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Chapter 11: Heresy

“Make way!” Oriné ‘Fulsamee’s bellowing voice carried far down the hallway, and everyone who heard it pressed themselves against the bulkheads. Three haggard soot-stained Sangheili warriors barreled down the corridor; between Yarna ‘Orgalmee and Oriné was held a badly wounded Rabu ‘Cklovee. Two pairs of booted hooves clanged against the deck as the third dragged, rivulets of blood trailing down and smearing against the polished floor.

“Cursed creatures!” Rabu howled, head thrashing about, sending droplets of violet liquid every which way. They splattered against the already numerous stains on his companions’ combat harnesses. “I will wrench their very skulls from their heads, and then strike their souls to Hell with them!”

“It strikes me as impossible to kill someone with their own skull... step aside!” Yarna elbowed a Kig-Yar out of the way none too gently, slamming it face-first into the wall. It rebounded but managed to keep its balance, jabbering unknowable curses through its damaged snout. The trio simply continued on their way.

“I will find a way,” Rabu murmured. His motions were slowing. Oriné realized he was going into shock. There is not much time, he thought; saying it out loud would not help his friend resist his own body’s attempts at salvation. Directly ahead, however, he could see the medical bay.

The door parted swiftly enough that they didn’t need to break their stride. “Healer!” Yarna called, and almost instantly a Sangheili in blue armor with white markings was with them.

“There is a bed over here,” he said, motioning to an empty gel bed. “Lay him down.” Gently, but with haste, the two Elite Minors spread him out on the soft material. Immediately the Healer brought up the holographic controls, setting the bed to scanning his vitals while he gestured to an Unggoy with a depository of tools. “What happened to him?”

Oriné looked at the gaping abdominal wound. Amidst the blood and viscera, he could see his friend’s vital organs beneath the torn skin. “During evacuation the humans were shelling us,” he said, recalling the rocky, mountainous terrain they had been on just a short while ago. “We were just boarding a Spirit when one landed close by and filled the air with stone. He was the closest to the impact.”

By now the Grunt Healer had arrived and the Sangheili had selected an injector. The medical suite, having calculated Rabu’s vitals, opened a compartment nearby from which he selected a vial filled with a clear liquid. Prepping the injector, the Healer bent over the half-conscious warrior. “This is a strong anesthetic,” he said, pressing the device against Rabu’s upper arm and squeezing the contact. “You will be unconscious for quite a while.” The wounded soldier looked ready to protest, but the drug took effect immediately and his eyes rolled back and he went still. The steady pulsing of the hologram belied his deathly state.

“Will he be all right?” asked Yarna.

The Healer gave the wound a closer appraisal. “There is severe tissue and intestinal damage, possibly more than I can see from here if the shrapnel splintered any more inside him. It’s possible the stone fragmented inside and ricocheted off his ribcage. However, for now it looks like it missed his lung and his spine is intact.” He looked up at the two idling warriors. “I must insist that you leave. I will need all the space I have available.” They assented, leaving after a final look and a quick prayer.

As the door to the medical bay closed behind them, Yarna touched foreheads with Oriné. “Do not fear, my friend; I do not think you will have to deliver any news to his honorable parents any time soon.”

The younger Sangheili shook his head. It had been a year since his visit to Joyous Exultation, when he delivered news of Hada ‘Sobotee’s death to the deceased warrior’s father. His mother had looked on, but did not come in, instead keeping Hada’s hatchling sister occupied. The child could not have been more than two years of age.

A whole year and two campaigns; first on the outer colony Coppice, then the forested moon called Sylvan. They had both been trying fights for survival, but Oriné triumphed and came out alive each time. Coppice had been an agricultural center with a long rainy season, most of which Faithful Unit had spent holed up in a muddy trench, pushing against the strong human armored defenses. When the S’gor Legion was finally rotated out they were dropped almost immediately on Sylvan, where the Covenant had been searching for what a cruiser’s luminary reported as a Reliquary. Though they had captured most of the planet in their search, dealing with the humans’ guerilla warfare tactics was a frightening experience. Faithful Unit had been ordered into the thick, dark forests more than once, and most of the time barely got out with their lives. Oriné had seen more Grunts die there than on Pearl and Coppice combined.

Now, however, the entire legion was up for shore leave, barring a sudden wartime development. And based on the overall pace of the war, Oriné doubted such an occurrence would happen. The Transcendent Voyager had been selected for glassing duty, but afterwards was bound for the world Unifying Faith. It was a devout colony, with only a small sector dedicated to farming. By and large it was a merchant planet, meaning significant presence of many of the Covenant client races; but for Sangheili warriors with a month of shore leave it had another attraction: females. Unifying Faith was renowned for its beautiful, holy dancers, known as saitarelé. Saitarelé were culled from Sangheili applicants all over Covenant space. After the daughters of distinguished Clans were brought to appropriate houses, called saitarels, only the most beautiful and graceful among them were chosen. They were then put through a rigorous process that rivaled those used to select priestesses and clerics. Once they were finished, they came out as shapely and capable ecclesiastics, using smooth, sultry body language to tell tales of valor on the battlefield, recreate the legends of Forerunners, or just to entertain at high-level banquets and promotion ceremonies.

The odds that an Elite Minor would be invited to such an occasion were astronomical, but still they dreamed.

However, as excited as Oriné was to see the saitarelé, he wished to have the opportunity to see his family again.

By now the two warriors had reached their armory. It was shared between Faithful and Solemn Units, but as the door swished open they saw most had already come and gone. Only two individuals remained, one from Solemn Unit and the other Enma ‘Gubotee, the newest member of Faithful Unit. After Coppice, Toro ‘Bodnolee had indeed been promoted to Major and transferred to another ship; at first Oriné was going to take control of his lance, but ‘Gubotee was transferred in and took them instead.

The young warrior, already down to his dermo-suit, looked up at their entry. “Rabu?” he asked, expectant.

“He will be fine,” assured Yarna. “He will just be late for the festivities on Unifying Faith.” The two crossed over to the containers fitted into the wall. First they disarmed, dumping their weapons into a repository bin that soon slid into the wall and gave a contented beep. After that they began to strip off and clean their armor using brushes and gelstones. As he went, Oriné inspected each piece, looking for signs of critical failure; if he found serious enough damage, he would send the component to reclamation to be broken down and recycled.

He remembered after his first campaign on Pearl, when his entire combat harness had been reclaimed. The fighting on Coppice and Sylvan had been considerable, but both combined hadn’t been as stressful, on his hardware or his mind, as that frozen world had been. Often he overheard more experienced veterans commenting how Pearl had been the worst they had seen; Oriné just wondered how the humans had managed to establish a colony there. The more he fought, the more he realized how versatile they were, capable of adapting to situations that most Sangheili would have just written off as lost.

Oriné finished with his helmet and was in the process of undoing his mandible guards when the door to the armory opened. Turning, the three Elites saw Major Olah ‘Seroumee standing there, studying them. Oriné and Yarna straightened up, but only nodded hello; Enma jumped to his feet and saluted so intensely that Oriné feared he would strain something.

Olah eyed the new recruit, clicked his mandibles, and then set his gaze on Oriné. “You have a transmission,” he said simply, then turned and walked out of the armory and back into the halls. ‘Gubotee looked bewildered, but Yarna and Oriné knew that Olah was like that: detached, official, and seemingly without a heart. They knew his apparent lack of concern for Rabu was because he likely stopped by the medical bay to check on him before going to the armory.

However, Oriné’s mind was elsewhere. Why would he have a transmission? Though many times he had wished to send a message back to Sanghelios, his priority level was very low; non-combatants had even lower priority, so who would bother, or be able, to send him a communiqué?

For a moment, he entertained the thought that it was Orna. Being a Ship Master, he could theoretically have enough priority to contact his little brother, but why would he? They hadn’t spoken since he had returned from Jisako. It wasn’t for any lost love, but instead because both were incredibly busy.

Among all of this, Oriné decided, one fact was clear: it would be rude to keep the sender waiting. Standing up, he nodded his farewells to his comrades and left the armory, finding the nearest gravity lift and riding it to the command deck. He walked past the bridge on his way to the transmission room and took the opportunity to peek through the grating. Nothing was very visible, but he saw movement of gold armor within. Just as he began to continue on his way the door opened and the Ship Commander stepped out. Instantly Oriné went rigid, saluting and bowing, as was the custom when in the presence of an astronomically superior officer. The commander simply nodded and continued on his way.

When he reached the transmission room, Oriné walked up to the Elite Minor on duty. “Oriné ‘Fulsamee,” he told him, and the keeper nodded, pointing him to a small screen located in an open, ovaloid chamber. Oriné stepped in and a force field snapped into life behind him, offering some semblance of privacy. He keyed in his acceptance code and watched as the screen fuzzed for a moment and resolved into the familiar face of an older, tired looking Sangheili.

“Father,” Oriné said, startled. How had he obtained priority enough to send this?

“Oriné,” said Orita. He sounded very weary, strained even, as if he had slept very little in several days. “I trust you are well.”

“I am,” the younger ‘Fulsamee said. “How are you? And mother?”

There was hesitation in his father’s tone. “We have been better. I assume you are wondering why we are calling you so?”

Oriné nodded.

“I am unsure how to say this, but I must be concise: your sister has been accused of heresy.” It took a moment for the Elite Minor to understand the words, but when he did it felt like someone had just smashed him in the chest with a pendulum. His mind felt like it was full of mire. Heresy was a dire charge; just to imply such a thing was damaging to one’s honor, but being outright accused of it was like a death sentence. Even those few who were found innocent were sullied for the rest of their lives, their families spoken of in harsh, quiet whispers over goblets in banquets.

Still, because of this, Oriné knew there were channels to be followed so that such a harsh allegation could not be given lightly. “There must be a mistake,” he said, though with less fervor than he had intended. “Fulsa is a devout and faithful priestess. This charge must be contested.”

“We did,” said Orita. “The moment it was levied, your mother and I censured, but the one who accused her has far higher connections than we do. None of the politicians or clerics I was able to persuade could denounce the charges.”

Oriné’s mandibles slackened. At first he was filled with rage: there had already been time for censuring and gathering support? Why was I not told of this sooner?! Such processes took months of debate and communication. By now the charges were official. Soon, though, his burning fury was dulled: of course he could not be reached. Until this very day he had been entrenched in battle, unable to return even if he had been aware of these proceedings. Still, he wished he had known. Perhaps he could have found somebody to help...

The Elite Minor forced himself into composure. “What is happening now?”

