Even if final confession isn't granted.

“D’you suppose there are such things as ghosts?”

Rucks stopped at the question. He turned to look at the soldier next to him, his eyes jumping from every corner that a shadow lingered in the massive corridor. He was a new, only recently hired and was young as well as naïve. Rucks couldn’t believe they paired an experienced guard like him with a blundering newbie. Still, it was his duty to watch out for any unfamiliar thing or person that crept in the castle.

There was plenty of that, he mused. So many things buzzed around in gossip from the time of the ball to only now. He thought it was odd that the shrike mixed himself up with shady people.

“Why would you ask that?” Rusk asked, rolling his eyes and continued to pace his rounds.

“Didn’t you hear it last night?” Mikar asked, holding tightly to his staff. “There were howls coming from this place. It was a ghost!”

“Nonsense!” Rucks dismissed, slapping the young guard in the back. “There aren’t things like ghosts. It must’ve been a sick dog someone let it.”

“I know what dogs sound like when they’re ill, man. That definitely was not a dog!”

Just then, something fell. Mikar yelped and jumped behind his elder. “There’s a ghost! There’s a ghost!”

“Quiet or you’ll land us both in trouble!” Rucks scolded and stepped down the staircase to see the commotion. Only a broken vase, water and flowers spilling out met at his toes. He peered through the window; the afternoon wind must have blown it over. Timidly he shut the opening and returned to the frightened man cowering under a tapestry.

“It was just the wind, you fool!” He dragged Mikar up. “Come on, let’s have dinner before you cause any more of a spectacle.”

Seryale watched the two climb down stairs as he slipped from the shadows. He looked at the vase that he had made fallen. It was a necessary diversion. He still hadn’t any real strength to become invisible or float above ground. If he had just appeared, questions would arise and despite his persuasiveness, he knew they would bring him to whoever was in charge. The clanking of his crutch and his obstacle of weakness was already holding trouble for him as is.

He waved his hand in a circular motion and the vase came up, its fragments holding place and it returned to its original position displaying its pristine crystal. The water and the flowers soon followed and with that, he continued on his way.

He knew that the summoning had occurred inside the castle but it had taken him all morning to follow the spiritual traces of an altar. He had run into five abandoned temples along the way but he still hadn’t found neither Stryphus or Hisheme. He knew he was in the correct place however seeing down the hall, two large scarlet doors were beckoning him with the symbols of his god. Dragons adorned the arches, a ruby moon gleaming from a mysterious source of light and the etching of fire and demons affirmed that it was the temple entrance. All was silent and the energy flowing from it was strong. It fueled his strength only a little but it was enough to stop him from limping. Still, his cane led him where the windows became distant and less, the light was dimmer and he was consumed in the grey mass.

As he stood before the entrance, he placed his hand on the door to pass through. Instead he drew his hand back quickly and hissed at the burning sensation that had come from the barrier. The summoning residue was still strong, the hate was still there and a shield was put up to prevent any other magic to be committed. Seryale rubbed his hands gingerly and drew them into his cloak, wrapping the fabric around his fingers and palms. He pushed again, the entrance slowly opening from its weight. He paused, drew another breath and heaved again, giving away even more. It was just enough to slip in and he uncovered his hands and slid in.

The first thing that struck him was the stillness of the temple. It was dark with the exception of the opening above him. The red walls and artifacts reflected unto everything in its wake. Black drapes hung on the walls, grey velvet aligning the main altar. He took another step but stopped. Looking at his feet, he saw a body. It was drawn to his attention that there were many of them. The stench of corpse lifted into his nose defining death was very much alive in his presence. He walked over the priests, slightly disgusted at their horrified expressions still clear on their masks. It was clear they weren’t very powerful nor blessed more over; they were acolytes still in training.

A true priest of Stryphus would be gratified to die in the god’s honor. But even so, their calls were in vain.

Seryale continued to take the room in, glancing at everything he could see. He made his way to the altar on the very opposite side of the temple, its black marble causing his eyes to be played tricks on although the shapes on the stands were moving. He stared at the statue of the dragon, its eyes made of golden diamonds, with a fond curiosity. He brought his right hand up, caressing the scales on the statue. Slowly he kneeled and touched its radiant eyes. “Bestow unto to me your sight, my god,” he prayed, bowing his head.

