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Alara's Call

By Kristen Stieffel

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Chapter 1—A Certain Curate


“Alara,” the general said, “you must decide whom you trust more—me, or your father.”
The breath shuddered out of her. “You, sir.”
“Then do as I say.”
Alara shivered and pinched her lips between her teeth. They rode in the general’s curricle, drawn by a pair of black horses. He drove the cart himself, presumably to avoid having a driver present to overhear. The clopping of hooves on paving stones echoed down a dark, empty street shrouded in morning mist.
Defying her father was bad enough. Defying the prime minister could be seen as treason. Unfortunately for her, they were the same man.
She clenched her hands to stop their trembling. It didn’t work.
General Rariden grasped her fingers in one of his brawny, weathered hands. “Listen. If I can convince the foreign minister to suspend your father’s treaty for review, we can prevent Ambassador Pavud from taking you to Makut. But if I can’t, we’ll do what we must to get you to safety.”
“Thank you, sir.” Alara drew a deep breath. “But our Redeemer has said, ‘If you’re pressed into service, do what is asked, and more besides.’” She sighed. “That rather implies I should go to Makut as the treaty requires.”
He let go of her hands. “Not while I’m living.” His baritone voice dropped to a gentle rumble. “The prophet Digalo wrote, ‘A leader whose directives contradict Scripture forfeits the support of believers.’”
Father’s action surely contradicted Scripture. “You mean you would—”
“If I hadn’t been out of the country when he pushed the treaty through Parliament, I’d have stopped it then.” Though retired and more than seventy years old, Rariden was as robust as a man half that. Only thinning gray hair and a deeply lined face revealed his age. In his dark-gray suit and plain black cravat, he epitomized the distinguished statesman. “I am sorry about that.”
“Why should you be? I suppose he waited until you were away for just that reason.”
“Huh. You know your father well.”
She scarcely knew him at all. But she was familiar enough with his politics.
The carriage turned the corner, and the spires of the meetinghouse emerged from the mist ahead. “I may have left government,” Rariden said, “but I still carry some influence.”
“That’s a gross understatement.”
He smirked. “Your father has forfeited my support. So I’ll do what I can.” His eyes narrowed. “You will not go to Makut on my watch.”

###

Alara and General Rariden crossed the dew-damp side courtyard of the meetinghouse. Captain Palon Madrew approached from the other direction, impeccable in her dark-blue full-dress uniform, a peaked cap shading her slate-blue eyes. They met in the center of the yard.
Palon tipped her hat to the general. “Sir.”
“What did you find?”
“Ambassador Pavud is to arrive at Ravendyn at nine o’clock. Perhaps we should we leave now.”
“I can’t.” Alara turned toward the side entrance of the meetinghouse. “I’m officiating.”
“Your sister will understand.” Palon blocked her. She stood six inches taller than Alara, though they were equally muscular. “Your safety is at stake.”
“You two are the only ones who understand my safety is at stake.”
“No, your brother is with us.” Rariden pulled his mouth into his characteristic half-smirk and turned to Palon. “But she’s right about the rest of the family.”
“I suppose so. But we can’t wait about when a whole crew of Makutians is coming.”
“A crew?” Alara’s heart beat faster. She had expected only Pavud and a few attachés.
“An ambassador always comes with an entourage and a military escort. And there’s a full battalion of soldiers stationed at the embassy.”
Father hadn’t said anything about a military escort. Of course he hadn’t. “You’re being alarmist.”
“You could do with more alarm.” Palon jabbed a finger at her. “You shouldn’t even be here. You should’ve stayed abroad, where they couldn’t reach you.”
“My sister asked me to officiate at her son’s naming. I couldn’t refuse.”
“Mm-hm.” Palon flicked invisible lint from her sleeve. “And you hoped to visit Dorrel during your leave.”
Alara shrugged. Oh, she longed for his gentle strength just then. But it was impossible.
“Before I send the two of you off, let me at least try to find a diplomatic solution. I’m still hoping we won’t have to resort to…” Rariden hesitated.
Alara used a mock-sweet voice. “Running away?”
“Retreat.”
Palon snorted. “Treason.”

