CHAPTER 5

The twisting path up the mountain to the temple was carved into grey rock. The view along the way was admirable. It afforded the protector a look at the lands beyond the reach of his territory.

From the overlook, he could clearly make out the white road leading to Triskele, conjoined with a dried lake. Despite the warm season, there was no color in the flat fields beyond, picked clean by the local lord before his demise. And with war encroaching from the north, there was no reason to work the barren fields for a harvest that would never come. So those who remained out of a sense of loyalty to their family's land waited, huddled in their homes.

The temple was an hour's journey up the mountain, coming to rest near a precipice overlooking the town and beyond to the sea. Because of its distance from the village, only the pious few visited regularly. Holy days brought more. But it took dedication and vigor to make the trek.

The structure was simple, with four walls of piled local stones and a bit of masonry to patch them together. The only adornment to speak of were the stained glass windows, each depicting a manifestation of the Falcon of Light. In one—the bird descended, its outstretched wings composed of the sun's rays in scattered hues. In another—hovering behind a holy man, his hands signaling a benediction, while the Falcon's wings circled around wretched-looking figures bent around him in worship.

The choice of this location for a temple struck the protector as odd. Normally such buildings were within the villages themselves. All the better to police the minds and habits of the people who dwelt there. But this temple seemed to have been built intentionally separate from its flock.

Thus, the priest served less a man of the cloth and more an overseer of the land and the building itself. To the protector he was like the other villagers, only more remote. Though unlike the others, the priest gave off no stench of fear when in his presence. If anything, there was an eagerness to him instead of horror. Perhaps masking the fear was the hunger to bring him under the wings of the Holy See.

The protector never had an occasion to speak with the priest. They encountered each other only from a distance, whether by the stream or in the forest.

It was nearing dusk when the temple came into view for the protector. The darkening sky was filled with a high, piped tune, emanating from inside. The door to the temple was open. The protector ducked through the frame, but when he stood, he nearly struck a makeshift chandelier hanging overhead. Between the candles he glimpsed a fly, trapped in a web.

At his entrance, the tune halted. The priest was sitting in a pew at the front of the temple. He slipped an instrument into his sleeve, and turned to face the protector, brightening when he recognized the new arrival.

"Ah, we meet again! I wondered if our encounter by the water would bring you back upstream!"

He enthusiastically patted the seat next to him, urging the protector to rest. That same calmness exuded from his body, unsettling the protector. The priest had a kind face. He wore the traditional white robe of the clergy. What little was visible of his body clung tightly to his frame, evidence of the poverty his profession demanded. It was hard to take the villagers' talk seriously that when he first arrived, he had not been a priest at all, but a warrior. His frail figure and mirthful spirit dispelled any notions of a wild youth.

"What troubles you to bring you here at this hour? The mayor hasn't called you in for collections, or some such nonsense, eh? I'm afraid you'll leave empty handed, unless you value rats."

"I am here on the mayor's business, but it's about a boy, Emil. He's missing."

"Another," the priest shook his head reproachfully. He lifted a finger, as if enumerating, and then a full hand. "You know… I think that makes it the fifth since I founded this temple. Five."

"So, you knew of them."

"How could I not? Though I may not walk among the people, the tragedies they endure are etched on the spirits of all who walk through these doors. Emil is the next in a procession of lost souls in that place."

"Lost souls? You make it sound like death."

The priest leaned back against the pew, reflecting upon a stained glass, the fading light filtered through the window onto his face. The song of predatory birds came to life in the forest below, filling the sudden silence in the room.

"No... No, what is lost can be found. Even in death, there can be a reunion. Nothing simply fades away. As to the lost young ones, I have watched that village for many years, and I believe they push them away. They say the ties that bind us together are stronger than those that would break us apart. But… I'm not so sure."

The priest rose, his feeble hand shaking as he steadied himself by the armrest of the long bench.

"Come, let me show you something I'm quite proud of. I doubt even your watchful eyes have seen it."

He led the protector through the front of the temple, to another door to the outside, an area of the grounds unseen from the trail, as it was obstructed by the cliffside. Rows of brightly colored vegetables are growing along freshly turned soil. Such a thing is an extravagance in this region. The earth is coarse and inhospitable to growth in these altitudes. Still, somehow this private garden is full of life. Each red, orange, and green bud was a testament to the priest's willpower.

The protector bent to one knee to inspect a stalk, bringing it closer to his face.

"It's beautiful. How did you get it to grow here?"

"Oho, what a marvelous surprise! The beanpole knows a bit about growing things. You're right, the soil and altitude were my enemies. But I have providence on my side."

Beside the garden, branches from a grove of stunted new trees framed the view of the horizon beyond, to the town and the sea in the distance. The priest paused to admire the spectacle of the clouds igniting into frozen flames in the sunset.

"In all my travels, I had never seen anything like this place. That is why I chose it for the site of the temple. I hauled each stone here from the mountain," he said, patting a wall of the temple. "I can't say that it has been entirely a worthwhile investment, but I believe I've finally carved out a peace here."

"It's quite the view."

