Sitting at the edge of his bed, Dimitry massaged his brow with a still-trembling palm. The adrenaline had yet to subside from his visit to the dark hall. What he saw; what he learned, tumbling in a mind still recuperating from an abrupt awakening. As if to confirm the integrity of reality, he glanced around the room.
A faerie’s yawn eked from the cabinet of a dark speckled granite desk, and a midwinter breeze whistled through chinks in boarded windows to brush against his chin. He was back. Back in his bedroom and office on the former cathedral’s third floor.
In some ways, Dimitry had grown powerful. He was an archbishop with over a thousand followers, the count ticking up as refugees arrived from the north and Malten’s countryside. Neither noble nor merchant dared order him around. To earn his ire was to make an enemy of he who manufactured divine weaponry, and since his speech alongside Saphiria two days ago, to defy his authority was to defy the will of the crown. An imposing figure indeed.
But in many more ways, Dimitry was still a pawn, fighting at the behest of an eerie race that claimed to have been his ally. They seemed friendly. They portrayed themselves as amiable, but as far as he knew, his entire experience could have been a farce no less fabricated than a chair purportedly produced from nothingness.
Was Kajla on his side?
Why did she demand he surrender to the Church?
Who were the Tel?
And most terrifyingly, could they truly send Dimitry home? He yearned to see his family again. His sister, a hairstylist obsessed with trains. His father, a grouchy construction worker who retired after arthritis and degenerative disc disease forced him into a life of endless television watching. His mother, an aging medical scribe. Kajla claimed Dimitry would resume his life on Earth if he succeeded, but what did success entail?
He didn’t know. The breadth of possibilities stretched out further than his capacity to conceive them. However, while Dimitry couldn’t predict Kajla’s plans for him, he knew what would happen if he turned himself in to the Church.
Heathens and starvation would kill hundreds of thousands across Malten. The hospital he had built, that brought reprieve to those without medical recourse, would decay once more into a symbol of abandonment. Dimitry would betray those he could never bear to hurt.
Saphiria’s heart would break. Angelika would break her foot off in his ass. Neither girl frightened Dimitry less than the Church, and whether he fought against thugs, guards, or heathens, both constantly risked death and disgrace to help him. They were his family now. No. They were more than family. Bonds stitched by blood could never reproduce the trust he harbored for the young ladies who’d sacrifice all alongside him to resuscitate Malten. If ‘success’ meant abandoning them and their shared vision to join the Church, Dimitry would rather stay here instead.
There was so much to do. Advancing agriculture such that crops became plentiful. Progressing medicine beyond gut-feeling mysticism. Introducing scientific thought, the engine by which people systematically revolutionized their lives and habitats.
Dimitry didn’t know Kajla’s definition of success, but his own was clear. By brandishing his newfound authority as the apostle, he would accomplish more in one lifetime here than anything he could have achieved as a surgeon on Earth in a hundred.
“I know you’re busy consoling yourself after your nightmare,” said a shrill voice, “but can you let me out of here already?”
“I’m coming. Keep your pants on.”
“I don’t wear pants, Dumitry.”
He sighed. Roommates.
First a step onto a frigid and glossy floor, and then four strides across the room to the desk at its center, Dimitry pulled out the top drawer to unveil the tiny bedroom within. “Happy?”
“Tired.” Lying atop a bed of two adjacent gold coins and the world’s smallest pillow, Precious stretched her arms and fluttered her green wings, which buzzed like those of a mosquito. “I thought you’d never wake up. You don’t sleep much, but when you do you really go all out, huh?”
“Till morning like everyone else.”
“Does it look like morning to you?”
Running a bronze comb through his hair, Dimitry glanced at a shattered stained glass window and the gray light seeping from between its layered planks. “Pretty much.”
“It’s evening.” She frowned. “Evening!”
“In my defense, it’s winter. Everything except night looks the same. Besides, after vetting hundreds of refugees over the past two days, I think I’ve earned the right to oversleep on occasion.”
“That’s not my point! Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for you to wake up and let me out of that cabinet? Like… like…” Precious counted her fingers. “A long time! Probably. I’m not even sure what day it is anymore. All I know is I woke up forever ago and I kept trying to go back to sleep to make the wait go by faster and now I’ve got a big headache and a grumbly stomach!”
“If it makes you feel better, after listening to you whine, we both have a headache.”
“That does make me feel better.”
