God's Chosen

Scrub.

To scrub is freedom, Emma thought, scrubbing as hard as she could muster. Perhaps, with enough rigor, with enough soap, the floors would finally be clean enough for Mother Gerlind.

And maybe, she prayed, ''she won't hit me.''

It was an empty hope. Gerlind was an impossible woman to please. Her temper was as ugly as her face, and though she might have been fair long ago, it seemed unlikely she was ever kind. Still, she wasn't the worst of the lot--Emma was in the thirteenth year of her postulancy, and had gone through six other mistresses before being saddled with the old crone. ''She's just jealous, she would console herself. All of them are. I'm just more talented, and they can't accept that. They cannot accept God's will. Was He wrong when he chose me?''

Emma's talent was exceptional, that much couldn't be denied. And yet, she had failed her test twice, each time costing her years of toil. Talent, it seemed, was no substitute for discipline, and the latter was far more important--that point had been drilled into her head and rapped into her knuckles long ago. It wasn't as if Emma did understand the principle of the Candle. Light only the wick, she would repeat to herself, practicing at the ritual each night, though such practice was itself forbidden. Igniting a candle was the least of use of her power, the tiniest fraction of what she'd already done long ago. She didn't remember the incident--she'd been too young--but she'd pieced it together from the whisperings of elders.

She was barely three years old, and by all accounts ordinary--though it wasn't as if anyone would tell her if she'd been highborn, or marked by any peculiarity. She had an imaginary friend she'd called the Prince of Flame. She would dance with him, be courted by him, and live out her romance as only a babe could--no doubt it had been most amusing, and perhaps at times infuriating, to her parents. One day, she had conjured her prince from a hearthfire, and their dance had nearly burned down her home. The rest was obvious. In truth, it was among the tamest tales she'd heard of any sister of the order. So many had hurt loved ones, some even intentionally, if rumors were to be believed. Hers had almost a fairy-tale quality, a harmless child at play...it certainly didn't warrant the kind of looks and whispers Emma couldn't help but notice from the elders who knew of her origin.

Had it been up to her, she would have taken the tests as soon as she had the words to demand it. In her earliest recollections, she had been willful, and seemingly unaware of even the possibility of limitations in her capability. She was beaten raw and savagely, even as a child barely old enough to read the Holy Word, for her little rebellions and her petty profanities. And eventually, it had taken.

Or so they think, said a deep whisper of a thought in her mind. It hadn't been enough to simply learn to play a part, to recite the words she was meant to say, to do the tasks she was meant to do, without complaint, and with perfect respect to her Mistress and to her elders. That she had learned to do even before she'd learned all the Hundred Hymns. No, she had to believe. She had to feel true humility in her heart, to beg forgiveness from God for her sins, to ask His aid in cleansing the doubts and weaknesses of her mind, to truly conquer all thoughts of vainglory and realize that any power she wielded, any strength or talent, was not her own, but The One working through her, His will made real. She was only a vessel, and was His to command. Should she fail, she would be opposing the very will of God, making herself his enemy. It would be the gravest of sins, and utterly unforgiveable.

And so she had became everything they said she ought to be.

In her prayers, she had found the answer. It was true that God worked through her. He chose her to bear the Gift, and in no small measure. She was meant to wield it, in His name, and to His ends. No other earthly use of her will, her time on this earth, her very physical existence, could possibly be worthy of consideration. She was nothing but the Gift, nothing but the Flame.

''And yet I scrub. And scrub. And scrub. What has this do with the Gift? How am I doing God's work cleaning a kitchen?'' Her frustration ate at her. She didn't notice the spots she missed, the inconsistencies in her work. When she thought this way, the details of life vanished; only the goal mattered, it was a thing to be conquered as quickly and decisively as possible. Even if that meant tuning out the rest of reality. Even if, oft as not, that meant sabotaging the task itself, and being doomed to do it all over again, compounding the frustration tenfold.

And it wasn't as if she wasn't aware of her flaw. It certainly wasn't the case that it had never been beaten in to her, that she'd never suffered for it, never been told how it would lead to her death, to the ruin of all around her, that it would offend and wrong God Himself. If I miss a spot, I shall burn in hell, she told herself, and some small part of her will even tried to believe it was true. But the rest could only sneer at the thought. Their motives were transparent. Obviously, menial work was not the point. She wasn't so young and foolish anymore to miss that. It was all an exercise in humility, in discipline, in focus. How many times did they harp on the danger of the Flame, how a sister couldn't even hope to use the merest fraction of her power without years of mental training, lest she kill herself, her sisters, and countless innocents in the process? In the face of such danger, a little scrubbing is hardly overkill, it would seem.

