He hated the smell of spring. The flowers that surrounded the temple. Flowers on the trees, flowers on the bushes, flowers that broke up from the bulbs they divided and planted last fall. Not one smelled pleasant, they all were foul.

He looked up as a big cloud blocked the sun. Even the weather was wretched. It had rained every night this week and he woke to wet muck and the smell of thawing shit that collected over winter.

He swatted something on his neck. Holding his hand out to see the green blot. “Nasver’s minions are reborn.”

“You shouldn’t refer to the Foul by name.”

He turned to look behind him and quarter bowed, “Tribune bless you.”

“And you.” The man gave him a look over. “You look a little old to be an acolyte.”

He looked down at himself and nodded. “The laundry must have gotten mixed up.”

“I’m looking for the High Priest,” he said, looking towards the temple.

“May I ask who seeks his audience?”

The man looked back at him and smiled, “I’m Dari Ilae.”

“Are you from Trobonne?”

“Quite close! A little north in Haregh, have you heard of it?”

He shook his head, “I just know the Seat, we’ve had visitors before. Follow me.”

“Of course.” He followed.

—

After dropping off Dari Ilae with the High Priest’s assistant, he continued back with his chores; fetching wood, pulling up water, sweeping the east side of the temple. The east side was the worst, the evergreens there shed needles constantly that fell onto the walkways. They collected in lumps along the sides from being swept and raking them evenly out after under the trees was met with resistance. It took at least twice as long as necessary and the bugs kept nipping him.

“Gods!” He cursed when one tried flying right into his nose. He swung the rake around madly.

“Are you sure you’re a priest?” It was the same voice again.

“I am,” he said, quarter bowing, “Etex Dari, how was your meeting with the High Priest?”

“Delightful, I never did get your name.”

“Vasmar.”

“Come now,” he said leaning in, “not your temple name, who were you before?”

“We don’t keep our clan name when our acolyteship ends, I was given the name Vasmar. Praise the Tribune, I am their servant.”

“Of course.”

—

He had no rest after the midday meal either, with the mid-month festival coming up, they had to prepare a feast for the local Patriarchs of the minor houses. It wasn’t enough he had to smell the muck and be bit all morning, they had him chopping onions and smashing garlic during prep. His eyes burned still and his fingers stank.

Now at least he was on fire duty, feeding the stove from behind and fanning it for the first hour. Smoke and heat kept any bugs and buggers away. He could just stare at the fire and the crackling drowned out the chatter going on out in the kitchen. Almost relaxing.

—

Ringing of metal against stone woke him up, someone who didn’t know the door trick tried to get in. He rolled out of his bed and snuck over to the sideboard, sliding the back compartment open. The door scraped open, the trespasser didn’t seem deterred by the noise.

He gripped the shaft of his old blade. His hands felt on fire, excited to be reunited with their old friend. All his muscles had come awake, remembering what they once could do. As the figure approached, he sprung.

Surprised, they swung too slow, he parried with his dagger and gripped their hand, twisting and knocking it back against the sideboard. The sword fell, pinging as it hit the stone floor. The intruder pushed back, and they danced in circles, half held together as he tried to pry away his dagger.

He waited until the other was overcommitting to a pull and used the momentum to knock them both down, letting him be over top, ready to push the dagger down. The other’s mask had fallen off and in the dim light from outside he could see who it was.

“Etex.” He laughed.

“You dog, you aren’t a priest,” he saw the mark on his forearm. “Scum, I should have known.”

“I knew right away, you bit your T’s like someone from Oridienne, southern part of the Tulate, it would have been better if you stuck to the Seat.”

“Of course.”

The Etex tried to move against him, but he set all his weight forward and the dagger went down, ending it.

—

“Vasmar.” The High Priest said, standing in front as he kneeled. “We received a pigeon, the man posing as the Etex was connected to a cult of Akadorcha from Athip. You likely saved us from some plot by stopping him from entering the sleeping chambers.”

“As is my duty.” He was slapped.

“Your duty is to repent. For drawing your old blade and blood, you’re to get 100 lashes.” He leaned in close. “We both know you could have subdued him with your hands alone and kept him alive.”

The High Priest stepped back and motioned. The crack of the whip tore into his back. The smell of metal covered the stink of spring as it went on. It made him think of the previous night, his hand squeezed, remembering the feeling. He saved them and they punished him, these Tribune priests. He thought, Of course.