“Saints above, Thomas. For the last time, my sister is not available. Particularly not for you.”

  “What? Why blazing not? I’m a reverence, aren’t I? A holy man. Bet your sister’s never been with a holy man be—”

  Ardal smirked as Haeral punched Thomas in the shoulder. Thomas cried out and held up his hands in defence. He was a scrawny man with a mushroom-like poof of black hair and a weak, sparse attempt at a moustache.

  Haeral, on the other hand, was big, dark-skinned, and well-muscled. He was bald and had red and black tattoos that climbed the back of his neck and spread all atop his skull. He was the kind of man you’d expect to spend their time with yoldrum—or to be a yoldrum—not hiding in the corner with Ardal and Thomas.

  “What was that for?” Thomas whined.

  “What the blaze you mean? Say another thing about my sister and it’ll be your face.”

  Thomas sighed, then looked at Ardal. “C’mon Ardy, help me out here. I’m a great pick! Any young lady would be lucky to have me.”

  “I told you not to call me Ardy. I just might let Haeral pummel you for saying that. And if any young lady would be lucky to have you, why’re you still single living with your mother?”

  Thomas blanched. Haeral laughed.

  It was just as deep a laugh as Ardal would’ve expected from a man his size. He was big by Reledone standards—if they’d been back home the man would’ve loomed like a giant.

  Thomas muttered under his breath, then sighed again. “More wine?”

  Haeral clapped him on the shoulder, “You get the glass and I’ll drink it.”

  Thomas turned to Ardal, who shook his head. He couldn’t get intoxicated tonight—not and risk missing something vital. This was the event he’d been plotting to get invited to for six months.

  Thomas scurried off to find the alcohol. Ardal watched him go, weaving through a crowd of similarly robed men in a low-ceilinged and dimly lit room. It had the air of clandestine meeting written all over it—from the yoldrum guards at the doors doing a poor job of hiding their swords, to the hushed conversations and nervous glances.

  “So,” Haeral said, “You ready for this?”

  Ardal’s heart skipped for the briefest moment. He glanced sideways at the dark-skinned reverence. “For this?”

  “Sure. For the meeting. Ingoltrav’s big presentation.”

  “Oh, sure. Everyone’s been talking it up for so long, though, that I’m afraid it might not meet the astronomical expectations I have for it.”

  Haeral chuckled. “What do you think it’ll be?”

  “Not sure…you?”

  “Thomas and I have bets going. He says the old man’s finally cracked and will try and start his own religion.”

  Ardal raised his eyebrows. “A new religion, eh? What would this change in theology entail?”

  Haeral gave him a side eye. “Zebras.”

  Ardal blinked. “Zebras?”

  “Yep. Thomas thinks he’ll start worshipping zebras—or that he has already—and will try to convince the rest of the reverentries to join in.”

  “Of course that’s Thomas’ theory. What’s yours?”

  Haeral looked out at the crowd for a moment. He narrowed his eyes, as if in deep thought. Finally, he looked back at Ardal. “Echoes.”

  Ardal’s heart definitely skipped a beat this time. “What? What do you mean Echoes? You think Ingoltrav’s going to convert to Southlander shamanism?” Echoes, he had to get a grip. It’d obviously been too long and he’d gotten too comfortable. He absolutely shouldn’t be losing his cool with a single word.

  Haeral didn’t notice the overreaction. “Yeah, Echoes. And no, I don’t think he’ll start worshipping the things…most ridiculous religion on Ilgudar.”

  Not as ridiculous as worshipping the blooming sun.

  “So…what do you mean, Echoes?”

  “Not sure, but I heard Reverence Tanthan talking about it the other day during teachings at Fertile Mother’s.”

  “Reverence Tanthan? What does he know about it?”

  Haeral looked at him like he was speaking another language. Ardal double checked what he’d just said to make sure that he had, in fact, been speaking Reledone. “Tanthan’s one of Ingoltrav’s men. You didn’t know?”

  Echoes below, how had he missed this?

  “I thought Tanthan was Resbyt Nurem’s man.”

  “Nah. He looks like Nurem’s man from the outside—but I think even Nurem knows he isn’t truly his.”

  Great, so everyone knows except the one spy here.

  “I see…”

  “Anyway,” Haeral shrugged and leaned his head back against the wall, torchlight casted strange shadows on his tattoos. “Tanthan always likes to look more important than he actually is, so I won’t be surprised if it’s about as likely as Thomas’ zebra theory.”

  “What about my zebra theory?” Thomas walked up with two glasses of wine and handed one to Haeral.

  “The blazing stupid zebra theory.”

  “It isn’t stupid!”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Ardal, back me up here, he told you ‘bout the theory, right? Wouldn’t that make so much sense, I mean, it’s common knowledge that Ingoltrav’s an avid zebra rider. Maybe the reason he loves them so much is because he thinks they're our gods…” Thomas widened his eyes like it was the most revelatory thing anyone had said since the Sunfather brought mankind to the world.

  And they think worshipping Echoes is stupid.