###

The sunrise shone through the tall latticed windows of the meetinghouse. Alara sat on the rostrum with the rector, but for once she would rather have been in the pew with the rest of the family.
Mum’s auburn hair was coiled and pinned up in a pouf around her head, much like Alara’s. But her mother’s bejeweled coiffure and glistening turquoise gown, like the other ladies’ gowns and the gentlemen’s dark suits and satin cravats, looked more suitable for an evening ball than a morning prayer meeting. Probably because the service included the naming of the prime minister’s grandson.
The rector moved to the lectern and read off the list of congregational concerns—the usual matters of illnesses and deaths and, because so many politicians were in attendance, vaguely worded requests for Telshi’s will in various situations.
Father, tall and broad-shouldered, stared ahead with a blank expression. Perhaps he was distracted, too.
The rector shuffled to the last note in his stack. “Lastly, Shenevra Wyndur begs our prayers that those traveling today will have a safe and successful journey.”
Alara glared at her mother, who appeared unconcerned, with her gentle smile and the sparkle in her pale green eyes. But then Father was good at convincing people there was nothing to worry about, especially when there was. How could Mum ask for safe travels, when she knew where Father wanted to send her?
After offering supplications, the rector read the next Scripture and called for a time of silent confessions. Alara ran through her usual list: impatience, selfishness, incompetence…
Kenna, forgive me for not discerning Your will. For getting Palon and the others mixed up in my problems. Forgive me for the wicked thoughts I’ve had about my father. But how can I serve You if he sends me to a land where they worship other gods? There must be another solution than rebellion. Please show me what to do.
Praying for a vision never worked. Visions came only when Kenna chose to send them, not when Alara thought she needed them.
All she knew of Kenna’s will for her was a vision she’d had more than a year ago of mission work. There was no reason to believe Kenna’s will had changed.
But could Her plan require defying Father and putting the others at risk?
Alara offered a verse her superior at the mission had insisted she memorize. Make my heart penitent, make my manner humble, and make my will match Your own.
The rector gave the assurance of pardon, and the congregants replied, “Ocha.” He took out the songbook and read the page number. A sound like autumn leaves in the wind filled the room as people paged to the proper place.
The song’s lilting melody underpinned pastoral lyrics depicting the people of Telshi as sheep tended by Kenna, their loving Redeemer.
Kenna, You’ve blessed me with the gift of foresight, and I thank You. You’ve showed me many things—Jaselle and Bayor’s marriage, my mission work…
Her voice wavered. She gave up trying to sing.
But You never showed me that I’m meant to be a curate. I’ve never seen myself on a rostrum, leading worship. Please show me Your will.
The songbook wobbled. She pulled her arms closer to her body to steady her hands.
After the song, the rector said, “Now, Jaselle Kordelyon and Bayor Lorengen will bring their son to receive his name. Jaselle’s sister, Curate Alara Kordelyon, will officiate.”
Jaselle and Bayor rose, and he shifted their two-year-old daughter from his lap to that of Alara’s younger brother, Camrun.
She and Camrun had little in common but their parentage and the high forehead and pointed chin of Father’s side of the family. His utter faithfulness—when everyone else in the family thought her paranoid—demonstrated a concern he had never before shown. And it proved he, too, trusted Rariden more than Father.
Alara took a deep breath and stepped forward, smoothing her long, pale-blue curate’s vest. Its straight lines couldn’t accommodate the petticoats fluffing up her skirt. She should have worn something simpler, but Mum had already proclaimed her underdressed.
Jaselle had Mum’s willowy build and oval face, but she and Alara shared the Kordelyon black hair. Bayor looked taller than usual, a wide smile crossing his round face. Jaselle carried the baby and stood on Alara’s right. Bayor took his place on the left.
“Kindred,” Alara said, “the Kordelyons have gathered in this meetinghouse for centuries.”
Meetinghouse seemed an inappropriate term. A thousand people could sit in that building, and it was overfull that morning. Frescoes of Scripture scenes decorated the vaulted ceiling. Sunlight glinted off brass chandeliers. More like a palace than a house of worship.
At the mission where Alara served, the villagers met in a wooden shack with no glass in the windows.
“We are privileged to bring a new member to the family of Telshi.” Alara glanced at her father, who grinned broadly. It was the first time in a long time she had said anything that pleased him.
“Mairah, our creator, we give thanks for this, Your greatest gift. In Your goodness You have wrought, from Bayor and Jaselle’s love for one another, a new life.” Ah, good. Her voice hadn’t caught in her throat as it usually did at that point in a naming.
Of course, that was because she was distracted.
Focus!
“Ahbay, our counselor, thank You for this joyous day. Guide Bayor and Jaselle as they raise their child to be strong in body, mind, and faith.”
Jaselle handed Alara the baby, a stocky three-month-old. Few people delayed naming a baby, but Jaselle had waited until Alara could be there.
Alara swallowed the lump in her throat. “Kenna, our redeemer, abide with this community and strengthen us as we offer ourselves as examples of faith to our newest member, Gejo Lorengen.” Alara’s voice quavered—she couldn’t help it. The privilege of being the first to say a child’s name publicly always drew tears. But this wasn’t just any child—he was her nephew.
Maybe the rector would forgive a little quaver.
She passed Gejo to her brother-in-law, took a deep breath, and cleared her throat. Tears clung to the corners of her eyes. “Holy Telshi, great Three-in-One, we thank You for new life, for Your word, and for Your spirit dwelling in us. Ocha.”
Apart from the quaver, it wasn’t bad. Perhaps no one would notice the tears.
Still, her superior back at the mission, if he were present, would say she hadn’t been paying attention.
And he would be right.
Bayor and Jaselle returned to their seats, and Alara took the lectern. She opened the songbook and announced the page number. Sheets ruffled. The piano played. The people sang. After only a few bars of music, Alara neither heard nor saw them.

