Chapter 3 #2
Old Mossley himself, cast in bronze for eternity, smiled gently as if watching his own grandchildren playing at his feet.
He sat with one knee up and the other leg stretched out, resting back on his right hand as he tapped the brim of his hat with his left.
His right shoulder shone brighter than the rest of the statue, as if hundreds of hands had given a friendly clap there over the years.
The eyes seemed to twinkle with good nature even now, a hundred years after his death, lovingly crafted in perfect detail.
Oaklin wouldn’t have been surprised to hear the statue let out a gentle rumbling chuckle as a girl of about five scrabbled up to perch on top of his head.
Once past the statue, the ghost’s directions kicked in: “Across the square, past the tavern, follow the main road to the eastern edge of the village. It’s part of a much larger building. Just look for the sign.”
It was a quieter area, which was good, because Oaklin had no idea where they were going and could stumble around without concern.
The wide double doors to the Singing Goat Tavern were propped open, but the breakfast crowd was thin, only the faint scrape of utensils on plates and the scent of sizzling bacon coming from within.
The squeak of its ancient wooden sign wove through it all, a recently refreshed image of a goat on hind legs with a wooden flute skillfully rendered in bright pops of color.
The side street was residential, with most people either out on morning errands or tending to domestic tasks.
The main road opened up into a smaller secondary square, and Oaklin scanned for the “much larger building” that might contain the library…
And then they saw it. A little sign that simply read LIbrARY hung from a rod over a cheerful red door…
attached to a temple. A temple of the Three Above—Gael, Oshe, and Niev, the triple deities of the daytime sky, nighttime dark, and heavens.
The building soared above its neighbors, splitting into the traditional three towers: one plated with golden tiles and white stone, one of pure black stone with flecks of white, and one inset with scrollwork and blue gemstones, glittering in the weak threads of sunlight pushing through the clouds.
A wave of cold, tingling fear washed over Oaklin, threatening to bring with it the memories they kept carefully locked away, and they cursed their habit of keeping their eyes at ground level. They should have known, should have seen.
You aren’t a cultist anymore, Oaklin thought in a desperate bid to calm their body. They aren’t out to kill you. They have no reason to call you foe.
But the Order of the Three were instrumental in bringing down the Enchantrix, and ruthless in the doing too.
They’d sent their paladins into battle with orders to kill.
They’d funded the party of adventurers that ultimately struck the final blow.
Thousands of Oaklin’s mind-controlled brethren had been slain by the hand or the coin of the Order, slaughtered without mercy or discrimination.
And if Oaklin was supposedly innocent of wrongdoing, then they were too.
Oaklin stared at the door to the library, guts churning, overtaken by revulsion and the adrenaline-fueled urge to run away.
The red door seemed to double, then triple in size, rising above them like a devouring maw as the distant village clock chimed the hour.
Each echoing bell resonated in their skull, somehow both present and a memory of some other clock tower, some other place and time, and suddenly Oaklin was unmoored, floating in the gaps of blankness between fractured memories and suppressed horrors.
And yet, at the edge of their awareness, there was something… crisp edges, a pleasant weight…a box.
A cake box. Cobblestones underfoot. A door…but normal-sized. Just a door.
They were back, breath rasping in their chest as the blurry, unfocused figures of villagers passed, some slowing as they spied Oaklin’s losing battle with hyperventilation.
They clutched the cake box to their chest and took another minute to do some of the breathing exercises the healer taught them before they had left Riverdeep.
Maybe a bite of courage cake wouldn’t be a terrible idea. Though, the thought of magic just then…
No.
They steeled themself, forcing the tension out of their shoulders, willing their breaths to be even and deep. New life, new me. I can do this myself. No magic necessary.
It was a library. It wouldn’t be full of sword-wielding paladins. Nobody would have any idea about Oaklin’s past…unless it was run by some kind of oracle who could sense their cultish heart and would take one look at them and—
Nope. No spiraling. Oaklin could just walk through the door like a totally normal adult human, which they supposedly were these days. New life, new me. New life…
Oaklin placed a hand on the curved brass handle and pushed, stepping inside.
Wow.
The library was far better appointed than Oaklin was expecting for an out-of-the-way farming village.
Heavy oak shelves towered beyond Oaklin’s reach, packed full of bound books, loose manuscripts, and boxes of documents.
