Auspicious || Callie J. Smith

Gembira pushed away the twig of honeysuckle that had thwacked her in the face. She also pushed away her desire to turn back. She wanted to do this, and on some level, she needed to do this.

Blinking her eyes, she wiped the sweat and dirt from her forehead with a sleeve of her linen tunic. The garment marked her as a member of the temple’s religious order. If she were observed approaching the temple in this garb, she wouldn’t be turned away. Had she chosen any of the lighter, synthetic items in her military wardrobe—the signs of her other life—she’d have made herself a target. Which wouldn’t do. She needed to be the one sighting targets today.

And Gembira already knew her target.

The priest of the Maker’s Temple may have lived in seclusion in the middle of a dense forest, but those who knew of him knew he had power to rival any of the military leaders and politicians vying for influence in the public realms. Further, tradition identified the priest of the Maker’s Temple as holder of the Maker’s Favor, a priceless golden medallion that amplified human power via divine favor. 

Which was why Gembira was making herself trek deeper and deeper into the forest along a barely existent path. The medallion needed to be in the hands of someone who could really and truly use it well. Its current owner was not that person. She’d rectify that.

When the ground beneath Gembira’s feet angled downward, she shifted her weight and continued. Before long, the gentle sounds of running water greeted her. She tried to pick up her pace, but the thick tangles of underbrush prevented it. So, she kept tearing through the new growth with her small machete and scaling the fallen trunks of massive trees. Her breath came heavy by the time she sighted the river, and what she found when she reached the bank made her gasp.

A red heron. It lurked along the shallows at the opposite bank, its pink beak vibrant even in the shadows. Said to be auspicious, the bird rarely showed itself. And yet there it was, stalking through the water, beak poised, watching for fish with brutal focus.

Gembira dropped to her knees. She stayed as still as she could, loathe to scare the bird away. To her delight, it remained, watching for fish. 

How many times had she lurked quietly in the shadows, weapon drawn as she stalked her goal? And yet, only now had this graceful bird blessed her path. She hoped this meant success.

Only when the heron flew away of its own accord did Gembira rise. She climbed carefully over slick rocks to mount the fallen tree that bridged the river. It was the last barrier between her and the Maker’s Temple. She’d be there soon.

Indeed, a quarter hour later, Gembira sighted the stones of the Maker’s Temple where it sat quiet as the rest of the forest. She approached from the south cautiously enough that the single guard did not hear her as he trekked back and forth along the southern perimeter. Slipping off her shoes, she waited only long enough for the man to walk half his path in the opposite direction before she moved. Clambering quickly up the wall, she dropped over onto the other side and landed almost silently on the balls of her feet. Her knees absorbed the shock. Then she stood up straight. 

Her risk had paid off. Exactly like the last time she’d come, the southern courtyard remained barely used. Pulling the tunic hood up over her head, Gembira clasped her hands before her as if in prayer and crossed the empty space.

What, she wondered, would her life have been like had she remained at her abbey? She could have simply refused to infiltrate the military. She’d have lived like this, surrounded by quiet, and prayer, and study with no reason at all for stealth, no need for deception, no call to kill at a superior’s command. She’d been reflecting on this more and more the last five years, ever since she’d snuck a first time into the Maker’s Temple. As a young woman she’d taken a chance by taking on a second identity, joining the military, and pursuing the knowledge and influence that her religious order would have obtained in no other way. 

Gembira made herself focus. She bypassed another courtyard and continued on to the entrance of a small chapel. Touching the dagger under her tunic, she felt its heavy presence against her palm as a comfort. The guard at the chapel door only bowed his head to her and let her pass, though, assuming her a guest. She bowed her head back, relaxing a little as she moved up the aisle to sit on a bench near the front. At first, she faced an altar decked in fresh rose blossoms, all the while listening to the guard at the door behind her. When his footsteps finally wandered a little further away, she moved quickly.

Behind the altar, along a hall, into an alcove, down a set of narrow stairs, Gembira took the hidden passage she’d discovered when she first came to the temple in search of the Maker’s Favor. She hoped this time would turn out different. Better.

The stairs stopped at a simple wooden door, and she reached again for her dagger. This time she drew it, unsure what changes the years had wrought in the security of the priest’s inner courtyard. If anything, her efforts last time should have made the temple guards more careful. 

Drawing her hood as far down over her face as she could, Gembira used the handy little trick she always used when facing locked doors. The metal mechanism snicked, and the doorknob turned easily in her hand. She breathed in one deep breath, readying herself for a fight. Then she opened the door to the priest’s courtyard.

And nothing happened. 

Gembira scanned the courtyard. No guards greeted her. No one sat or stood nearby to glance up at the sound of the door. Only bird song and the buzz of crickets welcomed her into a lush, late-summer garden. 

