Aberforth and Priest Sampson approached a pair of large wooden doors. Though not as grand as those leading to the sanctuary, the doors were still imposing—more extensive than those of the other rooms with intricately carved designs that spoke of the Temple’s grandeur. Aberforth was slightly disgusted, wishing the money had gone toward helping the people instead. However, the Northern Temple was one of custom while the Southern Temple was more simplistic.
Sensing his unease, Priest Sampson turned to Aberforth. “Do you know the name of the High Priest?”
Aberforth frowned in confusion. “Mother Madrona told me that Priest Sampson was the one to seek, as you are her guardian. Must I also win over the High Priest?”
A soft chuckle escaped Priest Sampson. “Mother Madrona and the Southern Temple of Solara are not one for rigid customs, especially in times of war. As Guardian of the Saintess, she likely thought my presence would suffice. But no, you must also convince the High Priest Elric. And he will look to the Council to make the final decision, although his word is what we will ultimately follow. When addressing him, you may simply call him High Priest. But please refrain from using ‘Father,’ as that is not how we are addressed in the Northern Kingdom.”
Aberforth gave one swift nod of acknowledgment as the unfamiliar customs of the North already set his nerves on edge. But he masked his discomfort behind a stoic expression, knowing he had to convince the Council to see reason.
Priest Sampson knocked twice on the intricate doors. A shuffling sound came from within, followed by a deep voice commanding, “Please, enter.” Priest Sampson held the door open for Aberforth and gestured for him to proceed. With a grateful nod, Aberforth stepped inside.
The Chamber of the Council of Elders resembled a semi-circular courtroom with a table and chair in the middle, likely for him to sit in. Aberforth wondered if it was always set up this way or if they rearranged the room to make him feel he was on trial.
Priest Sampson motioned toward the table in the center of the room. Though Aberforth’s discomfort increased the farther he stepped inside, he continued, knowing he had to win over the Council of Elders to complete his mission. Aberforth grabbed the chair to take a seat, but just before he sat, he heard a distinctive cough that made him hesitate. He recalled Northern customs from Mother Madrona and wanted to slap himself for getting so uncomfortable that he forgot their rigid customs.
With determined steps, Aberforth stood before the High Priest and bowed deeply as a sign of respect. Then, Aberforth took turns bowing to the remaining eleven council members before returning to the chair and table in the center of the room. He stood beside the chair until the High Priest motioned for him to sit down.
The imposing sight and customs might have inspired fear in others, but Aberforth felt only disdain as he settled in his chair. The arrangement, reminiscent of a courtroom, seemed designed to intimidate. Was this their way of controlling the conversation? Or was it merely a way to ensure all twelve elders could see and hear clearly? Whatever the reason, Aberforth found the tactic distasteful, and he silently prayed the meeting would be brief.
“Young Aberforth,” the High Priest began, his voice carrying an air of authority, “you have requested an audience without prior notice. Do you carry a letter from the Southern Temple of Solara?”
“High Priest, I do. I bring a message from Mother Madrona of the Southern Temple of Solara.” Then, bowing forward (which felt more like hunching over in his seat), he asked, “May I present the message to you, High Priest?”
Though seated, Aberforth maintained his respectful bow. In the Southern Temple, he would have stood, which he preferred. These Northern customs, though minor, irritated him intensely.
“You may approach and present the letter, Aberforth, son of the Southern Temple,” the High Priest said.
Rising from his seat, Aberforth moved forward, holding the sealed parchment with both hands. As he approached the high priest, he held out the scroll with both hands and bowed his head. “Mother Madrona sends her highest regards.”
The High Priest accepted the scroll, and Aberforth paused, uncertain what to do next. A glance from Priest Sampson, who pointed back to the center of the room, gave him his answer. With an inward sigh, Aberforth bowed once more and returned to his seat, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes at the endless ceremony of bowing and formality.