“Arrangements are being made for her trial. It will take place before the Council of Masters on High Charity.” Oriné winced, but knew this was proper. Charges of heresy among military or religious offices had to be brought before the Council of Masters and the Hierarchs. His sister, as a Priestess of the First Circle, was in a high enough position that this accusation was damaging not only to her own reputation and her family’s, but to the Covenant at large. If she was found guilty of heresy, the fact that the Covenant had passed such an individual into the ranks of their holy practitioners would lead to dishonor among many. Any individual who had confessed to Fulsa would need be reevaluated lest they were truly heretical and she only passed them due to her own darkness.

Even if she is found innocent, Oriné realized, she will likely lose her position.

Orita continued, “Your mother and I are en-route to the holy city now. A courier vessel should find its way to your location soon to carry you back as well.”

“What of Orna? Will he be coming?”

“No. We could not reach him. We are blessed to have contacted you.”

Blessed? I find it hard to believe anything of our family is blessed anymore. “Very well, I will see you soon.” Oriné touched his bare forehead to the screen; hundreds of light-years away, his father did the same. The transmission cut out.

Oriné slumped against the wall. Everything had just changed. Where once there were thoughts of saitarelé, now there was only concern. Concern, fear, confusion, and anger. Why? Fulsa had done nothing to deserve this. Prior to his deployment on Coppice, he had been poking about on the Com Net and found a report about a new First Circle priestess, Fulsa of Sam, and her diligent studies in the Forerunners language. In the report a Third Circle priestess had praised his sister for her ingenuity, saying that if anyone showed potential to develop a full codex later in life it was Fulsa.

How, in the space of a year, had she gone from promising legacy to reviled heretic?

Collecting himself, Oriné left the communications chamber and made his way back to the armory. Yarna and Enma were still there, chatting idly about their leave. Oriné sat down in front of his container and continued his dress-down, as if he had never left. It was a few minutes before he became aware of a pressing silence; turning, he saw the two of them looking intently at him.

“Well?” asked Yarna.

“I think,” Oriné began, suddenly finding it difficult to talk, “that I will not be accompanying you to Unifying Faith.” It hit him then, the full force of what was happening, what was about to happen. Unable to contain it, he doubled over, put his face in his gauntleted hands, and wept bitterly.

Though they didn’t know what was going on, his two friends comforted him.

——

The courier ship arrived later that day. Ordinarily, a journey from High Charity to the front line would have taken a day or two in Slipspace, but couriers were designed to navigate the ebbs and flows of the eleventh dimension with speed and agility. By the time it came up on the port side, Oriné was ready: his meager belongings were packed into a small trunk. He still wore his armor, though he had cleaned it thoroughly. It was mostly presentable, except for a few deep scratches that could not be repaired; he would have liked a new set for this trip, but none could be afforded him. While the warriors were on leave, the ship would restock its supplies and materials as well.

Yarna saw him off from the hangar as a Spirit waited. They touched foreheads. “Good luck,” the slightly older Sangheili said. “I will woo a dancer for you while you’re gone. She’ll be waiting for your return.”

“Thank you,” Oriné said and smiled, though it felt hollow.

Once he transferred over to the ship, the Relentless, he was guided to his quarters. It was a single room with all the basic amenities, including, much to Oriné’s surprise, a bath. Courier ships needed less than two dozen to crew them, Oriné understood, so despite the lack of glory in their tasks those who served on them were treated very well.

The deckhand who got him settled informed him that the water was heated and recycled every hour. He went on to say their expected arrival at High Charity was in ten hours. Plenty of time for bathing and sleeping, the Elite Minor decided. He left his things in one corner of the room, disrobed, and eased himself into the small pool. The warmth rushed over him and an exhilarating feeling of luxury swept through his mind. It had been a long time since he had a true bath.

Still, try as he might he could not properly enjoy it. His thoughts were occupied too much by his doomed sister and the anguish she and their parents must be feeling. After scrubbing himself down with a pumice stone, taking care to avoid a fresh scar on his leg caused by the same incident that had so wounded poor Rabu, he stepped out of the bath, dried himself, and lay down in the military standard gel bed.

——

Fulsa swept her hand through the water, sending a high, arcing wave right into Oriné’s face. Sputtering, the young Sangheili scowled and shoved the water back; however, he lacked the natural grace of his sister and only succeeded in sending up a light spray. His twin laughed, and despite himself Oriné smiled.

The public baths of Lomak were spacious, meant to accommodate far more people than were currently present. Only a few families were there, giving the two children more than enough room to splash around. Nearby, their mother looked annoyed.

“Behave yourselves,” she cautioned them.

Their father surfaced nearby, shaking his head from side to side and sending water droplets everywhere. “Do as your mother says,” he said, running a hand over his neck, “or we will be forced to drown you and make another set. Don’t think we can’t; we can make them just like you.”

“Paolu, you wouldn’t!” Fulsa cried, genuinely horrified. Beside her, though, Oriné puffed up his chest.

“I can hold my breath for eight minutes!” he said. “You would not be able to hold me under long enough to drown me!”

Smiling, the elder Sangheili lunged through the water and caught the young crècheling up in his arms, making him giggle. “Can’t I?” Orita asked in a faux-menacing voice. Oriné squirmed and kicked, trying to get free. His little hoof caught his father in the side; Orita let out a gasp of pain and loosened his grip, allowing the young Sangheili the opportunity to kick off his stomach and plow into the water.

“Oriné!” his mother yelled, “How could you do that!” She hurried over to her mate who was doubled over, clutching his side.

The little crècheling went pale. He had forgotten about his father’s wound. As he tried to stammer out an apology, Orita gave a rasping chuckle and straightened himself up as best he could. “He did fine,” he assured his mate. “He struck where he knew his opponent was weak, but did not push such an unfair advantage more than he had to. Oriné will be a capable warrior one day.”

“What about me?” Fulsa hurried over to the source of the excitement.

“Not a warrior, little one,” Alsa said, “but a devoted priestess of the faith.”

“Could I be a... a priestess too, Maulo?” Oriné struggled with the long word, but saw approval in his mother’s eyes as he managed it.

His father, however, burst out laughing. “If that is what you truly wish,” he chuckled. “But if that’s true, we must immediately cease your physical training and enroll you in full-time seminary with your sister.”

Now it was Oriné’s turn to look horrified. All females were enrolled in full seminary, while the males only went in the morning for standard lessons; they were gone for physical training before noon. Even during that short time, Oriné couldn’t tolerate it and was often restless enough to cause his instructors intense grief. He found out that it could get him sent home early.

His father waded over and gave him a pat on the head, then touched foreheads with him. “Reconsidering your options?”

“Yes.”

He chuckled and picked him up again, though this time not as forcefully. His mother watched them, arms crossed, then brandished two pumice stones. “Come now,” she said. “Let’s get you two washed. We want you to be clean and ready for your brother’s return from Jisako.”

“Nothing can keep our family apart,” Orita murmured as he scrubbed his son’s head. “Not desert planets, not light years apart, nothing. Remember that, little one.”

——

Oriné started awake, immediately sitting up. “I remember!” he said, then realized where he was. Glancing around, he heard a persistent chiming noise. The door. “Enter,” he called out.

The deckhand came in. “We have just exited Slipspace and are awaiting clearance from the sentry fleet. We should be on High Charity within the hour.”

Briefly the groggy Elite Minor wondered why this Sangheili was being so kind to him, but it occurred to him that the crew might not know the reason for his urgent journey. They might think him to be more important than he actually was.

“Thank you,” he mumbled. The deckhand nodded and departed, leaving Oriné alone once more. He glanced around the room; it far less inviting than when he first came aboard, and much colder.

He looked sullenly at his discarded armor.

“I remember.”

——

After they docked, Oriné made to depart immediately, but the deckhand stopped him and handed him a Lumidex. “These are the coordinates you must report to,” he said, highlighting the appropriate section of the screen. “I recommend making haste; these orders have the seal of the Hierarchs on them.” The Elite Minor took note of that, seeing the intricate rune that signified the High Prophets’ interest in the matter.

There was no special transportation waiting for him this time, so all he could do was carry his trunk up the main gravity lift from the shipyards and struggle to find a place on a public gravity barge. The primary transit system for High Charity was packed, room only for standing. All Oriné could do was strap his trunk onto the cargo area on the side and hope that the magnets didn’t fail in mid-flight.

His destination was a dormitory located midway down the Lower Districts. Upon his arrival, he was directed by a Kig-Yar attendant to a suite on the third floor; a gravity elevator in the center of the building provided the lift he needed, sticking close to the outer ring of energy so that he did not move too quickly.

Once he found the door he was looking for, he opened it and saw his parents kneeling before a low table, talking over currently-empty bowls. He stepped inside and the door shut behind him.

Alsa looked up. “Oh, Oriné!” She got to her feet and crossed to him quickly, wrapping her arms around his armored frame. Oriné released his hold on the trunk and returned the embrace, feeling the slight tremors running through her shoulders; she was crying. When she released him, his father did the same, and afterwards he touched foreheads with them both.

“How was your journey?” Orita asked, pulling away.

“More comfortable than I had counted on,” the Elite Minor replied.

Alsa nodded. “This apartment was provided by the Council for us, while we stay for the trial.” She was very clearly distraught; her skin had lost its luster and her eyes were dull. It pained Oriné to see his parents in such a state. They looked ages older than they had been last time he saw them.

Orita touched his mate lightly on her arm. “We should go now.”

“Go where?” Oriné cocked his head.

“Your sister is on trial,” his mother answered. “Right now the Council of Masters is performing their initial interview. They will want us to be present, so that we may be questioned as well.” At first, Oriné was appalled before remembering that trial questioning did not involve the same processes that enemy interrogation did. I have been away from civilization for too long.

His parents dressed quickly, choosing formal and elegant robes, and led him outside. Oriné, still in his armor, followed them to a waiting area for the next gravity barge, and then took one bound for the Council chambers. It was less packed than the one from the docking spire had been, but still far from comfortable. The Elite Minor kept his eyes busy by watching other aircraft, taking especial notice of a pair of Prophets that hovered by on their thrones.

As they rode, his mother traced some of the deeper gashes in his armor. “By the rings,” she muttered, “I know the front is full of danger, but I never imagined those heretic weapons were strong enough to actually cause you harm. Have you been severely hurt?”

“No,” he replied, deigning not to inform her of his experience on Pearl or his more recent injury sustained on Sylvan. He had, however, gotten through Coppice with little more than a few scratches.

“If there were no danger,” his father said, “there would be no honor in fighting for the Covenant and the Forerunners.”