''A lovely thought. If I hadn't failed the test twice. If I didn't use the Flame every night.'' She saw through the lie. She'd called upon the Flame a hundred times, and nobody was dead. She clearly had the discipline to control it. And she'd done more than light candles. The other noviciates had to suffer through cold gruel each morning, where hers was always nice and warm. She had melted iron to fix a broken cookpot, and none the wiser. Mother Sibyl had been particularly overfond of her switch, until it had become a hot coal, burned so precisely as to keep its shape, and cooled just so to give off no smoke nor ember. Her power wasn't just strong--it was precise, it was controlled, well beyond the needs of a test as simple as the Candle.

It must be rigged, she had resolved upon her most recent failing. The first attempt was admittedly ill-advised. Her Mistress was perhaps too forgiving, too easily fooled by her act of contrition and humility. She hadn't been ready, and she didn't lie to herself about it anymore. But the second...she had done everything right, she had drilled and practiced in secret, she had honed her mind to a razor, and she had even tried quite fervently to feel true humility, to let go of any personal glory, to give it all to God and become his willing vessel, prostrate and receiving.

It had been for naught.

All she had needed to do was light a candle. That, and more importantly, not light the paper candlestick in which it was mounted, nor ignite the pool of oil upon which the candlestick floated. The oil would alight at the slightest errant ember, and the paper would catch simply from the heat of the candle's flame. It was not a test of strength, but of control. She'd had to limit her power to the tiniest possible effect, while directing it unerringly across the darkness, somehow heating only the very tip of the wick, with only her will to guide her.

A task she could have done in her sleep. A did, oft as not, dreaming of candles and flames and glory and death each night. It was no small thing, perhaps, for a girl barely budded, a novice in her third or fourth year, mayhap. But Emma was an old hat. She was quite certain she could light every candle in the Abbey and make the smoke spell out the Parable of White Stones backwards in Auld Brinnish. While standing on one leg. That wasn't the issue.

It had to be rigged.

More and more, it had begun to seem the only explanation. For most of her life, Emma had wandered the convent halls, on this task or another, and would occasionally catch an errant look, the echo of a whisper, or some mere hint of what the elders knew, and what they truly thought. Once, she thought it made her special. Then, she thought it was her temperament, her reputation. Now, she saw the true malice, the bitterness, the accusations unsaid. There was something more to her history, but what? She couldn't puzzle it out, but she thought she knew what they wanted of her.

''They want me to fail. They want me to get angry. They want me to burn myself out, maybe even die. I refuse to give them the satisfaction. I will be perfect. I will be the good little girl, the model nun, and one day they'll slip, or they'll die, and I will show my worth. God will not forgive their hubris.''

Perfectly, and with all God's grace, she scrubbed, missing more than a few spots in her haste and distraction. And inevitably, Gerlind made her remember.

That night, she lay in bed, unable to find sleep. A scrub brush and lye soap could do terrible things to flesh, as she'd long ago learned. But it wasn't the pain that kept her awake. She'd long ago learned to sleep through cuts, bruises, tears, even poison. Six Mistresses had done their very best to find new and innovative punishments, ever more cutting words to lash and tear at the remains of her ego, and she'd learned that the truest form of rebellion was suffering and recovering as quickly as possible, neither begging for leniency, nor showing defiance. She could put small and temporary pains to the back of her mind with little effort, and give them not another thought the next morning.

This night, she brooded. This night, she planned. And unlike the hundred nights before, this night, she resolved.

The Abbess' face was stern and cold in the morning light, unflinching, but saying much. Her words still seemed to echo through the spartan quarters, and she could already sense the indignation welling in her mistress and the assembled Sapentiae. She could practically feel the switch on her back on bottom already, and almost welcomed it. But more, she welcomed the words of the Mother Superior, the simple accession to her request. With a word, she could end Emma's toil, ruin the careful plans of the conspirators, and restore justice--and God's will--to the attainted instution of the sacred tests.

And the word came.