"Hm, that is about what it amounts to, I'm afraid. The remote location has stymied the growth of my flock. But I am at peace here. Listen to me ramble on, and you without a word to rein me in. I wanted to tell you before, but this is my first opportunity. Those people down below, it's wonderful what you've done for them this past year. Wonderful. Particularly in these trying times. Though I'm sure they don't appreciate you for it."

"Fine."

"Times are changing. Anyone with their eyes open can see it. The villagers are the ones in the dark—the ones who will suffer, without guidance." The priest lurches down to pick up a spade, then carefully digs a trench next to the row of beans, providing a bank to guide the inevitable rain. "Their heads are so deep in the sand they can't see to either side of them. Worse still, they have no desire to see. And so, without you, they'd be lost."

The protector smelled another in the garden before he saw him. A figure in a white cloak like the priest's emerged from behind the temple, pushing a wheelbarrow. When he saw the protector, he froze, his hands locked onto the wooden handles. The face was obscured, but the cleft in the chin, the long brown hair down either side of it, left no doubt.

"Emil..?"

A flash of recognition passed between Emil and the protector like a jolt of electricity passing through the boy's face.

"Deacon, you can see we have an unexpected guest. Could you fetch us some good red wine? Surely you know where you can find it by now," the priest said.

The protector watched as the young boy sauntered off into the temple.

"You said he was lost. What's he doing here?"

"He was lost. My only sin was in acting surprised." The priest leaned on a stone wall and removed his cap, exposing his bald head. He wiped his brow with it before setting it aside. "Emil was not the first to seek me out, and he won't be the last."

"Others—what is this madness? What else are you hiding up here, old man? This ends tonight. We will go before the village, and they will demand answers."

"You don't understand. Emil will simply seek me out again. Returning him will only upset his family, not to mention the village. I'm providing him with something he can't find down there."

Just then, the boy returned, a bottle under his arm and a pair of cups in each hand. As he began to pour, the protector got his first solid look at Emil's face. It was deformed and contorted in a way that he couldn't understand. Bulging veins protruded across his cheeks and down his neck. The hand that poured the wine was grotesquely turgid, the fingers resembled claws.

"You see, he has been blessed with providence, just like my garden," the priest said.

"The touch of God. Is that what you call this monstrosity?"

"Pfah, you are so tied to the flesh. The spirit is my area of concern. And this distorted husk is the result of a spirit burning brightly—far beyond what he could yield from years trapped within the mortal coil of those living below."

The priest sipped his wine then pointed beyond the wall.

"Deacon, step over the stones and tell me what you see below."

The boy set aside the bottle and drew up his robe to cross over the wall. His feet now hovered dangerously close to the edge of the drop below.

"I see the road leading to Triskele. And just below, I see a village."

"You should know it, boy. That is your home. Your loved ones are there right now, waiting for your safe return."

The boy turned to face the priest, their eyes meeting for a moment.

"But this is my home, father."

The priest gestured magnanimously to Emil, then faced the protector.

"Would you still argue that he is a prisoner?"

"What have you done to the boy? Drugs?"

"No. As I said, it is a gift from God."

The priest turned to face the fading sun. From the protector's perspective, the priest's body occluded the dying light, casting an aura around his frame.

"I've examined humans my whole life. In many ways my role in the clergy was to know the minds of men better than themselves. They are pushed and pulled by conflicting desires. Their spirit may be consumed by a burning dream, but life is a crucible. It brings competing desires, mere embers alongside that pure flame, but enough to dilute that dream's brilliance until what emerges is dull and muddled. Like many before him, Emil dreamed of being free from the pull of the village, but also to be accepted as one of them. I helped him find peace here, away from the interference of lesser desires. This magnificent garden is part of his work. I can compel the minds of men, driving away those conflicting flames, so they can experience the fullness of life that they seek. I want them to burn brilliantly, illuminating this dark world so desperate for light."

"Whatever you're doing is turning them into monsters."

The priest turns to regard Emil, almost as if he was seeing him for the first time.

"The vessels cannot endure the refinement and become husks of flesh, reflecting the twisting I have done within their minds," the priest said, caressing Emil's engorged cheek, brushing aside a tuft of brown hair. "You have endured much, haven't you, boy? Perhaps it is time, then. I release you from your duties."

"Father, no!" Emil pleaded, his eyes wide and terrified.

"Jump."

Without hesitating, Emil leaned forward, slipping from the edge, his white robe fluttering wildly behind him. The protector shot out the long arm of his other form, a coiled tendril that unfurled, reaching for the boy's body, but just missed, and the figure soundlessly fell out of view.

Fog propelled from the protector's body as his body transformed. His clothing ripped and armor pieces fell to the ground around him. He towered over the priest and ensnared his arms with both tendrils, preparing to rip the frail man asunder.

But the priest shouted the protector's name—a name from long ago, which he had himself forgotten. And as his eyes caught the priest's, the protector recognized their familiarity—a vertical slit in each pupil. His grip on the priest slackened, and he returned to his human form. He was transfixed by these predatory eyes so like his own, trapped within the web of a great beast.