The Covenant that condemns Fulsa and the Forerunners who have forsaken her? Oriné wisely did not voice this opinion, especially because he was on public transportation with dozens of ears around him. His family did not need the burden of a second heresy charge among the first with a bit of treason thrown in. Even in private he would not have said this; his parents were devout believers. So was he, but this had thrown his mind into confusion.

They arrived at the location of the Council and entered the complex. A Sangheili in dignitary robes was standing in the antechamber. “You are the ‘Fulsam Lineage?”

Orita nodded. “We are.”

“The Council is interviewing your daughter in the amphitheater, not the main chamber,” the Sangheili explained. “Follow me.” They did so, trailing behind him as he led them down a sloping passage to a large door.

“Within is the Council of Masters,” he intoned. “Keep your peace and speak when you are spoken to.” At his signal the door slid apart and allowed them passage in. A great semi-circular room awaited them. Along the curving wall were three cascading rows of benches raised several meters off the floor where the Sangheili and Prophets who made up the Council of Masters sat, lit from behind by soft lighting; beneath them stood a dozen Honor Guards, standing at attention with their ceremonial pikes.

In the center, visible from all angles, was a pulpit. Upon it stood Fulsa, dressed in her finest Priestess splendor: gentle azure robes, beautifully detailed with jade, combined with the cool silver metal anklets and headdress made her appear a thing of beauty. Though the light from above was meant to be harsh and highlighting, it gave her the appearance of a divine messenger.

But as she turned to give a quick look at their entrance, Oriné could plainly see the sapphire energy band that snaked around her wrists, binding them together and keeping them immobile in front of her. Something snapped. Despite her beauty, the fact that she was a captive burned in his mind and moved his limbs without his permission. Before he realized what he was doing, he was already storming away from the quiet procession of his family and going right up to the pulpit. The councilors muttered excitedly amongst themselves as he stepped up on the raised platform and turned his harsh eyes against them all.

Fulsa was shocked. “Oriné, what are you—”

“Who dares?!” His bellowing voice cut her off and carried all across the room, echoing off the walls. He looked back and forth among them, eyes blazing. His gaze was so intense that even the Honor Guards who had begun to advance towards him paused in their approach. “Who among you would dare condemn my sister, a Priestess of the very Coven that communes with the Gods!”

A general silence fell over the assembly. Just as Oriné was about to launch into a tirade, he was pre-empted: “I did.” The voice, high and feminine, rang through the air as easily as his own, but that was not what made his hearts skip. He recognized the voice, but it had been so long since he had last heard it. Since then, it had become a phantom in his dreams, a quiet bell that tolled gently in his mind. Slowly he turned to the corner from which the voice had come.

She walked deliberately down the stairs, placing one slender hoof in front of the other. Her own Priestess vestments, identical to Fulsa’s, glittered in the light. Oriné felt his breath leave him, but found air enough in him for one word: “Ekla.”

“I heard her speak blasphemies in the very halls of the Great Temple, profaning the Gods with her vile tongue while standing in the shadow of the Holy Dreadnought,” said the daughter of Institution’s Head Master. She had gotten a bit taller and lither since Oriné had last seen her, dark as it had been in her apartment here in the Holy City. She continued, “Your sister spoke against the Grand Design.”

Oriné bristled, but he had been taken off-guard by her appearance. That she was the one to accuse her sister of heresy was too much for him.

Suddenly the Honor Guards were flanking him. “Escort him out,” said the presiding Judge. “He will wait outside under guard until such a time as he is called for.” Grudgingly, Oriné allowed the red-and-gold armored Sangheili to bring him out of the amphitheater, though his head was reeling.

——

He was called back in a couple of hours later, after his entire family had been questioned and interviewed. When he went in, he saw his mother and father standing on the left side of the door and his sister under guard on the right. Again he fumed internally, but not half so hard as when he saw Ekla standing beneath the Council. His escorts led him up to the pulpit; he stepped up and looked at the Council.

“Elite Minor Oriné ‘Fulsamee,” began the Judge. Oriné did not know him, and at the moment he didn’t particularly care. The combined stress of Fulsa’s arrest and Ekla’s presence was making him feel defiant. He held his mandibles, though, not wishing to be held in contempt. “Your outburst earlier and past history with Head Master ‘Eklatee’s daughter aside, your record is quite impressive.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Oriné said, his mandibles feeling tight. His eyes scanned over the assembled councilors and saw a familiar face. Yarna’s father was among the politicians overseeing this trial; he wondered if the High Councilor had understood who the condemned was, or if he even remembered Oriné from their brief meeting at the Ceremony of Appellation.

“Your war record, though brief, speaks of your devotion to the Forerunners and to the Covenant,” the Judge went on. “I assume you know your basic scriptures?”

“I went to war academy at Institution,” replied Oriné. “Memorization of basic scriptures is required for attendance, and in-depth study of the Divinidex for Commencement as a warrior is also necessary.”

The Judge’s smile was quick and cruel. “I’m aware. Would you care to recite in detail the third passage of the Final Ceremony of the Great Journey?”

For a moment, Oriné hesitated. Was it really that simple? At seminary he had learned it and was forced to commit it to heart. Any Sangheili bound for Jisako knew it by rote. Still, a ranking Councilor had demanded it of him. He cleared his throat:

“And when the seven rings are lit
So will those who lit them be
As Gods they will rise and ascend
Glorified, and full of Honor to join
Those who have gone before and soared.”

Again the Judge gave his unsettling smile. “Spoken with conviction.” A few of the Councilors shot unkind stares over Oriné’s shoulder; he turned and saw Fulsa with her head bowed. What is the meaning behind this?

One of the Councilors nodded his head towards Oriné. “As the respectable Judge has observed, your combat history is short but quite remarkable. You served on Pearl in the S’gor Legion, Divine Unit, correct?”

“That is correct.”

“And your entire Unit, sans yourself, was killed?”

Oriné heard a gasp of horror from behind him and knew it was his mother. “That is true. They died in a human ambush, but prior to their fall they all fought honorably. I am aware of that much.”

The Councilor tapped a finger against his mandible while another spoke up. “Pearl was a difficult campaign. Many of our noble warriors were lost to cold and sickness, not to mention the cowardly and guerilla tactics of the humans. It was almost a full year of fighting before we were able to destroy that heretic world.”

“But we must remember,” said yet another, “the warrior ‘Fulsamee was only present for a few weeks.”

“They were the harshest weeks of the battle, so the reports say,” countered an older Sangheili. “It is a testament to his character that he, thrust into such adverse conditions straight from Institution, was able to triumph so.”

“Yet he did not come straight from Institution,” said one of the earlier speakers, “but from Devil’s Gulag, a dishonorable posting if I have ever heard of one.”

So this is how it goes, Oriné realized, watching them talk back and forth, the others nodding and whispering to each other. Lines of support are being drawn, at least for myself, if not for my family, if not for Fulsa. He felt a degree more comfortable knowing that he had some friends, though clearly not many. The staunchest allies of either side were the ones talking; the others were either easily swayed or of little consequence.

“Please,” scoffed one, “the narrow-minded petty retribution of ‘Eklatee should be discounted entirely.” Oriné saw Ekla shift her weight, clearly agitated by the casual dismissal of her father’s will. It was little consolation, but it gave the Elite Minor some semblance of satisfaction.

“Not entirely. The young one earned a very distinguished marking while there, a very clear indication of his valor and favor in the Gods. They saw a tool that could be of use killing heretics and gave him an opportunity for redemption, which he took.”

“That is strong evidence of divine watchfulness of his family,” said one of the Prophets, the first of his kind present to say anything here. Though their species was frail by nature, they formed the divine core of the Covenant, having been the ones to talk the Sangheili out of further war with messages of salvation from the long-vanished Forerunners. The Sangheili had not been undeveloped at that time; in fact, they had been space-worthy already, with most of their empire staked before the War of Fortune. Of course, “Prophet” was the Covenant title. Their species’ real name, the San ‘Shyuum, could not be uttered, as it was considered too holy for any other caste to speak.

There was a prolonged moment of silence as all contemplated the Prophet Councilor’s statement. Finally, the Judge made a motion. “Your next campaign was on Coppice, yes?”

“Yes, my lord,” said Oriné, bowing his head as he said so.

“Again, difficult fighting.”

“I was among a brave and skilled unit.”

“Yes,” the Judge intoned, dragging out the word. “High Councilor ‘Orgalmae, your son is a member of Faithful Unit, is he not?”

‘Orgalmae straightened in his seat, situated three chairs from the Judge’s right hand. An honorable position. “He is, esteemed Judge,” he said, “though I have not heard from him in some time.”

Another High Councilor, situated almost exactly opposite ‘Orgalmae, gave a deep chuckle. “And your son would never consort with the family members of heretics, is this also so?”

Oriné cocked his head in curiosity. A display of internal politics, perhaps? Such outbursts should be better controlled, and obviously the Judge agreed. Just as ‘Orgalmae was rising, hand going for his energy sword, the Judge stood and bellowed for silence. “You will be mindful of your places, Councilors!” His voice was stern, eyes darting from one to the other. “High Councilor ‘Orgalmae’s son is not present, for questioning or otherwise, and neither has Fulsa of Sam been found guilty of heresy. You will, the both of you, stand down. Any further breaches of conduct shall be met with reprimands of your offices.” Reluctantly the two settled themselves.

The Judge cleared his throat. “I apologize, warrior, for that interruption. We wish to conclude this interview was quickly as possible.” He motioned to the other Councilors. “Continue.”

As the discussion of his record went on, Oriné found it unnerving that they were willing to conduct such third-person investigation into his experiences with second-hand reports. Why do they not simply ask me questions? Usually when their voices were directed at him, it was for confirmation, a simple yes or no answer required. They moved from the additional hardships of Coppice to the relative ease of his post on Sylvan, all the while debating the significance of the Forerunners in his life.

So it was that, when a Prophet asked him, “Did any of your experiences on these assignments, either on the gulag or the front line, give you any reason to question the Forerunners? Did your faith ever waiver?”, he was unprepared for an immediate response. It took him a moment to gather his thoughts.

“The fighting was difficult,” conceded Oriné, “and there were many times when, sheltered by the Grand Design as we were, fear gripped our hearts, fear of an imminent end. Comfort as the Great Journey is, our dedication to the Covenant made us reluctant to give our lives that, if lived, could bring so much more honor to the Forerunners.”

Murmurs of approval rippled through the assembly, like wildfire through the Sangheili and even trickling in amongst the Prophets. “And of the Gods?” asked the same Prophet. “Were you devoted to them in these times of hardship?”

