Axiom ~ 21!

~ 21 ~

Tarrean heard a hug-in-progress and cringed. Likely because he was still envisioning the old man half-naked; that view was going to scar him. 

“Artorian, great you found me. I was looking for you as well. The Head Cleric has need of you. Could we speak after? I have tasks that I am in a hurry to complete.” Tibbins excused himself with as much smoothness as he could. 

“Of course, young man. Take good care of yourself, you look a little pale. Get some sun, it’s wonderful for you. I guarantee it!” With a pat on the back, Artorian stepped back into the tent fully clad in the wealthy lapis lazuli robe. For an old man on the verge of death, a man that should be falling over in a few weeks, he was awfully chipper and well-kept. His snowy hair had been trimmed, and his long beard cleaned up quite well, though it remained at a healthy length. 

Tarrean carefully dissected the entirely different-looking Artorian. The bald old man was clean. Well washed. Nails trim and even. This man wasn’t at all the crying wreck he’d seen a week ago. That made no sense… Artorian’s condition should have been deteriorating, instead it seemed to have stabilized. Tarrean noticed that his gawking had not gone unnoticed, and coughed into his hand to regain composure. He seated himself in a more refined position on his fancy stool. 

“I usually declare when people can enter my tent, Artorian. Since you’re already here, please, do sit.” He spoke with forced kindness and an equally forced smile. The Head Cleric may have had his pride stepped on a little, but the land-ownership vellum was burning a hole in his pocket. The matter needed attending. “Before we get to business, how are you feeling?” 

Artorian shook his head left to right, eyes gently closed. “Contrary to what my appearance may be, being up and about takes more out of me than I’d care to admit. The amount of time I can be out of bed is in decline, but that’s alright. I’m going to go ahead and address your silent query. Yes, I do look well. It’s for the sketches Yvessa and some of the boys are making of me. They’re caring kids, granting an old man a kindness. I expect I’ll be stuck in bed for quite a long time, and having a visual reminder of when I appeared healthy will be good for everyone.”

The old man mused to himself, “I won’t hold you to my ramblings, Head Cleric. Shall we bicker and barter? I’m convinced you’ve already heard what I’d like.” 

Tarrean nodded and pulled some pieces of paper and vellum onto his desk. Artorian beamed a fox’s smile at him. “So… how large of a pillow can you get?” 

The Head Cleric dropped the inkwell at being so startled. “A what?”

Artorian carefully tilted his head to the side. He repeated his words, pretending that the short man had simply not heard him. “A pillow. What did you think I was referring to?” 

Tarrean scrambled to prevent anything else from falling, adding item after item on the desk in neat little rows. “The, eh, the Memory Stone. I thought.” 

Artorian nodded in understanding at the mention. “Oh, that minor thing? I thought that would be a trifle for you. Initially I thought it may have been difficult, but when I heard it was Maccreus Tarrean leading this expedition team, I chuckled at my own ignorance.”

Tarrean twitched. Where had this old man picked up his full name? Still, if it gave him some leverage over the nosy old timer, he’d take it. Some part of him also felt soothed, his pride fluffing up like an attention-seeking kitten. “Ah, well. Of course!” 

He felt off-balance, yet the matter appeared to be leaning in his favor. Tarrean decided so simply go with the tide and see where this landed. He regained his composure with this line of thinking, and leaned in. “I doubt a large pillow would be particularly difficult to b...” 

He stopped himself, realizing that he was about to fall into a pit trap. “How large?” 

The Head Cleric’s eyes squinted at the wizened, sly old man. “Oh, I was hoping for a… hmm… twelve by twelve?” 

That was an average sized pillow, and Tarrean didn’t see what the problem was. He’d been expecting something extravagant, but the old man must have been joking about. Yes, clearly that’s what this was. This sly fox was trying to distract him from the huge cost of a Memory Stone. The Cleric waved off the issue. “Just give the details to Tibbins. I’m sure a meager pillow is fine.”

Artorian brightly smirked. “I shall certainly do so.” 

Tarrean sifted some pages, then lifted his porcelain cup, sipping at some water. “Now about the stone. You mentioned you had something to barter with?” 

The old man folded his hands over one another, and nodded slightly. “Land.” 

The Head Cleric felt like he got kicked in the sensitives as he choked on his water. Coughing into his sleeve, he had to look away to hide his expression. His greed. Artorian half-stood, “Head Cleric, are you quite alright? You appear ill! You’ve been coughing and dropping things since I entered the tent, please do go and get looked at.”

The short man bit back fury; he was being played like a stringed instrument. “Yes. Yes, land will do for a stone.” 

Artorian nodded and clapped his hands together. “Oh, good! I was thinking about it, and came to the conclusion that you wouldn’t accept salt. I’ll speak with Tibbins about having something suitable drawn up.” 

Tarrean waved him off dismissively. “No, that’s not necessary. We can take care of all of that right now, I simply need some signatures.” 

Artorian appeared flummoxed and ponderously stated, “Some… what?”

“Signa… oh. Your name written out.” The old man’s ponderous expression bent into a frown as Tarrean finished speaking. 

