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| Chapter 6. The Confessor | |
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soft rap on the heavy door of the sparsely furnished chamber drew him from an ecstasy of pain and prayer. With a last flick of the scourge, he savored the burning sting that purified his disgusting flesh and drove away the reek of the Five. He memorized the verse at which he had ceased his work and climbed to his feet. Only in suffering could he become a perfect vessel for the Unseen. He traced a triangle in the air before his face, invoking the all-seeing Eye of Janthir. “I will be pure in your sight,” he murmured. He was not to be interrupted during prayers. After shrugging back into his course yak-hair shirt, he drew the crisp white cassock and mantle over it. His thick-set figure swayed for a moment and he grew angry. His fast had made him weak and he must end it soon. “Come,” he rumbled. “Your Grace,” breathed Abbot Ignatius, his whispy white hair fluttering like dandelion flock as he bowed low in the doorway. The old fool had the good sense to look suitably frightened. “Why have I been disturbed?” “Your Grace, “ Ignatius stammered, unconsciously backing away a step, “y..you asked to be informed when we located Broinn.” Confessor Scarpia gazed thoughtfully upon the old abbot, watching him squirm in the silence. He towered over the rail-thin figure, giving the impression that he could easily snap the man in two. “Do go on, Abbot,” he replied, his voice even but deep with a timbre of menace. “H-he is being harbored by Lakespire village, Your Grace.” “Do the good people of Lakespire know that we are looking for Broinn?” “Y-yes, Your Grace.” There was a pregnant pause as Scarpia folded his arms within the gilt embellished drape of his ornate mantle. The sunlight filtering through the narrow window of his cell gleamed upon his bald pate and the faint remnants of tattoos revealed that he had once been a servant of Dwayna. He shaved his crown now as a reminder of how the fallen could be saved by humility and surrender. “Did we request that he be surrendered into our custody?” “Y-yes, Y-your Grace.” “Burn the village. Any who fight shall be slain. Those who do not shall be paid ten strikes of the lash and housed here to labor until their sins are absolved. Deliver Broinn to me. Alive.” Abbot Ignatius opened his mouth as if to protest, then lowered his face obediently. “It shall be done, Your Grace.” “A person is a good Believer to the extent that he earnestly places importance in his masters. But even a person who is good for nothing will be a reliable supplicant if only he has the utmost faith in his masters,” Confessor Scarpia said coldly, “What scripture have I quoted, Abbot?” “Verse 8, Book of Ranks, Your Grace.” “I require you to read the Book of Ranks at evening prayer. You shall not sleep until you are done. We are fighting a war, Abbot. Remember that.” Confessor Scarpia waited until the door closed before turning toward the only item that adorned the stone walls of his chamber. It was the banner of the White Mantle, the only image allowed of the Unseen Ones. Why were they silent now in this darkest hour? “I must make myself pure. The stain of the Five is upon me,” he murmured, his dark eyes gleaming with fervor. Reverently he stripped off his mantle, cassock and the coarse yak-hair shirt. He picked up the scourge once more. Kneeling on the mat, he rested upon his shins and let the metal-laced tails bite into his back, flicking the scourge over each shoulder in turn as he resumed his prayers.
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