Dimitry reevaluated his earlier musings. Maybe becoming the Church’s slave wasn’t so bad. They might not have been the most moral bunch, but at least they didn’t keep faeries. Could that have been why they considered critters like Precious ‘corrupted’—not because of religious dogma, but because even the most saintly priestess would tear her hair out after a year of this. He smirked at the mental imagery of gray-robed women swatting away faeries like flies.
“What’s so funny?”
“Oh, nothing.”
“I’m not sensing nothing.”
To end her nagging and shed light on a more important mystery, Dimitry changed the topic. “I was just wondering—have you ever heard of the Tel?”
“The who?”
“The Tel, Kajla, Zaĥario, the committee. Any of those ring a bell?”
Precious tilted her head, and her blond ponytail fell over her shoulder. “Who are they and why would they ring a bell? Are you hiring bell-ringers? Can’t you just get rid of Church bells since you’re the apostle now? All they do is make noise and ruin my sleep.”
Dimitry was an idiot to ask. “Forget it. Get ready to go out. We’re falling behind schedule.”
“Not my fault. Let me find my coat.” She rummaged through the shiny trash in her drawer, pushing away piles of silver shavings and rolling aside lustrous green vol pellets.
“If you keep hoarding junk, you’ll have nowhere left to sleep.”
“It’s not junk! It’s treasure.”
“Right.” Dimitry straightened his red and gold uniform. “Sort through it faster. I’m sure everyone’s waiting for us.”
She pulled a thin leather cloth out from under a gold coin and threw it over her shoulders like a cloak. “By the way, I’m still hungry. Can we stop by a fruit stall? It’s grimberry season and I’m sure these humans have collected a whole bunch.”
“Doubt there’s a whole bunch of food anywhere in Malten. Too many hungry people around.”
Precious waved her hand as if shooing away an unwanted butler. “You don’t have to worry about that.”
“How come?”
“Grimberries grow everywhere, people think they taste like fire, and if humans eat too many, they go blind or die or something.”
“Blind?”
“Yup!”
Dimitry paused. Grimberries seemed to have effects similar to methanol—a lethal alternative to ethanol for those looking to get drunk on a budget. On Earth, the poor and addicted drank methanol despite knowing of its toxicity. Irreversible central nervous system complications would often result.
If grimberries contained methanol, he should deal with them before too many poisoning incidents bogged down his hospital staff. But first, Dimitry had to establish his army. Heathens posed a greater threat to Malten than blindness.
Two sets of footsteps, one stomping and one hasty, echoed from outside the room.
“I told you to stay away from there!” a familiar voice bellowed. “He’s sleeping!”
“Little Angelika,” an aged and grave voice responded, “this is important.”
“Last time you said that, you and grandma ditched us to go suck off the Church. I swear. Another step and I’ll shoot you in the back of your fucking head.”
“Oh…”
The commotion in the hall fell silent, murderous tension oozing in to fill the void.
“Family sure sounds like a hassle,” Precious whispered as she hid back inside her desk.
An eventful ‘morning’ already. To prevent the pointless death of an old friend, Dimitry rushed to unlock the door. He stepped into the corridor.
With the polished barrel of her voltech rifle aimed at Ignacius’ head, Angelika kicked away her grandfather’s boots. They flopped across the granite floor, dark green pellets rolling out from their muddy leather collars. “Where else are you hiding vol, you backstabbing fuck?”
“Listen—“
“Don’t move! Hands away from your robe!”
Ignacius raised his arms, yet his grimace showed no sign of fear. He instead seemed hurried. Troubled.
A small crowd of nurses and porters gathered at the edge of the staircase. Like a witness to a criminal’s homicide, a young woman in a white apron watched on with horrified eyes.
“That’s enough,” Dimitry said. “Everyone back to their posts. That includes you, Angelika.”
Angelika glanced away from her grandfather, yet her orange eyes maintained their murderous glare. “Stand back! He’s old, but he’s as capable as Leandra or any of the other court sorceresses. I bet the Church sent him here to kill the new archbishop.”
“My girl, I’m—“
“Shut the fuck up!”
While unfortunate to admit, Angelika’s concerns held merit. Ignacius was once part of the Church. He vanished a month ago only to reappear shortly after Dimitry’s power grab. The timing was suspicious. What urgent business did he have that couldn’t wait another day? He once proved himself an ally by melting off Saphiria’s collar and helping Dimitry escape imprisonment, but after seeing Rostlen text on the tome in the dark hall and learning of his inevitable confrontation with the Church, Dimitry couldn’t discount the potential for nefarious ambitions.
