Death After Death

As the day drew closer, Simon did all of the rites that had been mentioned for the fictitious Silent Saint, no matter how trivial. These were carried out as faithfully as the text allowed, even though he wasn’t sure that anyone was actually watching him. He took a vow of silence for the winter, dressed in harsh sackcloth robes, and fasted for the week leading up to the feast, abstaining from everything besides water and, strangely enough, beer.

In times such as these, it was apparently all the monks were allowed to drink. He supposed it made sense from a caloric perspective, but even so, it felt strange to be drinking that much after going so long without any alcohol.

He even prayed to a Goddess that he didn’t believe in every morning, just to cover all of his bases, though he wasn’t sure that was strictly necessary. The few friends and acquaintances he’d made during his time in the city drifted away during all of this, but they weren’t important in the grand scheme of things. Not compared to the Unspoken and their secrets. The only thing that might have been enough to shake him free of this goal now that he’d set it would be a lead on his evil twin, and that didn’t seem likely.

So, after all of those preparations were made, on the night of the new moon that occurred just after the start of spring, he made the long, cold walk to the Temple of Hypaltia. This was a holy day for the saint because it was the hungriest time of the year. Everyone had survived the winter, and the planting of fields had started, but the fruits of the harvest were still a long way off.

The symbolism was interesting. Simon didn’t know exactly how it was supposed to translate to fighting the evils of witchcraft exactly, but he pondered it as he walked down the empty dawn streets toward his destination.

Unlike some of the grander temples in the city of Darndelle, it was a small building that was barely more than a shrine with four walls and a roof. It was made of local sandstone instead of imported marble.

Unlike everyone else, that, at least, made sense to him. Winter wasn’t nearly as sexy a concept to sell to prospective worshipers as war, prophecy, or disease. Famine and harvest weren’t even ascribed to this Goddess either, so there was no mortal dread to convince people to worship her beyond the endless cold of her season. As a result, the Gods and Goddesses of those things all had much cooler temples and shrines.

When he arrived, he found the place empty, except for a few flickering candles on the altar. That didn’t discourage him. If this was a wild goose chase, there would be nobody here this time of day. On the other hand, if this was a test, and he really had been following a trail hidden across dozens of books and a handful of libraries, well… He hadn’t seen anyone else studying feverishly next to him in the library, so he doubted very much that there would be two people attending the Feast of Paupers.

Simon knelt on the cold stone and prayed. Well, he mouthed the words to the prayers he’d memorized about the cleansing nature of winter and how it would sweep away pestilence and strengthen the hearts of men and all that, but there was no belief behind those words. He had to repeat them several times until the candles had burned out and the thin light of dawn was creeping through the door. That was when someone finally came for him.

A white cloak came behind Simon, and after a tap on the shoulder, he helped Simon to his feet. Then, without a word, he escorted Simon to the back wall and revealed a secret door that led to a dark hallway. He’d been expecting, or at least hoping for, something like this, but still, the theatrical nature of the thing left him a little awed. It was like he’d been playing an open-world video game up until now, and he’d accidentally stumbled onto a real quest line.

The hall led to a smaller room, and it took Simon’s eyes a minute to adjust to the gloom, but as he did so, he saw what he’d been hoping to see: a meager table set in the center of the room. It had twelve places set with dishes. At the head of the table, the place was set with fine china and a chalice. Things deteriorated rather quickly as his gaze drifted down the table, though.

The seats closest to the head still had ceramic plates and glasses, and the ones further down had wooden bowls or mugs and mismatched utensils. It was only the seats farthest from that point, at the foot of the table, that were entirely empty.

Besides the two of them, the room was empty. No one was seated at any of them. The white robbed figure said nothing either. He merely gestured for Simon to take a seat.

Simon had expected this part. In the last few weeks, he’d reread all the parables he’d found and knew what it was he should do here, so without any deliberation, he walked over and sat in the rickety chair at the foot of the table.

The virtues ascribed to the saint in the stories he’d read were quite clear. Silence was right at the top, Which meant that you had to display your virtue rather than speak it, but there was a whole laundry list of others, and right near the top was humility and poverty. So, he sat there, and he waited.

He had a few ideas about what would happen next, but first, he had to endure another test of patience as they left him alone in the dark for some time. Later, other guests started to file in. All of them wore white cloaks and sat at the far end of the table. They ignored him, and though he pretended to do likewise, he studied them intently. There was nothing to be learned, though. Beyond the fact that he thought they might be talking together in several different languages, they were mostly discussing the feast and the coming year. The torment only truly became difficult when the food started to arrive.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

Simon hadn’t eaten in over a week now, and his stomach growled audibly as the first course came in and was served to the already initiated on the far side of the table. Twenty feet wasn’t enough to spare him from the smells of grilled meat and roasted vegetables, and his hunger was magnified five-fold before they even put a plate down in front of Simon.

