“Excuse me?” asked Zarik. He looked at the Tribunal woman, Simone. His ice-blue eyes widened. “Is that an official question or…”
“Mere curiosity,” she quickly explained. She gave a look toward the Tribunal man sitting beside her, then glanced at the Herald as well. The raven-haired Quacian returned to drinking her tea.
“Our marriage underwent blessing from His Grace and Our Lord, the Wounded God, witnessed in honor by the Theocratum for the Crown alike,” said Zarik in a clear voice. He raised his posture in the lounge chair somewhat and drew his shoulders back. “The recognition of the Theocratum is held with great respect in my heart. If you will but tell me why you are here, I am happy to assist His Grace however I can.”
“You are correct,” said Herald Vatia. “We have come because of your father. There have been many accounts of heretical worship, of murder, and of otherwise complaints about disregard with his name ascribed to it.”
Zarik bit lightly on the inside of his cheek. He knew what the man spoke of; the nosy widow who lived next door. The Theocratum never cared before now though. They even had a fairly positive relationship with Zalazar and his business. It'd been more than once or twice that the Tribunals had requested consultation with his father to consider techniques of interrogation and to request certain people in Lair be tended to without knowledge of the Theocratum's involvement. What had changed? Had they found out about the cult of Chrien? Had the complaints become one too many? Had his station of nobility changed their interest in things? Was it a mixture and otherwise, or something else entirely? He couldn’t tell and he couldn’t know and he wouldn’t ask. Operating on little information, he picked up his tea cup and gently blew on the liquid to distract himself.
“My child,” said the Herald as the aging man stepped closer to Zarik until he stood right beside him. “Were you aware of your father’s heretical beliefs?”
Silence. For Zarik didn’t know how to answer. He knew, however, what he should answer with and if he waited any longer than a few trills, it would be obvious he was lying. So Zarik brought himself to say, “No.”
“Not even as a possibility?” asked Simone.
“Do you seek to become Quacian, my child, or do you wish to remain a perpetual foreigner in this holy city?” asked the Herald.
Zarik wasn’t sure where this was going. He tried to keep track, but between the woman’s interjections and the Herald’s explicit focus on him, he found himself stuck between a couple of interrogators far more experienced than he was. His skin paled slightly. He shimmied his shoulders, in an attempt to fix a posture that hadn’t changed any. He said, “Yes, of course, His Grace. I have always wished for such esteemed status as to belong to Quacia.”
The Herald set down his tea. He beckoned to the Tribunals and the pair stood. Now, it was only Zarik who sat. He almost felt like squirming, for the rush of domineering energy that came from the Theocratum’s representatives. The ice-blond focused on the Herald instead, for he seemed like a kind man.
“Come with us, now, my child,” said the Herald. “Join us in tonight’s Blood Prayer and bleed for your soul. I shall send recommendation for your citizenry to be expedited.”
Simone mentioned, “Should we wait for the Lord of Ashvane to join us?”
“N-no,” said Zarik. He knew Alistair wouldn’t likely be returning tonight. Even if the magister did, he knew the disdain his husband held toward the Theocratum despite being married in their church. He couldn’t say any of this though. He stood, folded his hands in front of him, then nodded. “I'll retrieve my coat. Please, await me in the foyer if you will.”
Upstairs, out of the Theocratum’s view, he first walked over to the boys’ room. He checked on Asher, glad to see his son restfully asleep. Then he told Kleine he would be gone for the early portion of the night and when asked about the Tribunals, he informed the Lothar that it wasn’t anything important - it didn’t have anything to do with Alistair - simply a private matter involving himself. He left the room before any more questions could be asked or to avoid hearing any suggestions of what he should do. He hadn’t come to Kleine for advice about it, he only wished for the Lotharro to know that he needed to closely watch the boys through the night.
He didn’t feel entirely confident, however, and so he found Damien in the study next. Zarik told the Lich that he would be gone for much of the night, and that Kleine might require aid in watching the sons. To his confidant, he confessed that he worried an attempt might occur against Asher’s life. Damien assured him special care would be taken to keep the boy safe through the night.
Zarik left then, gathered his trenchcoat from the bedroom, then scrawled a note to leave on the bed in case Alistair did return while he was out.
The note simply said;
My dear husband,
I’ve gone to blood prayer. I intend to return by morning of the 42 Ashan.
Damien promised to keep watch over our son.
I love you greatly.