  “Thomas,” Ardal began, “I can’t agree enough with Haeral. That’s the stupidest…”

  He was interrupted by a loud voice in the center of the small chamber.

  “Gentlemen! Reverences, resbyts, and yoldrum, welcome to my humble home. I’m sorry that we have to meet down here, and not upstairs where we can enjoy the evening’s fresh breeze.”

  Resbyt Ingoltrav was a blooming tall man—at least of the seventh-high Jrem, which explained his high position in the Church—and his perfectly manicured grey hair was nearly brushing the ceiling as he stood on a small box in the center of the crowd of men.

  His eyes were piercing and deep brown—like Haeral’s skin. He wore flowing robes of rosyln red, trimmed with gold. The Sunfather’s own eye was emblazoned on the robe’s back, which Ardal saw as Ingoltrav turned slowly to address the entire room. Ardal was taken aback by the audacity of the man to wear God’s own symbol. Perhaps he came to announce himself the new Vicar.

  The man was aged, but in a spry grandfatherly sort of way—there was wisdom, and not a lack of cunning behind those eyes. He wore a golden chain around his neck, and on the front hung a fat ruby the size of a child’s fist.

  “Wonder what sort of danger he’s anticipating, wearing a gemstone that big,” whispered Thomas.

  Oh, I don’t know, perhaps clandestine and certainly treasonous meetings in his cellar behind the Vicar’s back?

  “But of course,” The resbyt continued. “Those above wouldn’t understand the importance…the gravity of what we came to discuss tonight.” He paused, finishing his slow circle and eyed the room with a grin. He looked like a boy hiding cookies behind his back, excited to show off his surprise.

  “For we are revolutionaries…visionaries. We see the horizon the rest of the world does, but we look past it. We are not constrained by meaningless traditions or unnecessary norms. We are bound only by the limits of inspiration and driven by the cruel master of progress.”

  A flowery speech. Ardal knew that Ingoltrav probably believed every word he said, but the rest of the men down here were another matter. Most of them were like him—aside from being a spy—just curious to see what the Church’s madman had been up to for the past six months. Ingoltrav was always cooking up new ideas that he thought would change the world. They usually died out soon after his dramatic reveal, but they never failed to entertain.

  He flourished his robe suddenly, the crimson fabric flashing through the air. When it settled, he was holding a lavynal in one hand.

  “This,” he pronounced, grin widening. “Is the result of my own recent inspiration. You’ve all seen a Flora before, yes?”

  Ardal stiffened and leaned forward. There was something off about that Echo…

  “The objects of worship for our barbaric, southern neighbors. And also, the source of their twisted magic.”

  Ardal squinted his eyes at the lavynal. What was it? It looked perfectly healthy, like it was freshly picked.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  “And to us? How do Flora fit into God’s people’s view of the world?”

  It had no color. Ardal gasped quietly when he realized it. The lavynal in Ingoltrav’s hand—normally a pale purple—was completely grey. It looked like a corpse.

  “Saint Raed is master of Flora!” A reverence shouted from somewhere in the crowd.

  “Ah, of course. Beloved Raed, the Colorful. Flora are his gift to the world, yes? Thank you for reminding us Reverence Coen.” Ingoltrav gave a flat stare to the source of the outburst.

  Ardal’s eyes were locked on the Echo in the Resbyt’s hands. Where was its color? He’d never seen a lavynal that shade—never seen any Echo that wasn’t vibrant and bright. What had the madman done to it?

  His jaw started to ache and he noticed his nails biting into his palms from his tightly clenched fists.

  “And so, if the Flora are truly gifts from Saint Raed, ought we not use their power? Ought we not learn to master these divine capabilities? These gifts?”

  The crowd was muttering now, people whispering to their neighbors in hushed tones—all eyes were fixed on Resbyt Ingoltrav.

  The old man lifted his hand, raising the colorless lavynal high for all to see. “Behold! A Flora Cleaved of its evil, demonic Echo, and left pure with the divine power of Saint Raed and God himself. This, my friends, is the discovery that will shape history—the reason for our meeting here tonight. This will change the future.”

  Ardal’s eyes widened. Cleaved Flora? No Echo? How could you have a Flora with no Echo? The two were inseparable—at least, that’s what he’d always been told.

  “How was this done, Ingoltrav?” Another tall man—of the seventh Jrem—stepped forward out of the crowd of now silent clergy. Resbyt Yaelen wore robes the color the lavynal in Ingoltrav’s hand should’ve been and had a dark, shiny bald head.

  Ingoltrav smiled at Yaelen, likely enjoying the confusion in his church brother and rival. “Why, Yaelen, I’m glad you asked. I can’t think of anyone I’d have rather posed the question. Onaly, Colin!”

  At the side of the room a set of double doors opened and two crimson-robed reverences strode out, each holding an Echo. These had their colors. The shorter man on the left carried a lavynal like Ingoltrav’s and it made Ardal wonder how it took him so long to realize what had been wrong with the Resbyt’s. This lavynal was a vibrant purple—pale yet lively, soft yet beautiful. That was what Ardal had always loved about lavynals.

