Mark of the Fool

A wealth of lessons followed Merzhin through a life spent in the church—his home and sanctuary. And though he did not quote them to each and everyone around him—as they had been uttered by the mouths of mortals and not the holy word of Uldar—that did not mean that he had not called on them often in his own private moments.

Scores of little anecdotes and phrases shared by the priests that raised him, the children he grew up alongside, and even the layfolk who kept his church home clean, dry and in good repair, were his companions throughout his young life.

Some were grand lessons, such as Father Dale’s telling of his journey to the church, and how folk could wash away dark years through the light of forgiveness.

“Uldar forgives, true,” he’d said as he knelt before the sepulchre. “But, you will never truly believe it if you do not also forgive yourself for your own past.”

That lesson had done much to grow Merzhin’s empathy and his kindness toward himself. Then there were the simple day to day words of wisdom, like those imparted by Layman Yorrick one winter’s day.

“You know, it always pays to do your hardest work at the beginning of your day,” he’d said, shovelling the church yard clear of snow alongside Merzhin and the other acolytes. “Your mind is clearest then. Leave easy work for a tired mind and a fatigued body, I say. The afternoon you will thank yourself for the easier burden.”

That lesson had taught Merzhin much about how to organise his day. And finally, there were the little expressions that would pop into his mind as echoes from the voices of his fellow acolytes.

“I swear, Merzhin,” Acolyte Joanna had glared at him one day after he’d been in a mood. “You’ve got to stop stewing in your own holy brew. You look sour enough to scare off the Ravener.”

And those words? Those words had not really taught him anything new, but the phrase had stuck in his mind for years to come, giving him a way to refer to people who we were caught up in simmering anger.

He always thought of them as ‘stewing in their own holy brew.’

And right now?

Merzhin was stewing in his own holy brew.

“Might we get you anything, Holy Saint?” A priest broke him out of his reverie.

“I am sorry, my mind was…elsewhere,” Merzhin said, slowly looking up at the priest. “No, my fellow brother in Uldar’s grace, I am fine. May holy Uldar’s glory walk with you today.”

The priest bowed deeply. “Of course, Holy Saint. I will leave you to your contemplation. May Uldar guide your thoughts. And may he guide the other Holy Heroes in their journey as well.”

Merzhin’s jaw twitched, and he did not trust himself to answer as the man left him, for those same Heroes were the source of his anger. Warmed by a miracle of Uldar, the Holy Saint sat cross-legged on a boulder he had cleared of snow, considering his confrontation with the other Heroes earlier.

“I’m beginning to suspect these trips of yours, quite frankly,” he’d said to Cedric, Drestra and Hart as the three gathered belongings in their tent. “I understand that your last journey to the Generasians was out of necessity for our unholy enemies had menaced them, but remember, Uldar, this land, and its people need you here.”

“It’s gonna be quick-like, Merzhin,” Cedric had said, and the Saint hadn’t missed the note of tension in his voice. That tension had cloaked him—and Drestra—since their return from Greymoor, and, for all of Uldar’s holy insight, he could not uncover why. “We’ll take the fae roads, help our friends, get in a bit o’ learnin’ an’ be back before you know it.”

“But you are needed here,” Merzhin had insisted. “Every hour you spend away is an hour the enemy could be mustering.”

“True.” Hart had been toying with a dagger which he’d slid into a sheath. “But you know what’s going to help with that? Gathering our own strength. Maybe you should be looking at this as an opportunity the Generasians are giving us to hone our skills so we can go into battle at our strongest, right?”

“Holy Uldar has provided gifts to prepare us for our trials ahead,” Merzhin had frowned. “The rest we can learn on the battlefield while doing good for our land.”

“Because that’s been working so well,” Drestra had growled. “We’re gathering strength for the real fight—”

Cedric had shot her a look.

“—and any extra we learn can only help us.”

“True, but these trips…you take them on your own,” Merzhin had started, but could not find the words to continue.

“Friend, we’ll be back in no time,” Hart had assured him, adjusting the massive sword on his back. “But, in the meantime, the Generasians’ll be sending you some pretty capable support.”

And to that, Merzhin did not have much else to say; his thoughts and heart were clouded, and his feelings defied words. He’d left them then, standing aside as the Guide had come to take them to these…foreigners who so occupied their minds.

Now, he was here, alone—by choice, in some ways—and trying to clear his thoughts.

“What is happening to us?” He wondered quietly. “Uldar, I see a rift forming between your Holy Heroes.” His eyes drifted to the sky as he pressed his hands together in prayer. “My Lord Uldar, I beg you to grant me a sign. I beg that you grant me guidance, for the path ahead has grown as shrouded in mist as my own heart.”

He closed his eyes. “I keep the faith and battle your sworn enemy, but…there are new challenges that this unworthy servant lacks the wisdom to understand. We fight the Ravener-spawn and though they grow more voracious and desperate, I do not falter. We have been granted your holy power for this very purpose, after all. But…what of our own struggles from within?”

Merzhin grimaced. “The Holy Sage, Holy Champion and Holy Chosen have grown more distant from me…from all of us. They take the priests’ council less, partake of quests without including me among them. It is…lonely, Holy Uldar, but more than that, I worry that they are turning from your path.”

The Saint opened his heart, listening for Uldar’s voice. “First, the Holy Fool is lost, and then another three of your Holy Heroes turn more toward outsiders for aid…fae, foreign wizards,than they do those you have placed on this earth to aid them. My lord Uldar, please grant your humble servant a sign. Show me how I may mend this rift between us. Show me how I might bring your three Heroes back into your fold.”

