92 – Challenge

Rafael had known this event would not go as planned. No plan ever survived contact with Vivisari. Still, he’d expected they would at least make it through the canned opening before things went off the rails. Instead, she had apologized for her tardiness and then failed to so much as deliver that carefully worded introduction before she’d been challenged by the Gale of Blades.

The interruption as a whole, he had expected. He had even anticipated the Gale herself being the one to voice her doubts. What he hadn’t predicted was that the woman would insist, even after the teleportation magic that served as undeniable proof of identity by itself. Rafael had clearly underestimated the Gale’s desire to duel a legendary figure, and, in retrospect, he could only blame himself for that.

But then Vivisari had not just accepted, but also invited all other Titled into the brawl. As always, she exceeded Rafael’s expectations, even when he would really rather she didn’t for once.

There were many Titled who had attended, and Rafael kept an eye on all of them, but the Archbishop was who he scrutinized most closely. High Prince Adrian had spoken to the de facto leader of the Church to ease the zealot into the idea that it had been Vivisari, not the gods, that had saved Meridian from the void invasion. But with how much of a grand announcement the religious leader had made of his claims, Rafael could see the man being slow to accept the truth of the situation… if he ever did.

The Archbishop, dressed in his bright white robes and tall hat presenting a golden star, had watched Vivisari’s arrival and the developing events with a carefully controlled expression, deep blue eyes cautious and appraising. That was neither the best-case nor the worst-case scenario. Rafael would have preferred more overt displays of acceptance, and certainly a less guarded appearance so that he could read the man more easily, but at least the Archbishop was not purple in the face and denouncing Vivisari for stealing the glory of the heavens.

Rafael had a lot of opinions on Archbishop Augustine, most of them conflicted. He couldn’t not have some respect for the Archbishop, given the man’s past. Two hundred years ago, the newly promoted Archbishop—the second-highest position of the Church, beneath only Cardinal—had uncovered an underbelly of corruption operating in the shadows of their organization, of such heinous activity that even Rafael’s normally cool thoughts grew agitated when he recollected the details. Within that very same hour, Augustine had slain the offending Cardinal, a Titled nearly three hundred levels higher than him, along with two other Archbishops in the same fight. A feat so utterly absurd and nigh unmatched in all of history that even Rafael could only accept Augustine’s own explanation that he had been a burning conduit for the heavens’ long-due wrath.

In the ensuing purge of the Church, nearly a third of Meridian’s clergy died—the smoke from the Church-turned-pyre had allegedly been seen from a city away. Afterward, Augustine collected the necessary evidence, provided it to the crown still drenched in the blood of his once-colleagues, renounced his title as Archbishop, then demanded he be imprisoned and a trial be held for his own gross misconduct—said misconduct apparently being that he hadn’t rooted out the evil sooner. Despite extensive negotiations with the man, when the crown tried to pardon the Archbishop, he imposed his own sentence and spent a decade in the Palace prison behind a cell door the crown refused to lock.

The man underwent some manner of crisis of faith in that time, Rafael understood, but when Augustine returned to the Church—refusing to accept his previous rank and instead working his way back up from acolyte—he made it his ultimate priority to reform the organization he’d once held in great regard. And succeeded. It would not be an exaggeration to say that the Church’s status as one of the least corrupt organizations in the kingdoms was thanks predominantly to the fervent efforts of a single man.

In short, Augustine was the zealot that most other zealots wrongly perceived themselves as. Which was both praise and condemnation, because by definition zealots were uncompromising fanatics—and the Archbishop’s actions were not those of a level-headed and rational man. Even so, if that fanaticism was wielded with true belief, by a person who didn’t bend their principles and was not a hypocrite, could such a trait truly be condemned?

At the very least, it made for a complicated person to deal with. The man had a fire within him, and righteous though it might be, all flames could consume.

Rafael waited to see how the assembled Titled would respond to Vivisari’s offer.

Aeris spoke first. “If an exhibition match between allies is inevitable,” he said slowly, “I would not refuse it. But I strongly advise against this course of action.”

Lysander huffed. “I will come to watch the yapping dog be silenced, but will not participate myself,” he stated, calmer, but with anger still smoldering. The Gale made a rude gesture at him, strangely not seeming much bothered by the insult. From what Rafael understood of the swordswoman, she had been born and raised in a particularly rough environment and found ‘banter’ between allies routine. So she likely didn’t take offense at Lysander’s words. And perhaps didn’t mean much by her own.

Archbishop Augustine strode up next, and Rafael suppressed a grimace. He couldn’t say he was surprised, but he would have preferred that Vivisari and the Archbishop not fight in any capacity, ‘friendly duel’ or ‘proof of identity’ included.

“In my years,” the white-robed man said calmly, “I have learned that it is always better to confirm rather than trust blindly. Even the truths we hold most sacrosanct can be overturned. I cast no doubt on your claims, Sorceress, but I would accept further proof if you are offering it freely.”

The Gale smirked. “You can just admit you want to see what that holy fire of yours can do against the Sorceress’s shields. I’m sure the heavens will look away as their favored son indulges, just this once.”

Which was an astoundingly poor choice of words considering whom she was speaking to, and even the Gale—inept at reading a room as she was—seemed to realize it. She cleared her throat. “Just a joke, of course.”

“Blasphemy in jest remains blasphemy,” the Archbishop said in a tone heavy with disapproval, but zealot he might be, he wasn’t so unhinged as to lose his composure over poorly chosen humor. Especially since the Gale of Blades was a hero dedicated to using their strength to benefit the world, as all the Titled present were—if in varying scales.

The fifth Titled to accept Vivisari’s offer was the newest and weakest, not one Rafael had expected to impose himself. The Silver Squire had likely only added a dozen levels at most since his official naming, which had happened at the precise one-thousand mark. A half-elven boy in full knight’s armor and with short, lustrous gray hair hurried up to the front of the courtyard, and he bowed as deeply as he physically could, trying to touch his nose to the floor.

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“Lady Sorceress and other esteemed Titled,” he began. “I know this offer wasn’t made with me in mind, and that I do not belong in a dueling arena with a single one of you. But if the offer was truly open to any of the Titled gathered—meager as my accomplishments are—I request the privilege nevertheless.”

“Oh, grow a spine, boy,” the Gale of Blades said, but with plain fondness in her words. The two Titled had history, Rafael knew, though the exact details were vague. The boy had trained under her briefly as a favor to the Queen of the Eastern Kingdom. “A person is only as good as their word; the Sorceress surely means what she says. So say you accept and leave it at that.” She snorted and clapped him on the shoulder. “And try not to die in a single attack. She might go easy on you, but if you get in my way, I certainly won’t.”

The Squire glanced up, saw Vivisari nod at him, then straightened out with obvious excitement. “Yes, Lady Gale! Thank you, Lady Sorceress!”

Vivisari appraised the crowd, waiting for any other accepters, then nodded. “As I said, I apologize for the delay. We won’t be long.”

And with a wave of her staff, the Sorceress ferried away the five Titled and herself, leaving the rest of the assembled to stand in silence.

Rafael stepped up to the center of the dais. “I will have a word with the High Prince, then will address any questions you might have,” he told the crowd with a voice that projected as much unbothered confidence as he could muster—which was quite a lot. “Indeed, I already intended to do so on my lady’s behalf, as she is not one who could be considered… loquacious.” He smiled, and the joke managed to produce some polite chuckles, if halfhearted and nervous.