Be Good

BE GOOD

By Hayden Pearton

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Published by Hayden Pearton at Smashwords

Copyright 2018 Hayden Pearton

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Discover other titles by Hayden Pearton:

The Chronicles of New Eden

Awakening

Sunrise Sapling

The Metrophobia Collection

Koinophobia

Autophobia

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Contents

Prologue: Origin

1. Ten Thousand

2. Duty

3. What Could Have Been

4. The God Scars

5. Pyre

6. Reunion

7. Lords and Ladies

8. The First Son

9. Living in Shadow

10. Remembrance

11. Imran’s Rest

12. Kindling

13. The Festival of Flame

14. Kill the King

15. The Great Prophet

Epilogue: The Last Order

About the Author

For Chanelle, Forever and Always.

For My Family, thank you for a childhood full of whimsy and wonder.

For Michael, I really hope you read this one.

And For You, for giving this story a chance. May it exceed your expectations.

And lo, it will come to pass that the disobedient children shall know discord. Brother will fight brother, and sister will strike sister. However, for they were all made equal, none shall gain dominion over the other. Instead, all shall be broken, and shall not rise again.

At that time, Priarch will look down upon his children with sorrow and pity, and his radiance shall shine brightly once more. He will descend to the Flamelands, bringing peace and understanding. He shall take his children into his embrace, strip them of their arrogance and foolish pride and minister to their wounds.

In time, they shall return to him, becoming one with him. With this, Priarch shall once more be the one and only, the great and mighty, the sovereign king. And so shall it be that he shall continue to expand, until his dominion covers every land, and all know his warmth and guidance.

Thus shall all men be freed from sin; save for those who chose instead the Void, and at last this world shall end.

-The Last Parabil: Children of the Flame

From The Originarium, Chapter 10: Parabils of the Priarch

Prologue: Origin

Holy Order 1: Spread the teachings of Priarch to every nation

Prion Almeran Lorral

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Prophet Imran, the Prophet of Prophets, Seer of All Things, Most Faithful, Most Holy, Chosen of the Priarch, Fireblessed and Lakeborn… was dying.

But this too, he had foreseen.

Almost fifty years ago, after he had received his first vision, he had started the Church of the Priarch.

From a handful of faithful it had grown, as he had foreseen it would, and it now counted as the most powerful religion in the Flamelands. But men were not immortal -the Priarch had not made it so- and so his time had come to an end.

But Imran had foreseen the future. He had foreseen every twist and turn the river of time would take. He had foreseen what would be, and what could be.

But that had not been enough. He had foreseen the rise of his Church. He had foreseen it as its most powerful.

And then he had foreseen it fall.

But this was not the future he would allow.

He would change the world. One step at a time.

Ten thousand ripples, which, when added together, would become a great tempest which would wash away the future that should have been.

Ten thousand soldiers, which, when added together, would storm the gates of heaven and change what was fated to be.

Ten thousand sparks, which, when added together, would ignite a flame which would burn away the sin of the world, and make it clean.

He lay on a bed of pillows. They were the only things keeping him up.

Around him, his faithful waited, bent low to the floor lest they catch a glimpse of the last order.

In his trembling hands he held the final Holy Order. The last of ten thousand scraps of parchment which would change the world.

He fought back the darkness. It had been growing closer, day by day. He would not let himself die, not until it was done.

His fingers were shaking as he moved the ink-brush over the parchment. Three words.

Three simple words.

And yet they would control the flow of history.

His hand trembled, but through sheer force of will he kept the brush steady.

He could not afford to make a mistake. A single wrong letter could undo everything.

Slowly, taking great care, he wrote down the words.

The darkness was growing closer. But in it, he could feel something else.

A warmth that he had felt for almost fifty years. Soon, he would be with his God.

He blew gently on the divine letters, praying that they would dry quickly.

When he was certain that the letters would not smudge, he folded the parchment and gestured forth for his seal.

Hot wax burned the letter closed. It would not be opened for a thousand years.

The last piece of the puzzle. The final part of his plan.

And thus, is the future written, he said, wheezing.

The darkness in his vision had grown. He could just barely make out the faces of his faithful. They bore looks of sadness, and fear, and grief.

They did not understand. None of them did.

But they would.

Prophet Imran, please, tell us what we must do! one of his faithful said, taking hold of his hand.

Train the Prions. Carry out the Holy Orders. Do not falter, he replied, each breath more strained than the last.

Some of them were thanking him. Some were crying. Some were asking for more.

But he had nothing more to give them.

Everything now lay in their hands.

Together, they would carry out his vision.

The darkness now consumed him. He could not see their faces, nor hear their voices.

All was still.

Summoning the last of his strength, he spoke his last words, and disappeared from the world.

My will be done.

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990 Years Later

Attacus Lore held a smooth stone in his hand, feeling its polished surface as he cradled it.

It all came down to this.

He had thrown four times and struck twice.