Oriné took a deep breath. “When patrolling an uncertain forest in the dead of a moonless night with my squadron leader, when huddled in the muddy trenches of a heretic world with a dozen warriors I did not know, when trapped under fire behind a tree and a damaged vehicle with your son, High Excellency ‘Orgalmae, we depended only on each other. But in all those instances, and all those not mentioned, the only prayers we made went to the Gods in the Divinidex.”

There were several moments of silence as his impromptu speech sank into the assembled Councilors. At last, the Judge nodded. “Well said. This brings to conclusion the interview and questioning of all pertinent subjects. Further summons, as necessary, will be made individually. Fulsa of Sam, Priestess of the First Circle, will be held in jail without visitation; the ‘Fulsam Lineage may not leave the city, but is otherwise free to journey about as they see fit.”

The Judge stood. “The trial will take place in a fortnight.”

——

The Council of Masters filed out of some unseen exit, but Oriné, having guessed the layout of the building, anticipated where a majority of them would pass through. Deeper into the tower were the individual offices of each Councilor, but Oriné found the one he was looking for before he passed into an explicitly restricted area.

“High Excellency ‘Orgalmae!” he called out. The Councilor looked up and saw him; he made some gesture to the other politicians nearby and sent them away.

“Young Oriné ‘Fulsamee,” the older Sangheili intoned.

“I was not expecting you to be here, my lord,” Oriné said, bowing low. “I understood your home and primary office was on Sanghelios.”

“I was here on unrelated business,” came the rumbling reply. “I was two days away from departing when I got word of your sister’s plight. I stayed, and was wounded when your father did not ask me for help. But by then I was already embroiled in the matter and could not have left if I had the desire to.”

Oriné was confused. He recalled the brusque, infuriating encounter between his sire and Yarna’s during the Ceremony of Appellation. “My lord?”

‘Orgalmae sighed. “When I was serving on Doisac, in the final days of the Jiralhanae resistance, my entire Legion was trapped. We had been cut off from our supply lines, my armored units were either annihilated or out of fuel for the fusion cores, and food was scarce. A mentality like that of the Kig-Yar was beginning to appear very appealing.” Oriné suppressed a grimace. The Jackals were in the habit of eating the dead, whether theirs or another’s made little difference.

“Relief came,” continued the Councilor, “when one brazen, stubborn Ship Commander by the name of ‘Fulsamee defied Fleet Master ‘Vadumee’s orders and plunged his ship into the atmosphere. He risked destruction from the anti-orbital cannons the Jiralhanae possessed, or boarding by their crude flyers, yet when he heard our plea for assistance he did not hesitate. He used pulse lasers to fend off the advancing armies while he had Spirits deliver as many supplies to us as possible before he was forced to retreat. I owe him my life, though I am loathing admitting it.”

The Elite Minor tried to speak, but could not bring himself to ask why the Councilor, then, had acted so on Sanghelios. Seeing the warrior’s difficulty, ‘Orgalmae cocked his head. “You wonder why I was so harsh to him after both his son and mine returned, close as brothers, from Jisako?” He stepped closer and lowered his voice. “I do not care for your Lineage. Your name, both given and House, is that of a merchant caste. And while your father behaved valiantly, honorably, he disregarded the orders of a vastly superior officer. If the Fleet Master had contacted me, told me that I had to perish, either by combat or starvation, I would not have blinked. I would have accepted the order. I was already prepared to.”

Again, Oriné felt anger boil within him, but duller this time. “Then why did you want my father to ask you for help?”

“Because I do hate owing anybody anything,” the Councilor said gruffly, and then turned and began to stalk away. Oriné watched him go for a while.

“Your son is fine,” he called out. The silver armored figure halted. “Yarna is healthy and safe. He is on leave on Unifying Faith. I will tell him to send you a communiqué as soon as he is able.” For a moment, it looked like the Councilor would come back, or turn around, or do something; but then he continued, veering off into another hallway and leaving Oriné’s line of sight.

——

Oriné excused himself from the company of his parents, saying he had some matters that needed attending. Orita and Alsa, exhausted already, did not think to question him; instead they took their leave as well and made for their assigned dormitory. The barges were packed at this time, clerks and attendants of the various offices returning to their homes in the Lower Districts, so the bonded pair decided instead to walk. Orita hoped that the scenery would give his mind distraction, but to his increasing distaste he found it only reminded him more of his doomed daughter.

Would that I could trade places with you, he lamented in his mind. No one would miss a Sangheili such as me. I’ve done more to deserve it than you, sweet child. But there was nothing he could do.

They walked the avenues in silence for a while until Alsa spoke up. “You did not tell him.”

It wasn’t a question, but it was an observation Orita had been waiting for. “No, I did not.”

His mate sighed. “Don’t you think he should know?”

“Yes,” he replied, “but not now. Perhaps not for a while.”

“Why?”

Orita rolled the thought around in his mind first, testing it for holes. He was satisfied. “Oriné has much to worry about,” he said. “Surviving his battles, first of all, this is why I did not have them send word of Fulsa before his leave. Second, he must focus on living his own life, looking for prospective mates and planning for his own family when the time comes. These must be his concerns, not of us, not of home.”

Alsa was silent for a while longer. She looked out into the road, appearing very vulnerable. His mate knew it was true, but obviously she wished she could coddle him again. That was why, of course, they had done what they did.

“I didn’t know about the Head Master’s daughter,” she said, cradling her elbow.

“Nor did I,” responded Orita. “Perhaps he was ashamed?”

“Perhaps he did not want to be hopeful.”

“Perhaps.”

Their apartment building was in sight. They walked the rest of the distance in a controlled silence, holding their peace until they were in the common room of their temporary home. As soon as it was shut and sealed, however, Alsa broke down. Orita held her close, letting her tears fall onto his robe.

“Gods, Orita! What will we do?” she sobbed. “Even if Fulsa is found innocent, she will be ruined.”

“If that happens,” he said in a soft voice, “then we will take her back to Sanghelios. There is no shame in that, and she could still find a loving mate in the fields. Agriculture is a noble and humble thing; our people’s history is entwined with it.”

She continued to sob. “How could this happen?” she croaked.

“I do not know,” Orita said gravely, “but I believe that, by the end, we will.”

——

This section of the city was still intimately familiar to Oriné. He recalled his week-long wanderings as a Rank Two Junior with sharp accuracy. Things hadn’t changed much around here, but from his understanding they rarely did: the holy city was a place of stability. The Council of Concordance was known to give aid to shop owners who were struggling, just so the economy would remain strong, or at least seem that way.

So it was that Oriné found the apartment he had been looking for, and with his armor on few people even bothered giving him a second glance. The honor markings on its surface garnered a respectful distance. He ascended the gravity lift to the proper balcony and swept aside the curtains leading in.

She was not yet home, so he crossed to the rear wall, pressed himself into a shadowy alcove, and turned on his active camouflage. He did not have extensive training with it and had not had much occurrence to make use of it, but he knew the properties well enough to know that it worked almost flawlessly in darker areas. He waited.

Finally, perhaps an hour later, she ascended the gravity lift alone. Good, he thought. He did not want this to become too complicated.

Ekla stepped into her apartment and shrugged off the shawl she had been wearing. She was still dressed in her Priestess robes, but she quickly discarded the headdress in a manner hardly befitting a noblewoman such as herself. He noticed that her movements were more forceful that necessary, strangely theatrical, but not because she suspected that he was here.

“Upset?” His voice, deeper than he had thought it was, rumbled across the room. The female Sangheili jumped, turning rapidly towards the sound of his voice. He stepped out of the shadows, decloaking as he went. “I wondered if I would ever see you again.”

Ekla sighed, putting a dainty hand to her chest. She was breathing heavily. “Oriné,” she said, “you scared me.”

He cocked his head and clicked his mandibles. No humor. “What is your design here, Ekla?”

She shook her head and began to walk towards him. “I’m not scheming here, love,” she cooed, drawing nearer. “I have missed you so...” She reached a hand out to place against his breastplate, but she never made contact. Oriné grabbed her wrist with lightning speed and pulled it away. The Priestess let out a sharp grunt of pain.

“No diversion,” he growled.

Her attitude changed instantly. “Who do you think you are?!” she cried, pulling to get her arm free.

“Who do you think you are?” Oriné gave her a shove and she stumbled back onto the pile of plush cushions on the floor. He had no intent to harm her, but neither was he planning on being particularly gentle. “If you wish to strike at me, do as you wish, but you should not have involved my sister!”

A dark look nested in Ekla’s face. “Don’t flatter yourself,” she barked. “This was not some attempt at attacking you or your family. This is a true declaration of your sister’s unholy ways.”

That made Oriné pause a moment. “Explain.”

“I was in the temple when your sister approached me,” began Ekla. “I knew of her, but never much cared to develop a kinship. I knew that she loved to study the original scripture, pouring over it every night, often staying in the Holy Library until the end of the night cycle. And I knew that she had recently become quite interested in the texts concerning the Great Journey.”

“How did you know this?”

“Hearsay,” she said, settling herself into a more comfortable posture. “The cleric in charge of the library repeatedly spoke of how she spent much time with those volumes. She even publicly declared her intent to become one of the Chosen Elect.” Oriné was unfamiliar with the Coven, but understood that the Chosen Elect were the priestesses and clerics who were supposed to lead the souls of the Covenant when the Great Journey began.

Ekla continued, “She approached me, weeks after she began her studies, and took me aside. She told me horrible, evil things about the Journey, things I could not believe. About darkness and death, of demons and parasites. I could not believe my ears. I felt sullied by her very presence. I fled from her and told High Priestess Nalja of her heresy.”

“She came to you in confidence!” Oriné roared. The priestess cowered at his feet. “Likely she had stumbled across something she did not understand and was seeking guidance from her peer!”

She sat straighter, but still she trembled and her voice when she spoke was not as strong as it had been a moment before. “She spoke with certainty and conviction.”

The urge to strike her was overwhelming, but Oriné stayed his hand. He was already pushing the boundaries of illegality by having intruded in her home; he would be lucky if she did not report him as it was. If he inflicted harm upon her, however, likely he would be arrested and thrown in jail. Assaulting a holy practitioner of the Coven was a serious offense, even heresy.

But what is heresy to me?

He turned to leave, but paused before the doorway. There was something on his mind, something he knew he shouldn’t ask, but he had to. He looked back. “What was our time together for you?”

“A fling,” she said flippantly. “A brief and foolish affair. Had I known you were so naïve, so easily attached, I would have left you for the Jiralhanae back on Institution. You looked good, but you weren’t worth the trouble you caused me, warrior.” The words hurt, more than he had anticipated, but now at least he knew the truth.

“May the Gods damn you, then, priestess.” With that, he stepped onto the balcony and into the gravity lift, riding it down to street level.