Rather than reading the letter immediately, the High Priest held it in his hands before setting it aside. “How fares the South, young Aberforth?”
Aberforth’s face tightened with restrained frustration. The High Priest was stalling, probably hoping Aberforth would make a mistake in custom. “It fares poorly, High Priest. Our storehouse has been ransacked—by whom, we do not know. We are short on both food and medical supplies, and the people’s faith in the Temple is waning as the war drags on. We offer what aid we can, healing the wounded and guiding the lost, but Mother Madrona believes it is time to invoke her agreement with the Northern Temple.”
The High Priest’s expression grew tense. “Is the Southern Temple secure? How was your storehouse breached?”
“We are safe from direct attacks,” Aberforth replied evenly, careful to keep his face stoic, “but we suspect the ransack came from the desperate—likely the poor or wounded, of which there are many. Our rations are insufficient to meet the demands of our people. We’ve since relocated the storehouse behind the Temple walls for security and have not had another breach.”
“And what of the King? Does he not provide aid? The South is on the war front, after all.”
“The King’s resources are focused on the soldiers. He limits what he shares with us, reserving provisions only for those who continue to fight. Many would have died had it not been for the aid provided by the Northern Temple. To that, we owe our sister Temple a great debt.” Aberforth bowed long and deep as a show of utmost thanks, though he still felt silly bowing while seated.
The High Priest’s brow furrowed, frustrated by this news. “So the King is panicking. How can the Southern Temple protect anyone if that is the case? Especially one so gifted as the Saintess?”
Aberforth met the High Priest’s gaze steadily. “Can you guarantee absolute safety here in the North, High Priest? None of us can offer complete protection, but we can provide shelter within the Temple walls. We hoped to take back some soldiers from the North to strengthen our defenses and help spread hope.”
The High Priest gave a slow nod before turning to Priest Sampson. “Guardian of the Saintess, report on the progress of Saintess Evalie’s duties.”
Priest Sampson spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully. “Saintess Evalie has made progress since my last update. She can assist with provisions throughout most of the day but requires long periods of meditation in the evening to recover from the emotional toll.”
“Has she advanced to other responsibilities?” the High Priest pressed.
“No,” Priest Sampson replied gravely. “The Council agreed earlier this year that she is not to take on more until she can endure the full day’s tasks without overwhelming herself. I have respected that decision and not trained her further.”
The High Priest fell silent, considering this, then turned to Aberforth. “Did Mother Madrona know of Evalie’s progression?”
“I cannot speak for Mother Madrona,” Aberforth said carefully. “But in the South, we have heard whispers of the Saintess. We know she offers hope to those she speaks with. And that the Northern Temple is prospering with working fields and skilled workers due to her insight. But beyond that, I know little of the Saintess’s training or abilities.”
“Thank you, Aberforth,” the High Priest said after a moment. “You are dismissed to collect your provisions and await our decision.”
Aberforth stood and bowed deeply, thanking High Priest Elric for his time and consideration. He then resumed bowing to the remaining eleven Council members before moving to depart.
“Ah—before you leave, please take this.” Priest Sampson held out a small piece of parchment. “Take this slip to the donation table, and we will provide you with at least one or two men to help transport the supplies back to the Southern Temple.”
The High Priest looked irritated at Priest Sampson, but Aberforth was ever grateful. He bowed deeply in thanks, then took the slip of parchment from Priest Sampson. As Aberforth exited the chamber, an errand boy awaited to take Aberforth back through the many hallways to the donation table.
Aberforth’s mind raced from the meeting, though he felt better the further away he was from the stuffy chambers (and the stuffier Council of Elders). He wasn’t sure that the meeting went well or fared poorly, so he focused on gathering the supplies. He steadily made his way back to the donations table and handed the awaiting Priestess the slip of parchment. As he waited for the supplies to be gathered, he couldn’t help but wonder—would they ever agree to send Saintess Evalie to the South?
B.R. Quinn 