And Father Aldric, for the first time in forty years, sneezed—loudly, freely, at no particular time at all. And the world, stubborn and beautiful and utterly indifferent, continued to spin.
Aldric stood there for a long moment. The candles guttered again. Somewhere, in the dusty dark of his own mind, the old god Unwitnessed and Exact yawned and turned over, uninterested. No thunder. No earthquake. Just the soft, terrifying sound of a man unfolding a laminated card and tearing it, once, down the middle. And Father Aldric, for the first time in
Father Aldric had memorized the list forty years ago, back when his spine still allowed him to bow properly. He could recite every rule without a stumble: Rule 47: The left sleeve must be rolled three times, no more, no less. Rule 48: Nuts are to be eaten with the right hand only, lest the soul be unbalanced. Rule 112: A sneeze after sunset requires a counter-sneeze before sunrise, or a penance of seven laps around the reliquary. The candles guttered again
It was twilight. The Order’s chapel smelled of dust and burnt beeswax. Brother Matthias, a novice with hair like straw and a face full of doubt, sneezed. It was a wet, violent, unapologetic sneeze. And it happened exactly as the sun’s last sliver bled below the horizon. No earthquake
