Chapter 45 – The Trial of Faith

The Forge of Bomfrey boasted quite impressive architecture. For humans, at least. Above what back in Shaelith’s and Benderast’s old world would have been called an altar and which here took the stylized form of an anvil, sat a large round window. It was designed so that, in every season, the morning sun could be seen shining through it, falling upon the polished, blackened steel of the altar-anvil. 

Grimbart looked at the anvil with some displeasure. “I bet that thing has never been struck by a hammer, not even once,” he growled under his breath.

“I don’t think that’s what it’s meant for,” Shaelith whispered back.

“That’s exactly what bothers me about it.”

For the first time since the competition between Benderast and Prince Gwilet began, the conduct of a trial did not rest with the College of Heralds, but in this case with the Order of the New Forge, which served as the final authority on religious matters. Tancred was therefore, as an exception, seated among the audience. It was quite apparent that he was not happy when he could not contribute to the proper conduct of the proceedings.

King Gelsevier and King Gerarde sat on a raised platform beside him, while Grand Master Rambaud stood at the anvil. He wore a simple black tabard but had a magnificent golden chain with a heavy sun-and-anvil medallion on his chest. 

Row upon row of benches was filled with brothers of the Order, and it seemed to Shaelith as though there was something like a subtle seating arrangement in the Forge, though she could not quite make out what the rules for it might be.

Obelaine sat with her ladies, gazing intently toward the center, while Prince Frambert sat pale and motionless behind King Gerarde. Next to him sat Sir Gaudbert, who seemed to have more or less recovered from his digestive mishap. Well, perhaps he was still a bit pale around the nose.

He caught her gaze and, with an apologetic smile, gave a slight bow even while he stayed seated.

At least his confidence seems to have survived. Probably can’t say the same about his undergarments.

Then the organ began to play, and the assembly joined in chorus to sing a few verses of “Hammer Me, Forge Father, Let Me Feel Your Blows.”

Shaelith and the others didn’t know the lyrics, of course, since they’d declined Honor’s kind offer to teach them the verses. But given the loud, fervent singing of all the other people present, it didn’t stand out at all.

Then Prince Gwilet and Benderast stepped forward. Benderast had been freshly scrubbed and dressed in neat clothes by Shaelith and Grimbart, but he was simply so tall and muscular that he inevitably looked a little out of place in such a setting.

Like a prize stallion in a donkey stable.

“We are now examining,” announced Rambaud, “the two competitors in terms of verse and meaning.”

“Start with ‘The Smelting,'” Rambaud said, turning to Gwilet.

Gwilet bowed formally and cleared his throat. “Leave your impurities in the fire, for what burns was never truly a part of you.”

“And what comfort does this verse offer, Prince Gwilet?”

“The greatest of all.” Gwilet theatrically placed his hand over his heart. “The verse distinguishes our true selves from our mistakes. Yes, even more than that, It means, we can leave our faults behind once and for all, if our faith is strong enough. That is why we write our sins down and cast them into the forge.” He gestured toward the symbolic, stoked fire behind the anvil-altar. “And whoever steps out of the forge steps out lighter than when they entered.”

A murmur of agreement rose from the packed benches. Grimbart snorted. But at least somewhat quietly.

“Continue with ‘The Hammering,’ noble Benderast.” Rambaud said to Benderast, motioning for him to speak. Shaelith had to suppress a snicker at that sentence.

Benderast spoke without hesitation. “Take the blows with patience and strike with intent, for every blow shapes you and those around you. That means…”

“You will wait until I ask you. What is the meaning of the verse?”

“Oh, sorry Your Eminent Highness! It means, the liturgy of the Forge Father’s faith is work and productive cooperation and competition alongside others in the world.” Benderast launched into his explanation with genuine enthusiasm. “Life means overcoming adversity and making the best of it, for ourselves and for others. That’s what matters.”

A few gray-haired brothers with calloused hands nodded, their brows furrowed, while others turned up their noses.

And so it went, question after question, and both Gwilet and Benderast held their own. Until Rambaud asked: “On which of the Temperings do the Knight-Brothers and Paladins of the Order base their vows, Prince Gwilet?”

“On The Heat,” Gwilet said immediately. “It is the zeal that-“

“We base our vows on The Quenching,” Rambaud interrupted him gently. “The vow is our trough, and the brotherhood our form.”

Gwilet bowed politely, but with a hardness on his face. “May the Grand Master forgive a simple journeyman in the Father’s forge.”

“And you,” Rambaud said to Benderast. “How many Temperings does the doctrine entail?”

“Eigh.. nine,” said Benderast. “Nine verses, nine Temperings.”

Rambaud nodded, impressed.

Never correct a king.

Beside Shaelith, Grimbart pumped his clenched fist in a secret gesture of victory.

“One last question,” Rambaud said finally. “The same for both of you, for it is the question our people have been asking the Father ever since they began praying at his forge. ‘Endure the fire willingly, for cold iron cannot be shaped.’ What does this verse mean for us humans, whom the dwarves, our brothers in faith, call ‘cold-forged’?”

Gwilet answered first. “It is an allegory and should not be taken literally! It does not mean that we are inferior, but merely kindled in a different way. Our flesh may not accept the fire from the depths, but our spirit and our heart do. Our heat is the zeal of faith. That is why the dwarves live underground in the rocks, amid the heat of the depths, and we live above ground amid the heat of the heights.” He pointed to the sun, which could be seen through the large round window. “What was denied to us from below was granted to us from above.”

There was a lot of approving murmuring, and Rambaud nodded as well before gesturing for Benderast to speak.

