MU2 Chapter 14:75—Brother Kendrel: One Of Those Meetings, One Year Prior
It had been a long journey for Brother Kendrel, leaving his monastery and making his way to the coast, only to have to board a small ship with small passenger berths. Even with the cramped quarters—and the rough seas—the Cleric had had time to meditate and pray.
The crossing between the continents of Allecia and Eisha, from the Empire of Guanthas to the Twelve Kingdoms, had been long. None of the other passengers nor the sailors were interested in his preaching on the lessons of Nathas’s toil. Which did not bother the Cleric, as the seeds of faith were planted.
He had been under the impression that he would be given a horse or maybe a ride. Instead, he was given a map and a week’s worth of food. The priest was no stranger to physical exertion and accepted it as just another part of his movement piety. But the roads to his destination took longer than a week, and as a Cleric of Nathas, he found sustenance through hard labor on farms where he could before he moved on cheerfully.
He had only just arrived at the temporary House of Grain and Battle, only to be told that he should meet with the Praetor. He knew little about the Praetor, other than that he came from the Maskarin Brotherhood of Nathas. It was more martial, more focused on the act of harvest than on the sowing or the razing. And like the farmer waiting for his grain to mature, Brother Kendrel waited patiently to be seen.
Which was why the head of his order, Arbiter Sanden, sent him to balance out the mission. Brother Kendrel breathed in deep, slow breaths. Meditation was an excellent tool for many things, including being forced to wait in such a petty, political fashion. After an hour had passed, he paused in his introspection and looked around. Seeing no change, he closed his eyes.
There was a rumble in his stomach, and he realized that he had missed lunch. No matter, he thought. I’ll get something after I present myself to the Praetor. His meditation stopped, and he thought about what he would like for lunch, despite how it would increase his hunger.
But the door creaked open on unkempt hinges, and a mousy young man not more than 16 looked at him in surprise, as if he expected Brother Kendrel to have given up and left. “Forgive the length of the wait, Brother, but the Praetor will see you now.”
“Thank you, Initiate. A good harvest takes time to grow, so all men and women of Nathas should be well practiced in patience,” he replied, always ready to pass on the wisdom of Field to one so young. “Besides,” Brother Kendrel said, straightening, “When one has nothing to do, it is best to meditate on the teaching of our God, on his Book, and on the Inspirations. It is good for the soul and the spirit!”
“Of course, Brother! I-I’ll do better in my studies!” the young man stammered abashedly. “Please follow me.”
Brother Kendrel smiled encouraging at the Initiate, with the hope that the boy would be more tempered by the Plow, and less sharpened by the Sword. He could tell by the Initiate’s robes that he was of the Maskarian Brotherhood. The strips of red cloth at his collar, cuffs, and hem were the clear indicators, but the cut of the robe also was from the Alscent Province. Alscent had been a kingdom, and was one of the first to be joined into the now-Empire.
The Initiate led him through the small anteroom, not much bigger than a closet, to the rather stark chamber being used by the Praetor. The head of the Mission stood with his back to the door, hands clasped behind his back. Tall, though not as tall as Brother Kendrel, he had the build of a warrior even in his red and black robe. He was looking out of one of the large windows onto an inner courtyard. The sun highlighted the Praetor’s wispy, white hair.
“Praetor Adrin? This is Brother Kendrel? The Cleric from the Desrain Brotherhood?” the Initiate said with reverence to the Cleric in front of the window.
“Thank you, Initiate Aserkiah. You may leave us,” the Praetor ordered in clipped tones.
He stood at the window for many minutes after the door closed, not saying a word. Brother Kendrel, no stranger to long pauses, stood patiently as well. Finally, the older man cracked his neck.
“Your presence here is an insult, Brother Kendrel. An insult to Nathas, to the Maskarin Brotherhood, and to me. This is not a mission of peace. Our God ordered us to this continent to bring His firm hand to the invaders. Not to cultivate or handhold. The actions of the Agri Marta are political and offensive.”
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“Forgive me, Praetor Adrin, but I was unaware of the Council’s involvement. My Abbot sent me to alleviate the blow of your methods upon the people of these lands. A heavy-handed approach will hinder us if we are to bring them into the fold,” he replied calmly.
“A soft man has no—” Praetor Adrin paused as he turned and saw Brother Kendrel’s broad shoulders and height for the first time. “Hmph. You are not what I expected.”
