Constantine (Daughter of War #1)

Chapter 8: The Trial of a Champion

Music is Beyond from the Beyond: Two Souls soundtrack. Play it!

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Father Alistaire's dry, melancholic tone does little to keep me awake throughout the whole ceremony.

I am kneeling before the main altar, which is situated on an elevated dais. The bishop's outline is before my eyes, rocking back and forth gently, as if he is going to faint anytime soon. Behind me, seated comfortably in the rows of benches in the nave, are the noblemen who came to pay their customary respects to a Champion of the Pietists. And hopefully to receive a blessing.

The ceremony had begun with a monotonous prayer from Father Alistaire, completed with an excerpt from the Book of Ritus. Now he is performing an elaborate ritual, repeatedly offering tributes to the Pietists and sprinkling lavender oil on my hair, doing little to ease my anxiety.

I eye a malicious-looking figure standing beside the bishop. He is garbed in a well-cut yet sturdy jerkin, showing off his bulky build almost too nicely. The Royal Blacksmith, the only person qualified in Perinus to imbue Champions with their Marks. He too, seems to wish that the ceremony can be done and over with as soon as possible. His fingers wrap around the handle of the poker with an iron-grip, making me sweat in the layers of my tunics.

"Arise, Champion," intones the bishop.

I rise shakily at his command, with both arms pinned down against my sides, holding back whatever nervousness I am feeling. Father Alistaire makes signals swiftly with his hand. The blacksmith steps forward, the branding iron warmed up and ready to go.

The bishop now raises an eyebrow at me, his eyes sliding towards Gilbert, who is standing to my far right. He's silently asking if I require Gilbert's assistance to keep myself under control. I shake my head slowly. Father Alistaire acknowledges my response with a nod, though he gives me a doubtful look.

Father Alistaire gestures for me to expose my left collarbone. I oblige him, wondering if he would see the bit of linen wrapped around my chest. Onto the patch of skin that is supposed to be branded, he applies a thick layer of dry red paste—a mixture of clay, herbs and other unknown substances, all blessed to receive the goodwill of the Pietists.

The bishop takes a step back, nodding for the blacksmith to begin the Marking process. The man closes far too quickly. "I won't lie, this is going to hurt," whispers the blacksmith. He presses the brand onto my skin.

My vision splits into two.

******

I hang suspended in the air, feeling very surreal. My body seems to be floating away; yet my conscious, my being, is hovering in the space of the cathedral, a watchful spirit guarding the inhabitants of the building.

I see my own body being branded with the Champion's Mark. Its expression is pained; its skin has turned into a sickly pallor. But it manages to contain itself, stifling a scream in the throat. The blacksmith's brows are drawn together in a frown; his eyes are cool and collected. He isn't a sadist—there is no pleasure in his expression as he watches the boy before him take in all the pain. He is, however, cold and methodical, like a surgeon performing his duty without any emotion.

My father lingers in the corner, observing me with an unreadable expression on his face. Gilbert's eyes are focused on the elaborate carvings on the transept above him. Perhaps he's afraid to know how his fellow Champion is faring.

At the same time, I am sure-footed on the ground, my hands curled into tight fists and my teeth ground together. I bite down on my tongue, preventing whatever pain I feel rising up my throat from transforming into an ear-piercing shriek. My skin is layered with a thin sheen of cold sweat; my body trembles ever so slightly with the effort to control myself.