IX. The old building was crumbling, like everything in the slums of Prontera. Rotting wooden planks had been hammered into the windows with rusty iron nails, replacing glass panes that had probably been shattered or stolen long ago. Up above, gray clouds heavy with rain were darkening, and a brisk wind whistled through the rutted alleys, scattering bits of paper and ruffling the soiled flag of Prontera draped above the entrance of the building.
Dylan Garwood stared at the tattered flag where the Pronteran eagle soared upon a field of purple. The building must have been a government building once, abandoned like the rest of the quarter when progress expanded the capital city to the bustling metropolis it was today. Dylan wondered what office the building once held. From his earliest schooling, he had been fascinated by history, by the story a certain place tells as the years pass. It was a pity that the King had let this quarter decay.
Beside him, his partner, the priest Maraksus Aralnae stared with distaste at the building’s condition and uttered a non-committal sigh. “I still think we’re wasting our time here, Dylan,” he said, folding his arms across his chest.
“Oh, just humor me, Marak.” Dylan knew Maraksus was in a contrary mood, more so than usual. And he had been like that since he returned from his walk last night. But then, this strange incurable plague bothered Dylan as well.
After Dylan had finished praying the last rites for the child last night, he and Maraksus had warped back to their sanctum in St. Capitolina’s Abbey and promptly slept. He was tired from an entire day of running around the slums, trying to cure the sick and the mad, trying to learn more of the disease. But he had lain in bed for hours, pondering, until the first light of dawn began to creep across the ceiling. That was when he fell asleep. But was woken a couple of hours earlier by the acolyte Vangel for morning mass and breakfast. And then it was back to the investigation, back to the slums, to follow up on the one lead they had, given by a dying child.
Now, about an hour past noon, as far as Dylan could tell with the sun obscured by the heavy clouds, they stood in front of Irka’s house. She was popular with the other residents of the slums, as some sort of witch doctor, whose weird concoctions, they swore, were sovereign cure against household ailments. Not to mention she could foretell the future. A cure for anything and a promise of the future–no wonder she was welcome here. The poor residents of the slums had no zeny and much to hope for….
Dylan’s heart sank when he suddenly realized it: the witch had no cure for this plague. Otherwise, it would not have spread like it did. Still, this was their last option, short of giving up. And Dylan could not give up.
He walked up to the door made of battered hardwood, raising a hand to knock. Before his knuckles even touched the wood, the door swung inside unsteadily, half off its hinges.
“Who comes to Irka?” came a voice from out of the gloom behind the door. The voice crackled like dry twigs.
Recovering momentarily from his surprise, Dylan replied, “Two priests from the Abbey, wise one.”
There was a long silence. Dylan and Maraksus both peered into the darkness of the interior from the threshold. They could see nothing.
Maraksus finally fidgeted, shifting his weight from one foot into the other. “Well, what now?”
“I have no idea,” Dylan could only shrug helplessly, smiling sheepishly at his companion. “Maybe we can enter now?” He took a step into the house, his nose immediately assailed by a pungent smorgasbord of scent: incense, sweat, and others he cannot readily identify. Behind him, he heard Maraksus exhale sharply.
He stopped after a few steps, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. It was not a big room as far as he can tell. “Mistress Irka, we come to consult you,” he said uncertainly into the darkness of the room.
Still, there was no reply.
Then the door slammed shut with loud bang, plunging the two priests in darkness.
“What the–!?” muttered Maraksus somewhere in the darkness to Dylan’s left. A string of curses followed the exclamation.
“Do be quiet,” Dylan hissed at his companion as he edged nervously forward in the dark.
The sudden lighting of a hundred candles almost blinded him. Dylan saw ragged curtains hung about the room, covering the boarded-up windows. Candles were situated everywhere they can be placed: in the hollow of a wooden post, atop a skull on a table, in a stained brass lamp. At the far end of the room, surrounded by a circle of candles, sat Irka, her hair a tangled white medusa’s crown obscuring her face. Her eyes peered through the tangle, wide orbs covered by the milky white film of blinding cataract.
Dylan stopped; the hag’s eyes seemed to bore into his own, despite the fact that she must be quite blind. It was just like the child’s stare last night, before she died. When she told him about Irka. Behind him, Maraksus had stopped cursing, but was shifting nervously.
“Irka sees them,” came the cackle from the blind hag. “Come to hear Irka’s tale about the madness plague, have you not?” Beneath her shock of hair, a mouth opened to reveal teeth rotten with age.
“We seek a cure, old one,” said Dylan simply. The room made him uneasy, this old woman made him uneasy. It would be good to get this over and done with as soon as possible.
“Ah…the priests do come finally to seek my wisdom,” cackled the old lady once more, wheezing with obvious mirth, her tangled hair swaying as if it was alive. She stopped abruptly, adding, “something that cannot be cured may not be a disease at all.”
“Gah, tell us what you know! Stop it with all this riddle nonsense!” Maraksus suddenly spluttered.
Dylan squeezed his partner’s shoulder.
“How can a plague not be a disease?” he implored.
“When it isn’t.”
Dylan fought back the anger welling up inside him. Like his partner, he was incensed at how this old woman was treating them. It was quite a blow to him that his faith in the gods could not move this particular mountain. But he needed to know how to end this plague. Before more deaths occur. He fell back to the more obvious question, what they should have asked her first.
“What do you see?”
The old woman started back at the question, cocking her blind eyes as if to look at Dylan more closely. “Everything,” she said silently. “Irka sees all. Irka sees them. Irka looks at you and sees your brilliant golden spirit, your friend’s shiny silver spirit, all around. Yes. But the plague-ridden….”
Dylan waited for the old woman to continue but she seemed lost in her own thoughts, her unseeing eyes turned inwards. She must see something wrong with the disease victim’s spirits–probably their auras. Of course! Dylan smacked his forehead mentally. We’ve overlooked the obvious, thinking this is all what it seems on the outside.
The old woman gestured and he heard the door swing open behind them. Her eyes focused on him. “Yes,” she muttered, “you…understand? You still can cure them. Free them.” She hung her head low, as if spent.
Dylan nodded slowly. Free them. Yes, that was the correct term. He bowed to the wise hag. “The Abbey thanks you, old Irka,” he said. “Is there anything we can do to repay you? Perhaps we can cure your eyes…?”
Irka waved him away. “Irka sees more now than when they were well. Go, free them.”
He bowed again reverently. Then began to pull Maraksus towards the door.
“Err…” Maraksus lifted a finger confusedly as Dylan dragged him. “What was that all about?”
The candles dimmed as they reached the door, plunging the room into darkness once more. They stepped outside into sunlight, the door swinging shut of its own accord behind them. The sun, shining through a break in the clouds, was halfway down its daily journey west.
Dylan turned toward his confused partner, smiling.
“Magnus Exorcimus,” he said.
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