Camrun sits in a carrel at the National Archives with three books open before him. He makes notes on loose sheets of paper with a pencil.
“Here is the other one you asked for.”The librarian approaches—a thin man with a bald head and pale, wrinkled skin. He carries a folio-size antique book several inches thick, its dark-brown calfskin binding broken at the spine.
“Thank you.” Camrun makes room for the book.
The librarian places the book on the desktop. “May I ask what you’re studying? Perhaps I can help.”
Camrun takes off his spectacles and rubs his eyes. “I’m researching the constitutional basis for the abolition of the monarchy.”
“Ah. You’ll want some of the chamberlain’s chronicles, then. I’ll pull the relevant ones for you.” The librarian takes two steps away, but turns back. “You’ll want a larger table.”

Alara blinked, her sight returning to the present, though the vision of Camrun’s future hung in her mind’s eye like an interrupted dream.
The piano and singers had fallen silent. The songbook lay on her left foot. She picked it up and bumped her head on the underside of the lectern as she stood. She laid the songbook on the lectern.
The rector came alongside her. “All right?”
She nodded, though her knees wobbled. She sat in her chair.
He gave the final reading and the sermon. “Before we depart,” the rector said, “let us thank Telshi for the blessings we have received.”
For a moment, no one moved.
Father stood. “I am thankful that, after long delay, we shall finally end the trade embargo with Makut.” He sat.
A few people applauded.
The rector raised his hand. The clapping died down. He chose not to criticize that breach of decorum.
A long silence followed. No one chose to follow the prime minister.
The rector turned to her. “Curate Kordelyon, will you dismiss us?”
Alara stepped to the front of the rostrum and raised her hands. “Holy Telshi, ruler of all, we thank You for Your many blessings, not least that of living in a country where we are free to worship You. Bless this day, bless our nation, and bless Your children as we go forward in the assurance of Your good will. May the blessings of Mairah, Kenna, and Ahbay be with us now and throughout all our days. Ocha.”
The others repeated the word of affirmation, then rose, stirring a rustle of coattails and crinolines. Alara leaned her elbow on the lectern. Trembling, she hung her head, covering her eyes with one hand. Kenna, help me understand what You showed me.
The rector leaned closer. “Curate, are you sure you’re all right?”
She nodded.
Mum climbed the rostrum steps and rubbed Alara’s back. “You had a vision.”
The rector patted Alara’s hand and withdrew.
Alara raised her head to look at Mum. “You could tell?”
“I know that look. What did you see?”
“Camrun, working in the archives.” Alara searched the room. He was halfway to the door. Alara descended the rostrum steps to follow him, but in the crowd, movement was slow.
Outside, the worshipers gathered in the courtyard between the meetinghouse and the rector’s manse. Alara couldn’t see Camrun.
Palon joined her. She smoothed her short brown hair with one hand before putting on her cap with the other. “Is this meetinghouse always so packed?”
“Not usually. Not at sunrise.” Alara pressed through.
“You suppose they turned out because the Kordelyons were bringing a new member?”
Dozens swarmed around Jaselle and her baby.
Alara kept her voice low. “It seems likely.”
Palon waved at the wide lawn, full of buffet tables laden with silver platters of fruit, soufflés, and pastries. “We don’t get this sort of spread at the barracks chapel.”
“We don’t usually get it here, either. This must be Father’s doing.”
“Alara!” Bayor’s grandfather broke through the crowd and shook Alara’s hand with both of his. “After watching you grow up all these years, it’s a pleasure to see you serve so faithfully. Well done.”