Brother Kendrel bowed his head slightly. “I was a soldier before I was called. Nathas had other plans for me than merely killing His enemies.”
“Then you will understand why I had—and still have—my doubts,” the older Cleric said, gesturing. “Look at our daily meditations, Brother Kendrel. See the difference in our orders.”
Brother Kendrel walked over to the window and looked down upon the members of the Maskarin Brotherhood, two hundred strong, going through the martial exercises of their order. He had visited the other brotherhoods, as was his order’s way, and seen variations of this display on the spectrum. The Maskarins were the most martial by far.
“I was aware of your order’s meditations on war. I would compliment them on their form; the Maskarin brothers at the monastery I visited did not have their technique this crisp or their footwork so precise.”
“Though not all called to our order were soldiers prior, each of the men and women down there came from the Imperial military. Their passion for service equals their skill,” the Praetor boasted.
Brother Kendrel nodded slowly, keeping his face neutral. “I believe it.”
“As you should. Now that we have a better measure of each other, I would see your letter of introduction from your Abbot,” the older Cleric said more congenially.
Brother Kendrel pulled the unopened letter from his satchel and handed it to the Praetor, who opened it after verifying the seal. He leaned back on his desk, reading through the letter quickly in a show of the ease of rank. “Do you know what this letter says I am to do with you, Brother Kendrel?”
“I do. I was there when he wrote it.”
“Then you know I am to use you as I see fit.”
“Yes, Praetor, I am aware.”
“Good. I don’t want you here. And I’m afraid that I am going to have to send you out to do something that my order has been unable to do. As you noted, the Maskarin Brotherhood is heavy-handed and has been pushing a message of fear. This has led to a significant issue: the people of the Twelve Kingdoms know what we look like. Our robes are distinct and easy to spot.”
Brother Kelden smiled as he realized what the Praetor was suggesting. “And my order’s robes are less known and less harsh looking.” The brown and white robes of the Desrain Brotherhood were fine in cut, but not unusual in style or color compared to the Clerics of other gods. “What is this task?”
“I need you to track down the Mage from the other world who will terrorize ours.”
Half a year after his meeting with Praetor Adrin, Brother Kendrel watched the two heroes who had come to his aid ride off. There was something about the young man that made him think of his first, and subsequently last, meeting with the Praetor. It was the description of the Mage he was told to look for. Young, early 20s, dark hair, scraggly beard… Could this Finn be him?
He shook his head at the thought. After wandering around the Twelve Kingdoms for the last six months, helping in villages, and preaching the teachings of the Plow and the Harvest, Brother Kendrel had ended up in the kingdom of Kathelon’s southwest region. He hadn’t heard about any atrocities or the other signs and evil portents of a Mage, so the possibility was low that he had found him.
Nonetheless, his work was to cultivate as many people as possible in Nathas’s name. Finding the Mage wasn’t secondary per se, but he would find the completion of this mission when Nathas willed it. Brother Kendrel had faith in Nathas’s plans for him and the world.
Smiling, the cleric watched the two adventurers ride off towards the nearest town and sent a quick and silent prayer for their safe arrival to his God. The bandits who had originally planned to rob him had been wavering in their convictions as he had preached to them. They had even stood with him against the undead horde. Though they were not very effective as fighters, or even bandits for that matter, the cleric was sure they would see the error of their ways.
The scruffy woman approached him hesitantly as the two equally scruffy men held back. “Um, excuse me, Your Fatherness. We, I mean the boys and me, were talking. Us three are very sorry and contrite-like for our earlier banditness. And threatening your worshipfulness. We would, if you could be all forgiving and stuff, like to follow and learn more about this god of yours—”
“Nattas?” interrupted one of the two men.
She glared at the man, who seemed to shrink in on himself.
Clearly, she is the leader of the group, Brother Kendrel thought.
“As I was saying all clear-like, we want to follow you and learn. If you could be kindly and forgiving,” she finished.
The three were not the smartest, though the woman likely was a genius compared to the other two. Yet, all that were called to Nathas deserved to be watered and nourished in his Teachings. As the Inspirations taught us. The Cleric took a deep breath before smiling at the three.
“You did not harm me. Beyond that, you stood by me when we were attacked by abominations. As all those who have been called before you, I will teach you of Nathas, his love and his vengeance.”
The three cheered as if they feared I would turn them away. Brother Kendrel smiled. How could I do that to any of Nathas’s children?
Three more Initiates for the Plow.
