Chapter 43 - Church with Marissa

Wherein Rose gains perspective.

Winter had descended upon Splendor, coating everything in a thick layer of rime. The last of Autumn’s warmth was gone. Rose’s scarf did little to protect her face from the skin-crackling cold, as she jumped the tube to meet Marissa.

All was quiet on the University of Unseen Arts campus on this New Year’s morn. Rose goose-necked, against better judgement, and wasn’t surprised to see the wonderland of white hedges and sparkling statues deserted. Her footsteps sounded awfully loud to her own ears as she made her way over to the library building. Officially, it wouldn’t open until the end of the week, but Rose had a hunch she would find the librarian there anyway.

Marissa opened the double doors as Rose approached, letting her in. "Blessed New Year."

"Blessed New Year," Rose replied, reciprocating Marissa’s hug.

"We hadn't agreed upon a location to meet up at. So I hoped you would come here and I could intercept you."

"I was hoping the same."

"Magic," Marissa laughed. "How cold is it?" 

"As long as we keep moving we'll be alright." This was still mild compared to the winters she had experienced at home. 

Marissa buttoned up her fur-lined, waxed cloak and fastened a colourful woollen shawl around her face. "Ready."

The streets were as deserted as the university campus. The scent of black powder wafted from piles of reddish cardboard, giving the city a very surreal, post-apocalyptic vibe.

They said little as they walked. Rose let herself be guided through a jumble of streets to a little square that had – at some point in history – probably been bigger. New houses had been built against the old, eating up bits of pavement.

Three steps led up to the unadorned limestone façade. A rosette window crowned reinforced oak doors.

On any other day, Rose would have stopped to gain a longer impression. Today she let herself be pulled inside, where innumerable candles lit up the wood and stone interior. The smell of frankincense and myrrh dominated over beeswax and old wood.

Warmth wrapped itself around Rose like a living thing, making her shawl and coat redundant for the time being.

Others who had braved the cold were either sitting in pews, or awaiting their turn to be anointed by the priest and his servants.

Reverently, Rose looked around. She was familiar with the prayer banners, depicting scenes from the Book of Night and Day. The streamers, made by those who had more serious prayers, she also recognised. The embellished gold altarpieces looked more expensive – and infinitely more beautiful – than those at home did.

Stained glass windows – expertly detailed, showing Sunfather on one side of the altar, and Nightsoul on the other – let in muted light. The Sun and Moon ceiling painting was an intricate mix of colour and symbolism. The curving patterns surrounding the central piece radiated exuberance. Rose had never seen anything like it before.

At home, the temple was a basic wooden building. There was an altar. There were chairs for the supplicants. Those were the necessary bits. One went to church, because that was what one was supposed to be doing on Sunsouldays and festivals. The priest would read from the Book, he would hold a stern lecture and berate those of the congregation he felt needed it.

There were important lessons in the Book, and Rose had always thought of herself as devout. She believed in Sunfather and Nightsoul, in their influence over the world and their divine part in its creation. 

But standing here, in a sturdy stone church, where architecture and art worked together, she finally grasped what those Sunsouldays at home had never instilled, that out-of-body connection to something far greater than herself. 

"Do you want to ask for a blessing?" Marissa asked sotto voce.

"I didn't bring an offering," Rose replied. She had some coins in her pocket, but money wasn’t an acceptable offering as far as she knew. 

"I brought enough for both of us." Marissa withdrew a red-waxed ball of cheese from her tapestry bag, as well as a box of someone’s homemade cupcakes.

Together they approached the masked servants. One wore a white robe with red and yellow embroidery, while the other wore black with purple and pale blue details that added depth and personality. 

The priest himself was dressed in homespun browns. His robes tied together with a girdle made from beautifully intricate knotted hempen string. He wore woollen slippers, because the cold temperatures warranted them. In Summer, he would be barefoot. 

At home, the servant’s robes were a draped shawl with symbolic representations of Sun and Moon, worn over a Sunsoulday dress for the servants. A beige robe worn over a clean suit, tied together with a studded leather belt, was what the priest wore. She had never seen the priest without shoes. 

Rose had never been able to shake a feeling of pretentiousness over this. She knew all three religious leaders, knew their families outside of the temple and worship. She also knew the priest used his authority to be elevated in status, and likewise did the two servants.

Rose could tell this man did not. His entire demeanour screamed compassion. The kindness with which he interacted with the older beggar women in front of him, as well as the rich man that was now sitting in the pews, humbled her.

Marissa was up next. She passed Rosa Rose the box of cupcakes, grabbed from the communal pantry in her dorm wing. With a bowed head, she approached the Nightsoul servant. Rose halted for only a second, listening to the traditional words being exchanged, before stepping up to the Sunfather servant.

She offered the bag of cupcakes. "If it pleases Sunfather," she whispered, "I would receive blessing or trial."

The bag was taken from her trembling hands and set on the altar that was already holding a veritable feast of offerings. Practically, she wondered what would be done with the food at the end of the day.

