Arcanist In Another World-Chapter 87: Ritual

Valens sat in the wooden chair, creaking along with one hand over the table, peering silently out into the empty walls, waiting for Percival to bring him the licenses. It was past morning time, but not quite afternoon yet, and it took them an hour to get to the company from the Golden Cathedral, which was situated somewhere between the middle-class and low-class rings of the city.

The name of the company was Ward Private Investigation Services, and it consisted strictly of Captain Edric’s team. Garran told him there were three such companies in the city, all under different names, that bridged the gap between the Church members and normal folk of Belgrave. A total of fifteen Templars, with one team venturing outside the capital every three months.

Since they only recently completed their country duty, Captain Edric’s team would be staying in the capital for the next three months, a fact that, other than Percival, nobody looked too excited about.

Valens didn’t blame them. It’d been a few days since he arrived in Belgrave, but already the city showed him what it really was. It was a circus. Not a big one, but the kind that had left its days of glory long behind, and was now trying to hold onto the echoes of those memories in an effort to forget its diminished, pitiful existence.

“Here.”

A door creaked open, and Percival came holding two sheets of paper in his hand. While the Templars had to share a common room, Percival himself had been granted a private room in the back of this apartment-turned-company, which had only three rooms in total and an entrance hall that was only wide enough to let two men pass at the same time.

“That’s your temporal identity sheet,” Percival said, passing him the first sheet. Valens accepted it. It was a simple document that had his name, age, and occupation as a consultant for the Ward Private Investigation Services. Percival then gave him the second sheet. “This, on the other hand, is your magic license. Don’t forget to read the terms.”

Valens skimmed through the terms above and arched an eyebrow. It said here that he was only allowed to use his magical capabilities in situations where his life was at stake. Under no condition could he threaten the lives of civilians, even in the name of self-defense. If a problem occurred and he damaged private property in the process, he would be held liable to pay the appropriate compensation for the damage he caused if his use of magic were deemed more than necessary.

“This is a long list,” Valens pinched the bridge of his nose as he further read the long string of terms. The gist of it was made clear to him, however, as all the terms ended in one way or another with the mention of His Majesty’s Royal Court. “Do we have lawyers in the Church? Because something tells me I will be needing their counsel one of these days.”

“Formalities.” Percival shooed Dain off from the chair that sat across Valens, the towering Templar huffing away to join Garran and Mas, who were sulking over their only couch in the shared room, and dragged the chair creaking close to Valens with his eyes fixed on him. “You don’t have to be too strict about them. That license is strictly given to the private personnel of the companies. It’s not designed to fit the needs of a Church member who specializes in the field of supernatural work.”

“How is any one of these supernatural?” Valens frowned. “Why go to those lengths when you can just show them a Wailborn or two to make your point?”

“Common courtesy,” Percival smiled. “And a need to keep the public away from certain matters.”

“Numerous Guilds are out clearing Rifts every day,” Valens said, picking up the newspaper on his table, namely the Belgrave News, which had but a few pages. Mentioned clearly on the first page were the recent hauls of C- and B-tier Rifts, along with the names of certain individuals quoted from the speeches they gave to reporters. “And then there’s the Broken Lands, but I can’t seem to find anything about that place here.” freewebnøvel.com

“I read stories every day. I’m quite fond of the weekly horror serials from the very dear Thaddeus Vexley and Tabitha Crowe. Shadows Over Southwark of the latter is my recent favorite. That doesn’t mean, however, I want those stories to become real and shoved into my face with all their palpable details,” Percival said. “The people of Belgrave are the same. You will see that it’s the case even in the Caligian Lands, where they actually teach in some of their schools certain practices against the Damned.”

“Ignorance is bliss,” Valens muttered. It was a bit of a stretch, to his thinking, but the second he thought about those miners he met in Brackley, it made sense to him as to why the states would support the public’s effort at keeping their ignorance.

“Exactly,” Percival nodded, and sighed as he looked over his shoulder to the trio of Templars huddled around a table and playing cards. “You’re quite quick on your feet, Valens. I’m afraid that’s a quality we so often miss in this company.”

Valens peeked at their table. Dain was keeping his silence as usual, while Garran seemed to be enjoying himself whenever Mas huffed and grumbled at each turn. Seemed luck wasn’t on the zealot’s side on this day.

“Yeah, I can see that,” Valens said.

The loud thump of the company’s door announced the captain’s presence, followed by a strong set of steps before the man entered the shared room. He gave a quick look around, then pointed with a finger to Valens.

