“You may now be seated,” the host gently instructed. Those assembled finished offering their silent prayers for their chosen candidates and then gracefully resumed their seats.
The host moved to the side of the stage and cast a glance towards those of us waiting nervously in the wings. “The Saintly candidates shall now present themselves. Kindly honor them with your heartfelt applause.”
At his words, a regal fanfare rang out, filling the air with majestic notes. As the music echoed through the hall, we lined up in order, and as the final note faded into silence, we made our entrance, stepping onto the stage and carefully navigating to our assigned spots. It was difficult to determine which sensation I felt more keenly—the bright lights beaming down on us or the intense, scrutinizing gazes of the audience.
My eyes wandered to the royal seating area, seeking out Ed. There he was, alongside the emperor and empress, with Prince Gilbert and Teodore nearby—all of them applauding. Despite my intention to maintain composure, I felt a smile begin to spread across my face, buoyed by the overwhelming support.
I acknowledged their encouragement with a subtle nod, then refocused my attention forward. Just then, Flora, who was bringing up the rear, took her position diagonally behind me, signaling the completion of our procession.
“Thank you for your applause,” the host said. “All twenty-three saintly candidates have now taken the stage. For an introduction to each candidate, please refer to the programs you were given.”
The audience responded with a synchronized rustle as everyone opened the programs provided and began to read. A moment of collective focus ensued before the host cleared his throat to continue. “Next, we are honored to receive words from the high pontiff. Please extend a warm welcome to His Holiness.”
He stepped back, making way for a distinguished figure. The elderly man, draped in a cassock of white and gold, slowly ascended the stage. The gentle tap of his cross-shaped staff punctuated each step. Upon passing the line of bowing clergymen, High Pontiff Melvin Clark White stepped to the center of the stage.
The high pontiff’s back loomed large before us, commanding silence and reverence. It was a reminder that, despite his usual kind and lighthearted demeanor, he was the ultimate authority of our storied church.
“Hear my voice,” His Holiness proclaimed. “I extend my heartfelt gratitude to each of you for gathering here to witness the Saintly Trials. My thanks and honor go out to all who have labored tirelessly to bring these trials to fruition. Such a feat, accomplished in such a short time, is a testament to your immense sacrifices.”
His voice maintained a composed cadence that was almost eerie in its calm as he addressed the assembly. He abruptly and unexpectedly turned to face us. His solemnity was counterbalanced by a gentle expression—a familiar warmth that I’d come to cherish. “And to you, the chosen few, I say this: unleash your fullest potential on this sacred day. Great things are expected of you all.”
As he turned to face the audience once more, I swore I felt his gaze drift over me and linger for just a moment—a fleeting look of encouragement—before he resumed his address. “Lengthy speeches can diminish the spirit, so I shall be brief. As a final word, I wish for everyone to find joy in our gathering today.”
With a reverent “may God bless us all,” the high pontiff concluded his speech, leaving a profound stillness in its wake. He descended the way he had come and took the seat by the stage reserved for the arbiter of the trials.
The host stepped forward once more. “Thank you for your inspiring words, Your Holiness. Now, allow me to briefly explain how the trial will work. Our candidates will face three rigorous challenges, each crafted to test their abilities and virtues. We will introduce each trial in turn, providing clarity to ensure everyone’s understanding. The trials will operate on a points system; after each, candidates will receive scores reflective of their performance. At the conclusion of this event, the one among them with the highest total will ascend as the Saint.”
This explanation mirrored the details that were already known to the candidates and the public, so there were no surprises to be had there. The points system, visually clear and quantifiably precise, was designed to offer a transparent and accurate assessment of each candidate.
The host continued with his explanation. “Given the nature of this points-based scoring matrix, there should be no cause for withdrawals or eliminations throughout the trials. However, let it be known that any candidate who inflicts harm on another or engages in deceitful behavior unbecoming of this sacred competition will face immediate disqualification. I urge all candidates to exercise caution and integrity to avoid any actions that could lead to censure, even unintentionally.” He then shot a conspicuous and significant glance towards the paladins standing by in the venue, as if to issue a silent but stern warning to any would-be transgressors.
I, um, suppose the reason for the heightened security must be me, considering what happened at the preliminary trials. A curious mix of gratitude and guilt stirred within me as I acknowledged the lengths to which they had gone to ensure our safety. My hand instinctively rose to my neck, tracing the now-faded marks as the visage of Lady Monica flashed before my eyes. I prayed silently that something like that wouldn’t happen again.
“That concludes the explanation,” the host said. “We will now proceed to the first trial. Please stand by as we make the necessary preparations.”
At his word, a procession of nuns entered the space. They had smiles on their faces and what looked like stained and dirtied towels in their arms. They deposited a veritable small mountain of fabric in front of each candidate before gracefully retreating. We stared at the mysterious heaps of cloth, trying to unravel their purpose, when moments later, the nuns returned, this time placing next to each of us a large empty basket. This enigmatic pairing of items only deepened our bewilderment. After a final, graceful exit, I could see that the nuns lingered offstage, at the ready with additional towels.
“The first trial is set to commence,” the host announced. “Allow me to explain the challenge. Candidates, your task is to cleanse—that is to say, purify—these towels. Each towel you restore to pristine condition will earn you one point. But bear in mind that only towels which are completely clean will count towards your score. Consider this carefully as you plan your approach.”
At the host’s words, a few candidates visibly tensed—perhaps they had initially contemplated doing the bare minimum wherever possible, an eventuality that such a rule was clearly meant to circumvent. Not to say that I didn’t empathize with their eagerness to find any advantage; the stakes were indeed monumental.
“Place your cleaned towels in any arrangement you prefer within the provided basket,” the host instructed. “Should you exhaust your supply, more will be brought to you. Do not disturb or take towels belonging to others.” He took a deep breath, then bellowed out at the top of his lungs, “You will have fifteen minutes. Let the first trial...begin!”
The host had barely departed the stage when the candidates sprang into action, casting purification magic with fervor. Heedless of the grime staining their hands, each focused intensely on thoroughly cleaning their assigned towels, the host’s warning clearly having had its intended effect.
I, however, did not need to choose between quality and quantity. After surveying my competitors, I turned my attention to the soiled towels before me and clasped my hands together in prayer, just as I had in the preliminaries. The pose wasn’t strictly necessary, but I found that it was a handy way to align my spirit with the task. The divine nature of my power meant that getting into the right mood was actually quite an important consideration.