Page 9 of Where Exorcists Cannot Lie

Clouds of road dust coiled into the air, raised by my gelding’s hooves. Rocks, dry bushes and spiky tall grasses dominated the landscape, offering little in terms of entertainment. The whole massive stretch of road between Ghadarra and Sorrentah looked pretty much the same, which made riding through those parts monotonous in the extreme.

And gods, was it hot.

At first I tried combating the boredom by reciting some vocabulary in Padun, the dialect I still found tricky. But soon, I turned to snacking on a mixture of dried fruit I kept in an easy-to-reach travel pouch and allowed my mind to wander.

Save sparse provisions for the trip and a few personal items, I travelled light. Everything fit neatly into three pommel and cantle bags, which clipped onto the front and back of the saddle. I had no need for larger pieces of luggage. Owned and run by the Guild of Magic, sanctuariums tended to be well-equipped cottages, offering a comfortable stay for their guests. While the Guild kept the properties in good nick, the responsibility of caring for the place also lay with the visiting Mages.

It so happened that I looked forward to some gardening and following a routine of house chores. My plans for the next four weeks boiled down to the basics—lots of sleeping, baking and lazy reading. Slow and dull would be grand for a change. I’d missed the shit out of such everyday trivialities and enjoying them again figured high on my list.

Sanctuariums were built on sites brimming with virile ancient earth energy, rich in natural healing properties. According to the Guild’s internal protocols, all Mages were obligated to pay a statutory thirty-day visit to a sanctuarium at least once every five years. That rule applied to Exorcists with even greater rigour, given we burned through our spiritual energy like flames through hay, quicker than Creators or Healers. Barring severe injuries to one’s Magic source, either resulting from an accident or sustained in combat, a month-long retreat sufficed to renew one’s aura and achieve a long-lasting therapeutic effect.

My hiatus had been way overdue. I’d delayed it, busy with various projects I’d crammed into my day to keep myself from overthinking and feeling lonely. I’d put it off, even though I’d been aware of the toll my job had taken on me. But it could no longer be denied—I felt spent. Drained. Unbalanced. My spells had lost their lustre. My mental turmoil had increased. Not a single day had passed without a headache or anxiety attack. Often both. My thoughts raced, dark and scrambled, impeding my concentration.

Still, I would’ve likely continued in this manner for the next few weeks if it hadn’t been for Xen and her professional epistle:

Tazãr Bao, you absolute idiot. Take your scrawny arse to the sanctuarium in Nayau NOW. Or else the next scroll you receive will be your transfer to Ysêmyr. Don’t test me.

I applauded her choice of threat, as much as I resented the scrawny epithet. Some of us had a quick metabolism, all right? Nonetheless, using my aversion to the clusterfuck that was the Imperial Capital worked a treat. It both surprised and sobered me up that Xen used a magicgram. This rapid method of communication, reserved amongst Mages for the correspondence of utmost urgency, required the sender to spend a tremendous amount of spiritual energy upon despatch. Therefore, I dared not ignore her instruction. That same evening, I’d packed my shit and left, bound for Noyau, which happened to be one of the two retreats nearby. Xen and I might have been friends, but above all, she was my superior. And more to the point, she talked sense.

It was high time for me to shut down my reservoir of magic and allow my aura to be restored and replenished. I needed rest, self-care, daily meditation and heaps of mindfulness to regain my spiritual composure. I’d become depleted by my constant dealings with the demonic element.

As to the latter, it came in all shapes and sizes.

Every type displayed a range of temperament and aptitude strength. Not all were malevolent—far from it, in fact. Mischievous by nature as they might be, the majority of demons abided by the codex set for Magic-able individuals by the Guild, occasional illegal enchantments aside. A small percentage, however, tended to misbehave on a spectacular scale. At which point an Exorcist like myself would intervene.

The course of action depended on the seriousness of the violation. Sometimes, a firm reprimand would do. On other occasions, the circumstances called for behavioural correction talismans or short-lived power binding. In cases where the delinquent posed a graver threat to the human and non-human community, we enforced more punitive measures—like a ritual of casting out malice, resentment cleansing or a permanent ability lock. The evidence of heinous acts being committed with no remorse, however, left us without choice. That required an Ultimate Rite, which resulted in the death of the transgressor.

Exorcists were perceived as the universe’s answer to the existence of the demonic–the other side of the coin, so to speak. Nature’s way of evening things out. But if Mages were considered a rare breed amongst people, Exorcists were the truffles of Mages.

Speaking in tongues aside, two other unique qualities made a good Exorcist: abundant empathy and an elevated resistance to what we referred to as the blackening.

