Page 12 of The Idol

He began to pace slowly across the dais, robes whispering against the floor. “Every lash, every wound, every drop of sweat spilled in service to the Light—it is all counted. It is all holy. The Lord’s gaze does not look kindly on the proud, nor on those whoquestion His chosen order. But those who kneel before Him and repent… They will be granted forgiveness.”

Father’s sermon stretched on, words sharp as glass, every sentence falling like judgment. The longer he spoke, the more fervent his tone became—his voice rising, then dropping low enough that everyone leaned forward to hear.

I knew that rhythm by heart. It was the same one that had lulled me since childhood.

And yet, as he spoke of sanctity through pain, I couldn’t help looking at the teary eyes and red faces below me.

I wondered if the Light saw those tears, too.

One by one, Father stood over the kneeling members, placing a hand on the crowns of their heads. He told the congregation of their sins—about Leah and Silas’s lustful thoughts, and Eleanor’s jealousy.

When the sermon ended, Father lifted his arms once more. “The Light endures,” he said.

“The Light endures,” the congregation echoed, their voices trembling with exhaustion and reverence alike.

“You may stand,” he told the punished.

Father stepped over to the Seat, his eyes on mine. “My son,” he said softly, “you see now why we must never falter. The Light forgives, but only after the flesh remembers. You are at the age when lust tries to conquer. You must never give in. You are holiness. Purity. Innocence. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Father,” I said, my throat dry.

As the congregation began to disperse and the punished members were helped to their feet, I found myself staring at the small white grains scattered across the floor, tinged faintly red where they’d pressed too deeply.

The Light forgives, Father said.

But sometimes it looked a lot like it had forgotten.

* * *

It was late when I heard the voices. I’d already blown out my candles, the air still faintly warm from their smoke. I’d been brushing out my hair, counting each stroke the way Father liked, when the sound drifted in through the door—soft at first, like the murmur of wind through the cracks.

But then I heard my father’s voice.

He wasn’t leading prayers; I could tell by the tone. It was the voice he used in meetings.

I set down the brush and padded barefoot across the floor. The hall outside was dark except for the faint light leaking under the chapel door.

When I pressed my ear against the wood, I heard several voices—men and women both—the Inner Circle—Father’s chosen few.

Brother Gabriel’s baritone carried first. “If he is who he says he is, he’ll make a fine addition. The man listens well, he’s young, strong—perfect to lead the new generation.”

“He has questions, though,” Sister Jane criticized. “Too many for a new believer. I don’t trust him.”

“He’s testing,” Father’s voice replied. “All seekers test. The Light welcomes the curious so long as they don’t mock what they don’t understand.”

I frowned faintly.The Light welcomes the curious—I’d never heard Father say that before. In fact, he regularly told menotto be curious. It felt a little unfair.

Sister Catherine spoke next. “What of his family? You did tell him he’d have to renounce them, didn’t you?”

“We spoke briefly of it. His parents are both already deceased, and he’s not in regular contact with his siblings. Evensaid he wasn’t sure if they were in the country anymore. Doesn’t seem like it’d be a problem at all,” Father answered.

Brother Gabriel hummed. “No girlfriend? Wife? Kids? He’s well past marriage age.”

“Come now, Brother, don’t judge. It’s better if he’s alone anyway.”

Sister Catherine said, “I agree, Father. Plus, I’m sure we could match him with one of ours. He’d breed strong offspring.”

“I suppose so,” Brother Gabriel sighed.