Valerik’s Quest 2

Morning came in its strides. With it, the light of the sun spilled into the room. First, slow and gentle. Then demanding.

Valerik had been given the room that stood in the path of the rising sun. Whether the sun sought to trample the obstacle in its path or embrace a lover after a night of exhausting passion, he did not know. As he pried his eyes open to the waking world, all he was certain of was the beauty of the sunlight as the room bathed in the glow of its kiss.

Awaking with a mild ache in his head and a dryness in his mouth, he forced himself to a sitting position. His body sagged from the remains of the night's sleep. He fought to shrug it off but it stayed. So, stifling a yawn with the back of his hand, he cast his thoughts elsewhere, wondering how long a man would need to ride a horse before his legs were demanded to bow from their time on the saddle. Riding Rive for two days, stopping only to sleep when night fell, wasn't doing his body any good.

He flexed his hand before him, opening and closing his palm in slow successions. It was a trick he picked up from the Undish tribes of the Aninsa rain forest. During his short stay with them, the tribesmen and women performed such act, and by some unknown compulsion would rise from their beds as if the sleep had never held them there.

The same such compulsion worked its way through Valerik now. He blinked away what was left of his sleep. Nights in the city had always been anything but merciful to him. He had hoped last night would be different but, being honest with himself, he knew his nights in the cities would most likely never be. Not ever since he'd turned thirty.

By the time a knock on his door broke the silence of the room, he was in his cassock, applying the last fittings of his boots. The door opened to reveal the attendant from last night carrying with him a tray of bean porridge and freshly baked bread. In the cities, hospitality was not so common. But send a priest to visit and watch the poorest of men present the best they had.

Fear called forth a lot of things. Either that or a silver coin as payment earned a man a lot.

The boy placed the tray on the table and retreated to the door. He brought with him a bucket and jug of water next. He dropped the jug on the table and proceeded for the door within the room. Valerik caught the smell of lavender amidst the smell of bean porridge. Never of assurance, he had always taken lavender to be a smell acquainted with women. It was odd to smell it on a boy. While it did not say much about the boy, he did notice a certain amount of primping to him.

"Will you be needing anything else, Father?" the boy asked, standing timidly before him.

The night had not been cold and neither was the morning, yet the boy wore a pink shawl around his neck which seemed to draw Valerik's attention more than he wanted. Valerik kept his curiosity and waved the boy away lazily. There were more children in a family than there were reasons why a boy like that would wear an unnecessary piece of clothing and he glimpsed it as the boy made his exit. A small hint of a bruise just above the scarf on the skin of his neck. His curiosity gnawed at him but he knew very well some matters were not to be indulged in.

Valerik knew hospitality. It is a thing of repute, be it genuine or born of fear. It is a thing of insult to quantify hospitality when offered, especially one offered in fear. The food before him proved of sufficient quality and quantity, but as he ate he found himself craving the smoked meat he currently had stashed in one of the sacks strapped to Rive's saddle. Vulcan meat was, after all, its own delicacy.

After his meal he took a quick bath. He would be leave the city today and had no knowledge of when next he would come across clean water for another bath, or water of any kind at all.

Like the table, the door to the room seemed like something that would come apart at the slightest shove. How it still stood in its place was a concept not to be pondered upon so early in the morning. The corridor all the way to the stairs was surprisingly clean, but while Valerik always enjoyed the feel of Ayla beneath his feet, he would be in no hurry to take his boots off on such floors.

Below, the bar was quiet with Gallard throwing out what was left of his drunken customers from the night before in the event of cleaning out his establishment. Spewing profanities at the attendant, he displayed a knowledge of cusses and insults that would rival a sailor's and probably have him receiving an award for his creative prowess. The rain of profanities, however, came to an abrupt halt at the sight of Valerik. It is said that a king has his peasants to which he looks down on. But in the presence of a greater power, what is a king if not another peasant. Gallard seemed to understand the saying but Valerik had no desire to find out how well he understood it.

"Good morning, Father," Gallard greeted in a respectable voice, the best it seemed he could offer, to say the least. He was a big man with bulging muscles and a funny moustache. It was the only piece of hair on his face or head. "I hope your accommodations were in order."

Valerik offered them both a simple nod. Saying nothing, he left, reminding himself that there were matters not to be indulged in.

The attendant glanced up from the floor where he had had his eyes kept through the insults. It might have been a show of mercy to intervene but Valerik didn't care why the boy was being scolded. There were a lot of things he did not care about and, even if he cared about this, time was not on his side. He had a more important task ahead of him, and Rive would be hungry before the day's end. So with that knowledge, he knew his first stop for the day.

The stables where the decadence of the city. Dun might be one of the smallest cities in the Realm but Valerik had expected more out of any city.

The stables smelled of horse shit. And while it was understandable, it said a lot when horse piss could also be smelled with a quick whiff. The snorts of the horses in tandem with their stomping hooves indicated he wasn't the only one in discomfort at the state.

