“You called for me?” he asked when Luther turned from his candlelit desk. A parchment lay before him, an inkwell beside it. Luther put away the quill he held, then gestured to what he’d written.
“I have a message for you to deliver,” the priest said. “One that, given the circumstances, might put your life in peril.”
“My life belongs to Karak,” Grevus said. “I shall do whatever he commands without fear or doubt.”
“Fear itself is irrelevant,” Luther said, turning back to the parchment and scanning over it. “It’s how you act upon it that matters. Doubt, however, is poison. I say this only to ensure you are careful, and remain guarded. This is a most delicate task, more than just delivering a message.”
Grevus hated the cryptic words but knew better than to demand a proper explanation. If Luther wished to give him one, he’d do so on his own terms.
“I will do as I must,” Grevus said. “Where am I to go?”
“To the Blood Tower,” Luther said, letting out a sigh.
Grevus swallowed, everything clicking in place.
“To Cyric,” he said.
“Yes, to Cyric,” Luther said. “This must be handled delicately. I’ve already sent a missive to Mordeina, requesting the full force of our might to come north under my command. So far none of them know of Cyric’s claims to be Karak made flesh, and I’d like this settled without them ever knowing.”
“You fear they’ll condemn him, and risk war amongst ourselves?”
“Condemn? No, Grevus, I fear that my brethren will believe him. The only thing worse than a madman is a madman with followers.”
Grevus felt his body stiffen. Luther was the most faithful, intelligent priest he’d ever known, hence why he feared him so. He knew Karak’s every desire, and when he spoke, it was with the voice of the Lion. If he was afraid of Cyric’s claim, and the damage it might cause…
“So you don’t believe him then?” Grevus asked.
Luther shot him a look.
“Believe him? Of course I don’t believe him. That you have to ask makes me reconsider sending you as bearer of my message.”
“Forgive me,” Grevus said, bowing low. His mind scrambled for the right words. He thought back to his days at the Stronghold, particularly the weeks spent reading over prophecy before returning to the physical training and prayers. “But every child of Karak has been told there will be a day when our god walks the world as he once did. When the sun rises, we pray today is that day, so our hearts may be ready, and our faith strong enough to kneel in his presence without shame.”
“Grevus, I trust you above all others,” Luther said, and the worried look on his face made Grevus uneasy. “You are a simple man, faithful, practical. If you are uncertain about Cyric’s claim, then I fear all the more how the rest of our brethren will react.”
“You misunderstand me,” Grevus said. “I believe that Karak might one day walk this world. What I do doubt, however, is that he’s Cyric.”
“You speak of doubt yet again. Be certain, or admit you know nothing. Never doubt.”
The ink dry, Luther rolled up the message, then began melting wax so he might form a seal. Grevus watched, the tent feeling incredibly cramped despite its large size. The air was suffocating, he realized, though he was unsure why. Maybe it was Luther’s worry that infected him. Grevus felt best walking into a conflict with his sword drawn and his armor shining. That was his home, on the battlefield, the heathens and the blasphemous dying upon his blade. Philosophy? Prophecy? They appealed to him, but only as a curiosity. Debating them, on the other hand, made him feel like he was on a different battlefield, naked and fighting with his bare fists.
“He was a good disciple,” Luther said, interrupting his thoughts. “Good, but there was a flaw in him, one I tried to repair. But some flaws are too deep. Some flaws define who we really are.”
“And what might that be?” asked Grevus as the wax dripped upon the message he was to bring north. “What was Cyric’s flaw?”
Luther smiled sadly and shook his head.
“He hated the priesthood.”
Grevus’s mouth dropped open. That was a flaw? That sounded more like a massive contradiction for a young man determined to be a priest.
“I’m…not sure I understand.”
Drip, drip went the wax.
“It’s not that hard,” Luther said, carefully watching it collect. “A subtle thing, really. But the priesthood, its laws, its restrictions, all of its members…he saw them as beneath him. He saw them as failing to live up to Karak’s standard. Whenever he failed, he’d blame not himself but the priestly order. It was we who taught him weakness, was it not? No, he always looked to the old ways. That was his excuse, his reason for the flaws he saw in all of us. We didn’t sacrifice sinners like we used to. We tolerated too much. We weren’t as strict, weren’t as demanding. So much easier for him to yearn for a past that was better, more full of faith and wisdom.”