“You’re with me,” Captain Edric said, then jerked that finger toward the trio of Templars. “Garran, take Mas with you. Dain will stay here just in case. We’ll take a look at those houses.”

Looks like the ground work’s starting.

They were off the chairs in a second, preparing to go out, while Percival stared at the captain as if he was waiting for something.

“Go to the Warden’s Library,” Captain Edric said to him. “I need information on that book, and I need it today. Don’t let them drag it out. Those Scribes have no regard for time in that dusty, old library.”

“Will do, Captain,” Percival gave him a nod. “Heard they got a new Warden’s Scribe some weeks before. I was meaning to become acquainted with him.”

“Good. Do that,” Captain Edric said in his perfectly tight suit. “Healer, on your feet already. We’re moving!”

“Aye, Captain!” Valens said.

Everybody froze.

Eyes turned to him.

Faces cringed.

“We should’ve never accepted this guy into the Church,” Mas said with one hand rubbing at his forehead. “He’s not just a heretic, but also a fool. Thinks himself a pirate, look at him!”

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Garran shook his head. “Never do that again.”

“Understood,” Valens said with an awkward smile. “My mistake.”

“Move,” Captain Edric urged, and this time, Valens obliged without uttering a single word.

…

Tucked between the rotting backs of tenement blocks and the blackened stone of a condemned tannery, Knuckle Alley wasn’t so different than a twisted vein in the heart of East Drowning. Quite the name, Valens had commented, when the Captain told him about it.

The cobbles were slick with soot and bile across the streets, and there was a stench to the place. Eyes watched them on their way, careful eyes never lingering enough to birth suspicion. Little did they know, however, Valens could see them through his sound vision.

Strangers aren’t welcome here.

“The other face of the coin,” he said as the Captain led him to a wider street with blocks of brick buildings standing in a monotonous gray line. He peered up at their faces and saw in them a certain weight. “And I thought my place was the worst lot available at hand.”

“It wasn’t always like this,” Captain Edric said. He kept his voice low and instead wore a silver-cussed ring rather than the golden one Valens had to conceal his identity. “But it’s easy to dismiss the troubling matters when you promise the world to a bunch of hungry lions.”

“Like that company agent?” Valens said.

“A little fish, that one,” the Captain shook his head. “The real predators are those hiding in daylight. You see them smiling in the newspapers, handing out coin and food to the needy, going about in parades and preaching to the public. Reputation is a man’s real currency, and they knew their work just well to keep a good one. But we know better, eh, Valens?”

“I… suppose we do, Captain,” Valens said.

“Not that complicated, if you ask me, when you have some part of your brain working still over your shoulders. A little peek into the world beyond, then you start seeing it. This isn’t about the welfare of a nation. This is strictly about business,” Captain Edric said, waving a hand at the darkened faces of the buildings around them. “And this is the price.”

Through the cobbled path, across the silent streets they strolled. Came across a few men lounging mindlessly about, some lying down on the ground with their cheeks flattened across the cold stone, some others swaying and waggling on each step as though, rather than the solid ground underneath, they were steering off above on a boat that rocked with the invisible waves of the wind, all drugged beyond sanity.

Just then, it occurred to Valens the difficulty of the matter at hand. A simple walk across Knuckle Alley, and already he saw more than a dozen people who seemed they could murder a widow in cold blood. Cut her into pieces and bury them in the dirt. Suck another breath from whatever they were smoking, go on off with their day without remembering anything from that bloody deal.

Houses were worse. Rats lived in swarms in some of them, with people to keep them company rather than what was supposed to be the opposite case. Little children sprinted with bricks and tools hauled over their shoulders, vanished through the slithering paths, tiny holes, unknown ditches, and cracks over the walls. Working children, each one of them, sick with rattling coughs and snotty noses.

But they weren’t the reason why the Captain brought Valens here. No, the work today involved a series of murders passed to them by the police on the claim that something unnatural was at play in them.

“Watch your step,” Captain Edric said as they closed in on a deserted house. A one-story place, with a little yard to its back, sticking like a sore thumb among the bent backs of the tall buildings around it. “Rotten wood can become a man’s worst enemy.”

“If he has an ungodly amount of Strength and Vitality, that is,” Valens smiled at the look of sudden awareness in the Captain’s face, then walked past him into the house whose door opened without much resistance.