He found himself almost thanking Truth that he didn't give Rive over to the able hands of the stable masters, seeing as the horses already had enough problems as was the case.

Valerik took care where he stepped as he walked into the stable's grounds. The stable boys conversed and laughed at their jokes, jabbing words at each other in an exchange of good banter. It was the same with boys everywhere, be they brothers of the seminary or simple stable boys. They often had a period of incompetence in their lives.

He looked at his hands and wondered. He always had a problem watching animals in unfavorable conditions. It's said that priests make the best animal care takers, having a connection with animals, a connection that helps them understand Ayla's creatures better than any normal man. This enables them know the wants of the creatures.

It is also often said that priests make the best animal breakers. Concocting the greatest horrors from their fears with enough understanding to bring them to the world, they can break any and every animal of their choosing. It is part of how priest horses are made. But Father Arbel was different. Were he here, he would've whipped the boys into cleaning the horses, permitting them leave once—in his words—they could eat off the floor, only to receive a predetermined amount of lashes when done, for their initial incompetence.

The thought had Valerik wondering if the aging priest was still a part of the seminary. Probably not. When he had entered the Seminary, the priest had been old. It had been over twenty years since he'd left. A man can be old for only so long.

"Good morning, Father," the four stable boys greeted.

Their combined greetings were flawed by fearful stammers but Valerik understood them, and that was all that mattered. If he struggled to understand words subdued by fear all the time, he'd never get anywhere in most conversations.

He had been so caught up in his thoughts that he hadn't been aware of when they had registered his presence. It was no matter. Out in the villages and the wild such lack of hold on his environment could cost him his life, but not in the city. Cities always had a way of luring men into a false sense of security, especially priests, and especially Skeldrige. But he didn't want to think of Skeldrige, especially not now.

"Why are the horses in such a state?" he asked. "You enjoy a luxury of drinks and banter while the horses eat and sleep in their own shit and piss." One of the boys smelled of alcohol and vomit and it raged him on. "You may have no problem sleeping in your own puke but I assure you horses do not share the same tastes. And if–"

He caught himself before he could go further into talking about their personal hygiene. Where one of the boy's reeked of alcohol and puke, the others reeked of sex and tobacco. In his discomfort he'd slipped into a lecturing manner, something he'd never liked.

As a child he never enjoyed being lectured, if anything, it made him want to commit the crime more, just to prove a point. But with age came the urge to put a child on the right path. It was something he sometimes failed to keep in check and had caused him to often scare a few village children to tears during his travels.

He would not indulge the city's children too.

He took a deep breath, reined his lecture in and, when he was certain it was complacent, he spoke. "I need hay and water. You..." he began. Thinking better of his decision, he shook his head. "No matter, I'll deal with it myself."

Valerik knew a few things about the city, and bringing a stable boy like those before him in front of a priest horse was as quick a way as any to have an unconscious lad before him.

He took the hay under his arm and the water in a canteen large enough for two men and paid nothing for their services, deeming it a fit punishment for their care of the horses. Although, how effective a punishment it was, would be left in the hands of the stable master. If he was a competent one, he would know what he had in stock and would have a ledger for his business. The boys could claim a priest took it, and since he was most likely the only priest in the city, word of his presence would have gotten around.

Rive was right where he had left it, standing on all fours, waiting patiently for his return. He closed in on the horse, letting the hay fall to one side. He set the canteen down before giving the horse its freedom with a word: "Ilios."

He uncorked the canteen, took a small coin pouch from one of the sacks, and left the alley. There was hay, and there was water; Rive could take care of itself till he got back. And no city folk would dare to go near an unbound priest horse.

The bank of Avltar was the largest in the Realm and, though there were many others, its size and repute had made it a name for itself. One so grand that Criver had made it the official bank of the Realm on his ascent to the throne. Practically his first decree as king.

It did such wonders for the bank that by the end of Criver's third winter as king, the bank had grown from having a building in a handful of cities in Maeldun, to having a building in every city.

The bank of Avltar seemed the largest building in the whole of Dun, but it was quiet on his entry, save the sound of ink stamps banging the counters with only a piece of paper between them. Like many other things having to do with the city, Valerik disliked the bank.

"We are to rise above vanity," the seminary often taught them, "but coins are required for survival on Ayla."

The seminary used Father Ollins, their accountant to make such teachings.

Valerik walked up to the counter. He ignored the queue, somehow willing anyone to object. They were taught to rise above vanity and, where the church indulged its own in coins, he indulged his elsewhere.

"We are sacrifices of Truth, taught to rise above vanity," Father Thane would often say in philosophy, "but we are also of Ayla. To rise above things like vanity is impossible, but to keep it to a minimum is. Therefore, I will advise you to pick your vices and control them, lest they control you."

Father Thane was something of an orator, having something to say to everything and in a manner and composure that called the envy of nobles. There had been no surprises to the discovery of his noble heritage.

"Good day, Father," the man behind the counter greeted.

Priests were rarely asked how they could be helped whenever they stepped into a bank. Their requirements were always limited to one thing: payment of life.