Description
Chapter 11: Heresy

“Make way!” Oriné ‘Fulsamee’s bellowing voice carried far down the hallway, and everyone who heard it pressed themselves against the bulkheads. Three haggard soot-stained Sangheili warriors barreled down the corridor; between Yarna ‘Orgalmee and Oriné was held a badly wounded Rabu ‘Cklovee. Two pairs of booted hooves clanged against the deck as the third dragged, rivulets of blood trailing down and smearing against the polished floor.

“Cursed creatures!” Rabu howled, head thrashing about, sending droplets of violet liquid every which way. They splattered against the already numerous stains on his companions’ combat harnesses. “I will wrench their very skulls from their heads, and then strike their souls to Hell with them!”

“It strikes me as impossible to kill someone with their own skull... step aside!” Yarna elbowed a Kig-Yar out of the way none too gently, slamming it face-first into the wall. It rebounded but managed to keep its balance, jabbering unknowable curses through its damaged snout. The trio simply continued on their way.

“I will find a way,” Rabu murmured. His motions were slowing. Oriné realized he was going into shock. There is not much time, he thought; saying it out loud would not help his friend resist his own body’s attempts at salvation. Directly ahead, however, he could see the medical bay.

The door parted swiftly enough that they didn’t need to break their stride. “Healer!” Yarna called, and almost instantly a Sangheili in blue armor with white markings was with them.

“There is a bed over here,” he said, motioning to an empty gel bed. “Lay him down.” Gently, but with haste, the two Elite Minors spread him out on the soft material. Immediately the Healer brought up the holographic controls, setting the bed to scanning his vitals while he gestured to an Unggoy with a depository of tools. “What happened to him?”

Oriné looked at the gaping abdominal wound. Amidst the blood and viscera, he could see his friend’s vital organs beneath the torn skin. “During evacuation the humans were shelling us,” he said, recalling the rocky, mountainous terrain they had been on just a short while ago. “We were just boarding a Spirit when one landed close by and filled the air with stone. He was the closest to the impact.”

By now the Grunt Healer had arrived and the Sangheili had selected an injector. The medical suite, having calculated Rabu’s vitals, opened a compartment nearby from which he selected a vial filled with a clear liquid. Prepping the injector, the Healer bent over the half-conscious warrior. “This is a strong anesthetic,” he said, pressing the device against Rabu’s upper arm and squeezing the contact. “You will be unconscious for quite a while.” The wounded soldier looked ready to protest, but the drug took effect immediately and his eyes rolled back and he went still. The steady pulsing of the hologram belied his deathly state.

“Will he be all right?” asked Yarna.

The Healer gave the wound a closer appraisal. “There is severe tissue and intestinal damage, possibly more than I can see from here if the shrapnel splintered any more inside him. It’s possible the stone fragmented inside and ricocheted off his ribcage. However, for now it looks like it missed his lung and his spine is intact.” He looked up at the two idling warriors. “I must insist that you leave. I will need all the space I have available.” They assented, leaving after a final look and a quick prayer.

As the door to the medical bay closed behind them, Yarna touched foreheads with Oriné. “Do not fear, my friend; I do not think you will have to deliver any news to his honorable parents any time soon.”

The younger Sangheili shook his head. It had been a year since his visit to Joyous Exultation, when he delivered news of Hada ‘Sobotee’s death to the deceased warrior’s father. His mother had looked on, but did not come in, instead keeping Hada’s hatchling sister occupied. The child could not have been more than two years of age.

A whole year and two campaigns; first on the outer colony Coppice, then the forested moon called Sylvan. They had both been trying fights for survival, but Oriné triumphed and came out alive each time. Coppice had been an agricultural center with a long rainy season, most of which Faithful Unit had spent holed up in a muddy trench, pushing against the strong human armored defenses. When the S’gor Legion was finally rotated out they were dropped almost immediately on Sylvan, where the Covenant had been searching for what a cruiser’s luminary reported as a Reliquary. Though they had captured most of the planet in their search, dealing with the humans’ guerilla warfare tactics was a frightening experience. Faithful Unit had been ordered into the thick, dark forests more than once, and most of the time barely got out with their lives. Oriné had seen more Grunts die there than on Pearl and Coppice combined.

Now, however, the entire legion was up for shore leave, barring a sudden wartime development. And based on the overall pace of the war, Oriné doubted such an occurrence would happen. The Transcendent Voyager had been selected for glassing duty, but afterwards was bound for the world Unifying Faith. It was a devout colony, with only a small sector dedicated to farming. By and large it was a merchant planet, meaning significant presence of many of the Covenant client races; but for Sangheili warriors with a month of shore leave it had another attraction: females. Unifying Faith was renowned for its beautiful, holy dancers, known as saitarelé. Saitarelé were culled from Sangheili applicants all over Covenant space. After the daughters of distinguished Clans were brought to appropriate houses, called saitarels, only the most beautiful and graceful among them were chosen. They were then put through a rigorous process that rivaled those used to select priestesses and clerics. Once they were finished, they came out as shapely and capable ecclesiastics, using smooth, sultry body language to tell tales of valor on the battlefield, recreate the legends of Forerunners, or just to entertain at high-level banquets and promotion ceremonies.

The odds that an Elite Minor would be invited to such an occasion were astronomical, but still they dreamed.

However, as excited as Oriné was to see the saitarelé, he wished to have the opportunity to see his family again.

By now the two warriors had reached their armory. It was shared between Faithful and Solemn Units, but as the door swished open they saw most had already come and gone. Only two individuals remained, one from Solemn Unit and the other Enma ‘Gubotee, the newest member of Faithful Unit. After Coppice, Toro ‘Bodnolee had indeed been promoted to Major and transferred to another ship; at first Oriné was going to take control of his lance, but ‘Gubotee was transferred in and took them instead.

The young warrior, already down to his dermo-suit, looked up at their entry. “Rabu?” he asked, expectant.

“He will be fine,” assured Yarna. “He will just be late for the festivities on Unifying Faith.” The two crossed over to the containers fitted into the wall. First they disarmed, dumping their weapons into a repository bin that soon slid into the wall and gave a contented beep. After that they began to strip off and clean their armor using brushes and gelstones. As he went, Oriné inspected each piece, looking for signs of critical failure; if he found serious enough damage, he would send the component to reclamation to be broken down and recycled.

He remembered after his first campaign on Pearl, when his entire combat harness had been reclaimed. The fighting on Coppice and Sylvan had been considerable, but both combined hadn’t been as stressful, on his hardware or his mind, as that frozen world had been. Often he overheard more experienced veterans commenting how Pearl had been the worst they had seen; Oriné just wondered how the humans had managed to establish a colony there. The more he fought, the more he realized how versatile they were, capable of adapting to situations that most Sangheili would have just written off as lost.

Oriné finished with his helmet and was in the process of undoing his mandible guards when the door to the armory opened. Turning, the three Elites saw Major Olah ‘Seroumee standing there, studying them. Oriné and Yarna straightened up, but only nodded hello; Enma jumped to his feet and saluted so intensely that Oriné feared he would strain something.

Olah eyed the new recruit, clicked his mandibles, and then set his gaze on Oriné. “You have a transmission,” he said simply, then turned and walked out of the armory and back into the halls. ‘Gubotee looked bewildered, but Yarna and Oriné knew that Olah was like that: detached, official, and seemingly without a heart. They knew his apparent lack of concern for Rabu was because he likely stopped by the medical bay to check on him before going to the armory.

However, Oriné’s mind was elsewhere. Why would he have a transmission? Though many times he had wished to send a message back to Sanghelios, his priority level was very low; non-combatants had even lower priority, so who would bother, or be able, to send him a communiqué?

For a moment, he entertained the thought that it was Orna. Being a Ship Master, he could theoretically have enough priority to contact his little brother, but why would he? They hadn’t spoken since he had returned from Jisako. It wasn’t for any lost love, but instead because both were incredibly busy.

Among all of this, Oriné decided, one fact was clear: it would be rude to keep the sender waiting. Standing up, he nodded his farewells to his comrades and left the armory, finding the nearest gravity lift and riding it to the command deck. He walked past the bridge on his way to the transmission room and took the opportunity to peek through the grating. Nothing was very visible, but he saw movement of gold armor within. Just as he began to continue on his way the door opened and the Ship Commander stepped out. Instantly Oriné went rigid, saluting and bowing, as was the custom when in the presence of an astronomically superior officer. The commander simply nodded and continued on his way.

When he reached the transmission room, Oriné walked up to the Elite Minor on duty. “Oriné ‘Fulsamee,” he told him, and the keeper nodded, pointing him to a small screen located in an open, ovaloid chamber. Oriné stepped in and a force field snapped into life behind him, offering some semblance of privacy. He keyed in his acceptance code and watched as the screen fuzzed for a moment and resolved into the familiar face of an older, tired looking Sangheili.

“Father,” Oriné said, startled. How had he obtained priority enough to send this?

“Oriné,” said Orita. He sounded very weary, strained even, as if he had slept very little in several days. “I trust you are well.”

“I am,” the younger ‘Fulsamee said. “How are you? And mother?”

There was hesitation in his father’s tone. “We have been better. I assume you are wondering why we are calling you so?”

Oriné nodded.

“I am unsure how to say this, but I must be concise: your sister has been accused of heresy.” It took a moment for the Elite Minor to understand the words, but when he did it felt like someone had just smashed him in the chest with a pendulum. His mind felt like it was full of mire. Heresy was a dire charge; just to imply such a thing was damaging to one’s honor, but being outright accused of it was like a death sentence. Even those few who were found innocent were sullied for the rest of their lives, their families spoken of in harsh, quiet whispers over goblets in banquets.

Still, because of this, Oriné knew there were channels to be followed so that such a harsh allegation could not be given lightly. “There must be a mistake,” he said, though with less fervor than he had intended. “Fulsa is a devout and faithful priestess. This charge must be contested.”

“We did,” said Orita. “The moment it was levied, your mother and I censured, but the one who accused her has far higher connections than we do. None of the politicians or clerics I was able to persuade could denounce the charges.”

Oriné’s mandibles slackened. At first he was filled with rage: there had already been time for censuring and gathering support? Why was I not told of this sooner?! Such processes took months of debate and communication. By now the charges were official. Soon, though, his burning fury was dulled: of course he could not be reached. Until this very day he had been entrenched in battle, unable to return even if he had been aware of these proceedings. Still, he wished he had known. Perhaps he could have found somebody to help...

The Elite Minor forced himself into composure. “What is happening now?”

