Lyara adjusted the set of her green veil as she sank to her knees at the last row of kneelers.
Thunder pealed in a low rumble outside, a light rain pattering against the slate roof of the modest chapel. The room was small—larger than a house in the Outer Circle, but about the size of her parent’s sitting room. It was modestly lit with fat, scented candles set on iron stakes against the walls. The air hung heavy with cedar-wood and cinnamon.
The alcove was mostly empty—two other devotees knelt in prayer towards the middle-front of the rows of kneelers—but current Láefe traditions only demanded a prayer once a month. Lyara’s parents dutifully attended that required service, they’d brought her since before she could walk, but as she grew she found that frequency inadequate.
This was a centering experience, a reminder of the wider world beyond her, contained within a single building of solid stone she could touch and breathe in and know. She hadn’t yet found what her place in Edras—in anywhere—should be, but here it felt like she might have an idea. Devotion gave her a purpose—however idealistic, however diminutive.
She bowed her head, tapping her right fist against her chest six times—one for each of the founding Fidelis houses—and mouthed her favorite prayer.
Essence, shield me from the blade, guard me from the arrow, and keep me from destruction. But if I should die, let it be with my sword in hand and my face toward home, on the field of victory.
It was a tad dramatic for her to say, considering she hadn’t faced a true danger in her entire life and had never even picked up a sword, but she loved the sentiment. It was confident, it carried a certain raw strength; the spirit of it reflected in her soul, even if she couldn’t technically emulate the particulars.
Besides, Gallian himself wrote it. His prayers probably carried more weight than the others.
Lyara glanced up at the center wall. Center was a bit of a stretch; the alcove had six walls, each adorned with the sigil of one of the founding Fidelis houses, but the caretaker had arranged the kneelers to face the particular wall which held Gallian’s. It was a sweeping line edged by three linear marks—it somewhat resembled a head of wheat, or the wing of a bird. Most chapels etched the symbols in stone, but here Fidelis themselves had come and crafted their house marks out of their respective preferred elements.
Gallian’s sigil burned in a constant, low flame, fed by an oil-soaked wick the caretaker replaced daily.
Two hundred years ago those six troops—some blood relatives, some sworn by oaths—left a land of tyranny behind and settled here on this continent. They drove back horrid monsters called saja—none had been spotted in Avaron for generations—and fought with marginal success against the centaur tribes. Gallian emerged as the first Fidelis and first King of Avaron—as fonfyr—before those beast-men slaughtered him.
The more frequent devotees typically came to pray for the fonfyr’s return. A warrior with the same strength and ideals was supposed to come back, one day, and bring peace with him. There was a prophecy. Lyara was a bit ashamed to admit in public, but sometimes she prayed for his return, too.
It seemed the least she could do; every age waited for some kind of savior, why should she not hope for the same? Fewer believed now than they’d used to, but at the monthly service, Láefe stretched into the street.
Only, this hero was more than a hundred years late.
She folded her hands and placed them on her lap, bowing her head. She hadn’t come to pray for that tonight, anyway. Lightning flashed behind the window shutters and she whispered her prayer again—this time altering the words to offer it up for the Avaronian soldiers fighting for her life in Edras to keep trickling lazily from one day to the next. That was her custom. Tonight she said it again, a certain soldier in mind above all the rest.
After all, that prayer was meant for men like him.