"Yes. You may proceed, Noviciate." The Abbess' stone face never cracked, but Emma could swear she saw some spark of satisfaction there. Whether it was appreciation for her clever and bold play, or a fervent hope that she would die in the process, none could say. But some could say other words, and did--a clamor rang out from the Sapientiae, and from her Mistress, and she had no ears for the lot of them. For now, there was only the rituals of preparation, and then...if she saw the next sunrise at all, it would be as a Soror of the Order.

All she need do is pass the test. Not of the Candle, nor of the Ring. The Test of the Stake, the final and most dangerous test.

For there was no rule in any book that a Noviciate need attempt the tests in the proper order. Sure, that was traditional, and indeed Noviciates weren't even told about the later two before they'd passed the first. But Emma had been at this long, and had learned what she needed to know. She had seen the burn marks, and had heard the metaphors. It wasn't hard to puzzle out the nature of the final test. Having proven control of the Flame, a sister must prove that she is one with it. Fire does not burn the Chosen.

She would burn at the stake. If she survived, she would be a true sister, released from bondage and toil and free to pursue her true calling. There would be no time to rig the test, no opportunity to falsify its results. She would beat them at their own game, and be elevated beyond their reach.

If she survived.

The ritual preparations were always the same--a simple baseline for any magical working, a way to cleanse all impurities from the mind, body, and soul. Having been scrubbed raw and bloody the night before, and freshly bathed by morning, she didn't relish the feel of hot water and soap on fresh wounds. But the ritual was about more than physicality, and to neglect it would be to invite ruin. She must proceed precisely, in exactly the manner it had always been done, and would always be done. That sort of commonality is the stuff of ritual, and ruled out any variables in her performance. Even if she could control whatever tiny magical impurities that might involve themselves in her test, those judging her would know that such variables were as like to help her as harm her, and could not truly deem her worthy if there was any possibility she had simply fortuned upon success.

And so she scrubbed. And this time, she missed nothing.

From the hot bath, she soaked in oil. This part wasn't common to every ritual casting, but was an essential part of the test. If she was going to be set on fire, she might as well be extra-flammable, right? She chose to forget about the oil's true purpose as the sisters rubbed it into her skin, stealing a moment of relative bliss. Her toil and punishments left her body in a sorry state most nights, and her hard bed did nothing to cure it--and nothing resembing an oil massage was ever otherwise in the cards for a willful novice. Even as fingers traced with no special care over her welts and raw flesh, she found joy in the relief to her aching muscles and worn bones.

Over the oil, she donned a simple white robe of linen. She hadn't felt anything so soft in ages, and certainly hadn't been allowed to wear such for longer than a Holy Day's ceremonies. It wouldn't stay long. It was only for simple modesty as she proceeded to the test chambers. On the stake, she would have no protection, not even the meager shield of cloth.

The tests of Candle and Ring were conducted in the bowels of the Abbey, to put thick stone between untried novices and those who would judge them. There were no shortage of stories of those who, upon their very first testing, ignited uncontrollably, becoming unstoppable blazes of Flame until they burst--and in their dying conflagration, they would easily have slain any spectators. The stone walls offered protection, but the test of the Stake was not meant for the untried. It presumed at least a modicum of control, and even of a certain grace--sisters who passed the first two only to fail at the Stake were expected to die cleanly, accepting the judgment of their lord with dignity. And perhaps most importantly, certainly most practically, there would be an awful lot of smoke, even if she should succeed. It wouldn't do to burn a pyre indoors.

And so, like all important rituals of the Sisterhood, she would be burned outside, in the light of the Sun, the manifestation of Holy Fire itself.

And they had all come to watch.

That struck Emma as odd. Surely they would be there on the morrow, if she succeeded, to witness her anointed as a true Soror. But tests were not rituals to be witnessed by all, only by a select few, the eldest and wisest of the Abbey: the Sapientiae. And yet, she could read the answer on her mistress' face as she emerged into the waiting corridor of novices and sisters, paraded before them all on the way to what very well could mean her death. The tiniest hint of a smile, the slightests narrowing of the eyes. It was as if Gerlind had shouted it to the mountains.

There is no rule in any book that all should not witness the tests, only that the Sapientiae must. Well played, old bag, she thought while staring his mistress squarely. She must have hoped the added pressure would undermine her resolve, sap at her concentration, or even reduce her to fear, begging leave to abandon the test. The mistress would have to go unsatisfied.

The Abbess presided over the Sapientiae, bearing the Holy Word, as if she'd not memorized its every letter ages ago. Emma was left alone before her, before all the elders, with the pyre built up behind them, awaiting her, while dozens looked on. Perhaps some small part of her felt a touch of trepidation.