In his mind a flash of light and there he was at the ceremony. He watched transfixed as they brought the babe. He flinched when it was wounded, his pains from the night before returning. The shrike drank. They called. And so his god appeared in cruel demeanor being demanded as a slave. But he wasn’t focusing too much on that as he had already figured the clues out already. He was now looking at the babe who still wept and was the silenced. He wasn’t much of a person who liked children though he wished to have some of his own one day. But innocence inflicted and sacrificed was one of the most mortal sins one could commit, even more so grave when it is one who has been blessed into the world.

Above him was an echo of wings which broke off the connection. Seryale opened his eyes and turned, his eyes now focused on the pool.

There was the silent child, floating, blood drained and eyes still open. His heart pained. Another memory of long ago rushed into his mind remembering when he first met his young love, only to have experience her mother’s death. The look of both his memory and the babe inflicted his emotions. Dropping his cane, he stood and forgetting all his weaknesses, he rushed to the pool. Quickly he undid his cloak, set it aside and stepped into the icy black water, wading through. He took the child into his bosom and climbed out.

He looked down on the fragile pale figure. She was only so new into this world. It was with regret that he wondered of what the life she would’ve lived if it weren’t for the act. Gently he closed her eyes with his palm and wrapped the child into his cloak, the bundle held close to his heart.

He must now find the Hisheme temple.

Taking the steps outside and climbing over the bodies, he prayed silently, his words sharp and whispered. He rocked the still cradle in his arms never looking behind him. The child may have been dead but her soul remained trapped by the curse. If it continued to linger, the soul would become entrapped in the temple, haunting with miserable piety. It must be let free in hopes to be reincarnated into a better, promising life.

“No one is supposed to be in here,” a voice quivered behind him.

Seryale stopped and turned. A hunch shape sitting next to a pillar was trembling. This must be the head priest, he thought, watching intent as it stood up.

“No one is supposed to be in here,” he repeated. “Only the priests and the shrike.”

“As I last recalled, temples are to be welcomed to anyone despite status. It is law of religion,” Seryale muttered, still holding the child to his chest.

“How are you to know?” the man questioned never looking to him. “You are not one of Stryphus yourself. You are corrupted.”

“You have no position to say,” the sorcerer said, never raising his voice. “For you too are in not highest position.”

There was a pause when the priest finally looked up, angered and was about to strike back when he noticed the markings on Seryale’s visible eye. He closed his mouth and faltered back, shaking his head. “Apologies, my lord. A thousand apologies.”

His eyebrow rose. “You will answer to this in the after life, priest. Our god will not fall back on his mercy for what you have done.” Seryale walked away from him, now close to the exit. “Be sure of that and no word will you speak of my appearance. If you do so, I will strike you when it is least expected.”

The priest never responded and Seryale slipped out, the door automatically shutting behind him. Imbecile, he thought. You have angered Stryphus and with that you will pay a thousand pains before death.

And so it was night when he finally reached the Hisheme temple. It was dusty, antique and all the while abandoned. But the moons brightly filled the chamber with light. He looked up into the sky with the child still in his embrace, the stars twinkling and the Hisheme moon brightly in the distance. With the softest grace, he set the child on the altar and took one of the remaining living roses not too far from where he stood. Taking a petal, he placed it on the babe’s forehead and knelt, bowing in position of the utter most reverence that one could show.

He recalled the scriptures that he had been taught. Stryphus and Hisheme were of the most powerful gods and although they conflicted in morality, it was this that they were forbidden lovers. And all through out their reign they still pursue the hope of union. From Stryphus’ love for Hisheme, passion bloomed. Life and death were created from intimacy and so they still desire for each other in the shape of moons. And from Hisheme’s love for Stryphus, mercy rippled. Today their convents are segregated but only the most sacred scarce temples, Stryphus and Hisheme are together. Priests of Stryphus could never marry unless it was for a servant of Hisheme and peace was profound when these individuals were united. It was the same for him.

Seryale opened his eyes, a blinding light filling the open temple. He rose, singing a hymn as a light surrounded the child. He concentrated, his soul quaking in verse as his heart, filled with mysterious intense joy, directed his emotions for the child. The light became intense and his eyes shut in response.

When the light was gone, the blissful atmosphere had subdued, his eyes accepted reality again. His cloak remained but where the child once was, only a bouquet of bright, sweetly fragrant flowers remained.