“A signature? For official documents? In the Fringe?” The old man was now giving the Cleric a look as if he was insane. “Why would we ever use something so unreliable?”

Tarrean was suddenly having a crap day. That abyssal vellum was a fake? No. No, it couldn’t be. That would wreck this entire plan. He leaned behind him and fished it from a bag. “I would assume so. Isn’t this a signature from this village?” 

He hastily laid out the land deed vellum for the village of Salt. Leaning rather close to it, Artorian read the document, lifting it and moving the vellum upwards as he read line after line, until he came to the angrily clawed signature. 

Switch. 

It had been Switch. Artorian closed his eyes, hands cramping. Tremors from anger-created stress forced him to take deep breaths to steady himself. “I’m sorry, Head Cleric. This is not legitimate.” 

With the tremble only worsening, he rolled the vellum back up and put it on the table. “To think that… someone would want to sell all of this… all the people. For some… for some…” 

He couldn’t bear to finish the sentence, a new hatred for greed finding a place to fester and grow in his heart. To be fair, the mess of corruption still moving through his system may have had a hand in that. Tarrean visibly deflated. The entire, heavily planned investment had been foiled by a piece of abyss-cursed vellum. He said nothing about the old man’s shaking; his own hands were very much unsteady as he sipped from his water. 

“How long was your expedition going to be, Master Cleric?” Artorian slipped in with a weak half-whisper. 

Tarrean mumbled procedure back, too tired and unwilling to think about the next steps to really put thought into it. “Expeditions may last up to three years and three months before a forced return, or writ of exoneration is required. Unfortunately, I only retain the full force for the duration of a season before they must return. That is, in the event that the immediate threat has been handled. A five-Cleric cadre is all that can maintain a stationed position for the full duration.” 

The short man continued to deflate as he saw his dreams caving in. Artorian was the one who sat up with straight-backed composure. “Oh? How curious. A Fringe land transfer takes three full rotations of all seasons, which is about three years. It’s a shame that I’ll likely pass before then. Had you been here that full length of time, I would have been able to confer onto you the required name that would grant official land benefits in the Fringe. I’d of course sign any documents at that point, if another country or some such was involved and needed their own version of proof.”

The heavenly light of hope filled the Head Cleric’s eyes as the old man threw him a lifeline. Then his dreams went a little sideways as he realized the other end of this bargain. “Do you believe you could live for three years?” 

Artorian noisily hummed out a sonorous thought. *Hmm*. Ponderously running hand down his beard, Artorian listed the requirements. “With attentive care, solid bedrest, nutritious food, and pleasant stories about this cultivation stuff to keep my nightmares at bay… I believe three years is quite doable. Besides, I heard the Master Cleric was quite knowledgeable, and I would adore hearing some of your stories and experiences. My love for knowing things has always kept me alive. May I ask what you plan to do with the land?”

Artorian leaned forwards, pressing the matter. Tarrean, feeling crammed into quite the corner, decided to explain fully. “It’s… I would love to say it’s for a forward operating base for the church. Unfortunately… that’s not true. It’s for my… son. He’s a good lad, but thin and slow to cultivate. He lacks any shred of ambition, and the smallest, dumbest thing makes him happy. As his quite driven father, I must see that I can keep my boy in a safe corner of the world. At whatever cost I must pay to have that done… even my own pride.”

Artorian let free a long, relieved exhale. “Jin is a very good boy.” 

“He is, if only…” The Head Cleric nodded in agreement. A dangerous, razor-sharp look stabbed straight into the old man. “How did you know Jin was my son?” 

“Before, or after you confirmed it for me?” Artorian chuckled. The fox’s smile came and swiftly went, along with his answer. “You’re a shrewd, zealous, and guarded man, Master Cleric. You’re harsh, distant, and keep a militaristic relationship with all but two people. For a person so devout in not showing favoritism, your boy receives an awful amount of care to always be at the forefront of cultivation during each chant and prayer. If someone would have blocked him from being able to have full attendance, they suddenly and inexplicably receive additional tasks.”

Artorian brushed himself off and rose. He slowly turned to leave. “I’m at about the end of what I can handle for a day. So let me say it simply, Master Cleric.” 

For an old man, he took an indomitable stance, rising straight with all the poise one expected of a military commander addressing a well-organized Legion. “I offer you this deal. Keep me alive for three years, and indulge an old man his fancies. Then, you’ll have your wish. Do we have an accord?”

Tarrean felt his heart stop for just a moment as the old man rose up. For that half a twinge of a second, he was reminded of being in the same room as a Vicar; a monster of influence. His voice was confident, but it betrayed him at that moment. “We have an accord.” 

Artorian turned to leave, but before he opened the flap the Head Cleric quick-fired a voiced worry. “Who was the second person?”

Stopping short, Artorian’s expression and attitude turned caustic. He didn’t turn to address the Head Cleric, and merely spoke with controlled rage. “It would be ideal, Master Cleric… if the treatment of Keeper Irene was in proper standing of what she deserved. She works hard, and she…” 

The tent flap fluttered, and Artorian left without finishing his thought… leaving Tarrean to pick up the shattered pieces of his pride.