"Noviciate Emmeline," she began, her words carrying throughout the grounds, echoing off the walls, and answered by a solitary croak from a raven. "You now attempt the test of the Stake, as have all the sisters before you, since the time of Our Lady of Fire. Emmeline, Chosen of God to bear His Flame, you shall burn atop this pyre. If you are a Sister in truth, you shall remain in the flames, unburnt and unyielding, until such time as your bonds are burned to ash, and you are free to descend. If you are false, your flesh will blacken and break, and you will perish in agony before the ropes should even be marred. This test shall allow no mistake of your worth or your Gift. Do you understand what awaits you?"

"I do, Mother," she replied in a tone evened over years of practice. She let not a shade of emotion touch her face.

"And do you attempt this final test freely, of your own will, knowing in your heart that you obey God's will?" There was a slight edge to the words, a reminder to think upon them, to take a moment to reflect. Emma did just that. Had she missed something? Had she really thought this through? Surely, a hundred nights of contemplation was no small thing, but she hadn't known but half the truth of it, and had never expected her request to be granted so quickly and easily. Was she walking into another trap? ''What a fool I've been, not to see it coming! Why shouldn't they plan for this? There aren't but three test, and why risk this? I've delivered myself right into their hands!''

And yet, the last words rang longer than the first. She was obeying God's will. And the Abbess would do no less. She had allowed this because she knew it was meant to be. Perhaps God did mean for Emma to burn this day. And if so, she wouldn't dream of fighting it. She was His instrument, His Chosen, to do with as He pleased. She was His most willing servant, as she'd been meant to be. There was nothing else to say.

"Yes, Mother."

Silence reigned for a long moment. "Then let us begin forthwith. Ascend the pyre, child, and you shall descend a Sister of the Flame, if God wills it so."

Cold gripped her heart, as ever it did in these moments. She was committed now. The die was cast. She could only place herself in God's hands, and do as she had been trained to do, as He had ordained that she should. This was right. It had to be. It felt odd when the linen slipped from her shoulders, but it too must be right. The rocks on her bare feet were nothing new, but not so right as the unsteady mass of logs and planks that formed the base of the pyre. She could somehow feel the potential in the wood, sensing the energy waiting to be release when they ignited. All of that energy would flow into her, and she must master it, must be unharmed by it. Is such a thing even possible? she wondered--not a fault in her faith, mind, just an honest curiousity, or so she swore to herself. She had seen more than a few burn marks on the legs and lower quarters of sisters whose worth no one questions. She'd heard whispers of tales of those who'd failed, and those who'd passed with flying colors, and none emerged truly unscathed. It was a mark of honor, a rare badge of pride to her order; it had seemed the ordeal was meant to scar, the better to remind a sister of her mortality, her humility and imperfection.

A stray thought crossed her mind, and she couldn't decide if it was divine inspiration, or hubris that would mean her life. I will emerge unscathed. I will be unburnt and unmarked. He has willed it so.

And with that certainty, the cold in her heart melted. She was calm, at peace, and turned to face the assembled sisters, staring at her in the noon light like a thing of tinder, not an eye seeming to expect her to survive. She couldn't be bothered to notice. From the pyre, she could just make out the hint of trees above the outer walls. It was the first sighting of a world outside the Abbey in her recollection, a chance trick of the winds, a clear sign that her destiny lay beyond, that He would not abandon her.

She hadn't even noticed the ropes being secured around her wrists. She must have stood stock still, her stare a thousand miles away. Had she any pride left, she would have thought herself a perfect specimen of the order, the image of the Lady of Fire herself, facing certain and terrible death without the slightest fear. Had she any vanity, she would have noticed how, though she stood naked amongst so many habits, she had nothing to hide, and was pure in God's sight. The light of the sun was pure and hot upon her skin, and its kiss seemed to melt away any remaining pains. It felt right to be bare before it, as a bride before her husband, and was she not the bridge of God? Had she not truly mastered humility, she would have felt beautiful, a thing of gold from head to toe, hair and skin alike, glistening in solar glory, matched perfectly with her Lord's light.

And then the Abbess gave a nod. And then the fires rose.

And she knew fear.

