city of Pash-nasa, a middling sized river city that mostly dealt in lumber, trading the wealth of the forests of the north downriver to the south.

I was brought into the rectory, where the priests sat down with me. Earning little more than one word answers, they managed to tease out where the crown had come from simply by asking the name of the prince I had served. They got it wrong the first two times, but I don't blame them for that. Their first two guesses had gone missing much closer to where I was found than Rials.

This news was actually a welcome relief to the priests, and when they announced that Rials was confirmed dead by a survivor of the battle who had seen him fall, there was jubilation and dancing in the streets. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. My prince was not well loved in the annals of history.

His rampage in the east of the kingdom of Daltius and the siege of Palandrias were some of the bloodies, ugliest fighting in the entire Zozheimian Wars of Aggression. Or the Wars of the Risen, as some were calling the series of conflicts.

"As for the crown," the priests informed me, "That shall go to the Duchess. She will keep it safe against the return of the gods, and her children will inherit when she passes from this world. We pray that she never need use it, but the only way to safeguard a repeat of the Wars of the Risen is to have our own countermeasures against the undead." The priests talked to me for long hours, informing me of many things I had not known about the world, both before and after I had entered my solitude.

Although informing me of the political situation of the world did not seem to be their goal. They were prodding me full of information in the hopes that something would jar a memory, trigger some spark of recollection in me of my 'life.' They confirmed easily enough the details of the prince's disastrous and doomed march, prodding me with simple yes or no questions to prove that I knew the truth. But they wanted more. They wanted hope that some part of the boy I'd been before death remained.

They were relentless, but they went to sleep disappointed. The priest held the command staff and smiled at me.

"You may rest here for the night, Tal. In the morning, we shall find a place for you. Simple and rewarding tasks, something to keep you occupied. It seems to help your brothers to keep them busy, so we will keep you busy. You have been down in the dark for too long. You should be among the living. Remain here until the morning." He set the command staff on the table and left me alone. The candle burned in the darkness. A quarter remained when he left, and when it burnt itself out of fuel, I hadn't moved.

I should be among the living, he had said. I did not feel the compulsion of command, but I prodded that thought. It had been peaceful in my sanctuary, and the pleasure of being so near the crystal formation had been satisfying. But now that I had left it, I could still feel the vibrating whispers of the power running through the earth beneath my feet. Distant, but no less powerful. The veins of the underworld, pulsing with life. I did not need my sanctuary. I could find peace wherever I went.

I just needed to close my eyes and pull the energy closer. Faintly, the crystal of the command staff began to glow violet. I stepped toward it and, touching it, was faintly disappointed. Was this staff broken? Or was I? I decided to disobey my orders once again, walking out of the room and into the temple. It was an old temple, and the old statues remained. The primordial father descending from heaven to sire the children upon the primordial earth.

The brothers dividing the land, sea, sky and underworld among themselves. Their wives and lovers, some mortal, some gods like they. I did not know the tales then. I just walked through the statues until I came to the one of Vorulsht. Tall and spindly, the statue had eyes of the violet crystal that seemed to glow in my vision. He was smiling at me as I approached. Despite his governance of the dead, he was said to be a kind god. For when life ended, he accepted everyone into his domain without question.

Saint or sinner, king or pauper, young or old, all were treated the same. He frightened the living because meeting him meant an end. But to give an end to suffering was kindness, welcome or not. In that sense, Vorulsht is the kindest of all the gods, those others who demand toil, strife, and conflict. Or so the priests had just been explaining to me. The version of my religion that claimed Vorulsht was a conqueror was blasphemy. Or so they said. They had said many things. Given me many things to think about.

They had said I should be among the living. So I walked out of the temple, and into the night.