As Evalie stared at the man who seemed to carry no emotion, Priest Sampson took over the conversation regarding the distribution of supplies.
“Aye, we’ve been expecting someone from the Southern Temple,” Priest Sampson said, his voice carrying the warmth of a seasoned leader. “How are things faring down there, then?”
The man remained as still as stone, his face betraying no hint of emotion. “Both sides are locked in a stalemate, but neither will concede. As long as we can continue providing food and medical supplies, I fear the conflict will drag on for quite some time.” His words were delivered with the precision of a soldier giving a report, calm and detached.
Priest Sampson studied him closely. “You carry yourself like a serviceman. Are you one?”
“Nay,” the man responded evenly, neither smiling nor frowning. “I am merely on a mission for the Southern Temple, as requested. A commoner. I perform many duties, but I serve the Temple as best as I can, Priest, Saintess.” He bowed again.
Evalie found herself unable to look away from him. How was he blocking his true emotions from her empathic senses? “I am not a Priestess,” she corrected, her tone composed but inquisitive. “I am a Saintess. And pray, what is your name?”
“Forgive me, Saintess,” the man bowed again, though his face remained impassive. “I knew the Northern Temple had a Saintess, but I’d heard tales of your miracles since I was young, so I imagined someone… older.”
Evalie felt a flush rise to her cheeks but kept her composure. “A Saintess does not choose when she is blessed or when the Temple realizes her value. I am simply fortunate to be of service so early in life.”
“My apologies. My name is Aberforth, Saintess,” he said, bowing again, this time lower. But despite the gesture, Evalie felt no genuine respect emanating from him—only an undercurrent of something much harsher. Anger rippled through her, though Priest Sampson remained in his usual state of warm friendliness.
“No harm done, lad,” Priest Sampson chuckled, giving Aberforth a friendly pat on the back. He pointed down the hallway, where a farmer was receiving his share of provisions. “Go to the table for your supplies. The Northern and Southern Temples keep each other strong. We’ve ample food, thanks to the Saintess’s wisdom in urging us to cultivate our own fields.”
Aberforth’s brow furrowed slightly. “So members of the church tend the fields?”
Priest Sampson beamed. “Ah, that’s where the brilliance lies! Saintess Evalie sensed that the people wished to contribute in return for the services we provide. Very few now receive aid without offering something in kind.”
Aberforth’s expression tightened. “That seems rather cold. Not everyone is able to work. What of those who are infirm or struggling to support their families? Does your Temple turn them away?”
Evalie’s temper flared. “Do you take me for a fool or this Temple for a charade? Of course, we don’t demand repayment from those unable to provide it!” Her voice trembled with anger, her hands clenched into fists. And yet, Aberforth remained as impassive as ever.
“So how do you manage such a bounty if not everyone contributes equally?” Aberforth pressed.
Evalie opened her mouth to retort, but Priest Sampson gently intervened. “That will do, Evalie.” He turned to Aberforth, his tone now more serious. “The young farmer you saw earlier—his wife was nursing a child too malnourished to latch. When he came to us, he only asked for enough grain to survive the season. When we asked about repayment, he refused any aid unless he could give something in return. Evalie, using her gift, could sense his pride and his deep sorrow over what he had lost to a fire in his fields. She proposed he work one day a week in the temple’s fields—a solution that allowed him to maintain his dignity while supporting his family.”
Aberforth’s neutral façade cracked ever so slightly. “And that small contribution is enough?”
Sampson chuckled heartily. “Oh no, that farmer has more fields than most and a good amount of work ahead of him. One day a week in the Temple’s service is more than sufficient for what he lost, and it lets him focus on his family.”
Aberforth’s face darkened, as if something struck him deeply. “Pride can be dangerous. I’ve seen it ruin lives in the South.”
“Aye, and nearly here too,” Priest Sampson agreed. “That young farmer’s pride almost cost him his child’s health. But when Evalie gently showed him the error of his ways, he vowed to serve the Temple loyally, in any way he could, without sacrificing his family. His firstborn is his heart, and pride nearly stole that from him.”
Aberforth’s features softened. “I understand that far too well. Pride can blind a man, though I wonder if my own people would adopt such practices. I am little more than a courier, hardly in a position to suggest changes.”
Evalie narrowed her gaze. “Did the Southern Temple not see fit to assign you to something more?” she asked, her words carefully measured to hide her rising frustration.
“I’m not exactly well-liked,” Aberforth admitted, his voice carrying a hint of bitterness. “I’ve done many things in service of the Temple, though I’m neither a soldier nor a doctor. My family has always been devoted to serving, and I carry that tradition. I do what is needed, though my tasks change frequently.”
Priest Sampson looked upon him with sympathy, but Evalie’s discomfort only deepened. There was something about this man—something she couldn’t quite put her finger on—that made her feel uneasy.
“Priest Sampson,” Evalie said, her voice strained. “I would like to retire to my chambers. I find I am more weary than I anticipated.”
The priest eyed her with concern but nodded. “Very well, Saintess. Please visit me after your meditation.”
Evalie curtsied to both men, her bow to Aberforth stiffer than she intended, and retreated to her quarters, her mind swirling with confusion. How was it that this man could stir such tumultuous emotions within her when she sensed no ill will from him at all?
B.R. Quinn 