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[Magus]

Prudent

Forget not that transgression, peccato in the holy tongue, is but the twisting of the Sevenfold. That wrath, greed, lust, sloth, gluttony, envy, and pride are, at their cores, divine desires each corresponding to a God that dwells in Mons Callum.

Wrath for Sevagoth; All-Father Oriath, He Who Wages War.

Greed for Dieuz; Sky-Father Dyeus, He Who Judges Man.

Lust for Astartes; Sin-Eater Elaria-Rel, She of Desire.

Sloth for Selén; Hel-Watcher Lumenari, They Who Watch and of Vigil.

Gluttony for Mortinius; Dust-Reaper Mortus, He Who Brings the Rightful End.

Envy for Merça-Mercuria; Twin-Crones Maiahnah, She of Breath and Ken.

Pride for Suné-Astraea; Sol-Mother Solaria, Our Lady Light.

The way that Man is wont to express a given heavenly urge brings about sin, corrupted by association with the Unwhole Earth; the unclean influence of the Nine that makes of Gaeya’s creatures thus unclean.

A God’s wrath or lust or pride are natural, fine things and just for They are so. A man’s wrath or lust or pride are natural twain but unjust for he is so.

—Mandatos Gaian-Perakh, Holy Scripture of the cult of the Flower-Crone.

The Lone Sparrow - 2nd of Evening Star, 1125 A.E.

Matricide.

He had not even thought overmuch about Emilia last night. He had been too tired, what with all the ups and downs the sorcery in his veins had set upon him. Too lost, not enough witts, not nearly enough time to settle his spirits. The grief of before had been harrying at his heels and now this new grief charged him from the front, head-on.

‘Matricide,’ he could almost hear the Perditions whisper.

He had made jests about fancying that Sister-In-Mahna. She was probably the Priestess’ closest thing to a daughter given Emilia’s status as a maiden pledged. Barry knew it were just the guilt talkin’, though. That he could blame it all on the circumstances, that the supernatural was just doin’ what it did best; upending the common and well-trodden expectancies of life.

Still, that word repeated, unbidden.

Again. And again. Again.

It had started slow, a tiny little ember in the straw of his frustration. Quickly, flame gave way to blaze in the fire of his disquiet.

Again. And again. Againandagainandagain—

Matricide, he whisper-screamed inside his skull. Strange, that; no matter how hard he strained his mental voice, it was never more than susurration. That irked him oh so very much, for a knot of reasons he had not enough wits to untangle.

Barry wanted to scream, even a grunt would have done to sate the need to release some grief.

The baleful cry would stay in the pit of his stomach.

It had been what had first Awoken his soul or at least had coincided closely to such. Even if it were coincidence rather than something more, Barry did not give in to the want. To risk waking the beast in the belly was just as foolhardy as leaving fuel in sight of the first eye of omen unattended.

He wanted oh so very much to yell, to scream a ragged wail, but with no real mouth inside the hollow, empty dark, well…

Barry did not know how long he looked at the middle distance, at everything in particular and nothing at all. The sellsword did not clench his teeth, Stregor having carved that lesson into him with a switch. A tooth could easily chip, either choking a man immediately in midst of battle or leave an easy breach that could go sour and rot him from the inside-out.

Instead, in the furrow made in between his two brows, it felt like Barry were grounding down gritty flour to bring to market.

Her words broke him out of the self-absorbed spell of angst. He had brought death upon another and all he could do was worry about himself.

“Laddie, stop it with the ego.” The Priestess sighed as did the bellows of a forged too low on coals. “All Things under Heaven and Earth do not revolve around ye.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

Though the feeling of doom did not leave from the seat of his bowels, the guilt weighing down his shoulders lessened, if but a smidge.

A smidge of the weight of an innocent life was still far too much for any man, much less Barry.

“You had no choice as to your Awakening,” she continued, “much less the soul brought from slumber. No different than an unlumened babe biting mother’s teat, really; you knew no better and had no true agency.

“We shall rectify that, lad.”

A shadow of determination came upon Mother Forentes, her bent spine turning to steel under the steps trodden by her speech.

Barry doubted he could fell her then, even with an axe by his side and those beastly, umber claws.

There was fire in those eyes that when dowsed would only grow taller and bolder.

“I—Emilia Forentes, vestal maiden compacted to the Sage—swear upon the fulcrum of my Sevenfold pledge that I will, to the fullest of my ability, aid you in finding mastery over your sorcery. Be it bringing restraint to the beast that sleeps in that belly of yours or education in the magicking Paths, I will endeavor no small amount of effort.

“I swear it so.”

There was an echo, the resonant toll of a bell building in the Invisible Tide with each uttered word. As a ball of snow gains more mass falling down a hillock composed of the same substance, her speech now thrummed with spirit.

