The Fourth Messenger

1 - Azra

Rethsrond, Kingdom of Gadolin

Flowertide, 2339

Azra hurried down the dark cobblestone street. She could see the torchlight from the cathedral square ahead. She considered pausing to listen for the footsteps behind her—but she knew they would be there.

She quickened her pace as she neared the square. A few men were jesting and laughing loudly there. They paid no attention to the petite hooded Azra as she made her way to the cathedral doors.

A dark figure came out from the bushes and grabbed her arm as she reached to knock on the door.

"Alms?" the man asked. "Alms, good lady of God? I'm just a poor old soul . . ."

Azra sighed with relief and steadied her hand. "God bless you," she whispered, dropping a copper in his hand as she glanced over her shoulder.

"Oh, thank you, lady of God. Bless you, bless you . . ."

She stepped around him to the door and knocked twice. A small shutter opened, and eyes peered out.

"Who is it?" said the crackling voice of an old woman.

"Azra. I need to speak with the bishop."

"The hour is late . . ." The shutter slammed, and the door cracked open enough for Azra to slip through.

"I'm sorry, Etienne. God's work knows no hours. How is your son?"

"His leprosy is drying away since you saw him," Etienne said. "We'll always be grateful to you, Priestess."

"I'm very glad to hear it. The glory is God's."

"Now, child. Bishop Taviot is, as you know, strict about night visitors. Especially when he's preparing for Saints' Feast Day."

"Is he in the reliquary crypt?" Azra asked.

"Yes. Are you all right, Priestess? You've traveled from Avilmerg to Rethsrond by your lonesome?"

"God protects. Are you expecting anyone else tonight?"

"Certainly not."

"I will find the bishop. God bless you and your son."

"And you, Priestess."

Inside, it was dark except for the brass lamps that cast dim shapes of colored light across the gray stone. Azra found the narrow stairwell in the eastern transept and descended to where the relics of the saints of Messengianism were kept. She paused when she heard the big cathedral door slam. She quickened her pace, wondering why Etienne had opened the door again.

The crypt was well lit with lamps and candles. Azra had always loved the reliquaries despite the gloom of their surroundings. Here, the saints' bones, garment scraps, walking staves, and other holy relics could be seen, touched, and prayed to. Here, God's blessings still flowed from the revered dead.

This reliquary was also where she'd had her fateful vision. The one that had turned her world upside down.

Azra saw Bishop Taviot kneeling on red cushions, praying before a relic. She knew the silver gem-studded box held a chip from Saint Theravar's femur, symbolic of Theravar's standing for truth before he was martyred. Two attendants flanked the bishop to assist with the ritual blessings and prayers to prepare for tomorrow's feast day. One of them looked at her with curiosity.

Azra bowed her head and waited silently, her ears attuned to both Taviot's rhythmic chants and the possibility of footsteps behind her. One attendant finally whispered to the bishop. Without turning, he stood and ritually touched his forehead, mouth, then eyes. His great bald head gleamed in the lamplight.