"Maybe. They'll still eat you."
The Keeper rolled his eyes and turned to lead them out. They followed obediently. The tunnels tended to look all the same and there were no markers that Valen could ever identify, and he's been here many times.
"I mean, you remember the story of Belarael the Terror? That elf ate the soldiers he'd killed."
That made him think of Maryx again. Wasn't she staying at tavern called Belarael? He wondered what she was up to.
Valen shook his head. "That was thousands of years ago."
"That's how long elves live. I bet they still have recipes. I've heard that, during the Western War, they would conduct raids to kidnap people for their feasts..."
Valen was grateful when the Keeper lifted the paving stone to let them into the sunlight.
8
Maryx emerged from a shadow as Valen stepped across the Temple boundary. She looked him up and down, ignoring the morning traffic. “That was just dirt…”
Valen adjusted his cloak, easing the pressure on the bruise on his throat and settling the golden sunburst brooch properly against his shoulder. He’d spent the night in the Paladin barracks and felt more rested than he had since before he’d walked into the godshard’s grove, but the bruise felt more prominent here. “I'm surprised you're still here."
"I told you the truth about my oaths, Paladin. Did you deliver your message?”
He nodded and glanced at the Temple. “I’m not sure it’s going to do any good.”
Maryx shrugged and tugged her hood further forward. Her cloak was obviously new, as were her tunic and leggings. Her long, curving sword was still buckled at her side, unmistakably exotic. “Perhaps. I don’t suppose you’ve learned anything new about the war?” She grinned slightly as he narrowed his eyes. “I am an elven scout, and monitoring such things is my other duty besides yourself.”
That was right. Galian's ridiculous tall tales of elves flashed through his mind. The elves wanted all humans dead and Maryx was tasked to help them. “I thought you were talking to a contact.”
“He is busy at the moment.” She sighed and waved a hand, dismissing something but he didn’t know what. “I suppose I will be at Belarael, should you have need of me.”
“As you spy on the city."
"I need to do something to avoid being filled with arrows next time I appear at the border of Aeldamarc. The Hierarchs have expectations."
He cocked his head at her. "Do you even care about what they ask you do?"
"No. Almost as little as they do. " She glanced towards the streets leading away from the Temple. It was well into the afternoon now and the city showed no signs of slowing down. "Gathering rumors will be easy today. The district bathhouse was swimming with them, and the Crownmarket will be, too." She turned to head towards the market district. She still had her quiver on her back, but she hadn't replaced her bow yet.
Valen glanced back at the Temple and found the idea of going back right now to hear Galian's domesticated stories or spend hours praying for guidance he’d already revived to be unpleasant.
When he looked back at Maryx, she had stopped and was regarding him. The glow of her eyes under her hood was mesmerizing. She sighed. “Now that I think about it, perhaps your presence could be helpful.”
“For extracting information?”
“People will talk about their fears easily, especially in these times. But maybe to a paladin it won’t be all doom and misery.”
Valen moved to her side and they began making their way to Crownmarket. It wasn’t in the center of the city- the location of that was highly contested between the city’s seven districts- but nearer to the gates. “What have you heard exactly?”
“Armies on the march from Beriskar, which is true, but everyone has an option on when they’re going to start knocking on the city gates, despite the fact that no one has seen evidence of Beriskar for a league around the city lands. People have seen his soldiers in plenty of other places, or at least that’s what they say...”
“They’re coming,” Valen said, “The herald is never wrong.”
“If you say so. I leave the affairs of the Tribunal to your people.”
“You’ve lived among humans for how long and you don’t care about the Tribunal?”
“Twenty years, now.” She shrugged.” The Tribunal doesn’t care about my people, I don’t care about them.”
“‘Elves only care for the own gods.’” It was a quote from one of the many Guidances published by the High Priestesses of Lyrica and taught to paladin initiates.
“Once. They barely even care for their own people now and...” She trailed off as they turned a corner and entered the bustle of the market. “If war is coming, Paladin Longshanks, then the market does not seem to care.”
He scowled at the nickname and the war both. “No.” An idea occurred to him, a way of thanking her for helping him along the journey. “Follow me.” He began threading his way through the stalls and hagglers.