“Arrangements are being made for her trial. It will take place before the Council of Masters on High Charity.” Oriné winced, but knew this was proper. Charges of heresy among military or religious offices had to be brought before the Council of Masters and the Hierarchs. His sister, as a Priestess of the First Circle, was in a high enough position that this accusation was damaging not only to her own reputation and her family’s, but to the Covenant at large. If she was found guilty of heresy, the fact that the Covenant had passed such an individual into the ranks of their holy practitioners would lead to dishonor among many. Any individual who had confessed to Fulsa would need be reevaluated lest they were truly heretical and she only passed them due to her own darkness.

Even if she is found innocent, Oriné realized, she will likely lose her position.

Orita continued, “Your mother and I are en-route to the holy city now. A courier vessel should find its way to your location soon to carry you back as well.”

“What of Orna? Will he be coming?”

“No. We could not reach him. We are blessed to have contacted you.”

Blessed? I find it hard to believe anything of our family is blessed anymore. “Very well, I will see you soon.” Oriné touched his bare forehead to the screen; hundreds of light-years away, his father did the same. The transmission cut out.

Oriné slumped against the wall. Everything had just changed. Where once there were thoughts of saitarelé, now there was only concern. Concern, fear, confusion, and anger. Why? Fulsa had done nothing to deserve this. Prior to his deployment on Coppice, he had been poking about on the Com Net and found a report about a new First Circle priestess, Fulsa of Sam, and her diligent studies in the Forerunners language. In the report a Third Circle priestess had praised his sister for her ingenuity, saying that if anyone showed potential to develop a full codex later in life it was Fulsa.

How, in the space of a year, had she gone from promising legacy to reviled heretic?

Collecting himself, Oriné left the communications chamber and made his way back to the armory. Yarna and Enma were still there, chatting idly about their leave. Oriné sat down in front of his container and continued his dress-down, as if he had never left. It was a few minutes before he became aware of a pressing silence; turning, he saw the two of them looking intently at him.

“Well?” asked Yarna.

“I think,” Oriné began, suddenly finding it difficult to talk, “that I will not be accompanying you to Unifying Faith.” It hit him then, the full force of what was happening, what was about to happen. Unable to contain it, he doubled over, put his face in his gauntleted hands, and wept bitterly.

Though they didn’t know what was going on, his two friends comforted him.

——

The courier ship arrived later that day. Ordinarily, a journey from High Charity to the front line would have taken a day or two in Slipspace, but couriers were designed to navigate the ebbs and flows of the eleventh dimension with speed and agility. By the time it came up on the port side, Oriné was ready: his meager belongings were packed into a small trunk. He still wore his armor, though he had cleaned it thoroughly. It was mostly presentable, except for a few deep scratches that could not be repaired; he would have liked a new set for this trip, but none could be afforded him. While the warriors were on leave, the ship would restock its supplies and materials as well.

Yarna saw him off from the hangar as a Spirit waited. They touched foreheads. “Good luck,” the slightly older Sangheili said. “I will woo a dancer for you while you’re gone. She’ll be waiting for your return.”

“Thank you,” Oriné said and smiled, though it felt hollow.

Once he transferred over to the ship, the Relentless, he was guided to his quarters. It was a single room with all the basic amenities, including, much to Oriné’s surprise, a bath. Courier ships needed less than two dozen to crew them, Oriné understood, so despite the lack of glory in their tasks those who served on them were treated very well.

The deckhand who got him settled informed him that the water was heated and recycled every hour. He went on to say their expected arrival at High Charity was in ten hours. Plenty of time for bathing and sleeping, the Elite Minor decided. He left his things in one corner of the room, disrobed, and eased himself into the small pool. The warmth rushed over him and an exhilarating feeling of luxury swept through his mind. It had been a long time since he had a true bath.

Still, try as he might he could not properly enjoy it. His thoughts were occupied too much by his doomed sister and the anguish she and their parents must be feeling. After scrubbing himself down with a pumice stone, taking care to avoid a fresh scar on his leg caused by the same incident that had so wounded poor Rabu, he stepped out of the bath, dried himself, and lay down in the military standard gel bed.

——

Fulsa swept her hand through the water, sending a high, arcing wave right into Oriné’s face. Sputtering, the young Sangheili scowled and shoved the water back; however, he lacked the natural grace of his sister and only succeeded in sending up a light spray. His twin laughed, and despite himself Oriné smiled.

The public baths of Lomak were spacious, meant to accommodate far more people than were currently present. Only a few families were there, giving the two children more than enough room to splash around. Nearby, their mother looked annoyed.

“Behave yourselves,” she cautioned them.

Their father surfaced nearby, shaking his head from side to side and sending water droplets everywhere. “Do as your mother says,” he said, running a hand over his neck, “or we will be forced to drown you and make another set. Don’t think we can’t; we can make them just like you.”

“Paolu, you wouldn’t!” Fulsa cried, genuinely horrified. Beside her, though, Oriné puffed up his chest.

“I can hold my breath for eight minutes!” he said. “You would not be able to hold me under long enough to drown me!”

Smiling, the elder Sangheili lunged through the water and caught the young crècheling up in his arms, making him giggle. “Can’t I?” Orita asked in a faux-menacing voice. Oriné squirmed and kicked, trying to get free. His little hoof caught his father in the side; Orita let out a gasp of pain and loosened his grip, allowing the young Sangheili the opportunity to kick off his stomach and plow into the water.

“Oriné!” his mother yelled, “How could you do that!” She hurried over to her mate who was doubled over, clutching his side.

The little crècheling went pale. He had forgotten about his father’s wound. As he tried to stammer out an apology, Orita gave a rasping chuckle and straightened himself up as best he could. “He did fine,” he assured his mate. “He struck where he knew his opponent was weak, but did not push such an unfair advantage more than he had to. Oriné will be a capable warrior one day.”

“What about me?” Fulsa hurried over to the source of the excitement.

“Not a warrior, little one,” Alsa said, “but a devoted priestess of the faith.”

“Could I be a... a priestess too, Maulo?” Oriné struggled with the long word, but saw approval in his mother’s eyes as he managed it.

His father, however, burst out laughing. “If that is what you truly wish,” he chuckled. “But if that’s true, we must immediately cease your physical training and enroll you in full-time seminary with your sister.”

Now it was Oriné’s turn to look horrified. All females were enrolled in full seminary, while the males only went in the morning for standard lessons; they were gone for physical training before noon. Even during that short time, Oriné couldn’t tolerate it and was often restless enough to cause his instructors intense grief. He found out that it could get him sent home early.

His father waded over and gave him a pat on the head, then touched foreheads with him. “Reconsidering your options?”

“Yes.”

He chuckled and picked him up again, though this time not as forcefully. His mother watched them, arms crossed, then brandished two pumice stones. “Come now,” she said. “Let’s get you two washed. We want you to be clean and ready for your brother’s return from Jisako.”

“Nothing can keep our family apart,” Orita murmured as he scrubbed his son’s head. “Not desert planets, not light years apart, nothing. Remember that, little one.”

——

Oriné started awake, immediately sitting up. “I remember!” he said, then realized where he was. Glancing around, he heard a persistent chiming noise. The door. “Enter,” he called out.

The deckhand came in. “We have just exited Slipspace and are awaiting clearance from the sentry fleet. We should be on High Charity within the hour.”

Briefly the groggy Elite Minor wondered why this Sangheili was being so kind to him, but it occurred to him that the crew might not know the reason for his urgent journey. They might think him to be more important than he actually was.

“Thank you,” he mumbled. The deckhand nodded and departed, leaving Oriné alone once more. He glanced around the room; it far less inviting than when he first came aboard, and much colder.

He looked sullenly at his discarded armor.

“I remember.”

——

After they docked, Oriné made to depart immediately, but the deckhand stopped him and handed him a Lumidex. “These are the coordinates you must report to,” he said, highlighting the appropriate section of the screen. “I recommend making haste; these orders have the seal of the Hierarchs on them.” The Elite Minor took note of that, seeing the intricate rune that signified the High Prophets’ interest in the matter.

There was no special transportation waiting for him this time, so all he could do was carry his trunk up the main gravity lift from the shipyards and struggle to find a place on a public gravity barge. The primary transit system for High Charity was packed, room only for standing. All Oriné could do was strap his trunk onto the cargo area on the side and hope that the magnets didn’t fail in mid-flight.

His destination was a dormitory located midway down the Lower Districts. Upon his arrival, he was directed by a Kig-Yar attendant to a suite on the third floor; a gravity elevator in the center of the building provided the lift he needed, sticking close to the outer ring of energy so that he did not move too quickly.

Once he found the door he was looking for, he opened it and saw his parents kneeling before a low table, talking over currently-empty bowls. He stepped inside and the door shut behind him.

Alsa looked up. “Oh, Oriné!” She got to her feet and crossed to him quickly, wrapping her arms around his armored frame. Oriné released his hold on the trunk and returned the embrace, feeling the slight tremors running through her shoulders; she was crying. When she released him, his father did the same, and afterwards he touched foreheads with them both.

“How was your journey?” Orita asked, pulling away.

“More comfortable than I had counted on,” the Elite Minor replied.

Alsa nodded. “This apartment was provided by the Council for us, while we stay for the trial.” She was very clearly distraught; her skin had lost its luster and her eyes were dull. It pained Oriné to see his parents in such a state. They looked ages older than they had been last time he saw them.

Orita touched his mate lightly on her arm. “We should go now.”

“Go where?” Oriné cocked his head.

“Your sister is on trial,” his mother answered. “Right now the Council of Masters is performing their initial interview. They will want us to be present, so that we may be questioned as well.” At first, Oriné was appalled before remembering that trial questioning did not involve the same processes that enemy interrogation did. I have been away from civilization for too long.

His parents dressed quickly, choosing formal and elegant robes, and led him outside. Oriné, still in his armor, followed them to a waiting area for the next gravity barge, and then took one bound for the Council chambers. It was less packed than the one from the docking spire had been, but still far from comfortable. The Elite Minor kept his eyes busy by watching other aircraft, taking especial notice of a pair of Prophets that hovered by on their thrones.

As they rode, his mother traced some of the deeper gashes in his armor. “By the rings,” she muttered, “I know the front is full of danger, but I never imagined those heretic weapons were strong enough to actually cause you harm. Have you been severely hurt?”

“No,” he replied, deigning not to inform her of his experience on Pearl or his more recent injury sustained on Sylvan. He had, however, gotten through Coppice with little more than a few scratches.

“If there were no danger,” his father said, “there would be no honor in fighting for the Covenant and the Forerunners.”

