Inquisition

Morning began differently in Lys.

The sun rose pale, but soon after darkened, as if someone had thrown a shroud over the city. Alana noticed first the silence of the birds, then a shadow crossing the rooftops, and the cold creeping through the ill-sealed window of her office.

She threw on a cloak, tied her hair into a simple knot, and descended the stairs in haste. Merchants pointed curiously toward the sky, children asked if night had come early, and a group of devout women made the sign of the Mother of Dawn with trembling hands.

There was no wind during the eclipse, unlike the previous night. Shadows seemed too sharp against the stone pavement.

Alana took a shortcut through Scales Alley — narrow, damp, moss growing between the stones along the riverbank — and emerged into the church square. The place was strangely crowded, a confused gathering of people seeking the light of the candelabras within the safety of the temple.

The bell tolled in short intervals. A summons.

She pushed her way through the throng, recognizing faces that were regulars in the church: the old woman who sold rosaries, the baker’s boys, two widows from the riverside district.

The great skylight above the sacred hall, once golden, now displayed a dark circle at its center. Everyone looked upward, speaking softly, as if any voice raised too high might bring the end of days upon the stone walls.

Alana moved toward the side aisle.

She knew where Arcius would be at this hour — by the baptismal font, checking the water, aligning the sacramentals, or inspecting the alms box. The night before, they had drunk together until she had fallen asleep.

The old friend had laughed a little. He spoke of old times and an enigmatic future, then fell silent at the strange tolling of the bells, and at last entrusted her with the church’s strange relic: the Eye of Ereth. He refused to say who was ringing the bells in his absence, just as Alana had refused to speak of her father.

The leather case containing the Eye rested within the stitched lining of Alana’s cloak, weighing against her like a broken rib.

“Where is the priest?” the detective asked a pale acolyte.

“In the sacristy, miss. But…” The boy did not finish. He glanced toward the stone archway leading to the rear courtyard.

A procession entered suddenly. The figure at its head was imposing.

Tall, broad-shouldered, with measured steps. He wore a red mantle falling straight to the ground, thick fabric without adornment. On his head, a wide-brimmed, rigid hat of the same color. His face was covered by a golden mask, smooth, expressionless, its simple contours following the lines of the skull. There was no opening for a mouth, only narrow slits for the eyes. On his hands, immaculate white gloves, fingers interlaced as though in prayer.

Behind him came four assistants of the Inquisition in dark cloaks with red stripes on their torturer-style masks, and two more soldiers of the city guard, dragging a man by the arm. Arcius’s cassock was crooked, his hair disheveled, his mouth drawn by weariness.

He looked down, offering no resistance. When Alana saw him, she froze beside a column, feeling the weight of the cloak’s lining grow heavier.

The murmurs rose like water heating to a boil. One of the assistants raised a hand, demanding silence. The inquisitor strode to the center of the nave, stopping beneath the half-darkened skylight.

He did not remove his hat in reverence to the sacred space; he turned, so all could see him, his posture radiating sacred authority that struck fear into the people of Lys. Spontaneously, the congregation fell to its knees before he could command it.

The inquisitor offered no gesture of respect by uncovering his head — he was the very effigy demanding respect within the church walls. Divine punishment given human form.

“Faithful of the Orthodoxy, my name is Numul Quinctinius Rusuma” the voice rang metallic through the mask, “a loyal servant of the Nine of the Orthodoxy. Those of faith need not fear, for the eclipse is a reminder of what is revealed only when faith falters. Today, in this holy house, the light of the Nine did not shine. It was absent through the negligence of one man: Arcius, minister of this parish.”

Arcius lifted his eyes, but neither begged for mercy nor offered an explanation. Some whispered the inquisitor’s name, as though saying it might shield them from spiritual harm. Others lowered their faces, feeling for the community the shame the priest himself seemed to have cast aside.

“Brother Arcius” continued Inquisitor Rusuma, “is hereby detained for heresy and grave negligence regarding a sacred relic. The holy Eye of Ereth has vanished from this church! You ate, drank, and slept while what was entrusted to you disappeared. The result: shadows in the sky and unrest among the people.”

“It wasn’t like that” Arcius said, voice hoarse yet firm. “You only noticed it was gone when you came here. You arrested me for some other reason… until fortune handed you this excuse.”

“The relic is absent, and that is what matters” the inquisitor corrected, his tone unraised. “And if there is desecration within a holy temple, it is the will of the Nine that the guilty face proper judgment.”

The soldiers pulled Arcius another step forward.

The crowd stirred; an old man shouted that the priest had cured fevers, a woman claimed he had buried her husband without charging the tithe.

The inquisitor did not flinch, seasoned in handling the masses. He simply raised his gloved right hand in a gesture for calm. And it worked.

Alana heard her own breath. She remembered Arcius’s words from the night before: “It’s too late for me, Alana.”

He had known. And he had taken precautions, so the hounds of the Celestial Sanctuary would not seize the relic. The priest’s wayward old friend, known for loud words in taverns, was also the last person anyone would suspect of hiding the Eye of Ereth.

At least for now.

Rusuma turned his golden-masked face toward the altar, the reflection of candles drawing sharp lines across the smooth metal.

“We shall proceed with the inquisition. No home lies beyond the reach of the Orthodoxy. Whoever knows something and keeps silent will be deemed complicit. Whoever aids us will be shown clemency. We want names!”

One assistant opened a black-bound book on the altar’s first step. Another produced an inkwell and two quills. The candles were realigned in mechanical motions that carried ceremonial weight.

“Brother Arcius will be taken to the Celestial Sanctuary in the Grand-Devana to confess his sins before the Pontifex Maximus. If his guilt proves lesser than suspected, he will spend a time in the cells of bread and water and then be released. Here, before his flock, I repeat: those who cooperate will help shorten the night.”

Arcius looked to the congregation. Shame was there, but not fear, in his resigned expression. He moved his lips as though to give final comfort to the faithful, but refrained.

His eyes passed swiftly over familiar faces. When they found Alana, they lingered for a moment, silent message clear.

“This is an outrage” said a man in an ermine cape near the central pews. “The eclipse is only a natural phenomenon. It proves nothing.”

Rusuma turned toward him.

“The eclipse is what it is. The theft is what it is. And I am what I must be — an inquisitor of the Celestial Sanctuary, appointed for this charge. Those who wish to speak may find me after the midday service. We will begin with neighbors and close friends of Brother Arcius. Then consecrated ministers. Lastly, the occasional visitors.” He drew a slow breath, as though outlining the order in his mind. “All of them.”

The soldiers led Arcius out, and the people parted, stretching out hands toward the priest without quite touching him. A child cried out, and the same acolyte from before covered his mouth and ran toward the rear rooms.

The skylight dimmed further.

The faithful began a prayer without instruction. Broken voices, yet united, as Alana left the column, crossed the nave calmly, as though merely changing seats, and stepped into the square outside.

She bowed her head to the soldiers, turned with composure, and took a side alley without looking back. Only when she had gone far enough did she release the breath she had held since the nave.

When the shadow of the church tower finally vanished, she slipped her hand into the cloak’s inner lining and touched the parcel.

Above suspicion — for now.

She quickened her pace. She needed a place free of watching eyes.

Needed to plan the next move before someone with a list of names came knocking at her door. And she needed to find a way to keep Arcius alive long enough for the truth to surface.

She tucked the Eye deeper into her clothing and vanished into the next bend of the street.

Without once looking up at the sky.