As Exorcists, we dealt with the darker side of Magic. Not only were we exposed to large quantities of it on the regular, but–unlike Mages of other disciplines–we fully practised it ourselves. Without Dark Power, there could not be reversing hexes, lifting curses or neutralising vengeful intentions. With using it, however, came risks. Over time, the flecks of malignity accumulated and solidified, sticking to one’s aura like tree sap to cloth. Bit by bit, they sullied the mood, tainted the mind and poisoned the heart. Leading to a corruption of the soul.

In my final training year, I’d scored off-the-charts for empathy and blackening resilience. The highest results in a century, they’d told me. Upon completing my studies a month later, I’d found myself in the employ of the Exorcist Department, sporting its customary robes. Grey like half-light, a symbolic reference to the in-between area of Magic our sort operated in.

Careerwise, it had been a straightforward decision. One I’d never come to regret. I loved my job. While it’d redefined every aspect of my existence, it’d proved my true calling—the one thing I ever felt competent and confident in doing. I excelled at my duties and enjoyed carrying them out. Unless the less-than-favourable circumstances forced me to perform a killing rite. Ripping someone else’s spiritual energy out at its roots and grinding it to nothing always brought on a sense of grief and guilt, no matter their crime.

Other than my work, I had little else going on of late. On a good day, I’d describe my personal life as a mess. When I felt less inclined to self-kindness—a fucking disaster. Two years on and I couldn’t get over the bastard who’d pulverised my heart. Who’d up and left, just as I’d believed we’d been going steady. Still, he had me pining. Moping. Brooding. What-if-ing. What-the-fuck-ing. Missing him, even though he’d likely forgotten my name by now. Hurting like hell, even though what I’d regarded as a relationship turned out to be not worth a shit in the end.

Sharp pain exploded in my mouth. “Wuck,” I slurred, cupping my jaw. In my agitation, I’d chewed on the piece of pashija a little too hard and bit the inside of my cheek. The tang of copper filled my mouth.

Good. Very good. I deserved that. Whenever I lifted the self-imposed ban on thinking about him, I would spiral, reliving the sorrow and inviting upset to fill me anew. But that ended right then. I didn’t need to add to the cargo of negative energy I’d already been carrying—not before entering a sanctuarium.

I expelled a long breath, trying to centre myself.

Only then did I register the shift in scenery. The grass had become shorter and denser. Finally truly green, for the gods’ sake. Clusters of shrubs and trees popped up on the horizon. The instant the air lost its burning, dry quality I knew I’d reached the oasis of Noyau, my limited orienteering skills notwithstanding.

The sanctuarium sat on a hill. Gentle as it might look, climbing its winding path took my horse the better part of an hour. With every step of the ascent, however, I breathed easier, taking in the intense cleansing and remedial effect of the ambience. By the time I reached the top, my mental fatigue had subsided a fair bit. The rejuvenation, alas, didn’t extend to my saddle-sore arse, which remained just as chafed and tender as before.

Once at the crest of the hill, I dismounted and continued on foot. I led Koryn by the reins towards the milky fog surrounding the place, which guarded the sanctuarium against unauthorised entry. My horse, familiar with Magical wards, showed no sign of anxiety while stepping into the mist. Prior to that, I’d activated the amulet hidden in his bridle so he would be allowed inside the protection ring.

Whooshing and buzzing sounds resonated through my core, the vibrations making my limbs tremble. Warmth spread around my body as pressure built up in my ears. I relaxed my muscles and opened my spiritual channels, allowing the barrier to recognise my aura. I clenched my teeth in preparation for the next step—the sealing off of my Magic. My spiritual energy pulsated within me, all frantic, when the process of knitting it closed began. Bit by bit, the wards forced my reservoir into hibernation. It took a lot of conscious effort not to resist it. My instincts incited me to fight against this violation.

My breathless dizziness subsided the instant I emerged on the other side. Finding myself suddenly Magic-less always felt foreign, leaving me unsettled and disoriented. Yet I had no option but to grow a pair. Adjusting to my new state without a fuss served me best, since my gift would remain dormant throughout my stay.

Once the haze dispersed, my vision cleared, enabling me to see a handsome stone cottage in front of me. My home for the next thirty days. Encircled by a garden in full bloom, it bathed in the glow of the setting sun. The idyllic sight brought a smile to my lips. Architecture-wise, the bungalow reminded me of the old Imperial country style—which seemed just as much out of place in the Barbarian Territory as the lush landscape. But all of it appealed to someone who had spent hours travelling the desert.

The fusion of red and gold in the sky alerted me to the late hour. Standing outside and gawking like a turnip didn’t get me any closer to a hearty bowl of stew or a hot bath, and I needed both.

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