Ino carried the tattered scrolls of ancient histories down the hall, barely able to peer over the tops of the parchments to see where he was going. He traveled through a section of the Church that was nearly deserted, and his footsteps echoed faintly in the quiet hall.
Under normal circumstances, he would not have come this way, since these halls were off-limits to acolytes. This particular wing of the church had been abandoned for decades. The Masters did not want unsupervised acolytes causing mischief, so they had forbidden all access. But it was a convenient shortcut to his next appointment, and he was late. If he failed to deliver the scrolls to Master Renuin soon, he would find himself in the kitchens scrubbing pots until his fingers were pruned and raw. Again.
He was lost in thought, brainstorming excuses to tell his Master that would extricate himself from punishment due to his tardiness, when he heard faint voices coming from a room down a side hall as he passed by. Strange, he thought. Perhaps a group of new recruits was foolish enough to wander through the forbidden rooms on a dare. He pointedly ignored the fact that he, too, was passing through the same halls without permission.
Curiosity getting the better of him, he carefully set the bundle of scrolls down on a nearby bench and crept toward the voices. His Master’s grating voice chastised him in his mind, but he continued forward. Even with the shortcut, he would still be late for his appointment, so there was no harm in stopping to give a few initiates a good scare. A few more minutes would hardly make a difference, and he needed some excitement. Weeks of historical research had left him bored and in dire need of entertainment. Veritia’s Compendiums would have to wait.
He followed the voices to a room at the end of the hallway. The light was much dimmer here, lacking the natural light that poured in from the tall windows in the main hall. The walls were lined with pedestals, holding various bowls and vases of some religious significance. The door to the room was cracked open, so he crouched down and peered into the room.
Ino froze.
Inside, he saw an elderly man talking with two women. They stood in some kind of study or library. Shelves of dusty books lined the walls behind them, and a distinct moth-ball odor emanated from the room. A sitting area comprised of a leather couch and a few chairs was set up off to the side, but it was unused.
It took a moment for Ino to realize that the old man bore the scarlet vestment that marked him as a patriarch of the Church. He had only ever seen a patriarch in person once before—when the archpriest himself had given a speech in Teldur’s Square. To see one here, in some dusty, long-forgotten room was, to say the least, peculiar. The man had a wispy, white beard that came to his waist and looked nearly as ancient as the scrolls Ino had left behind.
One of the women was dressed in fine traveling clothes, dyed with rich indigos and emerald greens. They looked much nicer than any of the clothing that would normally be found in the church, of which the mandated fashion was plain brown robes. An outsider, then. They certainly looked well-worn, dusty, and slightly crumpled, as if she had only just arrived in the city after months on the road. Ino’s eyes widened at another oddity—she carried a longsword on her hip. How had she entered the holy city with a weapon? And to display one so flagrantly in front of a patriarch was nothing short of heresy. The laws of the city forbade the presence of weapons, and the punishment for such a crime was usually swift and severe.
The other woman seemed to be the exact opposite of the first. A simple, ragged shirt and pants were all that she wore. She stared down at her dirty, bare feet, unable to meet the eyes of the patriarch, or the woman who stood beside her. Ino was struck, yet again, by the strangeness of the situation. There were no beggars in the holy city. Like weapons, the law forbade them. Those unfortunate enough to find themselves destitute were either enlisted as acolytes or banished from the city. But this woman did not wear the robes that would mark her as a recruit.
Ino felt a sudden flash of guilt as he spied on the scene. He should not be here. And yet, he could not turn away. The unusual gathering compelled him. He turned his attention to their conversation.
“...another one, Lissia? Show me what you’ve found,” the patriarch was saying. He stared inquisitively at the beggar. Although his posture seemed to indicate a sort of grandfatherly kindness, his palms outstretched in a welcoming gesture, his presence gave off an imposing aura. He carried himself with the comfortable authority one gets from age, wisdom, and positions of power.
“Of course, father,” said the woman who carried the sword—Lissia, Ino presumed. She bowed slightly, then removed a knife from a sheath at her side. With a quick gesture, she drew the knife across her hand, and blood began to drip from the wound. A few drops pattered to the hard floor.
With her good hand, she lifted the beggar's chin, offering the wounded hand, palm up. “Go on, you know what to do.”
Her words were soft, but they had a spring-coiled tension to them.
The beggar ducked her head in a small nod and raised her shaking hands to envelop Lissia’s injured one. She spoke in a language that Ino could not understand. More than that, the words did not form in his mind. They slid off his consciousness like water, and he could not grasp the sounds she was forming. It tickled at his ears and the nape of his neck, sending a prickling sensation down his spine. It was almost pleasant, in a way, but it also felt distinctly wrong. Pale blue light seeped from between the beggar’s fingers. After a few moments, she stopped speaking, and the glow subsided. She let go, returning to her timid position—head down, her arms hanging slack.
Lissia flexed her hand, then held it up, presenting her palm to the patriarch. The hand, which should have been injured, was unmarred. Even the blood that had begun to coat her entire hand had vanished.
“Very strong Entra in this one,” she said. “Perhaps the strongest I’ve seen yet.”
Ino stared, stunned by the display he had just witnessed. Entra? He did not recognize the word, but what the beggar had just done could only be one thing: the Old Magic. The old Magic that had died out millenia ago, as his studies taught him. And yet, what he had just seen suggested otherwise. His heart pounded with the revelation. And the church was somehow involved... had their gods returned? His mind reeled.