The Covenant that condemns Fulsa and the Forerunners who have forsaken her? Oriné wisely did not voice this opinion, especially because he was on public transportation with dozens of ears around him. His family did not need the burden of a second heresy charge among the first with a bit of treason thrown in. Even in private he would not have said this; his parents were devout believers. So was he, but this had thrown his mind into confusion.

They arrived at the location of the Council and entered the complex. A Sangheili in dignitary robes was standing in the antechamber. “You are the ‘Fulsam Lineage?”

Orita nodded. “We are.”

“The Council is interviewing your daughter in the amphitheater, not the main chamber,” the Sangheili explained. “Follow me.” They did so, trailing behind him as he led them down a sloping passage to a large door.

“Within is the Council of Masters,” he intoned. “Keep your peace and speak when you are spoken to.” At his signal the door slid apart and allowed them passage in. A great semi-circular room awaited them. Along the curving wall were three cascading rows of benches raised several meters off the floor where the Sangheili and Prophets who made up the Council of Masters sat, lit from behind by soft lighting; beneath them stood a dozen Honor Guards, standing at attention with their ceremonial pikes.

In the center, visible from all angles, was a pulpit. Upon it stood Fulsa, dressed in her finest Priestess splendor: gentle azure robes, beautifully detailed with jade, combined with the cool silver metal anklets and headdress made her appear a thing of beauty. Though the light from above was meant to be harsh and highlighting, it gave her the appearance of a divine messenger.

But as she turned to give a quick look at their entrance, Oriné could plainly see the sapphire energy band that snaked around her wrists, binding them together and keeping them immobile in front of her. Something snapped. Despite her beauty, the fact that she was a captive burned in his mind and moved his limbs without his permission. Before he realized what he was doing, he was already storming away from the quiet procession of his family and going right up to the pulpit. The councilors muttered excitedly amongst themselves as he stepped up on the raised platform and turned his harsh eyes against them all.

Fulsa was shocked. “Oriné, what are you—”

“Who dares?!” His bellowing voice cut her off and carried all across the room, echoing off the walls. He looked back and forth among them, eyes blazing. His gaze was so intense that even the Honor Guards who had begun to advance towards him paused in their approach. “Who among you would dare condemn my sister, a Priestess of the very Coven that communes with the Gods!”

A general silence fell over the assembly. Just as Oriné was about to launch into a tirade, he was pre-empted: “I did.” The voice, high and feminine, rang through the air as easily as his own, but that was not what made his hearts skip. He recognized the voice, but it had been so long since he had last heard it. Since then, it had become a phantom in his dreams, a quiet bell that tolled gently in his mind. Slowly he turned to the corner from which the voice had come.

She walked deliberately down the stairs, placing one slender hoof in front of the other. Her own Priestess vestments, identical to Fulsa’s, glittered in the light. Oriné felt his breath leave him, but found air enough in him for one word: “Ekla.”

“I heard her speak blasphemies in the very halls of the Great Temple, profaning the Gods with her vile tongue while standing in the shadow of the Holy Dreadnought,” said the daughter of Institution’s Head Master. She had gotten a bit taller and lither since Oriné had last seen her, dark as it had been in her apartment here in the Holy City. She continued, “Your sister spoke against the Grand Design.”

Oriné bristled, but he had been taken off-guard by her appearance. That she was the one to accuse her sister of heresy was too much for him.

Suddenly the Honor Guards were flanking him. “Escort him out,” said the presiding Judge. “He will wait outside under guard until such a time as he is called for.” Grudgingly, Oriné allowed the red-and-gold armored Sangheili to bring him out of the amphitheater, though his head was reeling.

——

He was called back in a couple of hours later, after his entire family had been questioned and interviewed. When he went in, he saw his mother and father standing on the left side of the door and his sister under guard on the right. Again he fumed internally, but not half so hard as when he saw Ekla standing beneath the Council. His escorts led him up to the pulpit; he stepped up and looked at the Council.

“Elite Minor Oriné ‘Fulsamee,” began the Judge. Oriné did not know him, and at the moment he didn’t particularly care. The combined stress of Fulsa’s arrest and Ekla’s presence was making him feel defiant. He held his mandibles, though, not wishing to be held in contempt. “Your outburst earlier and past history with Head Master ‘Eklatee’s daughter aside, your record is quite impressive.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Oriné said, his mandibles feeling tight. His eyes scanned over the assembled councilors and saw a familiar face. Yarna’s father was among the politicians overseeing this trial; he wondered if the High Councilor had understood who the condemned was, or if he even remembered Oriné from their brief meeting at the Ceremony of Appellation.

“Your war record, though brief, speaks of your devotion to the Forerunners and to the Covenant,” the Judge went on. “I assume you know your basic scriptures?”

“I went to war academy at Institution,” replied Oriné. “Memorization of basic scriptures is required for attendance, and in-depth study of the Divinidex for Commencement as a warrior is also necessary.”

The Judge’s smile was quick and cruel. “I’m aware. Would you care to recite in detail the third passage of the Final Ceremony of the Great Journey?”

For a moment, Oriné hesitated. Was it really that simple? At seminary he had learned it and was forced to commit it to heart. Any Sangheili bound for Jisako knew it by rote. Still, a ranking Councilor had demanded it of him. He cleared his throat:

“And when the seven rings are lit
So will those who lit them be
As Gods they will rise and ascend
Glorified, and full of Honor to join
Those who have gone before and soared.”

Again the Judge gave his unsettling smile. “Spoken with conviction.” A few of the Councilors shot unkind stares over Oriné’s shoulder; he turned and saw Fulsa with her head bowed. What is the meaning behind this?

One of the Councilors nodded his head towards Oriné. “As the respectable Judge has observed, your combat history is short but quite remarkable. You served on Pearl in the S’gor Legion, Divine Unit, correct?”

“That is correct.”

“And your entire Unit, sans yourself, was killed?”

Oriné heard a gasp of horror from behind him and knew it was his mother. “That is true. They died in a human ambush, but prior to their fall they all fought honorably. I am aware of that much.”

The Councilor tapped a finger against his mandible while another spoke up. “Pearl was a difficult campaign. Many of our noble warriors were lost to cold and sickness, not to mention the cowardly and guerilla tactics of the humans. It was almost a full year of fighting before we were able to destroy that heretic world.”

“But we must remember,” said yet another, “the warrior ‘Fulsamee was only present for a few weeks.”

“They were the harshest weeks of the battle, so the reports say,” countered an older Sangheili. “It is a testament to his character that he, thrust into such adverse conditions straight from Institution, was able to triumph so.”

“Yet he did not come straight from Institution,” said one of the earlier speakers, “but from Devil’s Gulag, a dishonorable posting if I have ever heard of one.”

So this is how it goes, Oriné realized, watching them talk back and forth, the others nodding and whispering to each other. Lines of support are being drawn, at least for myself, if not for my family, if not for Fulsa. He felt a degree more comfortable knowing that he had some friends, though clearly not many. The staunchest allies of either side were the ones talking; the others were either easily swayed or of little consequence.

“Please,” scoffed one, “the narrow-minded petty retribution of ‘Eklatee should be discounted entirely.” Oriné saw Ekla shift her weight, clearly agitated by the casual dismissal of her father’s will. It was little consolation, but it gave the Elite Minor some semblance of satisfaction.

“Not entirely. The young one earned a very distinguished marking while there, a very clear indication of his valor and favor in the Gods. They saw a tool that could be of use killing heretics and gave him an opportunity for redemption, which he took.”

“That is strong evidence of divine watchfulness of his family,” said one of the Prophets, the first of his kind present to say anything here. Though their species was frail by nature, they formed the divine core of the Covenant, having been the ones to talk the Sangheili out of further war with messages of salvation from the long-vanished Forerunners. The Sangheili had not been undeveloped at that time; in fact, they had been space-worthy already, with most of their empire staked before the War of Fortune. Of course, “Prophet” was the Covenant title. Their species’ real name, the San ‘Shyuum, could not be uttered, as it was considered too holy for any other caste to speak.

There was a prolonged moment of silence as all contemplated the Prophet Councilor’s statement. Finally, the Judge made a motion. “Your next campaign was on Coppice, yes?”

“Yes, my lord,” said Oriné, bowing his head as he said so.

“Again, difficult fighting.”

“I was among a brave and skilled unit.”

“Yes,” the Judge intoned, dragging out the word. “High Councilor ‘Orgalmae, your son is a member of Faithful Unit, is he not?”

‘Orgalmae straightened in his seat, situated three chairs from the Judge’s right hand. An honorable position. “He is, esteemed Judge,” he said, “though I have not heard from him in some time.”

Another High Councilor, situated almost exactly opposite ‘Orgalmae, gave a deep chuckle. “And your son would never consort with the family members of heretics, is this also so?”

Oriné cocked his head in curiosity. A display of internal politics, perhaps? Such outbursts should be better controlled, and obviously the Judge agreed. Just as ‘Orgalmae was rising, hand going for his energy sword, the Judge stood and bellowed for silence. “You will be mindful of your places, Councilors!” His voice was stern, eyes darting from one to the other. “High Councilor ‘Orgalmae’s son is not present, for questioning or otherwise, and neither has Fulsa of Sam been found guilty of heresy. You will, the both of you, stand down. Any further breaches of conduct shall be met with reprimands of your offices.” Reluctantly the two settled themselves.

The Judge cleared his throat. “I apologize, warrior, for that interruption. We wish to conclude this interview was quickly as possible.” He motioned to the other Councilors. “Continue.”

As the discussion of his record went on, Oriné found it unnerving that they were willing to conduct such third-person investigation into his experiences with second-hand reports. Why do they not simply ask me questions? Usually when their voices were directed at him, it was for confirmation, a simple yes or no answer required. They moved from the additional hardships of Coppice to the relative ease of his post on Sylvan, all the while debating the significance of the Forerunners in his life.

So it was that, when a Prophet asked him, “Did any of your experiences on these assignments, either on the gulag or the front line, give you any reason to question the Forerunners? Did your faith ever waiver?”, he was unprepared for an immediate response. It took him a moment to gather his thoughts.

“The fighting was difficult,” conceded Oriné, “and there were many times when, sheltered by the Grand Design as we were, fear gripped our hearts, fear of an imminent end. Comfort as the Great Journey is, our dedication to the Covenant made us reluctant to give our lives that, if lived, could bring so much more honor to the Forerunners.”

Murmurs of approval rippled through the assembly, like wildfire through the Sangheili and even trickling in amongst the Prophets. “And of the Gods?” asked the same Prophet. “Were you devoted to them in these times of hardship?”