“This place belonged to a certain Miss Martha Bell.” Captain Edric walked inside with gentle care, tiptoeing across the floor as if there on the back doors slept a baby who needed only a loud tap to be poked awake. “A widower, like the other victims. Thirty-two years old. Lost her husband in last year’s earthquake when the factory he worked in crumbled. Never had any children, the neighbours told the police. Always wanted one, however. There have been multiple cases of noise complaints against her, claiming that they heard screams at exactly past midnight every day.”

“A desperate and mourning woman, then,” Valens said. The house gave him a dusty welcome. Old furniture lay strewn about the main hall, the fireplace at the side busy with half-burnt logs. Over it hung a pair of manastone-powered lamps.

“That’s often the general character of those victims who are vulnerable to empty lies promising them a way out. My initial assumption is that Jack has promised her the ritual of the womb. A child born from one’s own blood without the need of a father. A Hemling,” the captain said.

“Sounds harmless.”

“It’s not,” Captain Edric smiled at the joke. “A Hemling is an abomination, the result of a twisted ritual. There’s a reason why they call the Wretched Mother the Crimson Matron.”

“Interesting,” Valens said as he nudged a rocking chair with the tip of his finger, watched it creak back and forth. The frequencies were silent around him, but a look across the main hall told him that this chair was likely where Miss Martha had spent most of her time. Alone.

“But what’s in it for Jack?” he then asked. “A woman performs a ritual and he just kills her? How would that help our prisoner in any way?”

“That’s what we’re here to learn,” Captain Edric said. “They dug out the body parts of the woman. Everything in place, but no sight of the Hemling. That creature couldn’t have freed itself. It takes time for a Hemling to grow even though they do it much faster than human babies. That’s not the only odd thing, however. The woman’s face… They skinned her face out of her skull.”

This is getting a touch heavy.

Valens sucked in a deep breath.

“She prepared the ritual in her room,” the Captain said as the wooden floor groaned under his weight when he moved toward the back side. There were three doors there. He opened the right one. Valens followed him close.

That… looks like a real ritual.

The room was simple. An old bed by the window, which had been barred with wooden logs nailed around it, a drawer with its surface peeling off the edges. Right on the ground, though, was a circle.

A red circle painted with blood.

Perfectly round, it had a singularly drawn eye in the middle of it, with nine streaks stretching outward and binding it to the circle. At each point where the streaks met with the circle were different objects. A needle. A red thread. A candle stub. A hand mirror. A scrap of linen. A cup of sour milk. A coin. A handful of ashes, and lastly… a blank. There was nothing in the ninth corner.

“See that?” the Captain pointed at the needle. “That’s the first thing. A needle to pierce, not mend. To draw the first blood from the mother’s finger. Birth begins not with life, but pain.” His finger moved to the thread. “That red thread represents the child’s path, spun only from the mother’s will. She would tie that to her wrist to bind the Hemling to her blood.” Then came the candle stub. “A light that’s nearly out. Burned during the ritual to show the father’s line has no place in this birth. The wax would drip onto the mother’s belly.”

“What’s the mirror for?” Valens couldn’t stop himself from asking.

“A mirror placed face down,” Captain Edric said with an eerie voice. “No reflection. No resemblance. Laid inverted to deny the child a mirrored soul or a father’s face. To reflect during the ritual is to invite a second presence. That one’s used in quite a few rituals, but often in the ones where the woman has a strong hatred for the man.”

“Her husband died in that factory…” Valens muttered. “Perhaps they didn’t have the best marriage before, or she hated him for leaving her alone. I’ve seen such cases before. The living are the ones who have to bear the pain of loss.”

Captain Edric nodded. “The scrap of bloody linen is her past. Woven in cloth. Torn from the mother’s shirt, while that coin would serve as the payment for trespassing the natural order of birth. To be placed under the tongue or clasped in the left hand.”

“The cup of sour milk,” Valens said. “I suppose that’s the milk that will never be given, eh? I think I’m getting a sense of this ritual.”

“Yes,” the Captain said, but soon a frown stretched his lips. “The ash is from the hearth of this house. A new cradle. But there’s one thing missing.”

Valens scowled down at the circle, thinking about the abnormal birth it represented. He’d never seen or heard anything like this before, but he’d birthed enough babies to know the last step.

“A pair of scissors,” he said, to which he got a surprised look from the Captain. “To sever the cord.”

“The cord unseen.” Captain Edric nodded grimly. “You’re right. The scissors are not here.”

“I now get why the police passed this case to the Church,” Valens said, face heavy. “This is some dark work here.”

“That’s the job,” Captain Edric said. “We take a look at the other rooms, then move on to the next house. This matter is not simple at all.”

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