That was a cruel move. The feast had started extravagantly at the head of the table, and as it moved down, each man had been given smaller and less appetizing portions, though they ate them just the same. For Simon, though, they had heaped the delicacies high. Looking down, he could see he had his choice of roast pheasant, braised ribs, warm bread, hot buttered potatoes, and half a dozen other sides.

It was a true feast, but he couldn’t have any of it, and he marveled at the cruelty of the thing. It was as tormented as he’d ever felt in a situation in the Pit where pain wasn’t involved. His stomach protested his restraint loudly as he sat there with his head bowed and his hands folded in prayer.

Simon was forced to endure that scene for the best part of an hour. It was only when everyone else had cleaned their plates, and the food on Simon’s plate had long since grown cold, that the other guests left, taking their oil lamps with them and leaving him in the dark. He was there for just long enough to wonder if he’d fucked something up before the hooded man re-entered and, with a gesture for Simon to follow him, led him down a different hallway.

This one led to an even smaller room. There was no food here, just a roaring fireplace and two chairs set in front of it.

The white-robed man took off his hood then and sat down in the far chair. “You’ve done well to follow our clues, Ennis,” the man said in the same voice that Simon had thought of as the boss in their encounter the year before. He wasn’t quite as old as Simon imagined him. He had close-cropped black hair with only a sprinkling of gray to go with his piercing green eyes. “I thought you would make it this far, though, So that’s no surprise. Did you enjoy your feast?”

Simon sat there quietly, then, after a moment, decided to nod once. This was likely some other strange test, and it would be a shame to blow it at the finish line like this.

That response made the other man laugh a little. Then he said, “That’s fair enough. Silence is the one trait that all members of the unspoken must have, though in your case, it will have to be rather more strictly enforced.”

Simon looked at him with a raised eyebrow, but the white cloak was already speaking again. “Let me explain,” he continued. “You already know that we are witch hunters and that we keep the evils of magic from corrupting society in all the lands we hold sway. That’s why you want to join us, yes?”

Simon nodded again. That much wouldn’t hurt. At this stage, he expected that if he rejected their offer, death would come swiftly.

“Well, all of that is true, but that’s only the most surface level. Up until now, you have only discovered the brothers who do the fighting and dying. You might have even discovered a sister or two. There are other roles, though,” the man nodded. “You lack the gift of the gods to be a proper brother, and you’re completely unfit to be a whisperer, but I knew from the moment we figured out you weren’t a warlock waiting to happen that you would make for a perfect archivist.” Ṟ

The man went on to explain what that role was exactly, and with each revelation, he found it harder and harder not to salivate. The brothers killed the witches and warlocks, but they rarely destroyed the trappings of either on their own. Instead, they brought those things back to be understood and disposed of. Sometimes, that meant rewriting fake histories to replace real ones, but more often, that meant unraveling the mysteries of relics and grimoires so that the Unspoken would be better prepared for such tricks.

“We cannot entrust these secrets with any who might actually use them, though, you understand?” he repeated. “Every brother in our order might use the words of power if he sought to damn his immortal soul. So it falls to people like you to organize and safeguard knowledge that will forever be beyond you.”

Simon nodded again, sweating now from the heat of the small room. He wasn’t nervous, though; he was certain that this was the right path. He didn’t even need to follow it for years if he didn’t want to. Just a few days or weeks in such a forbidden library, and he might be able to answer dozens of questions that had been a mystery to him up until now. He was more than eager to start down this road, even if he had to keep up this silly vow of silence until it was time to turn back toward Ionia.

“Do you understand, then?” the green-eyed man asked, reaching over and picking up a hot iron from where it had been resting among the coals before practically holding the burning red metal in Simon’s face. “You are a bright young man and good with words, but from each of us, a sacrifice is called for, and in your case… well, you can’t do the job we require if you are capable of whispering those secrets to another soul, can you? If you want this, there’s only one way forward.”

Simon nodded, slowly understanding. This is going to fuck up my run, he thought to himself as he considered the man’s words. They didn’t just want a vow of silence. They wanted something more irrevocable than that. That made sense. Whoever they entrusted this knowledge to would be incredibly dangerous if they could actually use it themselves.

Still, it’s worth it, though, right? He argued with himself. If I do this, I get a look inside - I could find out all kinds of insane things, even if I can’t use them until my next life. I can see Elthena then…

It was a terrible decision, but once he’d made it, there was no going back, and he bit his tongue off.Nôv(el)B\\jnn