The rows stretched all the way to the far back of the room, dotted with stools and ladders and carts of books awaiting reshelving, giving the place an air of organized, well-loved chaos.
There were more people inside than Oaklin expected too.
Children rolled around on a thick rug in a far back corner, screeching and laughing while a put-upon nursemaid attempted to read them a storybook.
Two people with dusty, worn boots and dirt-stained trousers bent over maps and tomes about weather, arguing about planting schedules.
Fellow farmers, most likely, and ones who knew the area well enough to debate techniques.
Oaklin took note, thinking that perhaps one day they should be in on those conversations as well.
A tow-headed Sibling of the Order floated from shelf to shelf, juggling an overstuffed armload of books with a disdainful expression.
She stubbed her toe and swore under her breath, drawing a glare from an old man who sat in a squashy armchair, book open on his lap.
A snort of laughter drew Oaklin’s gaze to the front desk, and they froze.
The girl behind the front desk stopped Oaklin in their tracks with a flicker of something they’d not felt in…
well, a very long time. Their heart gave a riotous flutter as their fuzzy brain unearthed vague, broken memories of their teenage self kissing the blacksmith’s daughter at a festival, flirting with some local farm boy, and chatting up the cobbler’s new apprentice.
And this girl…from what Oaklin could see of her arms and shoulders, she looked strong, and that did it for Oaklin.
Her coppery brown hair spilled over her shoulder in a thick braid, and faint brown freckles dotted a strong nose perched above a mouth that looked made for cracking jokes.
Her rich brown eyes crinkled at the corners as she noticed Oaklin’s entrance and smiled, perfunctorily at first, then more genuinely. Oaklin’s cheeks grew hot.
“Oh, a new face,” the girl said, hand outstretched over the desk for an introduction. “Welcome! I’m Lior. And you are?”
“Oaklin. Nettlewood. Farmer,” they said. Quite possibly the most awkward introduction ever, but those arms. Could Oaklin truly be blamed? Their flush deepened, and Lior’s grin only grew, her eyes dancing.
“Well, Oaklin Nettlewood Farmer, it’s nice to meet you. What brings you to the library today?”
Oaklin opened their mouth to answer, but Lior held up a hand.
“Wait, wait, let me guess,” she said, letting the moment hang. “Books?”
There was a beat of silence.
Oaklin cracked up laughing.
“That was so bad,” they said, wiping their eyes.
“But it worked, right?” Lior said, grinning. “Can I give you a tour?”
She came out from behind the desk, gesturing to the library stacks. Oaklin’s eyes, fully of their own accord, slid down to take in more of the woman—then caught on her chest.
Specifically, on the familiar, horrible symbol stitched there.
She was a paladin. Without the desk to hide her, it was plain to see: the doublet bearing the symbol of the church, the cape, the sword—in fact, she was only missing the armor.
A paladin of the Three, right in front of Oaklin’s face.
The very sort of person who had nearly slaughtered them a dozen times over.
The breath punched out of their lungs.
“Sorry, I…”
They gasped for air, head spinning, and stumbled back toward the door.
“Sorry, wrong turn, I’ve got to…”
Oaklin fled without finishing their sentence. The paladin, Lior, called after them in a stricken voice. “Wait, please, I—!”
Outside, Oaklin stumbled as soon as their feet hit the cobblestones, a sudden pain lancing white-hot and sharp through their skull. The cold, hungry face of the Enchantrix flashed across their vision as that oil-slick voice poured into Oaklin’s ears.
“MY FOLLOWERS!”
The icy feel of the Enchantrix’s magic crawled over Oaklin’s skin like unwanted fingers, invasive, violating. Their head—it ached like they were splitting open, like they were dying, like—
“GIVE YOUR MINDS OVER TO ME!”
Their vision swam, the image of the Enchantrix with their arms raised in casting superimposed over the gathering crowd of villagers. Oaklin’s knees hit the ground, in memory and in life, their hands flying to cover their ears.
Pain.
“MY FOLLOWERS!”
Aching, cracking, tearing—
“GIVE YOUR MINDS—”
The assembled faces grew hazy as the whole world seemed to tilt—
“YOUR MINDS—”
To rip—
“TO ME!”
D i s s o l v i n g…
Oaklin blacked out.