OF GRACES AND BEASTS

one

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CHAPTER ONE.

THERE WAS ALWAYS A SONG AND A SCENT THAT CAME ALONG WITH MAGICK. And for the cleric, it always smelled like Sampaguitas and it always sounded like a sharp whistle blown over with the wind. 

Now kneeling on the cold tiles, his own magick draped its thick cloak all over his shoulders, shrouding his bare back and covering his naked feet like a protective veil. As he inhaled---focusing deeper, Jekmia wasn't at all disturbed by the waft and heat of incense that had begun to cling to his skin. Not even the soreness of his lower back or the constant ringing of bells disrupted the prayer he had been whispering since sundown. What made him uneasy though, was the unusual silence of the Mother.

He sat on the floor surrounded by triplets of candles fanning shadows on his face. Candles. A pot of incense. And a bell---aside from his magick, these were the only things that occupied the room as if to elaborate that the painting winking from an enormous stained-glass window ahead of him was more significant than the things that took residency inside.

Because indeed, they were.

With half-opened eyes, the bejeweled mosaic before him blurred against the dead of the night. Framed with an explosion of sunset colors, the painting gleamed a solitary figure dressed in a gradient of varying celestials and crowned with three half moons. The goddess, Marhilka, towered from the colored windows with eyes bright of melted gold. As the light of the moon passed through the tinted windows, a cascade of brilliant hues splashed on the marbled floors, and the cleric's skin glossed over by blue and gold.

"Jekmia." A voice interrupted the cleric's thoughts.

The bells stopped. 

His magick flung back inside him, and the scent and the whistle were gone. Jekmia finally opened his eyes. 

He waited for his sight to adjust at the dimmed room before making out the outline of his second staring across from him. It was a slim figure yet almost slouching, and hair tousled enough to know that his apprentice rarely gave any importance with appearances---which was a problem, considering the fact that this boy was to succeed him few moons from now.

"Lights," he commanded.

The second bowed, stretched a hand, and fire hissed into life from the candelabras that hung at each post. With this kind of lighting, the face of his second looked more daunting and sharp. He had a small chin and a tall but slightly crooked nose between a pair of devious eyes that seemed enough to burn down a house. Despite such a demeanor though, the boy smiled. "Has She spoken?"

"No." He shrugged on his robes and stood."Take up the rag and the candles. I am finished for tonight."

But the apprentice did not move for a couple of breaths.

"The rag. And the candles," he repeated. 

Don was silent for a moment, then he looked him straight in the eyes as if to match the cleric's authority. "Is it true someone's taking my position?"

The cleric clicked his tongue. "Hardly---no."

"Tell me."

"Listen, boy," he warned. "If you haven't done what you did, everything would have gone according to plan."