Z
I’ve gone to blood prayer. I intend to return by morning of the 42 Ashan.
Damien promised to keep watch over our son.
I love you greatly.
Z
He folded it once, then set it so the parchment stood as a triangle on the center of their tightly-made bed. The thralls had flattened and pressed the blankets to sheets earlier. It looked as if the bed had never been slept in once. Zarik hesitated for a trill or two more. He checked his visage in the mirror and supposed other than the nearly-black dark circles under his eyes, he didn’t look terrible. Zarik lifted the hood of his trenchcoat and the heavy material sunk over his pale hair, cloaking him in shadow.
The youthful Biqaj man left Ashvane Estate, along with the Herald, Tribunals, and their accompanying guards - the two armored warriors for the Tribunals, and Devin who followed at Zarik’s heels.
☩ ☩ ☩
How fast, his heart beat.
How quick, his silver blood sped through his veins.
How cold yet feverish, his skin felt under his restrictive clothing of black leather.
On the altar’s dais, Zarik stood with blade in hand.
Herald Vatia watched him with a keen eye. For the ritual had come to its peak in the observance of over a hundred devotees. Zarik had been coaxed through promise of citizenry, and threat of true interrogation in regard to his father, to not only join them in their worship but to lead the spilling of blood in prayer.
The congregation of Gleamers and Fortress inhabitants and similar higher tier citizens revealed that this was not a church or a service meant for Heaps. He recognized the signs of wealth on those in the crowd, the fashionable attire and well-maintained appearances. His blood being spilled was expected. It would be harshly noted if he did not. It would raise doubt whether he, also, had heretical views as his father did - whether Lord Zarik Venora, youngling who’d married the foreign exile under the Wounded God’s blessing, harbored contempt for the church who held the state of Quacia together and who controlled most everything other than the foul confines of Lair.
Few choices remained: and Zarik, truly, only had one.
He dug the point of the blade into the palm of his hand. When he hissed from the sharp pain, aimed to drag it farther along, he felt a hand at his wrist. Devin had hurried onto the dais, grabbed his arm, and refused to let him continue.
Gasps rose from the congregation at the blasphemous sight. Most of the Quacians couldn’t recognize the thrall for being undead, due to how great Alistair had maintained the appearance of the Revenant, but it didn’t matter. The very act of stopping a blood prayer in front of a revered Herald…
“Devin, no,” whispered Zarik. He made a quick gesture with his hands. Though he knew the command would reveal the undead nature of his bodyguard, it worked. The grip loosened. He said, “Devin, basic defense one. Twenty paces.”
The Revenant walked away, off the dais, and with enough distance that if he wanted to - they could spar like he’d been commanded to wait for. In this mode, he wouldn’t try to stop Zarik accidentally hurting himself… or purposefully.
Though it could have been disastrous in ways, he’d been correct in assuming that Herald Vatia was a kindly man. For the Herald started into a prayer, meant to explain the act of necromantic usage in the world, in a way that would soothe the followers of the Wounded God. It was twisting, turning logic, but it caused many to nod along and then bow their heads in agreement.
“Join me in the Scarlet,” said the Herald. He gestured for Zarik to return to the basin so that he might bleed over the shallow bowl while they recited the verse.
At the end of each line, the Herald paused so that Zarik repeated the line and then the congregation echoed it in reply. Line by line, devotion was offered. Zarik returned the ritual knife to the palm of his hand and sliced his flesh open. When the palm dried without thick blood anymore, he took to what any proper believer would do: he carved into the flesh of his forearm until it ran metallic in a silver pool that filled the ceremonial basin.
Zarik acted to the best of his abilities and he uttered the prayer with conviction. His voice rang loud and clear, echoed in the church’s hall, so that it would wash over the congregation though he kept the intonation gentle - secondary to the Herald’s inherent power. It was an honor, the role he performed tonight, for any true believer.
I am weak.
You are strong.
I have blood in plenty.
But you are the one who bled.
Give praise, to our avenger.
Who bled for us unhindered
When gods abandoned, when magic failed.
When the world unfurled, and terror hailed.
And let us repay out debt… to you.
Continued here.
You are strong.
I have blood in plenty.
But you are the one who bled.
Give praise, to our avenger.
Who bled for us unhindered
When gods abandoned, when magic failed.
When the world unfurled, and terror hailed.
And let us repay out debt… to you.
Continued here.
