I am what they call the Messenger in some places, the Interloper in others. That’s a title that some have come to revere, though I can’t explain why. They’ve put me on a higher plane of existence, but I’m not a god. I watch the worlds and read minds. I attempt, in the only way I know, to help my Nomads lessen their burden. I must protect them every day and especially guide them into every October. Martin and Teresa have blood-ties to the Old Domain, but being from this world, they know nothing of its nature.
While they drank at the tavern, the Church of Morning prepared for the new season on the other side of the gateway in the Old Domain. The church balanced on the thin garnet steps of Azinraith temple. Their devotional number’s hands clasped together, minds locked as one, giving thanks to the new harvest to come. Warm red threads plunked from one temple step to the next, searching for even ground. The flow would eventually reach the base of the steps and fan out. The shared thought of the Church members pronounced this as good. They would be thankful for the offer and pay tribute. They would bring temple butchers to make gifts for the Archbishop: bone necklaces and pendants, leather bracers, baskets woven from hair and sinew, water bladders, and there would be a new display of unprecedented fecal runes on temple walls, lacquered over for new generations to praise and draw power from.
The Church of Morning estimated the great channel had opened ten spans since the Day of Closing thousands of autumns ago but the potential foreseen this autumn could widen the channel twenty spans more. That was enough space to set the pillars in place and lock the channel open. Bloodthanks would be carried out in both worlds, the two Churches would unite again, and new, glorious Tomes would be scribed.
Chaplain Cloth would bring them victory again.
The Heart of the Harvest, the blessed fruit, comes into the world every autumn for a single day. This year it has come again, with a potency that rivals even those early sacrifices at the circle of stones. Something was special about this year’s Heart, thought the Church of Morning with great study, something intrinsically powerful that the Interloper wouldn’t allow them to see.
They would find out. The plan had been set and the worlds would move under their clawing fingers.
The blood pooled at the temple’s base and a collective sigh hollowed the air as they rocked back and forth on the temple steps, hands clasped together with smiles alike, minds locked as one, giving thanks.
It was enough to make me turn my eyes back to the other world.