There was a long pause. She felt a hand upon her chin, urging her to look up. She looked into deep green eyes in a face that was hidden behind a bronze mask. 

"A blessing." His voice sounded young. He could not be much older than she was.

Rose waited piously. She heard the blessing spoken over Marissa. The priest’s voice had a deep, gentle rolling sound.

Her hand was taken in a large, calloused one. "Good morning, young one." Rose looked up into honey-brown eyes that encompassed the world. "May you be fruitful in your endeavours and may you share your passion, to uplift others."

Rose basked in the warmth and compassion. She nodded, needing a moment to remember the dogmatic words.

"Thank you, my lord, for this blessing," she stammered. "Will you please pray for those who are in need of guidance, that they may find a way out of their misery?" She repeated what, at home, others would have said before her.

"And so I shall," the priest replied. He dipped his thumb in fragrant oil and pressed it between her eyebrows, upon her third eye. 

"Best you go sit," he said gently.

As Rose sat and the substance of the oil widened her perception, the Nightsoul servant intoned: "A trial." There was an otherworldly depth to her voice.

"A trial?" the Sunfather servant repeated in wonder. 

A young man stood frozen before the trinity of divine servants.

"Do not be scared," the Priest said, lifting the young man's head when he bowed it. "There are those who receive the Trial because they deserve it; usually a small task of Redemption." He gestured to the two servants, who took from behind the altar two boxes.

"A true trial is bestowed upon you by Divine Spirit." He handed the man two rods, one golden, one obsidian, taking them from the boxes the servants held out for him. They were solid, heavy; the weight not merely physical. 

Rose looked at the rods in the young man's hands, then at her own. She could feel the weight and smooth texture. She could feel the cold of obsidian and the warmth of gold. She heaved a sigh, along with the young man. Her eyes went up to the multi-coloured rosette window with its pure-white centre high above the devotional stained glass panels.

"Connect them above your head, tip to tip. And let Them guide your path." The priest’s words pulled Rose back to what happened below. 

The young man hesitated.

"From what I have heard and read," the priest reassured, "there may be visions you would want to chase, or merely a stronger sense of intuition. Sometimes one hears a voice giving them commands. Never shall you be led to harm." The last was said with gravity. 

"What if I don't do this?" the young man asked, his wavering voice filled the cavernous space.  

"Then you choose not to and walk away. You walk away knowing you left something here, and will probably never be complete without it. You would not be the first to do so, nor the last."

The young man raised the rods in opposing semi-circles. As soon as the tips connected above his head, lightning struck. The boom reverberated through the church.

The power that had made Rose take pause earlier coursed through her full blast. It rocked her and left her reeling, the accompanying shockwave blew her hair straight back.

Her sight was the first to settle. The ringing in her ears stayed, deafening her. 

Magic was in upheaval. It washed all about, like a sea under storm. And she could see it.

For the first time in her life, she could perceive thaumaturgic energy visually. For a second, she was the young man.

The young man found himself sitting on his ass, rods in his lap, fingers still firmly wrapped around them, with no recollection of how that came to be. He blinked, vague shapes turning into recognisable details. 

He had questions. So many questions. Before they could be fully formed, they were answered. The priest, dressed in his homespun garb, kneeled beside him. Held out a steady hand – for him to get up or put the rods in? 

"Is your Trial clear?" the Priest asked, louder than was necessary, like he was trying to hear himself speak and couldn't. As it was, the young man could barely hear him, but nodded. He tried to hand over the rods but had trouble letting go, his fingers refusing service.

Then she was herself again; enchanted by the sight of magic. By the tiny particles that danced through the air and took on shapes before drifting apart again. 

Her wonder and awe grew. 

She looked sideways at Marissa. The young wizard's face was graced with a euphoric smile. 

Rose observed how most of the disturbed particles settled and some formed new shapes, or found a current on which to float. Predictably, they gathered around Marissa, the holy men, the rods on the altar. They also formed a thick aura around the young man still sitting dumbfounded. Most others got only a slight dusting of magical particles. 

What surprised Rose was that as she moved her hand, a layer of particle dust was disturbed. The layer was far thicker than with the other people. 

Amazed, she let her thoughts drift. 

She thought of her family and the quest that had sent her to Splendor. She wanted to learn music and magic. She wanted to be a bard, was becoming a bard. But Bardic College wasn’t doing anything for her, except showing her what she didn't want to do; who she didn't want to be. 

She realised she wanted to travel, to experience the world. There were songs to write and friends to make. Becoming a bard was a few steps into a journey that would take a lifetime to fulfil.

Meeting the old men biker band had taught her that masters did not only congregate in places of learning. She could search out the true masters and learn from them. 

The only reason to complete her first year of college was the useful road magic licence. She didn’t want to risk her neck for something that could be avoided.

Staying on at Bardic College meant five more months of torture to endure. She took in a deep breath – particles scattered as if she breathed fire – and straightened her spine. She could – would – endure.