The circular target was fifty paces away. It was only a hand-width across, and made of reclaimed bronze.

If his stone struck true, he would hear the unmistakable katang sound. It was where the game of Katang had got its name, after all.

Come on, Attacus, throw already! Silas called, from his place atop the garbage pile.

Silas Fyrnorn, his best friend and greatest rival, was four years his elder. With his short brown hair and serious grey eyes, he bore a look that many in Slumtown found very attractive. He was close to his twentieth year, an age when he would be expected to leave home and find work.

But Attacus knew that Silas would never leave Edda, his mother, especially not in a place like Slumtown.

I even accepted the handicap of only using my left arm and I’m still beating you three to two! Just hurry up and throw so we can do something more fun!

Silas had thrown five times and struck thrice. If Attacus could hit the target, he would at least bring about a draw.

And that meant that he wouldn’t have to be the servant today.

Every time they had played Katang, Silas had beaten him. And every time, Silas had chosen his favourite reward. He would be king for the day, able to freely order Attacus around with no limit to his power.

Even with his handicap, Silas had proven too skilled with his throwing stones. He had even boasted that the next time they played; Silas would be as good with his left arm as he was with his right.

That in itself was a frightful concept.

Shaking his head, he tried to clear away those distracting thoughts. All that mattered was the target.

A small bronze disc. A piece of twine securing it to a rusted carriage wheel.

Truly, Slumtown was as much dumping ground as it was living quarters for the undesirables of society. One day he would finally escape this dung heap, and then he would-

No… focus! He told himself, bringing the target to bear. He drew back his arm, as he took aim with his eyes.

He could feel it. He would not miss.

As he brought the stone around, he saw something that sent his mind into total disarray.

Edda, his adoptive mother, flanked by several royal guards.

What?

In his surprise, the stone flew wide, heading straight for the lead guard. It bounced off his breastplate with an audible katang, although something told him that the shot wouldn’t count. The guard didn’t even flinch.

Mother! Silas cried, leaping from his perch. He raced towards the guards, grabbing a long piece of metal as he ran past.

Did he really think he could fight off all of them by himself?

Knowing Silas, he probably did.

As he reached them, however, they did not draw their swords. Even though they were from Pyre, the capital, and had every right to cut down a filthy ‘street rat’ who had attacked them.

Instead of killing Silas, they did something which defied belief.

They lowered their heads and knelt before him.

Silas was clearly as surprised as this as Attacus. He turned towards his adoptive brother and shrugged, but Attacus had no advice to give.

It was then that the lead guard said, in a voice that held no trace of levity, It is an honour to meet you, your majesty.

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The next few hours had moved in a blur.

Too much had happened. Too much had been revealed.

It didn’t feel real.

He had listened with a numb mind as the guard had explained. Edda had been a maid in the palace and had consorted with the king? That same king had cast Edda out of the palace when her pregnancy had been discovered, in order to sate the queen’s rage? And now the king was dead, and, on his deathbed, he had revealed the truth.

He had an heir to the throne, living within sight of the capital.

Moving swiftly, the guards had bundled up everything that Edda and Silas owned.

It didn’t take long. There wasn’t much.

And now they stood beside a royal carriage, waiting to be whisked away to a life of parties, politics and plenty.

While Attacus stayed behind in the shadows.

Apparently the son of a miller did not rank as highly as the heir to the throne.

Why can’t he come with?!? Edda was shouting. She had repeated those words a dozen times already, and always she received the same answer.

The nobility were outraged that their new king was from Slumtown. They could maybe forgive the addition of the king’s mother, but to bring along a nobody with no blood relation would be stretching the fragile arrangement to breaking point.

After calming down his mother, Silas made his way over to Attacus. There was a gap between them now, and it was widening with every passing minute. They had been born in Slumtown. They had been raised in Slumtown, by the same woman even.

But only one of them would die in Slumtown.

This changes nothing, Attacus, Silas said, laying his hand upon Attacus’ shoulder.

This changes everything, Silas, Attacus spat back, knowing in his heart that none of this was Silas’ fault.

No. You are still my brother. This is still my home. And nothing can change that, he said, pulling Attacus into a tight embrace.

Our positions might change. Our appearances might change. Our views might change. But this I swear will never change. You are my brother, from this breath until my last.

And then it was over. The guards had run out of patience. They pulled the two boys… the two brothers apart. Silas and Edda were herded into the carriage, but not without protest. Edda cried openly, weeping for her lost son. Silas did not cry, not in front of his new subjects, but his heart wept all the same.

And then they were gone, and Attacus was alone once more.

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Attacus sat on a mound of unidentified garbage. It was where he belonged. After all, without Silas and Edda, he had nothing left.

In the span of a single afternoon, he had lost it all.

That must have been awful, watching them take your mother away like that.

There was a man walking towards Attacus. A man dressed in red robes that flowed from shoulder to sandal.

A Prion.

One of Priarch’s chosen.