“You’ve done very well, Lissia,” the patriarch said. A smile cracked the corners of his mouth. “It seems our relationship with the order is finally paying dividends. Their tactics may be... unsavory, but it is hard to argue with their results.” He turned to face the beggar. “My name is Astos. I am one of the patriarchs of the Church of the Triumvirate. You, my dear, have a very rare and special gift. Rest assured, you will be well taken care of, and your talents will be put to good use. Lissia, take her—”
He paused, suddenly, and raised his index finger, silencing Lissia’s reply. “It seems we have an unwelcome eavesdropper.”
The words broke Ino free of his shock, now aware of the fact that he had stumbled backward, directly into one of the pedestals that lined the wall behind him. As if in slow motion, the pedestal topple to its side, and the vase atop it shattered, sending white shards of ceramic across the marble floor.
Cringing at the explosion of sound, he tried to scramble back down the hall, but he lost his footing on the glass, falling to his hands and knees. Sharp pain left him breathless, digging into his palms.
Before he could even process the pain, he was yanked from the ground by the collar of his robes. He winced as Lissia grabbed his arm, hard enough to leave bruises. Heat began to spread from his hands, and he felt the wetness of blood drip down his fingertips.
“What do we have here?” Lissia growled. Her grip tightened on his arm. Murder danced in her eyes, and her voice was laced with venom. His eyes tracked to the sword at her hip, and he tried to swallow the hard lump forming in his throat.
“I—uh, my name is Ino,” he stammered. “I’m just an acolyte, fetching some scrolls for—”
“Silence! You were sneaking about were you shouldn’t have. This section of the church is forbidden.” She flashed him a devilish smile. “You don’t know a quarter of the trouble you’ve gotten yourself into, little acolyte.”
Astos glided into the hallway, his long robes flowing behind him. He approached the pair, wearing a solemn mask that gave no indication of his reaction to the scene displayed before him. Then, he arched an eyebrow, and stared questioningly at Lissia.
“This one was poking around where he shouldn’t have,” Lissia explained. Her grip still held him firmly, and she gave him a little shake for emphasis. “Must’ve knocked the vase over trying to make his escape.”
Ino was keenly aware of the stinging of his hands and the beating of his heart against his rib cage. His throat tightened, and he found it difficult to breath. She was going to kill him. Today, he had decided to spend his time with Neara, making him late for his appointment, which lead to him taking this damn shortcut. And now this woman was going to kill him, ending his short life. What a worthless life it had been.
To Ino’s surprise, Astos looked apologetic, not angry. “I’m sorry that you had to see that, my boy. You really should have learned to obey the rules set out for you. They are put in place for good reason.” He sighed, eyes downcast, folding his fingers together and paused for a moment.
He closed his eyes briefly, then said, “Lissia, take him to the gates. Give him a week’s worth of food and water, and send him on his way.”
Lissia stared hard at Astos with wide eyes, her face flushing with anger. “You’re letting him leave? I—I don’t understand. He knows too much, father. You know what we have to do.”
At that, Ino felt a sharp pang in his chest, cold fear pulsing through his veins. His eyes flashed to the sword at her hip again. She still had him by the arm, and he was completely at her mercy. His strength could not match hers, and any attempt to pull away was met with resistance.
“Now, now,” Astos chided. “There’s no need for such drastic actions. The boy has done wrong, to be sure, but he doesn’t deserve that fate. We will brand him as an excommunicate, and discredit anything he would say against the church as blasphemy. It’s no matter, anyway. No one will believe an orphaned acolyte.”
He turned to address Ino. “Listen well, my child. You can still have a full life ahead of you. By the mercy of the Triumvirate, you will have it, but the church can no longer support your claim here. You will leave, and never speak of whatever it is you think you witnessed this day. Travel to Harrow, or Turin, or even as far as Achenar if you so choose. There, you can apprentice to learn a trade skill, or perhaps conscript in the military. If you follow these instructions, I can assure you that no harm will come to you. However, the church has eyes and ears all throughout Ilris. Make no mistake, if we hear whispers of an excommunicate of the church spreading heresy, well, our agents will act accordingly. Do I make myself clear, young man?”
Ino bobbed his head fervently. He felt a chill as realization dawned on him. Already the adrenaline was beginning to wear off, leaving dread in its place. His life as he knew it was over. He would be stepping foot outside the church’s walls for the first time since being brought here as a baby. This life was all he had ever known.
Astos gave him a pat on the shoulder, offering a cheerful smile, oblivious to Ino’s internal struggle. “Wonderful! Have luck, my boy, and may the Trinity bless your journey. The Caetera teaches us that while our path is not always straight, all scales balance in the end. You would do well to remember that. Lissia, you may escort him to the gates. Have the keepers give him what he needs. And don’t worry, I’ll see to our new friend.”
Lissia fumed, but gave a short bow. “Yes, Father,” she managed through gritted teeth.
With a swish of his robes, he strode back into the library.
With Ino’s arm still in a vice grip, she tugged him down the hallway, passing the scrolls that lay abandoned on the bench. He absentmindedly realized that he wouldn’t have to scrub dishes.
The gates closed with a sharp clang behind Ino. The guards had left him with a small pack of dried meat and bread that would last him until he reached Harrow, and nothing more. The brown acolyte’s robes had been traded for a plain white shirt, brown pants, and a thin, rust-colored cloak. In truth, the clothes were more than anything that he had ever actually owned. Almost everything he once had was the property of the church, even his robes. Even so, those things—his books, drawings, and trinkets—he had collected over the years had felt like his own, now left behind.
Everything that had marked him as an acolyte of the Holy Church of the Triumvirate was stripped from him. Everything that he had ever known, forgotten in an instant. They hadn’t even given him a chance to say goodbye to Master Renuin. That life was over, and a new one awaited him.
There was one thing, however, burned into his mind, that he could never forget. A potentially world-shattering secret. One that he could never speak a word of to anyone for fear of the consequences. The Old Magic—real, true magic—was real.