The life expectancy of priests was not long, and they all had their lives paid for on a monthly basis from the moment they stepped out of the seminary. In the event that their lives come to an end, the bank was to pay a required amount based on how much the priest's life cost at the time of his death. Valerik extricated three Maeldun gold coins from his pouch and placed them on the counter. His life would fetch the church a hefty sum eventually.

"Father Valerik Sorlan," he introduced himself. "Holy Martyrs of Vazerik Seminary. Two months' pay."

The man jotted down the details in ink. "Yes, Father."

Valerik left the bank probably faster than he had entered it. A priest's life was paid in three silver coins. Valerik always paid in one Maeldun gold, which was slightly more expensive. Evangelists paid more than the other classes for a specific reason: they died significantly faster.

Valerik smiled as he left the bank. He had shaken hands with death on more occasions than he was willing to accept but they had yet to reach an agreement. The seminary might as well open another building with the money they would get when he dies. But till then, there was a reason he had returned to this cesspool of a city, and he was not done with it.

He spent his next few minutes on the path to the blacksmith, following in his natural knowledge of the road before he heard the demanding sound of hammer against anvil, as he had the day before. The blacksmith ushered him into the smithy, responding immediately after the first knock. It made Valerik wonder how many people had knocked the wooden door, and how many times the portly man had rushed to their aid in fear of keeping a priest waiting.

"Here you go, Father." The man was more composed than he'd been during their first meeting. Adding as Valerik reached inside his pouch, "No pay, it was payment enough just to be able to touch them."

The blacksmith meant it but there was an edge to words; an edge he either was not aware of or had been unable to keep buried.

The black blade gleamed in the smithy as Valerik stood before it, banishing the want to wipe his face with his hand. The heat was greater inside than it was outside and he was grateful that the furnace was in another room. Picking the blades by their hilt, he proceeded to survey the blacksmith's work.

Swords and blades take on a silver glow at its edges when sharpened, with a whet stone, however, the effects are barely noticeable and, in the hand of a seasoned blacksmith, the glow is next to absent.

This blacksmith had done a perfect job of sharpening the veils the best he could and while he employed a little heat for good measure, it was of scant necessity. And that did beg the question of why.

Valerik drew the hot blades closer in inspection, his lips held in a thin line. The excessive care was unnecessary, the blades of veils weren't known to scratch no matter how much they were sharpened and, as far as Valerik knew, the only thing that could put a scratch on a veil, was another veil. Was the care given in fear, respect, or some ulterior motive?

No. Neither fear nor respect.

Ulterior motive.

He set his eyes on the blacksmith and the man paled in the heat. There was a feint touch of blood on the blade, no stain whatsoever, perfectly cleaned out. At least almost perfectly. It's of most difficulty to hide natural smells from him. Though the portly man had done a good job of cleaning the blood, he had failed to conceal the knowledge of its once existing presence. He dropped his veils and turned to the blacksmith. The boom of hammer against anvil took on a new meaning with each contact. The man paled further. Valerik had the sense that anymore and the man might fade.

The man hurried to his knees hands clasped before him. "I apologize for my deceit. My apprentice saw them last night and cut his finger on it. I swear by Truth I did not mean any evil." At this point he looked ready to break into tears.

Valerik believed him. If the blood had come from truly sinister means and the blacksmith had intended on ridding the blades of evidence, there were better ways than heat, water, and sharpening. Besides, he was also very aware of the curiosity of the younger generations. His best guess was that the apprentice learned of the presence of a priest's weapon needing sharpening and thought it blunt, or rather, not sharp enough. Veils were designed for rending the toughest skins from bones and shearing through armor like water. With a simple thrust and, positioned right, it could be used to bring down a mammoth in one blow. Plus, not just anyone could carry a veil.

He spared the blacksmith's biceps a glance. With hands that big the man would be able to pull it off, though.

He sheathed the blades in their place within his cassock and dropped three coppers on the table. "Thank you for your services."

People rarely bargained with priests. Whatever a priest paid was considered acceptable. Sometimes they took without payment and no one objected. The latter was allowed mostly out of fear than anything else. Still, Valerik always paid what he judged of equal value but wasn't ignorant to his tendency to over pay. But today he paid the blacksmith less, not for the man's services, but more to disperse the weight of the man's fear as well as his guilt.

"Never lie to a priest, for Truth is likely to take offense in his stead" The Scriptures of Truth Chapter 12: 3-4.

Some men lived by it, others died by it. Valerik was none. He always thought people took the scriptures too seriously. Books written by men were nothing more than books, no matter under whose instruction they penned it. But in truth, him and the verse did have something in common: they didn't like lies.

He stepped out of the blacksmith's building and drew in the air untainted by the taste of molten metal and the scalding heat that came with it. More comfortable to breath in, it possessed a mix of the most corrosive of perfumes adorned by the rich ladies who believed themselves of worth in the city. Sadly, it was the same in every city he had ever been, no matter how great or small. There was no difference in the influence of wealth even this far south of the province.