Explaining a falsified scheme to a pixie with attention deficit disorder was not the easiest of tasks, but Tommy managed it. It took nearly three hours to impress upon Barley the gravity of their situation, then another two hours of playing tag to calm her nerves. As it turns out, she was quite the anxious little creature.
When the sun rose, so too did his disciples. The bone knights had already begun their march to work—a thing easily explained to her. She was delighted to hear how the money would be used for charity, though most of it would actually be used to fund Tommy's unholy plans.
"Nigel, Elliott—you guys ready to go?" Tommy asked. He was disguised as Isaac, made into a perfect replica of the man by his fox-head ring.
"Yes, Lord Bones," they answered.
"What about you, Barley?"
"Yuh-huh," she replied, flying out of Alice's grasp, much to the girl's disappointment.
The female cultists had been pampering her since they woke up, all too taken by her cuteness.
"Then come grab my robe; we'll be using my blink spell to reach Newhorn. Oh, and Isaac"—he pointed a finger at the man—"remember to buy a wagon. Load it up with expensive food, too. We're rich now, so there's no need to eat beans and corn."
Isaac nodded from atop a conjured horse. "Yes, my lord."
"I'll see you all soon; hopefully with good news," Tommy said, flashing his disciples a smile. "Blink!"
It took only five minutes to reach the outskirts of Newhorn, where farmhouses and sown plots conquered every inch of the verdant land. To the far north stood the great city whose walls stretched from the eastern mountains to the western mountains—over a hundred miles of fifty-foot-high stone walls. Tens of thousands of buildings rested within their vast confines, filled to full with families, noble and peasant alike. Journey's End may have been larger, but Newhorn was a far more impressive sight.
"Wow," yelled Barley, perching herself on his shoulder. "This place is amazing!"
"I'm inclined to agree," Tommy murmured. He turned to Nigel. "You said you've been here before. Please take us to the church."
Nigel bowed his head. "Of course, my lord."
It was ten minutes of walking before they reached the back of the line to the city's portcullis. Hundreds of wagons and carriages were waiting to be searched by guards in pear-green surcoats with white tea plants stretching from their bottom to the top.
"They're wearing the arms of House Teaway, are they not?" Tommy asked.
"Yes, my lord. They are King Landel's men," answered Nigel.
"I thought Newhorn was defended solely by a militia."
"King Landel has but a few hundred fighting men under his command. The rest are militiamen—mostly volunteers."
"I'm bored," Barley squeaked, tugging on Tommy's earlobe.
"So am I," Tommy agreed. "Greater invisibility."
He faded away with the sound of a gust of wind, startling the noisy pixie.
"I'll cast it on you three as well. We'll sneak our way into the city and reconvene just past the portcullis. Everyone okay with that?"
"Yes, Lord Bones."
"Yup!"
"Greater invisibility, greater invisibility, greater invisibility."
Tommy could, thankfully, still feel Barley on his shoulder. It was a wonder the pixie hadn't flown off the second she became invisible. He skipped past the many poor saps in line and the unsuspecting guards then made his way into the city with his three companions. A few dozen yards in, he dismissed the invisibility spells and regained sight of them.
"That was super easy," said Barley, kicking her legs and up down on his shoulder.
Tommy patted her head, eliciting a giggle from her. "It sure was." He looked at Nigel, prompting him for directions.
"It's deeper into the city, my lord—just down the main street. I'll guide us there."
The streets were made of stone blocks with gravel packed beneath them—far more modern than the dirt paths Tommy had grown used to. Modern wasn't always better, though; the wagons traveling down them jumped with every small bump, shaking their loads like a bartender would a cocktail. Traders dealing in goods like beer or eggs no doubt suffered some difficulties thanks to them.
And on the side of these streets were countless timber-framed buildings with jettied upper stories and whitewashed stone and clay tile roofs. Each one was a work of art—a brilliant recreation of medieval European architecture. Though, he supposed the word 'recreation' didn't quite apply here.
They went up the main street for half an hour and swung left at the first fork. At the turn's end was a colossal stone building with three steeples, each holding the symbol of light—an asterisk with a circle at its center—atop their lanky spires.
"This is it," Nigel announced.
"So big," Barley said. "Will our church be this big, Big Bones?"
Big Bones? Seriously?
"With your help, yes," Tommy answered with the thinnest of smiles. "But remember—I'm Isaac right now, not Big Bones."
She slapped a hand over her mouth. "Sorry."
"Just be careful, okay?" he said, tapping her on the nose.
The pixie was growing on him like cancer, proving to be too childlike to despise and too important to discard. Only time would tell how things would play out with her working side-by-side with a dark cult.
"Now, let's go in. Remember—let me do all of the talking," he said.
They pushed past the metal gate leading into the colossal courtyard, ignoring the dozen-or-so novices gawking at little Barley. The area was aflush with artfully-trimmed hedges and intricate marble sculptures—busts of the previous Grand Scepters of the Church. It was rather showy for a sanctuary, though with Luxism being the only major religion in Pelindor, they, no doubt, had the tithe money to pay for it all.
"Excuse me," Tommy addressed a novice in a yellow-striped white robe. "Could you take us to the high priest? We have an important matter to discuss with him."
The novice nodded, making a show of his tonsure. "Of course," he whispered. He stared at Barley for another few moments then walked away, gesturing for them to follow.
