Chapter Nine #2
Vera’s lips press into a thin line. “Father used to have a house outside of town, but it was one of the first Vadrien targeted.”
Sindra winces.
They pass through the town square on their way to the chapel, and Sindra notes the raised wooden platform in the center. It’s falling apart, the wood near the middle sagging and unsupported.
“What’s that for?” Sindra asks Vera. “Traveling bards?”
She’s searching for a smile, but Vera only scowls and shakes her head.
“Before Vadrien, things were…tense in Moros. Plots against the king, unrest in the streets. Criminals were tried and sentenced there, and the whole town would gather to witness. We don’t use it anymore.
We lose enough people without killing them on our own. ”
Sindra and Moss exchange a glance, and the druid lets out a heavy sigh.
They continue to wander the streets, and eventually, the cramped buildings spread out and thin, making room for the only patch of green that Sindra has seen since entering Moros.
Upon the tiny field of impossibly lush grass sits a small gray chapel, its walls weathered but standing strong.
Candlelight flickers through its lancet windows, silhouetting several moving figures inside.
Above the dark wooden entry doors is a small but beautifully made stained-glass window, its circular design reminiscent of the stretching rays of the sun.
Sindra recognizes the symbol immediately.
It’s a chapel to Garren—the god of the sun and of hope.
Knights in Sindra’s order often worshipped the more martial deities of duty and strength, but a few had chosen to champion Garren, finding comfort in his teachings of faith, perseverance, and light.
Sindra glances sidelong to Antoni and notices him toying with a plain sun-shaped amulet hung around his neck.
She had marked him as a paladin—a holy warrior whose chosen god grants them divine powers—from the moment she saw celestial light flash upon his sword.
But now, she’s fairly certain he’s made his oaths to Garren specifically.
Perhaps for him, this quest is one of duty not only to his kingdom, but to his faith.
Sindra lingers behind Moss, and the druid gasps as she steps through the wrought-iron gate leading up to the chapel. Sindra’s eyes go wide. “What is it?”
“Something’s…different here,” Moss breathes. “Can’t you feel it?”
Sindra takes a hesitant step onto the grass—and the effect is immediate.
Here, the air feels lighter and less oppressive.
Even some of the wind’s chill is gone, and there’s a persistent warmth that reminds Sindra of the last days of summer.
Tiny flowers dot the earth in shades of red and orange, and Sindra feels the ridiculous urge to simply curl up in a patch and fall asleep.
“This site is under Garren’s protection,” Antoni explains. Even some of the wrinkles near his eyes and the corners of his mouth don’t seem as deep here. “It’s the safest place in all of Moros.”
Vera stands at his side and raises two fingers to her mouth to let out a sharp whistle.
Lord Gullet sweeps down from above to perch on the chapel’s roof.
“Keep watch, my love,” Vera calls before she places her hand gently on Moss’s shoulder and steps past her.
“It’s more than that, too,” she says as she drums out a specific rhythm on the door.
After a heartbeat’s pause, the doors groan open, and Vera shares a small smile with the group. “It’s the seat of the resistance.”
The interior of the chapel is bustling.
To Sindra’s left, the pews are shoved against the wall to make space for a makeshift clinic, where priests and priestesses in daisy-yellow habits tend to tired-looking villagers.
To the right, two tiefling men argue over the best route to take to deliver the sacks of supplies stacked in the corner of the entryway.
Vera leads the party past them all and toward the altar, and Sindra notes the way each head springs upward as they pass to offer a nod of respect to Antoni and his daughter.
At the altar, an orcish priest greets Antoni with a palm clasped to his shoulder. A small golden circlet fashioned with metallic sunrays sits upon his thinning gray hair, and his frayed habit looks to be more intricately embroidered than those of the other priests.
“Good to see you back, Captain,” he says, not a small amount of relief in his tone.
“Always a pleasure, Zevor,” Antoni says gruffly. “Any news?”
Zevor shakes his head. “Not from me, but a friend of yours is here to see you. Been waiting since this morning.”
Antoni’s bushy brows lower over his eyes. “Which friend?”
“I’ll take you to him now.”
Zevor leads them to a small door behind the altar.
As he drums out a pattern of knocks different from the one Vera used to gain entry, Sindra finds her gaze drawn again to the stained-glass window on the chapel’s east-facing wall.
She can only imagine how gorgeous it must have been in years past, when daylight would have brightened every facet of its red-, orange-, and gold-stained glass.
When the door opens, Zevor magically summons a small sphere of light to guide their way down a winding staircase.
Strangely, music echoes hauntingly along the stone walls, growing louder as the party descends.
Sindra smells the room before she sees it—the air grows thick with the scent of hearty mushroom and potato soup and mulled cider.
Finally, the space opens to reveal a room that Sindra would have expected to find in a tavern, not underneath a church.
Several rows of tables and benches stretch from wall to wall, crowded with priests, volunteers, and even a handful of armed warriors.
A bard sits on a stool in the corner, tempting the notes of a soothing melody from the strings of her harp.
Zevor squints at the array of faces and finally nods toward a table at the back. “Ah. There he is.” He smiles before returning to the stairwell. “Let me know if you need anything, Captain.”
Antoni nods, and they make their way to the corner of the room, where a hooded traveler sits hunched over one of five steaming mugs arranged on the table. He turns around at their approach and grins, removing his hood to reveal a bald head with excellent facial hair.
Vera and Moss inhale sharply, and Antoni’s and Sindra’s hands dart toward their blades.
Behind his spectacles, the man’s violet eyes widen in alarm, and his pale skin flushes pink. He holds his hands out before him, far away from the shiny spellbook holstered on a leather strap at his side.
The dripping candle flickering at the table’s center illuminates his profile.
He looks exactly like Mortimer.
“Please, there’s no need to be worried,” he soothes. “I’ve been waiting for you.”