Chapter 4: On the Road to Perdition
The journey stretched out over more than three weeks. As penitent pilgrims, the two young men of course could not ride horses, nor hire a cart, or do anything to make their pilgrimage easier. So they walked. All day long, in fact, which amounted to more physical activity than either was accustomed to.
The continent of Bandor looked rather medium-sized on a map, but when trying to travel on foot, it certainly seemed to grow much larger. Travel had progressed very nicely from the days when humans had to get around on their own two feet, to the point where a well-off traveller could expect to cross the entire continent in a matter of days, if one was willing to ride all night on the carriage relay route. Posting stations, relay routes, all-night livery stables, all made travel easy, and regular patrols by the civic armsmen kept the roads safe. But for a penitent travelling on foot, marked as invisible to all by the Pilgrim's Robe, travel meant day upon day of miserable trudging through slowly changing countryside.
Cambrialle, the place where both Dorian and Osval had been born, was a fine old port town located in the temperate midsection of Bandor's eastern coast. It was a beautiful place, filled with old brickwork and huge, spreading trees, with flowers blooming in every patch of sunlight. Leaving the loveliness behind wasn't easy, but then, it wasn't supposed to be. The Path of Redemption lay far to the north, well into the steamy hot tropical zone, where the Hellmount reared black and ominous against the deep blue sky. Three and a half weeks of walking, it took, all the while unacknowledged by any folk save the religious community.
Or, of course, their companion.
The two friends had been on the road for more than two weeks when they reached a quiet, out of the way monastery perched on a cliff overlooking the ocean. The sun hung low, well on its way to setting, so they decided to stop for the night.
The priest at the gate welcomed their arrival solemnly.
"Greetings, Pilgrims," he said, with a humble inclination of his head. "Please, go on to the priory. The Curator will wish to speak to you."
"Really, now," Osval said, as they moved into the monastery. "I wonder why?"
"Perhaps he got wind of your lack of faith," Dorian teased, although carefully. He'd been schooling himself as he walked to temper his responses, manage his feelings and such more carefully, in order to better fit the proper model of pious behaviour. If he could just control himself, then surely his life would improve beyond measure!
Osval made a rude noise. "More likely, he heard you going on like a pompous windbag this morning, and wants to take you to task."
Dorian hid a wince. "Sorry," he muttered. "Just trying to. . . you know."
Fortunately, they reached the priory door by then, sparing the chance for any further conflict. The journey had been punctuated by squabbles, some more major than others, as Dorian sought transformation, and Osval sought restoration of his old friend.
Inside, they found the Curator already waiting for them, looking anxious.
"Greetings, Pilgrims," he said, in a voice more tense than a priest's usual wont. "It is good that you have come."
"Thank you for your welcome," Dorian said.
"Is there some need we can fulfill?" Osval skipped any small talk and got straight to the point.
"Indeed," the Curator smiled. "Come, let us go to dinner, and you may meet our other guest. As a woman alone, we have been unwilling to allow her to progress any further without escort."
"I see," Dorian said, grasping at a tiny hope with desperate mental hands. "Is she a Pilgrim, as well?"
"Yes." The Curator opened a heavy wooden door, and the smell of mutton stew rolled out into the corridor.
"Of course, she can travel with us," Dorian said, before the priest could even ask. He ignored the offended look Osval gave him.
With another travelling companion, even a woman, Dorian would feel far more comfortable. All this time alone with Osval had been nothing but exquisite torture, provoking deep misery and internal conflict. A woman meant a third party to conversations, a witness to prevent any inappropriate conduct, another set of eyes watching and passing judgment on every interaction. What a relief! He hadn't done anything inappropriaate, of course, but the temptation taunted him every day, urging him to relax, to enjoy Osval's company, to just settle into the close companionship and shut the entire world out. Which, of course, represented the very reason he hadn't wanted Osval along on this journey in the first place.
They entered the priory's humble dining room, a wooden-walled place with a long table and benches. A woman in a pilgrim's robe sat alone, while a half-dozen monks clustered together at the farthest possible end of the table, away from her. Dorian wondered what he'd just gotten them in for.
"Pilgrims, meet Rothanna," the Curator announced. The woman looked up and smiled, abruptly abandoning her dinner.
"More Pilgrims!" she exclaimed, and her voice sounded lovely, in addition to being very excited. Perhaps she'd had training as a vocalist. "Welcome! I am sure we will be great friends."
The Curator introduced them to her, then fled. Dorian wondered anew at the way the religious folk treated this woman. What about her upset them so?
Both Osval and Dorian found out first thing in the morning why Rothanna made all the monks so very uncomfortable.
"You were a what?"
"Silly Dorian, you heard what I said," Rothanna said, with a delightful laugh that belied the truth of what she'd revealed. "I was a Comforter."
"Well. At least we know now why the monks disliked you so." Osval recovered his voice first, although he drifted a bit farther away from Rothanna as they walked.
"And is this why you are committed to walk the Path?" Dorian asked, wondering if his eyebrows would ever come down from his hairline.
"Yes, of course. For one must start anew in life if one wishes to wed a respectable man."
"Indeed," Dorian replied. "I am here for a similar reason. I have to walk the Path before my betrothed will have me."
Osval snorted, but said nothing.
They walked steadily through the day, although the woman slowed them down a bit. For one thing, she wanted to talk. All the time, in fact. And she had to stop many times more often than the men did to go behind the bushes and relieve herself. For a while, she walked just with Osval, trying to get him off to the side of the road alone with her any time they stopped. Then she switched her attentions to Dorian, and he began to seriously question her commitment to redemption.
"Miss Rothanna," he said frostily, after the third time he'd shaken her hand off his arm. "Are you indeed committed to change? For you are not acting like it, one little bit. You forget, miss, that I have a fiancee, who is in fact Osval's sister. So do not act like I am one of your clients."
"Oh, Dorian, you are just no fun!" Rothanna pouted, but Dorian ignored her. "It's been so long since I've enjoyed the companionship of a man. Can't you relax a little? We haven't even reached the Path yet!"
"The point of this journey is not to relax, it is to reform."
"Dear Dorian, you do indeed sound as though someone stuck a stick right up your penitent ass. Don't you know even the priests care not for what a penitent does on the road to Hellmount?"
Dorian's eyes widened at the sound of a woman swearing. "Miss Rothanna! You shock me. Now please, let me alone, and find another subject for conversation. Your wiles will have no effect on me."
Sometimes societal norms were helpful, after all. Despite the restrictive nature of Bandoran society, it most certainly provided a clear framework for interacting appropriately with others. And while this woman fell well short of acceptable, the proper response for a well-mannered man to such a woman was clear: have nothing to do with her.
"I'd almost have fared better with the priests," Rothanna sniffed, then sighed. "Very well. Have it your way. I will endeavor to speak in as bland and boring manner as you yourself do, eschewing all bawdy byplay and attempts to elicit physical intimacy."
"Thank you
," Dorian said, although his voice was sharp with irritation. Bland and boring, eh? And Osval felt much the same. What in Veritas was he doing to himself, anyway?
They continued on along the coast, and Rothanna held herself to talk of the Church's history. A safe, if boring subject, it filled the hours until they reached the next Church facility, their last stop before the end of life as they knew it.
She'd decided to become a Church historian in her new life, an occupation her respectable fiancee approved of. And although she'd only recently begun her studies, Rothanna had firm enough opinions that the discussion grew lively enough to even attract Osval. The three Pilgrims reached their destination shortly before sunset, walking companiably enough, with none of the conflicts spawned by Rothanna's desire to practice her former trade.