Oriné took a deep breath. “When patrolling an uncertain forest in the dead of a moonless night with my squadron leader, when huddled in the muddy trenches of a heretic world with a dozen warriors I did not know, when trapped under fire behind a tree and a damaged vehicle with your son, High Excellency ‘Orgalmae, we depended only on each other. But in all those instances, and all those not mentioned, the only prayers we made went to the Gods in the Divinidex.”

There were several moments of silence as his impromptu speech sank into the assembled Councilors. At last, the Judge nodded. “Well said. This brings to conclusion the interview and questioning of all pertinent subjects. Further summons, as necessary, will be made individually. Fulsa of Sam, Priestess of the First Circle, will be held in jail without visitation; the ‘Fulsam Lineage may not leave the city, but is otherwise free to journey about as they see fit.”

The Judge stood. “The trial will take place in a fortnight.”

——

The Council of Masters filed out of some unseen exit, but Oriné, having guessed the layout of the building, anticipated where a majority of them would pass through. Deeper into the tower were the individual offices of each Councilor, but Oriné found the one he was looking for before he passed into an explicitly restricted area.

“High Excellency ‘Orgalmae!” he called out. The Councilor looked up and saw him; he made some gesture to the other politicians nearby and sent them away.

“Young Oriné ‘Fulsamee,” the older Sangheili intoned.

“I was not expecting you to be here, my lord,” Oriné said, bowing low. “I understood your home and primary office was on Sanghelios.”

“I was here on unrelated business,” came the rumbling reply. “I was two days away from departing when I got word of your sister’s plight. I stayed, and was wounded when your father did not ask me for help. But by then I was already embroiled in the matter and could not have left if I had the desire to.”

Oriné was confused. He recalled the brusque, infuriating encounter between his sire and Yarna’s during the Ceremony of Appellation. “My lord?”

‘Orgalmae sighed. “When I was serving on Doisac, in the final days of the Jiralhanae resistance, my entire Legion was trapped. We had been cut off from our supply lines, my armored units were either annihilated or out of fuel for the fusion cores, and food was scarce. A mentality like that of the Kig-Yar was beginning to appear very appealing.” Oriné suppressed a grimace. The Jackals were in the habit of eating the dead, whether theirs or another’s made little difference.

“Relief came,” continued the Councilor, “when one brazen, stubborn Ship Commander by the name of ‘Fulsamee defied Fleet Master ‘Vadumee’s orders and plunged his ship into the atmosphere. He risked destruction from the anti-orbital cannons the Jiralhanae possessed, or boarding by their crude flyers, yet when he heard our plea for assistance he did not hesitate. He used pulse lasers to fend off the advancing armies while he had Spirits deliver as many supplies to us as possible before he was forced to retreat. I owe him my life, though I am loathing admitting it.”

The Elite Minor tried to speak, but could not bring himself to ask why the Councilor, then, had acted so on Sanghelios. Seeing the warrior’s difficulty, ‘Orgalmae cocked his head. “You wonder why I was so harsh to him after both his son and mine returned, close as brothers, from Jisako?” He stepped closer and lowered his voice. “I do not care for your Lineage. Your name, both given and House, is that of a merchant caste. And while your father behaved valiantly, honorably, he disregarded the orders of a vastly superior officer. If the Fleet Master had contacted me, told me that I had to perish, either by combat or starvation, I would not have blinked. I would have accepted the order. I was already prepared to.”

Again, Oriné felt anger boil within him, but duller this time. “Then why did you want my father to ask you for help?”

“Because I do hate owing anybody anything,” the Councilor said gruffly, and then turned and began to stalk away. Oriné watched him go for a while.

“Your son is fine,” he called out. The silver armored figure halted. “Yarna is healthy and safe. He is on leave on Unifying Faith. I will tell him to send you a communiqué as soon as he is able.” For a moment, it looked like the Councilor would come back, or turn around, or do something; but then he continued, veering off into another hallway and leaving Oriné’s line of sight.

——

Oriné excused himself from the company of his parents, saying he had some matters that needed attending. Orita and Alsa, exhausted already, did not think to question him; instead they took their leave as well and made for their assigned dormitory. The barges were packed at this time, clerks and attendants of the various offices returning to their homes in the Lower Districts, so the bonded pair decided instead to walk. Orita hoped that the scenery would give his mind distraction, but to his increasing distaste he found it only reminded him more of his doomed daughter.

Would that I could trade places with you, he lamented in his mind. No one would miss a Sangheili such as me. I’ve done more to deserve it than you, sweet child. But there was nothing he could do.

They walked the avenues in silence for a while until Alsa spoke up. “You did not tell him.”

It wasn’t a question, but it was an observation Orita had been waiting for. “No, I did not.”

His mate sighed. “Don’t you think he should know?”

“Yes,” he replied, “but not now. Perhaps not for a while.”

“Why?”

Orita rolled the thought around in his mind first, testing it for holes. He was satisfied. “Oriné has much to worry about,” he said. “Surviving his battles, first of all, this is why I did not have them send word of Fulsa before his leave. Second, he must focus on living his own life, looking for prospective mates and planning for his own family when the time comes. These must be his concerns, not of us, not of home.”

Alsa was silent for a while longer. She looked out into the road, appearing very vulnerable. His mate knew it was true, but obviously she wished she could coddle him again. That was why, of course, they had done what they did.

“I didn’t know about the Head Master’s daughter,” she said, cradling her elbow.

“Nor did I,” responded Orita. “Perhaps he was ashamed?”

“Perhaps he did not want to be hopeful.”

“Perhaps.”

Their apartment building was in sight. They walked the rest of the distance in a controlled silence, holding their peace until they were in the common room of their temporary home. As soon as it was shut and sealed, however, Alsa broke down. Orita held her close, letting her tears fall onto his robe.

“Gods, Orita! What will we do?” she sobbed. “Even if Fulsa is found innocent, she will be ruined.”

“If that happens,” he said in a soft voice, “then we will take her back to Sanghelios. There is no shame in that, and she could still find a loving mate in the fields. Agriculture is a noble and humble thing; our people’s history is entwined with it.”

She continued to sob. “How could this happen?” she croaked.

“I do not know,” Orita said gravely, “but I believe that, by the end, we will.”

——

This section of the city was still intimately familiar to Oriné. He recalled his week-long wanderings as a Rank Two Junior with sharp accuracy. Things hadn’t changed much around here, but from his understanding they rarely did: the holy city was a place of stability. The Council of Concordance was known to give aid to shop owners who were struggling, just so the economy would remain strong, or at least seem that way.

So it was that Oriné found the apartment he had been looking for, and with his armor on few people even bothered giving him a second glance. The honor markings on its surface garnered a respectful distance. He ascended the gravity lift to the proper balcony and swept aside the curtains leading in.

She was not yet home, so he crossed to the rear wall, pressed himself into a shadowy alcove, and turned on his active camouflage. He did not have extensive training with it and had not had much occurrence to make use of it, but he knew the properties well enough to know that it worked almost flawlessly in darker areas. He waited.

Finally, perhaps an hour later, she ascended the gravity lift alone. Good, he thought. He did not want this to become too complicated.

Ekla stepped into her apartment and shrugged off the shawl she had been wearing. She was still dressed in her Priestess robes, but she quickly discarded the headdress in a manner hardly befitting a noblewoman such as herself. He noticed that her movements were more forceful that necessary, strangely theatrical, but not because she suspected that he was here.

“Upset?” His voice, deeper than he had thought it was, rumbled across the room. The female Sangheili jumped, turning rapidly towards the sound of his voice. He stepped out of the shadows, decloaking as he went. “I wondered if I would ever see you again.”

Ekla sighed, putting a dainty hand to her chest. She was breathing heavily. “Oriné,” she said, “you scared me.”

He cocked his head and clicked his mandibles. No humor. “What is your design here, Ekla?”

She shook her head and began to walk towards him. “I’m not scheming here, love,” she cooed, drawing nearer. “I have missed you so...” She reached a hand out to place against his breastplate, but she never made contact. Oriné grabbed her wrist with lightning speed and pulled it away. The Priestess let out a sharp grunt of pain.

“No diversion,” he growled.

Her attitude changed instantly. “Who do you think you are?!” she cried, pulling to get her arm free.

“Who do you think you are?” Oriné gave her a shove and she stumbled back onto the pile of plush cushions on the floor. He had no intent to harm her, but neither was he planning on being particularly gentle. “If you wish to strike at me, do as you wish, but you should not have involved my sister!”

A dark look nested in Ekla’s face. “Don’t flatter yourself,” she barked. “This was not some attempt at attacking you or your family. This is a true declaration of your sister’s unholy ways.”

That made Oriné pause a moment. “Explain.”

“I was in the temple when your sister approached me,” began Ekla. “I knew of her, but never much cared to develop a kinship. I knew that she loved to study the original scripture, pouring over it every night, often staying in the Holy Library until the end of the night cycle. And I knew that she had recently become quite interested in the texts concerning the Great Journey.”

“How did you know this?”

“Hearsay,” she said, settling herself into a more comfortable posture. “The cleric in charge of the library repeatedly spoke of how she spent much time with those volumes. She even publicly declared her intent to become one of the Chosen Elect.” Oriné was unfamiliar with the Coven, but understood that the Chosen Elect were the priestesses and clerics who were supposed to lead the souls of the Covenant when the Great Journey began.

Ekla continued, “She approached me, weeks after she began her studies, and took me aside. She told me horrible, evil things about the Journey, things I could not believe. About darkness and death, of demons and parasites. I could not believe my ears. I felt sullied by her very presence. I fled from her and told High Priestess Nalja of her heresy.”

“She came to you in confidence!” Oriné roared. The priestess cowered at his feet. “Likely she had stumbled across something she did not understand and was seeking guidance from her peer!”

She sat straighter, but still she trembled and her voice when she spoke was not as strong as it had been a moment before. “She spoke with certainty and conviction.”

The urge to strike her was overwhelming, but Oriné stayed his hand. He was already pushing the boundaries of illegality by having intruded in her home; he would be lucky if she did not report him as it was. If he inflicted harm upon her, however, likely he would be arrested and thrown in jail. Assaulting a holy practitioner of the Coven was a serious offense, even heresy.

But what is heresy to me?

He turned to leave, but paused before the doorway. There was something on his mind, something he knew he shouldn’t ask, but he had to. He looked back. “What was our time together for you?”

“A fling,” she said flippantly. “A brief and foolish affair. Had I known you were so naïve, so easily attached, I would have left you for the Jiralhanae back on Institution. You looked good, but you weren’t worth the trouble you caused me, warrior.” The words hurt, more than he had anticipated, but now at least he knew the truth.

“May the Gods damn you, then, priestess.” With that, he stepped onto the balcony and into the gravity lift, riding it down to street level.