Benderast furrowed his brow. “Cold-forged just means that humans… um, I mean, we humans as a people aren’t quite there yet,” he said then, carefully. “We are the ore before the first heat. The fire in the depths has not yet accepted us. Yet! Growth mindset, right? No smith despises the ore for its nature, or because it has a higher melting point than other ores. He just keeps it ready until the forge has reached the right temperature. A good smith has a plan and knows what he’s doing. And the Forge Father is a good smith, isn’t he? And one day, the fire will take us, too. The Gathering says, ‘Know which ore you are, for no true work begins with a lie.’ If that applies to a man, why not to a people as well?”

He smiled contentedly, pleased that he had recited his homework so flawlessly.

Then, in the back left corner of the forge, a fist slammed against the wood of a bench.

A gray brother with burn scars on his forearms had stood up. “SO IT IS WRITTEN!” A second rose, then a third, and then half a dozen. “So it is written and so we like to read it!”

From the right side of the Forge came a hiss. “The audacity!”

Loud whispering and indignant exchanges broke out among the spectators in the Forge, while Rambaud consulted with the Order’s highest theological dignitaries.

Benderast sought Grimbart’s gaze and silently mouthed, “Was that a good thing?” But the dwarf was just as confused as he was and merely shrugged.

Shaelith leaned back. “Tancred. Why were those guys over there cheering for Benderast? And why are they arguing now?”

Tancred sighed loudly. “The noble Benderast may have reignited a disagreement that’s been smoldering for some time. The Allegorists are in the majority and dominate the Order, but there are certainly some brothers who lean more toward the dwarven interpretation than it might seem.”

“And where does Rambaud stand?”

Tancred gave a wry smile. “He’s always been neutral. Different opinions are just different opinions… at least as long as a man of his rank doesn’t try to force anything. If he did, that could turn a difference of opinion into a schism. And a schism in an order full of fanatic-… um, I mean, devout warriors…” He didn’t finish the sentence.

So Ben’s answer had really stirred up a hornet’s nest. Coincidence, or-

She pushed the thought aside when she saw Grimbart’s stern gaze. But he had undoubtedly been thinking the same thing she was.

Then Rambaud stepped up to the anvil-altar, and a tense silence spread through the hall.

Shaelith did the math. There weren’t much difference in their performance, other than the interpretations. Actually, Gwilet had even made a clear mistake. If Rambaud made Gwilet the winner anyway, wouldn’t that mean he was, in a sense, snubbing the Literalists?

On the other hand, if he gave the win to Benderast, the Allegorists certainly wouldn’t like that. Not to mention that Rambaud probably leaned more toward Gwilet overall, if only for reasons of greater stability for the realm.

Actually, that leaves only one conclusion.

“Two men well-versed in the faith of the Forge Father have submitted themselves to our scrutiny today and answered our questions,” said Rambaud. “And in doing so, they themselves have demonstrated a virtue of faith: Endure the fire willingly. One of them spoke to us from the heart of the New Forge, with wisdom and comfort. In the other, a fire from older embers burned fiercely and sincerely. Both spoke the truth.” He paused. “Anyone who would demand that I choose between these two men, between what they say, would be demanding that I weigh the Forge Father’s plan. But no human, nor any dwarf, knows that.” He placed his hands flat on the anvil before him. “The Trial of Faith ends in a tie, and I award one point to each contender.”

A murmur rippled through the hall, but it was not entirely a murmur of discontent. Only Gwilet looked thoroughly dissatisfied.

This Rambaud is really a sly dog. I could imagine he’d even survive politically for two or three days in the Council of the Matriarchs.

“Well, look at that. It’s three to one now,” Tancred said in surprise from behind them.

~

“Guys.” Benderast ran toward them, beaming from ear to ear, and glanced at his UI as he did so. “I got a decent amount of XP even for a tie.”

“Those humans in there were pretty upset at the end,” reported Mirrsoss, his antennae twitching.

“To celebrate, I’m going to make us a hearty stew,” laughed Grimbart, who couldn’t hide his pride in how well his coaching had worked.

“But no meat,” Thaelon objected.

Grimbart sighed. “I can just pick the meat out of your bowl.”

“No meat, Grimbart.”

“A stew doesn’t develop the right flavor unless the meat simmers together with the vegetables in the broth.”

While Shaelith grinned as she listened to Thaelon and Grimbart bickering, she also picked up on other conversations taking place in the courtyard.

“…surely the dwarf prepared him…”

“It’s the same dwarf who threatened Brother Milquard at the campsite. I saw it myself…”

“…first that business with the banner, and now they’re already meddling in our religion.”

“…it’s not just that Dusk Elf witch. There’s also the dwarf, that Wood Elf, and that weird moth creature. They’re all working together.”

“…they must have been sent together.”

“Prince Gwilet is right, it’s time to wake up.”

Fuck.

This was no longer aimed solely at Benderast and the Shaeravyn. By now, it had turned into a conspiracy theory against the entire alliance that they had worked so hard to forge during the Third Goblin War.

At the edge of the crowd, she spotted Gwilet’s seconds, who were moving through the small groups and dropping a few surely well-prepared words here and there.

She needed to know just how firmly these rumors had already taken root. She’d been planning to keep working Gaudbert as a source anyway and was, admittedly, curious to see how he’d weathered his exit with much fanfares.

She scanned the crowd for him, but he had probably already left.

“Go on ahead,” she said to the others. “Enjoy your stew. I need to make a few inquiries.”

“From whom?” Benderast wanted to know.

“Sir Gaudbert.”

“Oh. Do you want me to come along?” he asked, a little hesitantly. He clearly didn’t like the idea.

“I think that might actually get in the way of finding something out.” She winked at him. “Don’t wait for me, guys, it might take a while. And congratulations on the tie Benderast!”

Then she turned toward the alleys of Bomfrey and set out to find Gaudbert. She had a few ideas about where he might be.