What if mysterious magic had turned Ignacius into a sleeper agent? Perhaps the Church foresaw the heretical events in Malten and planned around them. Once again, Dimitry knew too little to act with certainty.
But he could act cautiously.
The first step was to dismantle any potential panic. Rebuilding Malten’s heathen barrier would require steadfast loyalty, and if people believed that one old man nearly assassinated Dimitry, the resulting gossip would shatter his infallible image. No poor peasant would follow a fragile leader into a war against heathens. He had to neutralize subversive rumors before they formed.
“If Ignacius was trying to kill me,” Dimitry said, “I would have known.”
“How the hell could you—“
“Zera blessed me with a Precious skill that lets me know.”
“Ah,” Angelika muttered, her expression one of disappointment. “That.”
A porter by the stairs shared impressed awes with his fellow onlookers, wallowing in the sanctified presence of an apparently omniscient apostle.
Dimitry’s gut twisted into a knot. He derived no pleasure from his lies, especially since they worked against the evidence-based practices he wished to spread, but a house built on lies was better than a rubble of truths. Stability preceded progress.
Next, he had to deal with Ignacius. The old man was unlikely to have been an assailant, but without being able to ask Precious, Dimitry couldn’t know for sure. And he didn’t have to. “Remove his vol anyway. Only guards can bring weapons into this hospital.”
“Yeah, yeah. I know.”
Angelika disarmed her grandfather, Ignacius heaved a half-relieved sigh, and a nurse raised an upturned arm to Celeste before returning to work with renewed fervor. A potential source of demoralizing gossip became one of strength.
After the crowd dispersed, Ignacius spoke in hushed tones. “Boy, we must talk.”
“Figured as much.” Dimitry opened the door to his office. “But perhaps somewhere more private than out here?”
Ignacius limped towards a chair, sat at its very edge, and restlessly glanced around the room. “To be back in Fronika’s study again…”
Dimitry joined his antsy guest across the desk. “That was the previous archbishop of Malten, right?”
“An ungrateful bitch is who she was.” Angelika leaned back against the office door to keep it shut. “Never even said bye after all those years I sang in her damn chorus. He wasn’t much better.”
Ignacius avoided her glare. “I thought it’d be easier on you if I left quietly.”
“Well, it fucking wasn’t, you geriatric assho—“
“Give it a rest already,” Dimitry said.
Scowling, Angelika looked away.
Dimitry tapped on the desk.
A tiny hand reached out from the drawer and waved.
“No!” Angelika hissed. “You idiot! Hide!”
Ignoring her warning, Precious drifted towards Ignacius and tugged on his rode-worn beard. “Hello again, geezer.”
“A-again? The thing and the backstabber know each other?”
“We all met on the voyage to Malten,” Dimitry said. “Ignacius, the princess, Precious, and I escaped from the Church together.”
“Even the princess… wait, you escaped from the Church?!”
“Boy,” Ignacius whispered. “I’m not sure about this whole apostle business, but people say you take care of refugees. Is that true?”
Dimitry stroked his chin. “What do you say, Precious? You heard the conversation out in the hall.”
“Aside from shame, urgency, and loads of guilt, I’m not getting much else.”
“So he isn’t here to harm me?”
“Doubt it.”
“You didn’t know that already?! But you told me—“ Angelika groaned. “Fuck it. Whatever.”
“Sorry, Ignacius,” Dimitry said. “I had to know for sure. What you’ve heard about me sounds accurate so far. A lot’s happened.”
“Don’t apologize to me.” Ignacius’ gaze wandered between specks on the desk’s dark granite surface. “After what I’ve done, you and Angelika have every reason to distrust me. Hundreds. Thousands. They’re all suffering because of us.”
“Damn straight we are,” Angelika said. “It’s because of you—“
Dimitry held up a hand to shut her up. “Go on.”
“Do you know where I’ve been this past month, my boy? The north. Volmer. Entire villages massacred. Towns full of starved, purple corpses. I’ve watched lordless peasants try to fight off multiple crawlers with bows and pitchforks. I helped where I could, but what the Church did, what I’ve done… it’ll never be enough. We left them all to die.”
