Chương 47: Vol 1. The Reformers

Mother Maelira set down her book and took off her spectacles. It was a collection of plays by Thalia Maren, which Maelira had shamefully never read until now. She was, indeed, a master of the craft—the way she was able to create such realistically horrible villains who also had a bit of a sympathetic side… oh, it was just lovely! Not to mention her romance. She knew how to keep it tense and passionate without resorting to ostentatious displays of lechery.

The little room Mother Maelira sat in took up a good one-quarter of her house. Books filled the shelves lining the walls, floor to ceiling, all disorganized, with theological commentaries sharing space with old histories, devotional poetry, and, though she would never admit it to any of her parishioners, a growing collection of decidedly secular plays and poetry and contemporarily crass prose works.

A little stone icon of Seroth watched her from above the fireplace, always making sure she did not stray too far into secular readings. Mother Maelira grunted as she pushed herself out of the chair. She winced. Her knees went pop pop, and she remained hunched forward for a brief moment, a slight ache running up her arched spine. With one heave, she forced herself upright—crack! —and she could move again. With one trembling paw, she grabbed a log and chucked it onto the fire.

The log landed crookedly upon the embers, scattering little sparks up into the chimney. Then she sat back down again and rubbed two digits harshly against her temple until she could see little yellow sparks of light behind her eyelids. She was getting more and more headaches with each passing night. They also seemed to come at the same time with an astonishing punctuality. One of the joyous gifts the Great Mother bestows upon you as you age, she thought. It had been a tough month so far.

With the sudden disappearance of High Priestess Veyra Solenne, she had been having to do fifthday services both at the Port Vikera Cathedral and at her own parish, and that was exhausting. Her throat still felt raw from that morning's sermon, and despite having bathed twice a couple of hours earlier, she could swear she still smelt incense trapped within her fur. She wasn't sure if her ageing body could keep up with her priestly duties anymore, but Seroth needed her; priestesses were in short supply.

She understood why: it was a hard position to be in, having to forgo any chance of marriage and intimacy and personal wealth. You were only married to Seroth and Seroth alone. Maelira never regretted her choice to join the priesthood. Well… almost never. There had been that one man, many, many decades ago, but that was another lifetime. Young Maelira and old Maelira were two separate people. Shakily, she grabbed her wine glass, took a huge swig, and set it down.

She wondered who the next High Priestess of the Caelrune realm was going to be. Opening the door, she got news from the city guards that Her Highness's men had found a suicide note in her quarters, and she immediately sent out a letter through the normal, secretive lines. It would go to the cathedral in the Orien realm, then up to the cathedral in the Seran realm, then over to the cathedral in the Caelrune realm, before heading to the cathedral in Veyrath. She hoped it made it there safely, Seroth willing.

She thought of sending another letter now, but that seemed too risky at this point. She sighed deeply and leaned into the wool fabric of her chair. Enough thinking for today, she thought. The fire crackled softly. Rain went taptaptaptaptap intermittently against the window. Somewhere deep in the house, old timber groaned as it settled. Maelira's breathing gradually fell into the rhythm of the fire. She blinked once. Twice. Then let her eyes close, drifting off into the night. Rustlerustlerustle. One ear twitched.

Maelira opened one eye and looked around. Nothing. She wrinkled her muzzle.

"Mice," she muttered.

"I hate those things." She settled again. Clinkclinkclink. Her eyes were fully open now. Sheeeeeen That was metal being drawn slowly against metal. Maelira's paw froze mid-air as she was unsure whether to get up or not. BAM! The wooden door to her reading chamber flew open, slamming against the nearest bookshelf so hard it caused the whole thing to rumble.

Women in full armour, swords drawn, with crude drawings of the sacred heart of Seroth plastered upon their breastplates, rushed inside, and before she could say anything, they grabbed her by the arms. The grip around her upper arms was crushing. She tried to pull away, but all that effort proved futile. One woman twisted her arm behind her back. Maelira winced, baring her fangs—a sharp pain shot through her shoulder. Then, in a blur, her muzzle was forced against the rug.

The smell of dust and old wood violated her nostrils.

"What…" she croaked.

"Who—""Silence, heretic," a gruff-sounding voice said.

"You can plead your case later. For now, I request you shut up." Heretic? Who… her? They could not be referring to her. She had been serving Seroth for more years than half these girls had been alive! They finished tightening the rope around her wrists, pulling it so taut that she felt blood being blocked from traversing the winding roads that were her veins. She felt herself be picked up, then blindfolded. The coarse fabric stretched across her muzzle; darkness engulfed her.

Somewhere behind her, glass crunched beneath a sabaton. Maelira winced. Those spectacles were expensive. Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere. They hauled her forward. Maelira struggled to keep pace. Her knees were not equipped to deal with this frantic march that these young girls expected of her. Twice she stumbled forward, and twice they did not let her fall, simply jerking her upright and continuing to drag her along. A door creaked open.

Cold night air struck her muzzle, followed by rainwater digging its way into her fur like a parasite. Gravel crunched beneath their boots; armour clinked around her. Somewhere nearby, a horse snorted and stamped its hoof. Maelira tried to orient herself, but just couldn't. Then someone shoved her forward.

"Hey, wait—" She struck the wood shoulder-first. She let out a little squeak. Pain shot through her side. A door slammed shut. Horses neighed. Then rickety wheels began to turn, and the world bumped and jolted. Cre-eak. Clack. Cre-eak. Clack. A carriage. They travelled for some time; for how long, Maelira could not say. She silently prayed: Seroth, if I have offended you, please forgive me. Eventually, the wheels slowed. The horses snorted. Then the carriage stopped. Maelira held perfectly still.