She was my adoptive mother, he said, reflexively, My real one died when I was five.

He didn’t see a point in lying to a Prion. It wasn’t worth going to the Void over a simple fib. And it had already been ten years since his family had passed away, so the hurt was well and truly healed.

The loss of Edda, however, would take longer still.

Then I am doubly sorry for your loss, both for your first mother and your second.

The Prion grew closer, extending a hand towards Attacus. He ignored it.

My name is Prion Uther Pathos, and I have come for you, my child, the Prion said, wearing a smile that he probably thought was comforting.

It wasn’t.

I don’t have anything to give to the Church, Attacus said, and he meant it. He had the clothes on his back and not a piece more.

Ah, but the Church has everything to give to you, if you would have it, the Prion replied, moving closer.

Yeah, and what’s that?

Food, a warm bed, and a purpose.

What purpose? Attacus asked, weighing his options. He could always run, but then he would just be hungry and tired.

The greatest purpose there is. I would have you enter the Church.

What, as a servant? Attacus spat. He had had enough of serving others. If that was to be his fate, he would rather just risk it on his own.

No, as a Prion. You would be like me, a real member of the Church.

A memory of Edda’s words surfaced then. A lesson on the Church, and its customs.

I thought that they only accepted ten people each year into the training?

That is correct, and we just so happen to have one more opening. So, what do you say? Will you stay here, powerless and doomed to a life of misery? Or will you follow me, and enjoy a life of purpose?

Attacus hesitated. He could almost feel the weight of destiny pressing down on his shoulders. This was a turning point, he knew.

But in reality there was no choice to be made. A short and brutal life versus a comfy and productive one?

Alright, I’ll become a Prion, he said, feeling something inside himself change.

Praise be unto Priarch, for he is father to us all. Praise be unto Priarch, for his light shines down on all. Praise be unto Priarch, for he shall guide us back into his radiance, Uther said, gesturing him closer. As Attacus came closer he turned, leading them out of Slumtown.

As he followed Uther, he glanced back at his former home. He wondered if he had made the right decision.

No. He could have no doubts.

Silas had chosen his path, and Attacus had done the same.

Perhaps, one day, those paths might converge once more.

He could only hope that their reunion would be a happy one…

Chapter 1: Ten Thousand

Holy Order 2385: Count to one hundred and then kill yourself

Prion Morte Caine

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Morning, Pyrday, 19 Ashos, 1000AC

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Prion Attacus Lore sat in the Garden of Imran, surrounded by a hundred candles, meditating on the future.

Soon, he would receive his Holy Order. Soon, he would be recognized as a full member of the Church. Soon, his ten years of training would end.

Soo-

There you are, you useless oaf! came a voice which he had become well accustomed to over the last decade.

Opening his eyes, he looked up, and found a woman staring down at him.

Luceel Voraine, the 9999th Prion, gazed at him with disgust in her striking blue eyes. A noble by birth and Prion by choice, she was everything that Attacus was not.

Where he was short and stocky, she was tall and graceful. Where he had skin the colour of well-worn bronze, she had a coating of palest white. Where his head was to be kept shaven, she had been allowed to grow her light blonde hair to shoulder length. Where he was timid and soft-spoken, she was loud and proud.

It was no mystery why she hated him.

Sorry, I was lost in thought, he replied, moving to stand. She gave him a look of disdain before turning to walk away.

However, she stopped at the Garden’s exit and waited as Attacus slowly moved around the area extinguishing each and every candle. He could have easily asked a servant to do it for him, but he wouldn’t. This was his task, and he would see it through to completion.

When the last flame was snuffed out, he turned and headed for the entrance. Luceel opened her mouth to speak, but closed it a moment later without saying anything.

She led the way, naturally taking the lead as she had been raised to do. The youngest daughter of the prestigious Voraine family, she had spent her childhood learning everything from politics to accounting and even swordplay.

Attacus, by comparison, had spent his formative years playing around in trash heaps.

The difference between them could not be more apparent.

And yet here they were, walking almost side by side, made equal by the Church of the Priarch. In a short while, they would both receive their Holy Orders, and become true Prions. Their lineages, upbringings and skills would matter no more. To the world, they would simply be two Prions, no difference between them except for their appearances.

Leaving the Garden of Imran, they passed by one of the classrooms. For ten years they had spent almost every waking moment learning and practicing their craft. They had received instruction in mathematics, cartography, linguistics and more. They had spent hours poring over The Originarium -the Church’s holiest tome- trying to understand its mysteries and lessons. They had memorized the Parabils; the collection of allegorical stories that Imran had used to teach his followers. They had practiced the Rites; the duties that they would one day perform for the faithful. Everything from performing marriages to overseeing cremations of those who had stayed true to Priarch and rejected sin.

As they watched, an elder Prion was giving a class to a group of ten Pre-Prions.

"And lo, it came to pass that a simple fisherman, who had been thrown overboard during a storm, washed ashore on the banks