Ignacius’ story confirmed what Dimitry had assumed—Malten wasn’t the first kingdom to crumble in the Church’s absence. Heathens attacked from the north, and because of Volmer’s weakening defenses, the number of heathens that reached Malten grew daily. The relative stability of Malten came at their expense.
“I want to help,” Dimitry said, “but unfortunately I don’t have enough supplies to help Volmer’s people let alone my own. Hell, I can’t even afford to clothe them right now. I know that’s not what you want to hear, but—”
Ignacius reached across the desk and grabbed Dimitry’s wrist with a trembling hand. “Seven. I brought seven families back with me. There aren’t too many children, and most of the elders stubbornly stayed behind or died along the way, so surely you could…”
“Take them in?”
“Will you?”
Dimitry slumped back in his chair and massaged his forehead. If he took in too many refugees, he risked running out of funds before they generated enough profit to pay for their upkeep. His revitalization project would fail and hundreds would die. However, with more workers, his ventures would be more fruitful when they took off, especially since most of the new migrants were young and, plagues aside, healthy.
“Alright.”
Ignacius’ eyes gleamed. “Alright? You’ll do it?”
“Yeah,” Dimitry said. “Come on. Introduce me to them.”
A statue of Celeste stood on either side of the monastery’s gargantuan arched entrance, granite staves raised eternally to the sky. Two expansive floors. A stable. Dormitories, baths, and a kitchen. What was once a mighty structure that housed Zeran knights and their steeds was becoming the barracks for hundreds of refugees. Even now people toiled inside, dusting off pillars, mopping blood-stained floors, and tossing rotten straw out from open stained glass windows.
A gang lurked within the darkest reaches of the monastery two days ago, using it as their hideout, but Saphiria cleaned them out alongside a small detachment of troops. She publicly gifted the building to Dimitry. And he gratefully accepted. Soon, he would convert it into a symbol of prosperity and hope.
Two men hauled a sack of shattered stone out from the entrance. Dimitry stepped aside to let them pass, and they knelt in praise before resuming their labor.
The seven families Ignacius had guided from Volmer—fifty-two people in total—watched on from the courtyard. A mother holding two toddlers’ hands. Her husband with black bags under his eyes. Their faces bore the weariness of extended travel, begging for a moment’s rest, yet their guarded postures hinted at deep-seated caution.
“My boy,” Ignacius uttered. “What have you…”
“I’m not with the Church,” Dimitry said to assuage the most obvious concern before anyone verbalized it. “We’re only using their structures until we build our own. It’s better than freezing out here in the streets, don’t you think?”
A lady pulling a torn cloak tightly around her shivering torso hastily nodded.
“We don’t mean any disrespect,” said the chief of the village this band of refugees once called their home. “It’s just that this isn’t the first time we’ve been swindled by people offering us help. We paid some man-at-arms to escort us here, but they took off in the middle of the night with our coin and two of our women.”
“My daughters,” a man corrected. “They took my fucking daughters! How many times did I say we shouldn’t trust that slack-jawed prick?”
“Everyone makes mistakes, James,” another added.
“And we’ve all lost family.”
The village chief heaved an exhausted breath. “That’s how it goes… apostle. If it wasn’t for Sir Ignacius, I don’t think we woulda made it.” He bowed. “Thanks again, great wizard.”
Ignacius toothed a depressing smile.
Kidnappings. Homelessness. Starvation. What haven’t these people been through? Guilt would haunt Dimitry if he let them leave, perhaps to live on the street or die during a long trek to the next big city, but lying about his divinity to convince them to stay felt wrong, mostly because he worried he couldn’t pay their keep or successfully rebuild the heathen barrier. Countless lives relied on his triumph, and growing pangs of inadequacy never let him forget the stakes. Why torture himself with more promises he didn’t know if he could keep?
“You’ll be in good company here,” said a mellow voice.
He glanced back.
Standing between the doors of the monastery was a mopey woman with silken dark-blue hair—Dimitry’s accountant and inventory manager. He called Claricia over to ask how long the food stores would last with the latest addition of people, but now the former librarian commanded the attention of all present.
“My husband and I were no better off than any of you,” Claricia said. “We fled Volmer last month. The town guard collapsed in a fight with heathens, and a crawling devil killed… we lost our infant.”
“Poor thing,” a woman said. “May your child rest at Zera’s side.”
“What town?” the chief muttered.
“Ralm.”
“That’s way north of where we lived. I used to sell nails there. You were one of the first to fall, right?”
Claricia nodded.
