And Father Aldric, for the first time in forty years, sneezed—loudly, freely, at no particular time at all. And the world, stubborn and beautiful and utterly indifferent, continued to spin.
“What if,” Aldric said slowly, “I don’t do the laps?”
Matthias wiped his nose on his sleeve—the wrong sleeve, Aldric noted with a spike of panic—and looked around. “Sorry,” he whispered. And Father Aldric, for the first time in
“What beast?” Matthias asked gently. “I’ve never seen a beast. Have you? I’ve seen you skip Rule 19 on Tuesdays when your knees hurt. I’ve seen Brother Paul eat nuts with his left hand when he thinks no one is looking. Nothing happened. The sun still rose.”
Father Aldric had memorized the list forty years ago, back when his spine still allowed him to bow properly. He could recite every rule without a stumble: Rule 47: The left sleeve must be rolled three times, no more, no less. Rule 48: Nuts are to be eaten with the right hand only, lest the soul be unbalanced. Rule 112: A sneeze after sunset requires a counter-sneeze before sunrise, or a penance of seven laps around the reliquary. “Sorry,” he whispered
Aldric stood there for a long moment. The candles guttered again. Somewhere, in the dusty dark of his own mind, the old god Unwitnessed and Exact yawned and turned over, uninterested. No thunder. No earthquake. Just the soft, terrifying sound of a man unfolding a laminated card and tearing it, once, down the middle.
He took the Compendium from his pocket. The laminate had yellowed. The corners were soft. He looked at the list—all 247 rules, plus the 83 addenda and the 12 secret clauses known only to the high clergy—and for the first time, he didn’t see a leash holding back chaos. Have you
“You will perform the laps,” Aldric said, his voice a dry leaf. “At once.”