Art by Brooklynn Bourdeau

This is a "Tasting," a short-short story inspired by a tea I made at my tea company. This particular one is for the "Sanctuary," a warm, sunny blend of white and green teas. I suggest ordering a little bag of the tea to drink while reading the story, but I'm certainly not biased in this matter.

The doors burst open, jarring Jorin from his reverie as they slammed into the stone walls. Flakes of ash scattered across the floor as the man rushed in, feet nearly slipping on the stone like a newborn fawn already on the run from certain death. Jorin rushed to him, holding out a hand to lift the man to his feet, offering him the most important service his house could offer: the ability to find one’s footing.

The man spoke in fast, stuttered breaths, pouring out a tale in a language Jorin hadn’t heard. It sounded vaguely Brimish, but he wasn’t sure.

“My friend,” he smiled at him, trying to get him to stop, to look in his eyes, to wind down for a brief moment. “You’re safe, all is well. Tell me what ails you.”

The man’s eyes locked onto his own, bloodshot and brilliant amber, shining in the darkness his blackened hair cast over his face. Pure, unadulterated fear ran through his eyes, the language of prey who had run from a predator too long already. Panic, terror, and utter exhaustion.

“You are safe in the house of Leiran, I promise you.”

His eyes darted around the room, confused, so Jorin pointed a finger to the stained glass over the marble altar. A tall purple fire from a black brazier rose in its center, surrounded by shining sunlight and an array of burning braziers. A figure in the stained glass above the flame, solid black but for highlights in deep orange, rose with his arms out wide.

“Leiran,” the man nodded. Jorin breathed a sigh of relief. At least he knew where he was, that he had come to the right place. “Leiran.”

“Yes, this is a House of Leiran. The Burned Man will protect you. I can promise you that. Please, sit, sit.”

Jorin lowered the man to a seat on the stone bench, and his breathing began to catch. It would not slow, his heart and lungs hammering like a war drum. Without stepping from the man, Jorin took an oiled bowl, and touched it to the pew’s torch, setting a flame within the cup. He knelt as he handed the flaming bowl to the man, who accepted it with shaking hands, the gentle purple fire lighting up his troubled face from below.

“My name is Jorin. Jorin. What do you run from?”

The man began to speak again, words just as hurried and punctuated with glances at the door.

“You can rest easy, friend,” Jorin promised, “none will ill intention can enter these halls. None.”

As he looked to the doorway to confirm his promise, Jorin noticed a figure standing in it, bathed in the orange light of the room. Their armor was golden and filled with glorious splendor, spikes of sunburst and a helm with twisting horns. The elf within had long orange ears that rose out of the helm, mimicking the sunburst spines that rose from it. They stood resolute, spear in hand, as they hammered the haft of the spear into the marble floor.

“I seek audience,” a feminine voice echoed through the hall, hard and certain, filled with utter conviction.

“What can the House of Leiran do for you?” Jorin stood, looking across the room at the armored figure.

“You harbor a fugitive of justice.”

“None are fugitives under The Burned Man.”

“All are fugitives,” she corrected, “in a house who welcomes all.”

“That does not sound like justice,” Jorin narrowed his eyes.

“I am Justicar Elluvitae. You are harboring a fugitive from justice. Clairiel, the Spear of Justice, demands you give up the criminal.”

“This is a House of Leiran,” Jorin reaffirmed. “This is a sanctuary.”

“Sanctuaries are for those under the banner of justice.”

“Sanctuaries are for all who need them.”

“Give up the criminal, or you too will face the Spear.”

“Is ‘Justice’ the code of your order, or the code of the land? Because the nature of this house and its actions are not outside the law of any code of Wexiea.”

“This is not a code of Wexiea,” she glowered, standing resolute in the doorway, having hardly moved a muscle. “This is the code of Clairiel.”

“Clairiel has no power in the House of Leiran.”

“You have not even asked his crimes.”

“One’s past has no bearing on their right to sanctuary.”

The Justicar stood for a long, foreboding moment in the doorway before uttering a single, “Very well…” and turning sharply on her heels, her white cloak tossing in the breeze as she did, gently reflecting the flickering light of the many burning braziers within the hall. Jorin smiled at the man, who had hidden behind the back of the seat. His shining amber eyes stared up in confusion as he asked a question. Jorin did not know his words, but his question was obvious enough.

“She could not enter a house of The Burned Man,” he smiled gently at the man. “She did not try because she knew she could not. You are safe here.”

Jorin helped the man to his feet and guided him further into the room until he stood in the path of the light shining through the great stained glass. He felt the light bubble and prickle against his skin, and watched as the man felt the same, a content smile finally replacing his terrified grimace. The sunlight warmed him to his bones and lightened the load the man clearly bore upon his back.

“Leiran is a sanctuary to all,” Jorin promised, “you are safe in his light.”