town, the bell welcomes the middle of the day.
'No matter how large the city grows, there always seem to be enough benches to welcome worshipers into the spotless temple walls. Not everyone in Estrangia worships at the temple, but everyone respects the good friar who works here. Whenever Crave takes a victim, the good friar visits the families, even if they don't believe in the God of White Hope. His comforting words make things seem better somehow.
'Let's raise our voices in song as the last of us enter to hear the words of the friar.'
In reply to these words, the congregation began to sing, and the melody filled the temple to overflowing.
Once the parishioners finished singing, they sat. It was the normal crowd of people today. The poor tended to rest in the back where no one could see their threadbare clothes, while the rich took up positions in the front for just the opposite reason. Kids, being kids, fidgeted beside their parents. Sometimes they were put on their mothers'laps, and that would quiet them. Sometimes a caring father would give them a sweet to nibble on during the service.
There was one special white pew right at the front of the temple.
It was for the friar's favorites.
Every service, several distinguished worshipers were ushered by the friar himself to the front of the temple. All sorts sat up there at one time or another: rich, poor, meek, mild, young, old — though for some reason there weren't many old people in the congregation.
Those sitting in that special pew were smiled upon by the faithful. At each service, Friar Whelm explained the act of kindness that entitled each worshiper to a place of honor on the front pew. Sometimes a child had been kind to his little sister or had helped around the house. At other times someone had given gold to a soup kitchen. Always, the person's good deed had aided the community.
On rare occasions during the service, a spark would emerge from the friar's eyes or hands and float out to one of the people sitting in the special pew. The spark was a sign from the gods that the person was being blessed. It could happen anytime during the service, though lately it had been occurring right after the first hymn. While Friar Whelm was speaking, a white light would flow from him and touch one of the people on the special pew. The person would fall over, unconscious, and others, hoping the spark would touch them, would joyfully catch the lucky soul. That person would awake tired but happy a few minutes after the pale spark spewed out. It was also said that these blessed individuals looked older and wiser from the touch. Parishioners tended to be nice all week long with the hope of sitting in the special pew and being recognized by the gods.
Now all eyes turned eagerly toward the front of the temple, where Friar Whelm stood in long, flowing white robes, preparing to speak. To his right, in a pearly marble alcove, stood the ten-foot-tall statue of the God of White Hope. The snowy, cold stone robes of the statue were just like the pearly ones Friar Whelm always wore, robes that remained clean no matter what work the good friar performed. The short, snowy hair and balding head of the god resembled those of Friar Whelm as well. Some said this was the merest coincidence. Others whispered it would be grand if an incarnation of the god actually serviced their temple. Many were oblivious to such talk, but proclaimed for everyone to hear that the friar gave a damn good sermon.
He began to speak, and his pure voice reached out to everyone; he never needed to shout. Today the talk centered on lost ones.
Three days ago, Crave had taken a little girl, and her family sat in the special pew for this service. Their grief, clearly written in their tired eyes and slumped bodies, was shared by many around them. Several times during his sermon, the friar approached them and repeatedly prayed for the little girl. He spoke eloquently, almost wistfully about the unsullied innocence of the lost daughter. Speaking with the sound of grief in his voice, Whelm sermonized about the little girl, about the intelligence in her eyes and the energy in her tiny body. He reached out to the parents and touched them, tears rolling down his full cheeks. Both parents began to quietly sob, bending over with exhaustion and grief. Ever louder, ever more vigorously, he eulogized the power of this family and their strength in loss.
Just when he was coming to the main point of his sermon, the doors burst open at the back of the temple. A huge warrior, outfitted in plate mail, strode boldly through. In his arms he carried a beautiful, unconscious woman.
'Someone please help us!' The knight took three more steps and collapsed from exhaustion. Even then, as he fell, he made sure the woman took no harm.
Men rose to remove the warrior from the sacred place, but Friar Whelm waved them back. 'He seeks aid, and he could not have known of the weapons ban in the temple. What is your name, Sir, and what has happened to you and this fair one?'
The warrior threw off his ebony helm and revealed a care-worn face, rugged and handsome. 'I am Lord Tenet. . A vampire attacked us. . Our horses went wild with panic. They threw us. . 'He gasped in exhaustion. 'I fought the creature, but it seized my sister, Lady Larom. . Help her, please!'
'Rest easy, young warrior. I'll do what I can, with my god's help. Did you kill the vampire? '
'No, damn me for a weak fool. My sword cut deeply into it, but the monster turned into mist and floated away, leaving me to tend my sister. Cease this questioning! Can you help her, or must I…' He was too weak to continue.
Lifting Lady Larom up as if she were a weightless child, Friar Whelm placed her on the snowy marble altar. The white of the stone matched the ashen color of her flesh.
'Pray for her, my people,' Friar Whelm asked as he examined the huge bruises on her arms and face. He noticed several hidden pockets in her crimson gown, holding what he took to be mage's spell components.
Lord Tenet needed help to rise and come to the side of his sister. 'She's only seventeen. If anything happens to her, I don't know what it will do to me.'
'I feel the same way about my flock. Don't worry, I can take care of most of her wounds. Lady Larom — is that her name? '
'Yes, that's right. Her friends and I call her Lar.'
The friar closed his eyes and stroked his hands over the unconscious woman's tangled hair. Her pallid expression marked her blood loss as did the fang marks in her neck. Even near death, her beauty showed through. There was an energy and power in this woman that the friar very much appreciated.
Several of the more helpful parishioners gathered behind the warrior at the altar. They noted the woman's pallid skin and wan movements. Her eyes opened, but there was no intelligence behind them. 'Grave's work for sure,' some of the watchers whispered. Most of the congregation held little hope for her survival. Looking at the brother, some of the parishioners backed away at the thought of having to tell him about his sister: it was common to stake the heart and take the head of someone bitten by Crave.
A smile filled Whelm's face as he chanted words of hope and love. His hands moved deftly and swiftly, circling over the still form of the woman. A chalky mist spewed from his palms and drifted over the bruised flesh. Frosty blasts of air hit everyone in the congregation.
Truly their friar worked a miracle this day.
In seconds the woman was lightly covered in snow.
'What insanity is this?' Lord Tenet reached for his weapon, but didn't have the strength to draw the blade. 'Stop him, someone stop. . 'The warrior fainted. He'd done too much that day, already, and his body collapsed into blessed unconsciousness.
Friar Whelm stopped his hand motions and lightly blew the snow from Lady Larom's body. The flakes of frigid whiteness wafted throughout the temple and melted as they touched the worshipers. Each one singled out by these cold flakes sighed in wonder, touched in a mystical way by the icy flakes.
Most of the snow, however, fell on the warrior. His bruises and fatigue melted away with the flakes. Where wounds were, now only chalky, undefiled skin remained on brother and sister.
The healing took a toll on the friar. He looked visibly older. One of the congregation moved to steady the friar, but was waved off.
Reaching down, the friar helped Lady Larom rise from the altar. She shook her lovely head, and a cascade of raven-black hair moved in a tumble down her shoulders to her supple waist. Life and intelligence clearly returned to her.
'Where am I?'
'You're in a house of hope and light!' Friar Whelm said, loud enough for everyone to hear.