It was the purpose of the test, after all. Lighting a candle or quieting a ring of flames is a neat trick, and a fine test of focus and insight, but neither is particularly dangerous for all but the most unworthy novices. The test of the Stake introduced real and terrible consequences for failure, and the fear undermined her resolve at once. She did not fear the switch, nor the belt, nor the scathing words or mocking glares of her mistress, nor the whispers of bitter elders, nor the sneers of jealous novices. She did not fear pain, nor punishment, but she knew at once that this was neither. It was fire, as cold in its intent as it was hot in its purpose. It would burn, not to punish, not to inflict pain, but because it simply would. This was her power, God's power chosen for her to wield, and it did not care about her. God might intend much, but fire intends nothing but to burn. And she was flammable.

There was pain. It was confusing at first; she seemed to burn from the inside out, in defiance of all sense. But she soon realized it was smoke, hot and acrid, burning her lungs. She tried to scream, or cough, but she could do neither--her lungs retched violently in indecision, desparate to take in air and desperate to expel the burning poison. She was wracked with pain, but it scarcely made her more than wobble on the stake, as if in seizure, but tightly secured. Little enough could be seen through the smoke, likely enough. No one is coming to help me, came her panicked thought; though she'd never have imagined anyone would, in her current state there was no room for logic, only a desperate attempt to grasp the situation and find any chance of survival.

The fire came soon after the smoke, licking at her toes. Some pyres are built to burn slowly, to maximize torment, even driving their victims mad with fear before any real harm is done to them. This was nonesuch. It alighted quickly, the wood burning eagerly, and would be done in short order--and she along with it. Scarce moments after she first felt it upon her feet, she was alight; the oil on her skin ignited, and the flame quickly crawled across her entire body. Head to toe, she was aflame. And every inch of her skin knew it.

There were no words for the agony. It was an eternal moment of perfect pain. She was a being of smoke and fire, not a thing of flesh burning amidst it. For an instant, there was no sensation, as no part of her burned worse than any other. Then, there was every sensation, her body screaming every profanity it could with all possible urgency, a clamor so intense she was stunned by the sheer immensity of it. Most pain yields immediate thought and fear--one wonders what has happened, and what permanent effects it might have. This pain left no room for thought, or comprehension, or any shred of humanity. She was pain itself. It was the beginning and end of her being.

And the flames began to die. The oil was spent, and now her body would begin baking. Her body, unbidding and beyond her command, had chosen to expel the smoke, and was gasping madly for air, though it would be ten times hotter and more noxious than the last breath. Finally, there was pause for thought, even amidst her torment. I am undone, her words rebounded through her mind, with the edged clangor of maddened certainty. This was folly, and I will burn. Oh God, it hurts. Oh God, Oh God, it hurts. Why? Oh God, why?

As the smoke rose, it began to twirl together, according to some logic only smoke can know. The Seers say that the patterns of fire and smoke speak of the will of God and the Adversary, respectively. Their chaotic dance was impossible for man to understand or predict, yet the Seers could read patterns in it, and know God's will. That, of course, wasn't going to happen to Emma. She knew nothing of Seeing in Flames, and there was little need of divination to guess at her fate. There was only time, now, and pain, and a chance to reflect on her folly.

And through a gap in the smoke, in a piece of the sky not kissed by spires of flame, she saw the sun. And its light did not burn her eyes. Perhaps they had already been burned away, and she merely imagined it; or perhaps she had already reached such a height of agony that the everyday discomfort of staring wide-eyed at the sun was beneath her notice. But even so, it seemed odd. It was almost soothing, where it ought to have been blinding. And it was not a blaze of light, impossible to resolve, but a perfect sphere, with tiny imperfections that, were her eyes sharper, might have been some sort of a pattern. Could God have a face? It was both inconceivable and sacrilegious, specifically forbidden by the Holy Word, and yet there was something there.

But though she could not see a face, she could hear its words, or at least her own thoughts, ringing with impossible clarity and volume in her mind. I will not burn. It was like a child repeating a mantra, an echo of a wiser voice. It was not her certainty, but His, that made the thought so unshakable. It was Truth, spoken only to her. And then, to everyone there present, as she shouted His words, smoke serving as well as the coolest and purest air.

The pain did not surcease, any more than the fire failed to consume the wood. But it made no matter. She knew the Truth, and nothing could contradict it. She waited in perfect agony and perfect content. And so she couldn't have said how long it was before the bonds burned. A minute? A day? It was not important.

She descended a pile of crumbling ash and embers.

Whole, unburnt, and unmarked.