“Thank you, sir. It’s kind of you to say so.”
“Indeed,” Alara’s father said from behind. “She’s made us all proud.” He put his arm around her shoulders.
She flinched, then stiffened, in that unfamiliar embrace.
Mr. Lorengen smiled and released Alara’s hand. “Indeed she has.”
“Do help yourself to breakfast.”
Mr. Lorengen thanked him and went to the buffet.
A young man in a dark suit approached. “Prime Minister, how soon do you think the embargo will end?”
“Ah.” Father nodded, showing his best concerned frown. He removed his arm from her shoulders. “Yes, the free trade agreement has been held up by a certain curate we all know.” With a hand on the other man’s back, her father guided him aside. “But let me assure you…” They moved away.
Her cheeks burned.
Mum sidled through the crowd, coffee in one hand and a small plate of food in the other. “What did Mr. Lorengen have to say?”
Alara shrugged. “Oh, ‘well done,’ that sort of thing.”
“It was done well.”
“But I choked up.”
“So?”
“I could have done better.”
Palon folded her arms. “Room for improvement is different from not good.”
Alara shot her a grimace sidelong.
Palon looked the other way, as if pretending not to notice.
“You’re too critical of yourself.” Mum took a sip of coffee.
Alara opened her mouth to answer, but Palon elbowed her. With a bob of her head, she indicated where Alara should look.
Across the courtyard, Rariden talked with three politicians. The men spoke, faces broadly animated, gesticulating in turns. The foreign minister shook his head, spun around, and walked away. The others went in different directions, leaving Rariden alone.
He met Alara’s eyes. He pointed to her and then, with a flick of his wrist, to the gate.
Palon grabbed Alara’s hand and tugged her toward the street.
Mum called after them, “Don’t skip breakfast.”
Alara pulled her hand loose. “In a minute, Palon. I have to find Cam.”
“In a minute?” Palon squawked.
Alara stood on her toes, craning her neck. Being shoulder-high to nearly everyone didn’t help. Finally, she spotted Camrun in the line at the coffee urn. She worked her way toward him, Palon close behind.
Alara tugged Camrun’s arm. “I need to speak with you.” The three of them withdrew to a corner near the stone wall of the manse. “I had a vision.”
“What, just now?”
“In the meeting. I saw you in the National Archives—”
He rolled his eyes. “I’m a historian. Where else would I be?”
“Will you listen?” She related everything she’d seen, even the broken binding and the spectacles.
“I don’t wear spectacles.”
“Not yet. You’ll be researching the constitutionality of Reyshara Kordelyon’s abdication.”
“Why would I do that?”
“I don’t know, I’m just telling you what I saw. If it’s in a vision from Kenna, it’s Her will, and it’s important.”
He snorted. “Thus spake the prophet Alara.”
“Important enough to jeopardize your freedom?” Palon grabbed Alara around the upper arm and yanked. “Let’s go!”
Camrun’s eyebrows pushed together, creasing the skin between them. “You got the signal from the general?”
“Yes, but I had to deliver the vision first.”
Camrun grimaced. “Let’s go.”
Alara’s heart squirmed inside her. Palon pulled her toward the gate. Camrun followed.
Near the street, Father intercepted them. “Captain Madrew, whatever sport you girls have planned will have to wait. Alara is needed at home.” He smiled. “We’re expecting guests.”
Palon’s long, smooth face betrayed nothing. “Yes, Prime Minister.”
Father took Alara’s arm. “Shall we go?” He escorted her to the carriage, where Mum stood waiting.
Alara’s limbs stiffened. She climbed into the carriage.
Camrun and their parents followed. Father closed the door, and the carriage rolled away, leaving Palon behind.

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