“What happened next?” a stout man asked.
“We reached Malten and began catching rats for food. Clewin and I often wondered if it was alright for us to live after losing Otte, but after being cursed with the plague, we found our answer. It was then that we had given up and then that The Most Reverend Dimitry offered us a hand. He gave us jobs, meals, and cured our ailments.”
The man who had lost his daughters looked up from the paved brick floor. “Well? Does life go on?”
“I don’t know, but I am grateful to have time to ponder the question. We all are. If you put your trust in His Holiness, I’m sure you’ll find some peace, too.”
The refugees huddled close.
“I heard his holy weapons obliterated a carapaced devil,” one among them said.
“Yeah. Everyone’s been saying it.”
“Sir Wizard seems to like him.”
After several minutes of deliberation, the chief stepped forward. “So… what do you want us to do? We can work.”
It seemed Dimitry’s ambitions took on a life of their own. There was no turning back. “Claricia, for now, bring them inside and get them something warm to eat. We can talk about work later.”
“I understand. Everyone, grab your belongings and line up inside.”
As the refugees gathered their shoddy woven fiber sacks, murky water droplets frozen atop loose threads, Dimitry approached Claricia. “Are you sure we can feed them all?”
“For now, yes.” She handed him a roll of parchment. “The most recent account of your funds and supplies, Your Holiness.”
He unfurled the scroll to find everything from cotton gauze to ethanol reserves accounted for. Though he would analyze the figures later, Claricia dealt with them regularly. Her opinion was better informed. “Any major issues?”
“Saltpeter stocks have completely run out, and Clewin doesn’t have enough black powder to manufacture bombs. We cannot assist in the upcoming Night of Repentance as you have planned.”
Dimitry knew as much. Fortunately, muskets were more black powder efficient and he could simplify them for swift production. “I’ll handle that. What else?”
“We’re running out of dried meat and grain, and there’s too little fish coming in to make up for the shortage. We also won’t be able to afford ale for ethanol soon.”
“I thought you said we have enough food.”
“I said for now, Your Holiness.”
“How long is ‘for now’?”
“Assuming we don’t take in anyone else, two weeks. Knowing you, sooner than that.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” After a glance at the hopeful refugees, she bowed. “I’ll show them inside now, Your Holiness. Please excuse me.”
Great. Dimitry’s plans would fail spectacularly without food. Famine had pumped up prices, and if he couldn’t afford ale, he definitely couldn’t afford to restock on grain and meat. It was only a matter of time before his stockpiles ran out. His best option was to expedite his plans and march towards the coast while he could still feed an army. Fishing would solve the most pressing issue.
But reaching, securing, and exploiting an ocean swarming with heathens would require an army. And raising an army from scores of refugees would require military experience. Experience he didn’t have. He couldn’t teach people how to fight, nor could he teach them how to build a barrier or handle commercial fishing tools. Dimitry couldn’t do this alone. He needed help. Lots and lots of help.
After watching the refugees enter the monastery, Ignacius approached. “My boy. You’re doing a good thing here.”
“That’s high praise coming from Sir Wizard himself.”
He chuckled, but his laughter was short-lived. “You know, there are many others who could use your aid.”
Dimitry sighed. “Are you trying to guilt me into taking in more refugees?”
“No, my boy. I’d like to make you an offer. I know a few villages that won’t survive the coming Night of Repentance. If you let me bring the residents here, I’ll consider you the true apostle and serve you as faithfully as I have served the Church. What do you say?”
For Ignacius to accept Dimitry’s holiness despite verbalizing doubt less than an hour ago struck him as odd. The hollowness in the old man’s eyes spoke of someone who had been betrayed by his beliefs, burned by his zeal, and the sincerity in his gaze sought to make amends. Ignacius didn’t care about Zera or the apostle. He just wanted a chance to undo his biggest mistake.
And that was good. Dimitry needed skilled followers who believed in his cause rather than his lies. Accepting Ignacius’ offer meant earning the loyalty of a skilled and benevolent wizard. While he’d have to provide for more refugees, by the time they got here, Dimitry’s fishing project would already be in full swing. Or so he hoped. “Alright. It’s a deal.”
“Splendid, my boy!” Ignacius jogged towards his horse parked at the monastery’s courtyard gates. “I’ll be back soon!”
It was then that Claricia’s words dawned on Dimitry. For him to take in more refugees right after learning of his dwindling food stores, she really did know him. She knew him well.