  The man on the right was a half-Jrem taller than his companion and carried a tall irisia with blue and white petals. They strode out to the center of the room next to the Resbyt, who was smiling like a proud father.

  “Brethren,” he said, addressing the crowd again. “These are two of my reverences: Onaly and Colin. They are loyal men, faithful and true to the Saints and God. They also happen to each be born on the last day of the year—Sunset. In the Southlands, they would be considered Prophets. Lucky for us, they worship the true Gods of this world.”

  Prophets among the Reverentry? Ardal wasn’t surprised, per se—all it took was being born on the right day. But it was odd to know that two men who worshipped false gods had the potential to commune with Echoes. Back home they’d have been the only ones in robes.

  “What do false Prophets have to do with any of this, Ingoltrav?” Yaeral said, still standing at the front of the crowd.

  “Patience, friend, I’m getting there. See, Onaly and Colin, because of their unique birthdays, have the ability—curse or blessing—to communicate with Echoes. This is essential to Cleaving them from the Flora. Gentlemen, if you would.” He gestured with his hand and stepped back.

  The room was silent and all eyes shifted to the two plain-looking reverences holding Echoes. Nothing happened at first, then the shorter one—Ardal thought he was Onaly—held up the lavynal close to his face and started muttering under his breath.

  Colin began to do the same with his irisia Echo, each staring intently at the Flora they held.

  Ardal held his breath. Were they actually going to call forth Echoes? Here, in the midst of the Reverentry in the heart of heathen Reledar? He hadn’t seen an Echo reveal itself in over a year and he felt his stomach churn in anticipation. He wasn’t sure if he was excited or scared.

  The rest of the room held their breath too—though Ardal assumed it was more out of fear or curiosity than excitement.

  Colin stopped muttering first. He smiled softly, then lowered the irisia back away from his face. Slowly, the Flora’s petals seemed to fuzz with blue and white color, like a painting melting away in the rain.

  Ardal felt himself smile. It was really happening. A summoning. Here.

  The color suddenly pulled away from the flower, and though it made no noise Ardal always felt like a small pop should accompany the motion. It hung in the air for a moment next to the idrisia—a semi-translucent cloud of what looked like colored paint. Then it began to shift and move, undulating like ripples on a pond.

  A few people gasped in surprise, and the reverences on the front row took a few shuffling steps back.

  The idrisia’s blue and white colors slowly began to take shape just as Olary’s lavynal began to drain of color too. The idrisia’s blob of paint-looking essence started to form the shape of a small human head the size of a child’s fist. The head was simple at first—just an oval shape—then features began to appear. A nose, lips, cheekbones, a forehead, and finally eyes.

  Ardal couldn’t see the face directly, but he knew the process well. From his angle he saw the Echo sprout hair and the face took a distinctly feminine appearance.

  Memory calls and we echo.

  The voice was sharp steel on steel and pierced Ardal’s mind directly as if it were his own thought. From the gasps and steps taken back by the rest of the room, he knew they’d heard it too. Strange that it still felt familiar to him after this long.

  Strange and sad that these people had never truly had divinity’s voice in their head before.

  The lavynal in Olary’s hand had completely drained of color, which was also shifting in the air next to him, slowly forming the vague features of a man.

  Memory calls and we echo.

  The voice was definitely masculine, but there was still the distinctly alien steeliness that the first Echo had. That all of them had.

  “Ingoltrav, what is this heresy?” Yaeral cried. “You dare summon demons here in the midst of God’s own Church?”

  Ingoltrav, as always, smiled.

  “Yaeral, settle down. These demons are most assuredly under control. They’ll be dealt with momentarily.”

  As he spoke, Colin and Olary both reached their hands into their robes, eyes fixated on the small floating heads of color in front of them. They pulled their hands out and reflections of light followed as they each held small, silver daggers.

  Ardal’s mouth went dry. What were they doing?

  Colin slashed first, driving the silver knife right at the face of the beautiful, majestic irisia Echo he’d summoned. She made no noise. The colors that made up her face shifted for a moment before exploding outward in a spray of light. Then gone.

  Olary was right behind him, cutting his Echo’s face in half. The purple lavynal color followed the blues and whites of the irisia, exploding in a shower of light and what looked almost like smoke or mist. Then gone.

  Ardal's head fuzzed. What…what had they done? Where were the Echoes? The two flowers were still held in the reverences hands, now completely drained of color to match the one that Ingoltrav held.

  “Brethren!” The tall man cried out, a look of pure triumph on his face. “We have learned how to Cleave the demonic Echoes from the divine, powerful flowers that Saint Raed has given us. We can use his power—his gift—without the wicked taint of demons tampering with our minds and with Raed’s power. This is why I’ve gathered you here tonight. This is the discovery that will change the future of the Church, of Reledar…of the world.”

  The reverences in the room looked around at each other, faces filled with excitement, nervousness, and anticipation.

  Ardal was going to be sick.