He let his words fade into the silence of the forest clearing, straining both his ears and heart that he might hear Uldar’s reply, for he was a subtle god. Unlike other deities, he did not coddle his chosen people by loudly proclaiming either his edicts, or his comfort in a voice that shakes the heavens.

It was also not his way to speak by way of disaster and curses, falling upon his people with terrible wrath and vitriol. Uldar’s voice was the subtle twist of fate. The coincidence. The passing favour or disfavour of luck. His words were only for those who listened closely, in faith, and could interpret his subtle signs.

These ways made his words precious, for their meaning eluded the unwise or unfaithful…but sometimes those ways were frustrating to mere mortals. Even to one such as Merzhin. Sitting in the silence of the icy glade, he would have given much to have Ulder tear open the sky and shout his will for all to hear.

‘Forgive my lack of patience, oh mighty Uldar,’ Merzhin begged for forgiveness. ‘But I fear that this is an infection that will fester, and I am far too dull to hear the subtlety of your divine will. Please, aid me.”

Again, Merzhin waited, but there came no reply.

At least, none the Holy Saint could hear.

With a heavy sigh, he hoisted himself up, brushed errant flakes of snow from his chainmail, and began his journey back to camp. It was a short walk—he would have never left their brave knights and priests alone for too long—but even those few moments of silence were enough to further sour his mood.

He truly was stewing in his holy brew now.

It was only through discipline forged by years’ of faithful study of scripture that he was able to reset his mask of calm, granting the perimeter guards a polite nod as he passed back into the camp proper.

Men and women looked up from their tasks—maintaining gear, tending horses, and praying—while he drank in their gazes of quiet awe as he passed through their ranks.

As the other three Heroes had gallivanted across Thameland alone, making deals with fae and commiserating with wizards, Merzhin had turned his attention to their staunch followers. He had ministered to them, heard their troubles, healed their wounds and steadied their spirits.

In return, they had granted him companionship and succour for his soul, healing some of the shameful loneliness that had crept into his heart. Struck by the thought, he slowed his step, pausing in the middle of the small encampment.

A shocked chuckle escaped his lips.

‘How could I have been so blind?’ He thought, chiding himself. ‘I did not hear Uldar’s answer because he had already given it! Though a rift might grow between the others and myself, I have to truly ask: were we ever close? No, we were not. Nor do we have to be: we are not granted our roles to make friends with each other. We are granted our power to eliminate our enemies. And have we not been doing so admirably?’

He pondered his fellow Heroes. ‘Hart is brutish, crude, and nearly faithless, but he is a stout slayer of Ravener-spawn. Cedric struggles to please those around him and is too weak of spirit for the mantle of leadership that Uldar has placed upon his shoulders. But he is courageous, skilled and leads by example. Drestra?’

He fought a small surge of displeasure, knowing well it was an unworthy emotion. ‘She is cowardly, shrewd, faithless, cold and unapproachable. But is she not a deadly force on the battlefield? Does she not burn our enemies to ash? Even when she journeyed with the others back to her faithless swamp, she led them against cultists seeking to sully our holy land. She too has a use in Uldar’s plan.’

The Holy Saint beamed at the surrounding knights and priests. ‘If there is a rift, let there be a rift. It is not into the Heroes that I should be pouring my efforts, it is into the people! To Uldar’s people! And that is his gift, for there has always been a rift between the other Heroes and myself, but as that rift grows, I grow closer with the people. With his faithful.’

He bowed his head in prayer. “I thank you, holy Uldar, for your guidance. I thank you for granting me the wisdom to find the meaning in your teachings. I—’

A sound—like air being sucked from a cup—started Merzhin from his prayer, drawing his attention to the fae gate at the centre of the camp. Stepping out of the circle of mushrooms were a group of strangers: warriors, wizards, and strange beasts from Generasi.

They hailed from a multitude of peoples—more than Mezhin had ever seen in his nineteen years—and bore weapons, staffs and armour that seemed to spark with both magic and decadence. Flanking them were a pair of massive stone giants: golems, he believed they were called.

A disciplined looking woman—bearing both staff and sword—stepped forward from the group, her eyes focusing on him. She bowed her head. “Saint Merzhin, I presume?”

The Saint gave her a peaceful smile. “Holy Uldar has deemed me worthy of such a name and title, yes. Greetings and Uldar’s blessings be with you…madam?”

“Watcher Hill,” the woman said, her words clipped and her tone brusque; the manner of speaking he’d heard coming from more than one sergeant serving with Thameland’s soldiers. He only hoped she would be as dependable and professional as they. “I am in command of the University of Generasi’s Secondary Expeditionary Force. Might I have some room made around the fae gate? We have a large contingent coming through.”

“Er, you may.” Merzhin turned to Uldar’s followers. “Could we make space for our guests?”

“Holy Saint!” An instant response from dozens of voices followed, with knights, soldiers and his flock scrambling to clear the space around the fae gate.

Merzhin’s gaze crept over the strange group of newcomers.

‘Such wonders lay in this world,’ he thought, his eyes lingering on the stone golems. ‘I cannot believe there are so many—’

His thoughts paused.

One of the Generasians was staring at him: a young woman in plain clothes, with golden hair...

And a symbol of Uldar hanging from her neck.

‘Well,’ he thought, marvelling at Uldar’s ways. ‘Perhaps my little flock has grown.’