He glanced back to see if Maryx was following. She met his gaze with a raised brow. Valen led her to an actual shop on the edges of the large market square, its front wide open to the air. Shields hung from the walls and an elaborate suit of gleaming armor stood guard front and center.
Maryx snorted and rattled the sword at her side. “In case you forgot, I’m very well-armed.”
“Not with a bow.”
“A human bow? I’ll manage without, thank you.” She cocked her head at him. “Thank you, truly, but I have standards and there is no bow outside of Aeldamarc that can match them.”
“Even just temporarily?”
“Even then.” Something in her gaze softened just a bit. “Truth be told, I was always better with a sword than a bow. My grandfather taught me how to fight, but he was a master swordsman, not a marksman.”
“So you do have a home in Aeldamarc.”
She snorted and turned back to the main part of the market. “I never did.”
“You have family...”
“I’m not supposed to. It won’t make any sense to you.”
They strode into the throng, dodging a white-robed Orishalite whose many belt purses clinked with gold. The herbs in her basket were smelled so strong they overwhelmed every other odor in the market, easily clearing a path for her.
“Try me,” Valen told Maryx.
“I was...mis-bred. There are few greater crimes in Aeldamarc than having children who are from bad bloodlines. One of them is being a child of those bloodlines.”
Valen frowned. “You mean that your existence is regarded as a sin.”
“You have no idea.”
The idea existed among humans, too. To the icy north and the icy south, there were groups among the holdings who would kill infants who weren’t thought likely to survive the freezing frontier. “They let you live.”
“Elf does not kill elf, not now, anyway. We’re too few to do that. Everyone can be useful. Making reports on human strife is so very useful, I’m told, and some poor wretch has to do it.” She glanced up at him with a slight wicked smile. “What about you? Are paladins the bastards of misbehaving priestesses?”
He rolled his eyes. “No.” He considered. “Maybe.”
“Ah, now your ways make no sense to me.”
“I’m fairly sure that’s where Galian comes from.”
“Who?”
“You’ll have to mee—” no, maybe not a good idea, in light of the stories Galian believed— “My friend. My brother. One of the older priestesses watched him often. They had the same eyes.”
“And you?”
Valen shrugged. “Paladins and priestesses of Lyrica are offered to her shrine very young. Lots of...inconvenient children. I was one of them.”
She laughed loudly, drawing the attention of some shoppers at a nearby pottery stall. “Well, that’s two of us.” She shook her head. “It would be.”
“Is there something among your people about the questionable heritage of the immor?”
“And you tag along to stop that doom?”
“No. To assuage the loneliness. An act of mercy.”
He held her eyes for a long moment, trying to understand.
A yowling shout jolted both of them out of it.
They both turned towards the source, hands on sword hilts. The men and women nearby stopped for a moment with visible fear.
For no reason. The source was a wild-haired man standing on a crate. He stared around grimly at the crowd now staring at him. Fear fell away and most continued about their business.
“Listen!” the man shouted, “Listen to me! I carry the message of History!”
He looked like a lunatic, but he had an impressive voice. The onlookers with nothing better to do formed a small crowd around his feet.
“Look around you, my brothers and sisters! Look at this place! Beneath the glitter and the smiles, beneath the western silk and the eastern gold, you can see the filth. You can see the way these merchants take advantage of you, selling your labor right back to you! Look!” He pointed violently at the Orishalite from earlier as she passed by, his finger shaking with violent rage. The crowd’s gaze followed.
The woman stopped under their scrutiny.
“Look at this!” The lunatic bared his teeth. “One of the Temple liars! They preach on and on. Their gods stand for this, for that...but not for you! Not for the people! If their gods had any power, if they cared, then why would they allow this all to stand? The Temple takes your money, buys those white robes. When she moves, you can hear the clink of gold on her belt. That’s your coin, brother and sisters.”
Valen frowned. He pulled his hand away from his sword and made his way to the Orishalite.
“It does not have to be this way. They know it. They grow fat on your labor, the merchants, the Temple, the nobles, all of them. Sick, wicked, ruiners of lives! There is a way, though. A new way. The only way, the way that the whole length of History has been carrying us toward! The Way of the People! And do you know how we make sure that civilization remains on the Way of the People?” He glanced around the crowd, arms open, asking for an answer.
“How?” a few asked, while others turned away and shook their heads.
