Chapter 3
Any Manner of Tool
Iskander, Kingdom of Alhambra
08 Lesh BE 001
In the sanctum of the Temple of Iskander, twelve figures in scarlet mantles stood in a circle around a youth wearing a white thawb, The man at the front, standing before the Sacred Flame, was distinguished by his long hawklike beak of a nose and even longer goatee that trailed down the length of his torso. He held his hand over a plate of ashes from the Sacred Flame and took a knife to cut open the pad of his thumb. He then squeezed several drops of blood into the ashes.
The plate of ashes was passed down so that the next man could do the same, and so the process was repeated until the blood of all twelve were intermingled with the ashes. The leader used the same thumb he had cut to fully mix the blood, stirring in slow, deliberate circles spiraling from the center outward then inward back to the center. He then began to draw the figure of an octagram on the youth's forehead, dipping his thumb back in the ashes for each stroke. Eight strokes to draw the figure, four more for a cross in cross, and a final dot in the center with the man pressing his thumb down heavily to complete the seal.
With this done, the man lifted his hands and spoke, saying, "A false Prophecy, false Protectors, a false Child, and a false Promise. The world may be deceived by the works of the Father of Lies, but we are not deceived. We are the Shield for the Sword of Truth which shall cleave through all falsehood. Through this pact of blood, we have pledged ourselves to this most holy cause. The false Child shall not set foot in Ahorazed. Should we fail..."
He took the plate with what remained of the mixture and cast it into the Sacred Flame. He did not need to put the rest into words. His meaning was quite clear.
"May it be so," he said. "May it be so."
"May it be so," the other eleven echoed.
"May it be so," the youth then said.
* * *
In the Chamber of Immersion, the High Priest Sarek Zoltan stood with his arms held out as he permitted his acolyte to wash him. Young Syd was not young anymore, now a man of two and thirty and Sarek's second the organization. He could not be permitted the title of priest, but perhaps when their work was done, he would have the performed works enough to make him worthy of consecration. Indeed, once their work was done, there would be the need for an entirely new priesthood and who better than one so loyal to be first in line?
Syd soaked a linen towel in the bronze laver and then wrung it out so that it would not drip on the floor before taking it to the pan where a towel he had prepared earlier was warming over the fire. After swapping out the two towels, he began by draping the piping hot towel over Sarek's face. As well-practiced as he was, Syd had carefully timed it so that the towel was not so hot as to burn the High Priest. Sarek closed his eyes as Syd massaged his face, starting with the forehead, then around the temples and the eyes, to the bridge of the nose, then the cheeks, the jaw and the neck. His fingers worked deftly, knowing just the right amount of pressure to apply. Well-practiced, indeed.
When this was done, Syd lifted up the towel and put it to work on Sarek's shoulders and chest. Most times, he would do his work in silence, which Sarek welcomed, but this time he felt compelled to speak.
"Master. are you certain that this is indeed the Way?"
"How many times must I admonish you to be not unbelieving but believing?" Sarek asked.
"At least once more, Master," Syd replied. "These... you have gathered... I know that they can kill, but are they truly the instruments of the Lord of Wisdom's will?"
Sarek noted well the pause where Syd was going to say something more disparaging about his fellow Shields. If he would not give voice to such thoughts in private, he would not do so in public either. It bode well for him, for while Sarek could bear all things with with patience, love and understanding as befit one with the divine calling to lead the wayward flock of humanity up out of the mire of ignorance, few of his chosen had attained to same level of enlightenment. If they were to perceive an insult, even from a purported ally, they were not likely to show much restraint. It would be a shame to lose such a useful instrument so well-tuned over the years to an unfortunate lack of discretion.
As Syd continued his work, making his way down Sarek's back, the High Priest said, "Just the other day, I was speaking to a man bearing doubts much like your own. I assured him that the Lord of Wisdom will make use of any manner of tool and my Shields will be the proof of it. And if that is somehow not sufficient, there are other tools yet that I have at the ready. The false Child faces a seven thousand-kilometer minefield. If he can somehow navigate his way to Ahorazed through all the Hell that I have prepared for him, then you can safely say that it was not the voice of the Lord of Wisdom I heard all those years ago but rather that of the Father of Lies."
Sarek could speak so boldly because his confidence was unshakable. If there was ever any shadow of a doubt in his mind, it had long since been banished. Such certitude was necessary for the role he was called upon. If he could not be a light to guide those who grope about in darkness, how could be fulfill his mission? His confidence would be the confidence of those who followed after him.
"All your life, all my life, has been dedicated to this noble purpose," Syd said. "If it were to be proven false, would there be any more cursed fate under the sun?"
Whether it was out of pure faith or merely fear of the alternative, Sarek's apprentice was a believer, imperfect though he was, but that was fine. The refining fires of the trials to com would burn away the dross of his soul and then his true quality would be shown.
"By your leave, Master," Syd said before proceeding to wash Sarek's loins.
He always did have an expert touch. If the High Priest could be forgiven a carnal thought, he chuckled to himself and thought, "True quality indeed."
