Story #355 - Candle

Candle

Another gust of wind blew in, wrenching at the small candle in Bale's hand. He'd been told several times that the path between the monastery and the shrine was prone to all kinds of unsavory weather, but hadn't expected quite such violence. Though the monks meant well, they were overly concerned about a number of issues and while Bale showed them respect as custom demanded, privately he had very different opinions.

Sighing, Bale pulled his cloak tighter around his bulky frame and focused on simply plodding ahead. Though he'd hoped to avoid the pilgrimage to Ulsef's shrine, his father would have none of it. Days of explaining why old customs couldn't possibly be the basis of a new and greater Kingdom fell on deaf ears; although his father nodded each time Bale made a sensible argument or demonstrated his knowledge of broad political forces, the discussion ultimately ended as he expected.

For over a thousand years the nobles of Balderon had made pilgrimages to the monastery to take direction from the monks. Some were turned away at the gates – Bale privately wished he had been one so fortunate – while others were assigned tasks of varying natures. Friends of his father had been sent to sweep stables or care for the sick in a nearby village, since the monks paid no attention to class divisions or position in the Kingdom as a whole; Ewald VI began his forty-year reign cleaning out the gutters of a church for a group of filthy peasants. Such was the way of the monks.

More wind beat down at Bale but he ignored it and picked up his pace. The monks refused to say how long he would have to travel, but based on the amount of food provided he guessed it was the better part of a day. They'd instructed him to leave just as dawn broke over the horizon, but high mountain peaks made it difficult to find any rays of sunlight, and he'd spent the last three hours in cold shadow. A part of him wanted to lash out, rage against what he was being made to do and at the very least stop the foolish practice should he ever become king, but the larger, more sensible portion of his mind knew better. Tradition helped keep Balderon strong, even when other nations fell apart or under the sway of the Toothless. Without firm knowledge of what had come before, the Kingdom could easily lose its away.

Bale stopped suddenly at a change in the wind's direction and lifted his head from the relatively warm spot at his chest. In front of him a pitted stone temple rose, surging upward alongside mountain peaks and looking every bit as ancient as the rocks that spawned it. He had checked the path ahead just moments ago and saw nothing of note – the temple seemed to have come out of nowhere.

A shake of his head dispelled that thought. Buildings did not simply appear any more than the “magic” practiced by healers at his father's estate cure disease. At best, such healers gave patients hope and the will to fight on their own against what ailed them and at worst made death even more terrifying as those who did not recover lived their final moments with the belief their gods had abandoned them.

Squaring his shoulders Bale started up the temple steps, sure to keep his candle firmly gripped. Though the monks would not say exactly what might happen if he dropped the tallow, they were very vocal in telling him not to make such a mistake.

Large wooden doors barred his way at the stairs' end, but a gentle push was enough to send them swinging open. That they did not creak was disconcerting, along with the fact that the hall beyond was brightly lit. After a moment, however, he relaxed – surely one of the monks was assigned to care for the temple and its shrine, and likely kept the hinges oiled and torches burning.

“Welcome, traveler,” a voice called out as Bale stepped across the threshold. “The servant of Ulsef greets you in friendship.”

“Thank you,” Bale said in return, unsure if there was a more formal reply – the monks had made no mention of such a servant.

“Come in, come in,” the voice went on as a thin man in crimson robes shuffled into the light. He was no monk – they all wore pale yellow draped in a far more elaborate fashion - and Bale took a moment to orient himself before stepping in any further. The temple was arranged sensibly enough, with a wide front entry, torch-lined main room and altar at the far end. Nothing out of the ordinary for the style of structure, at least.

“I'm -” Bale began, but the servant cut him off.

“Bale of Trimera. Yes. I've been expecting you.” There was an odd cadence to the man's words, a strange rhythm that Bale could not place.

“Have you?” He said with a heavy dose of skepticism. “I expect the monks let you know I was coming.”

“Not quite, not quite,” the man said, smiling. “My master, he was gracious enough to inform.”

Bale halted a few feet from the man and held out his tallow candle. “Do I give this to you, then?”

The man's eyes light up and a smile shot across his face, revealing a mouth devoid of any teeth – no wonder his speech was so strange.

“I'll take it, yes,” the servant stepped forward, hands extended, but Bale moved away quickly, sudden thought spurring action.

“What did you say your name was again, toothless old man? And who exactly is your master?”

The man snarled in response and lunged forward more quickly than Bale believed possible, smacking the candle from his grip. A shuddering wind tore through the temple, snuffing out torches and darkness gripped him, made worse by mocking laughter.

“We have come for you,” the old man hissed, “and we have come for your people.”

- D