The quartet scaled the many steps of the church's front and pushed past the oaken doors to find an immaculate nave. The mosaic floor was smooth and unaged, shiny under the sun's glare that cut through the hundreds of stained glass windows lining the side walls. Dozens of marble columns raced up the air to support the rib vault ceiling, acting as symbolic extensions of the hands by whom they were crafted.
Tommy found himself dumbstruck by the sheer beauty of it all; so too did Barley judging by her wide eyes and agape mouth. "It's incredible," he muttered.
Hearing his words, the novice turned to him with a smile. "I take it you've never been inside of a cathedral before?"
It was true. Even on Earth, he had never seen so beautiful a structure as a cathedral. Through pictures, perhaps, but never in person.
"I hail from a small hamlet east of the River Pane. My eyes have not looked upon a structure as large as this; not even in paintings."
The novice nodded and spun around, carrying on between the lacquered spruce pews that sat beneath the light of the low-hanging chandeliers. He turned left before reaching the set of stairs leading to the stone podium and walked to a small door on the far right of the cathedral.
The novice gave three sharp knocks to its wooden surface.
"Who is it?" came a muffled voice.
"Some people are here to see you, High Priest Marcel," he answered.
"Send them in."
The door creaked open, and they entered.
It was a private scriptorium, simple compared to the rest of the church, though not without its appeal. Over a dozen shelves lined the room, racks stuffed with hundreds of hand-copied tomes and booklets. Elliott mentioned that the books within a church often contained white magic—holy spells for banishing demons and healing wounds. It was a rather dangerous place for an undead creature to be.
A wrinkled man with a bushy gray beard stood from his desk, a gentle smile on his face. "How can I help—" He stopped himself upon gaining sight of Barley. "By the light of God—a pixie!"
Hopefully, that was a good expression. If the church recently changed its policy on pixies, a fireball or two might be necessary for them to escape.
A wide smile formed upon the old man's face. "It is an honor to have you in this cathedral, oh pure one."
Barley stood atop Tommy's shoulder, hands pressed against her hips. "That's me! Purer than a—"
Tommy coughed, interrupting her before she could finish her stupid words. "High Priest Marcel, it is an honor to meet you. My companions and I have heard great things about you and your cathedral."
"I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage. What might your name be?"
"I am Isaac—a man of common stock and a member of a small denomination."
Marcel raised an eyebrow. "Small denomination? So you're a Protarian, then."
Tommy shook his head. "I am of the Black Cloth—an order of my own creation. My disciples and I believe the novices of our order should embrace silence and contribute to God through labor."
"I see. Rather strange beliefs, I must say. Why exactly have you come here to see me?"
"We seek funding to erect a church. This pixie supports our cause and wishes to aid us in caring for both the physical and spiritual needs of Alyria's people."
"With a pixie as your sponsor, I can hardly dismiss the worth of your denomination," Marcel admitted, stroking his beard. "How much many followers do you have as of now?"
"Just under one hundred novices and eleven priests. I would serve as the high priest while Barley"—he scratched her head—"will be a mascot of sorts, helping to inspire devoutness into the souls of men."
"One hundred disciples—quite impressive for one without a church, I'll admit. And with little Barley, your numbers will swell with haste." He paused for a moment, swirling his tongue in his mouth. "I will fund your efforts, Isaac. We will recognize you as a true denomination of the Church of Light and aid you in constructing a church building."
Yet another part of the plan unfurls without issue. With Barley at his side, it was like selling bread to a starving man; it couldn't have been easier.
"Thank you, High Priest Marcel. My novices and priests are camped a mile north of an iron mine some seventy miles to the east of the city."
"An iron mine?"
"We believe that hard labor and tithing the whole of one's wages are methods of praising God."
"The whole of one's wages? Surely you aren't implying what I think you are," Marcel said, mouth ajar in disbelief.
"As their spirits are fulfilled, they have no need for talons or worldly goods."
The High Priest let out a raucous laugh. "Forgive me, but I believe your denomination's novices are of an entirely different breed. It is simply unbelievable that a man would consent to having neither wages nor possessions."
"I invite you to meet with them, though, as I mentioned before, they are not allowed to speak. I fear it would be an underwhelming experience to say the least."
"Work traps me here, I am afraid. Perhaps one day in the far future, though. I should like to see what form your church takes after its construction."
That was good. It would be best to keep the bone knights out of the Church's sight until he found a stronger illusion spell to hide their undead-ness. After all, if pixies and Blue Hand mages could see through their disguise, then who was to say high priests couldn't?
"I'll have workers and materials sent to your camp before the week's end, Isaac. It was a pleasure meeting you." He turned to Barley and smiled. "And you, little Miss Barley."
She giggled and pressed herself against Tommy's neck. "It was nice meeting you too, Marco!"
"Marcel," Tommy corrected her.
"It was nice meeting you, Marcel."
The High Priest laughed the pixie's blunder off. "I wish you good luck with your church."
"Thank you, High Priest," Tommy said with a bow.
They left the cathedral in high spirits, Barley especially.
"We did it," she yelled, throwing her hands in the air. "We're gonna have our own church!"
Tommy chuckled. "Yes, Barley; yes we are."
It still wasn't enough. Having a church was nice and all, but they needed money—real, serious, bigtime money. But where, oh where, did money come from? Usurious and extortionate interest rates collected through threat of violence, of course.
After all—don't work for your money; let your money work for you.