What To Do If You're Buried Alive by Michael Meyerhofer

Meanwhile, Abbott Hughes said some words I couldn't understand-Old Frayd, I Saint and kissed the bare stone floor, which was about as clean as stone gets. The handle, but a ceremonial thing bound in brass and pretty stones. The Abbott handed me a sword-not my old bastard sword with all the notches in Woman in his entire life, but just the same, I knelt down like I was supposed to, in that chamberįull of candles. It felt weird to be called my child by a man whose vows meant he'd never undressed a 'Now, my child, swear fealty to he who has gone and shall one day return.' For one thing, he's tiny, not much bigger than a child. Really a god, but you wouldn't know it by the way they pray to him. You see him sitting cross-legged, half-smiling, on every coinĪnd temple sign, carved into the wooden face of begging bowls. Talk about the Saint like any second, he's just going to straighten up and get out of that chair and

I was nervous, sure, but it wasn't like I expected. So there was no one else in the chamber when I took my oath-besides Abbott Hughes Them were off meditating or stirring the slices of apple in their porridge.

Not that you'd guess it by the way the priests were acting, though.

You could hear the wind howling through the eaves, like it was about to tear the whole damn I still remember when Hughes brought me in to take my oath. He's kind of grown into his chair, too, so that if you look realĬlose, it's hard to say where the stone ends and the Saint begins. His cheeks are all sunken in and his arms look likeīroomsticks wrapped in leather. There-no rot, no limbs or digits missing-but that doesn't change the fact that he's been deadįor roundabout six hundred years. And he's not totally whole, just sleeping, like the priests say. The first lie they tell you is that it smells like wildflowers in there.

What To Do If You're Buried Alive by Michael Meyerhofer