She stepped further in, closing and locking the door behind her. Then she scanned her surroundings again. Manicured foliage stretched before her in a garden apparently empty of human beings. The peace of it almost put her at ease, but she resisted that impulse. Few things were as simple as they seemed.

Moving swiftly through shadows along the garden’s edge, Gembira aimed herself at the center where she knew the priest’s cell would lay. She focused herself so entirely upon her destination that she almost missed the quiet presence of a robed figure kneeling at a statue of the Maker. Gembira’s breath caught in her chest at the sight of it. 

A little alcove formed of maple branches held the man and statue. The man’s caramel brown hair had greyed since Gembira last saw him last. That was no surprise. Her hair had done the same. But she recognized him. Even among the religious, few could sit with such peace. The priest of the Maker’s Temple, however, could.

He didn’t move at Gembira’s approach, though he must have sensed her. Still kneeling, he persisted in whatever prayer he’d begun. 

Gembira walked silently to a spot just behind him and to the side, within striking distance. Then she kneeled.

“Welcome, Sister,” said the priest after a while, though he still hadn’t turned to look at her. 

Gembira pushed the hood back from her head. “Good day, Father.”

“To what do we owe this honor?”

She felt a corner of her mouth quirk up. “The medallion, of course.”

“Of course,” he agreed, no hint of surprise. “What good do you imagine the Maker’s Favor will do now?”

She felt her eyes narrow, not sure what to make of the question. She gazed ahead at the statue’s weathered stone. Even cold and grey, the Maker’s face looked alive. Her mouth had settled a thousand years ago into a gentle smile. 

“I accomplished what I needed to accomplish,” Gembira said. “The innocents I wanted to protect are safe, and several evil people have been removed from positions of authority. But I know there’s more to do.”

At first, the priest didn’t respond. “And so,” he ventured after a while, “your thoughts now turn to a place of prayer?”

“Yes.” She tugged at the chain around her neck. Sunlight broke through the trees and caught the medallion’s gold as she pulled it from underneath her tunic. She lifted the chain over her head and held the Maker’s Favor out to him. “I’m returning this to its rightful place, and then I’ll return to my abbey.”

The priest finally turned, looking at the medallion in her hand. He didn’t reach for it. 

“And where do you suppose its rightful place is?” The priest’s pale, coppery brown eyes met hers.

Gembira frowned. She hated trick questions. If she had one complaint about religious people, it was this. They asked questions they thought they already knew the answers to. “Here,” she said. “With you.”

“Why?”

“The country’s in turmoil.”

“As it usually is.”

“And you’re someone who could make a difference with this to aid you.” She pushed her hand closer to him, the medallion sitting in her upturned palm.

Ever so briefly the priest’s eyes flicked to the medallion before returning to Gembira. He seemed to wait for her to say more.

“And I’m done trying to work within the military. I …,” she hesitated, having never allowed herself to admit it before, “I hate that life. They know only violence and force. One person can’t change that.”

The priest nodded, but still he watched her, waiting.

“And,” she paused again, realizing with horror that she’d let tears come into her eyes, “I’m tired.”

His expression softened. “Of course, you are.” 

“So, here.” She pushed the medallion even closer to him, almost touching his chest with it. To her surprise, he still didn’t take it. 

“I’m doing the work I’m called to do here,” he said. “The medallion was helpful to me but not necessary.”

“Then take it back and do better.”

The priest chuckled. Sunlight caught the copper of his irises, making them glint. He studied Gembira and suddenly grinned like a playful young novice. “You want to get rid of it.”

“What? No.”

“You don’t want the responsibility.”

“I’ve held the responsibility for five years.”

Still, he smiled. “Did you never wonder why it was so easy for you to steal the medallion five years ago?” 

Gembira stared at him. Then she found her words. “It wasn’t that easy.”

“Wasn’t it?”

“I incapacitated five of your guards to get in here.”

“A mere five guards to protect the Maker’s Favor? You truly thought us that careless?”

Gembira’s brows had furrowed enough that she began massaging that place between her eyes with her free hand. “Are you saying you wanted to get rid of it?”

“I’m saying it was time for the medallion to change hands,” his smile receded into a more serious expression, “and you still have work to do.”

“No.” Gembira rocked back onto her heels. “I’m going back to my abbey and …”

“Go where you like,” the priest said as he leaned toward her, reaching out to fold her fingers around the medallion. Then he stood and offered her his hand.

“I don’t understand,” she said, though she took his hand and let him help her up.

“Go where you like,” he repeated. “But stay in our guest house as long as you want. At least rest a few days before you leave. Come.” The priest turned and walked away, beckoning with his hand for her to follow.

Gembira stared after him.

“Come!” The priest called over his shoulder.

Still bewildered, she followed.