Outside, she heard voices, too muffled to make out. Footsteps approached the carriage. The door groaned open. She was yanked forward, sliding against the wood and into the cold, rainy air once more. Once again they marched, this time with her bare paws on the gravel and then onto a mushy surface.

"Have her kneel," a voice said. The voice was calm. Refined. Accustomed to obedience. Maelira was shoved to her knees. Then two claws slid under her blindfold, and it was removed. Her vision returned slowly in little swirls. She was in the middle of a small copse, kneeling in mushy mud. Rain dripped steadily from the branches overhead. Multiple torches had been driven into the earth like fence stakes, their flames struggling to survive against the fierce weather.

Beyond their little circle was nothing but the ebony forest. Around her stood five women in a loose half-circle, rain pat-pat-pattering against their armour. Each bore the sacred heart of Seroth upon her breastplate—crude in its iconographical depiction, almost mockingly so, painted in uneven red strokes rather than fashioned according to the proper ecclesiastical guidelines Maelira was staunchly familiar with. In their centre stood a youngish woman with russet fur and the tip of one ear clipped away.

Unlike the others, she wore no helmet, allowing her eerily craggy visage to be on display for the world to see. A colourful sash crossed her breastplate from her shoulder down to her hip, embroidered repeatedly with Seroth's flaming heart. Maelira felt her stomach tighten.

"For Seroth's love, who are you people?" she croaked. The russet-furred figure approached. She stared down at Maelira and, in a gruff and commanding cadence, said,"You may call me Sister Kitura. And we are the reformers, the ones who shall rid this world of the tainted and the sinful."

"I do not understand," Maelira said. Wack! A metal boot swung across her face. Pain exploded through her jaw. Her head snapped sideways, and for a moment the forest around her became nothing more than a blur of torchlight and black silhouettes and shapes. Something hard came loose inside her mouth. The iron-rich taste of blood washed against her tongue like waves. When she could see again, she turned her head and spat a thick glob of crimson into the mud. A tooth landed with it.

"What was that for?" she mumbled through her pained mouth.

"Tell me, Mother Maelira, do you believe in the validity of the Veyrath Concord?" Mother Maelira stared up at her captor for a moment, blinking incredulously.

"Yes," she said. Sister Kitura wrinkled her muzzle, scoffing.

"You see, my sisters?" she bellowed.

"Even someone as old and wise, who has served Seroth's bride, his church, for longer than I have walked the earth…" Kitura slowly circled her as she spoke, addressing the surrounding women with a vigorous passion clear in her voice.

"… even she has fallen to the heresy of the Veyrath Concord."

"Heresy?" Mother Maelira said.

"The Veyrath Concord is the very foundation of our modern society. It was signed by High Priestess Vaelora Senneth of Veyrath—""And Vaelora was a heretic," Sister Kitura said.

"One who betrayed Seroth by giving power away to the nobility." Maelira stared at her with her fangs bared in disgust. How could this… this fucking brat say something so heretical?

"You heathen," Maelira said through gritted teeth.

"The Concord ended generations upon generations of innocent bloodshed. It separated the altar from the throne. It established the Coniton; it gave us a stable transfer of power. Without it, every disagreement between noblewomen would become a war, and every disagreement between a noblewoman and a priestess would become a holy war." Kitura flicked one ear.

"Then let it become a glorious holy war."

"Answer me this, Mother Maelira: will you join us in defeating the secularists?"

"I will not betray my church for the opinion of some schismatics," Mother Maelira spat.

"You are a madwoman. May Seroth show you his infinite love, because I won't."

"Very well," Sister Kitura said simply.

"It would have been nice to serve Seroth with you, but we must purge all heresy. Hopefully Lady Selvara Maraveth shall correct your mistakes and appoint a true believer when she becomes high priestess of the Maraveth realm." Maelira's ears rose. Lady Selvara… House Maraveth—the political schemers of the royal lineages. Always a new trick up their sleeves on how to consolidate power. Veyra's sudden disappearance. The suicide note. The mercenaries. Her stomach dropped. That heathen…

"Wait," Maelira said.

"No, no, sister, you are being led astray from the path. You are going down the path laid out by demons—" Before she could finish her sentence, two of the women fastened a coarse rope around her neck, blocking her airflow. She tried to flail, but her arms were still tied, and one of the women held her still. The rope was thrown over a tree branch. One of the women held the end of the rope taut in her grip. She began to pull it in a similar motion to climbing a rope. The rope scraped against wet bark overhead.

Somewhere above her came the groan of the branch due to the sudden extra weight. Around her, the women got to their knees and clasped their paws. They all murmured a traditional hymn to Seroth. What a mockery, Maelira thought. Little by little, Mother Maelira was lifted into the air. She thrashed her legs, causing her entire body to swing like a tire swing. White began to creep from the corner of her vision. The sound of the world dissipated into a low ringing.

And oddly enough, Mother Maelira smiled; she was no longer afraid, for there was no reason to be. She thought of the little stone Seroth above her fireplace. Her parishioners. That man from many decades ago whose face she could barely remember. Then she imagined a sunny sky, a brilliant illumination beating down upon her, and surrounded by wonderfully white clouds was a figure in white robes, reaching out his arms towards her. She gently, painfully flicked her ears.

And as the darkness swallowed her and she handed her spirit over, she prayed in her mind for the last time: I'm coming, Seroth!