Barry could feel it, just beneath the skin of this world. Threads of something not quite mana but neither entirely different. They were woven, made into rope, then knotted into a binding.

Stones and silver wire glowed purest neveian-white against resin of tar as the swear was fully effectualized, sealed in the collateral price she put forth.

The hum of the just-bound-oath rang in her aura, the first true sight of any kind of movement that Barry had glimpsed from the stillwaters that composed the Priestess’ superficial spirit.

He could nary believe it. The woman he had brought Mortus upon, not only forgiving him but also swearing upon her very faith that she would provide him aid.

‘Gratitude’ did no justice to the emotion he felt in his left breast. Barry was rendered speechless, wanting to say so much that his mind tripped over his tongue and so he said nothing.

Emilia did not let him speak either, continuing her words as if she had not extended grace befitting kin to a strange man she had met just the other day.

“Now come and help me to the porch. We’re on a bit of a timeline, but I still hav’ta teach ye as best as I can. We’ll have until First of Rain’s Hand, at the latest.”

Her midsommar-green eyes hid beneath a sudden snarl.

“Fitting that the second eye of omen is on the horizon; storm comes on the ‘morrow.” She said, voice like crumbling stone, but still of stone nonetheless. An even grimer thing since even rock did not kill as readily as that which slid down a mountain’s side.

“Bernard, that priest of Red, will make an attempt at you when he senses that our holy ground is but a husk. It’ll just be an excuse really; even if things had trodden a different path, Bernard would make something up to get you in his arthritis-ridden mitts.

“He’s got scent of your sorcery, Bare. He’ll stop at nothing short of Hell or high water to figure out how a common sellsword devoured his miracle-fire. Perhaps not even the promise of a Perdition would put a hitch in Bernard’s step.”

Her tone stole from grim and took to lecture. It would not last, Barry felt.

“We’ll have until monsoon to distill all the ken in this place’s coffers into you. By my calculations, the consecration’s inner rot will only show true by the month of Storm’s Breath. But best you travel before Dyeus’ season comes into full bloom; you’ll get washed away from the roads, otherwise.

“After the deterioration shows, neither me, much less mine will be able to help ya. Directly that is. You’ll be on your own. On the run, no different than a black-hearted outlaw—no magicking seal is what makes mage into warlock in the Corners, after all. They’ll not suffer a sorcerer unbound.”

Emilia took a much needed breath, her eyes hard and serious as they bore into Barry’s own.

“Laddie, you are—without pomp or embellishment—the sort of thing that makes kings wage war to either bring to their side or outright cull. I imagine Our Highness will take the latter recourse; heads of the Aardweni state are far too fearful to not nip strange crop in the bud”

With that proclamation she turned on her staff and heels as fast as she could, which wasn’t a whole lot anyhows, hobbling away.

Barry, son of Malas and Frita, was left reeling. Stunned once again, twice in less than a notch. The Lone Sparrow had only ever met baronial lords—lordlings really—by proxy of Deoch taking contract to sell the band’s swords.

The talk of kings left just as much dread in his guts as there had been before. Instead of fearing for his soul, Barry now feared for his life. One did not live a long and full span when the King wanted otherwise.

“I’ll not have my first apprentice in a tenyear,” Emilia rambled, the staff that supported her weight shaking as if tremors had been set upon the earth, “hunted like some boar by the hounds of the Lumenari redcoats, nor the likes of that swit of a Sevenfold priest that is Ethelsten’s lot.”

After looking to her left and seeing that Barry had yet to follow her, she turned her head in the manner of an owl. Her voice echoed back the short distance to him like a hoot.

“Com’on, git. I need those strong arms o’ yours afore I keel over.”

The Lone Sparrow stood there for a moment before he trotted forward, catching the Blue Priestess’ left arm, opposite her holy stick. He strained at his intent and will, all in an effort to stop himself from even the thought of damaging Mother Forentes.

Again, he thought bitterly and with a dash of the black salt of pessimism. The word tasted like it, too, all bile and vomit.

With wits gathered and girded, the skin of his arms turned placid. The strands of essence-vapor that usually emanated from the main mass of mana were now held tight, barely a wisp leaving the limbs.

The fingers which bled into one another’s forms, disappearing into a dark morass whenever Barry made a fist, held a tiny bit more of distinction now. He could almost make them out as he held Emilia’s hand in his own.

If those arms even dared to do any harm, he would banish them back into his spirit like a father castigates his child to a quiet place.

“Oh,” said Mother Forentes, a cheeky little grin parting the wrinkles of her face, “and I heard from a little bird that my Daughter-in-Mahna visited ye yesternight. I hope there weren’t any midnight oil burning…”

Gods Above, save me from this conversation, he thought, cheeks burnin’ hotter than any lamplight. Dark thoughts forgotten, if for but a moment.