The madman grinned. “We tear down this old, broken world that these wreckers have built!” He slammed a fist into his open palm. “You smash their shrines and their stalls! You take what they’ve stolen! Violence, my comrades! We do violence!”
The crowd looked towards the Orishalite. Valen stepped between them. He kept his hands well away from his sides-- but he could see Maryx out of the corner of his eye with her own blade a few inches out of the scabbard. “Be at peace,” he said, “History will not be decided here.”
“History is decided, wrecker!” the madman hollered, spittle flying. He stabbed a finger at Valen. “This is a Paladin of Lyrica. They are the symbols of the whole broken festering ruin that has been abusing you! Justice, they say, and civilization. Lies! They use them to keep you low, to use you!” So much for caution. Valen openly rested his hand on his weapon. “They are powerful, and you feel powerless, I know, but you are not. The People are the true power! Together we can conquer them! History is with us! ”
Valen grimaced. Where was the Crownsguard? “But steel is not.”
Green and gold broke through the edge of the crowd. A patrol of armored Crownsguard, appeared, shoving with their spears none too gently. “Alright, alright! Break it up!” the leader shouted. He pointed his spears at the madman. “You! Rabblerouser! Show me your Alberan-cursed license!”
The man cursed and spat and bolted like a skinny rat. Two of the patrol broke off after him. The patrol leader shook his head and approached Valen. He took off his helmet and bowed his head. He was much younger than the armor and his size made him seem. “Thank you for stepping in, Paladin. We’re never sure the turn it's going to take.”
“That’s a common event?”
“The illegal blasphemous preacher, yes. The brush with mob violence, more in the last few days than usual.” He shrugged. “My father says it happens when people are spooked. Happened during the last war, when he was leading patrols through the Crownmarket.”
The world around them was resuming its hustle and bustle. Maryx had faded away but he knew she was nearby. “All seems normal.”
The younger man’s blue eyes tightened. “Seems. I’m Marcus Sauroter, by the way.”
“Paladin Valen.”
The two guardsmen who had chased the madman came walking back without their quarry. “Vanished down some sewer drain,” one told Marcus, “Every time. Bastard must be nothing but skin and bones to squeeze in there.”
“At least he’s not stirring up a crowd.” The patrol leader turned back to Valen. “The city never stops until it is forced to stop. That doesn't mean everything is going fine. There’s no army at the gates but something is coming. And scum like that are a part of it.” He shook his head. “Just a gut feeling, Paladin, sorry.”
Valen thought about what he knew was coming and about what damage a frightened young Crownsguard officer could do. What did he really know? Elven prophecies uttered by dead gods and a spy, spurred by mad visions, and the Herald’s no-nonsense warnings that were meant for the Temple. “Trust your instincts,” he said, “and stay vigilant.”
“As vigilant as Lyrica asks of us.” The Crownsguard saluted and gathered his patrol.
After they left, Maryx appeared at his side. “I knew you’d be useful. I admit I have not spent long enough in the city to have a sense of what its panic looks like.”
He glanced around. Things had gotten back to normal very quickly. The crowd seemed to have trampled away the moment of near violence as if it were a drawing in the dust. “Me, too, for what it's worth.”
She gritted her teeth visibly, a weird elven expression. “It’s a pity there’s not a decent bow to be had here, because I think I’m going to need one,” she said, “There are some things I need to get in order for my own purposes. You know where to find me.”
“You mean a report to write.”
“As if the Hierarchs want anything written down. No. Checking on something with someone.”
“You have contacts in the city?”
“Do you?”
“Do you think I’d hurt them?”
“I think you are caught up in something terrible.” She shook her head. “I am a sword and not much else, it seems. If you have need of me, come to the Belarael.” She began to drift into the crowd leaving the market.
“You’ll be sober?” Valen called.
She laughed as she walked.
✽✽✽
The fact that Maryx was still missing a bow annoyed Valen , like a pebble in his boot, even at dawn the next morning, trying to beat the snot out of Galian. It left him still owing her—even though he’d gotten her illegally into the city and saved her from the demon.
He found himself wondering if he wanted to owe her, which was ridiculous. It should be the least of his concerns, too, with Beriskar threatening and anger simmering even within the city walls.
He caught a sword swipe from Galian, who laughed as he broke away. “You think too much. Works well against monsters, I’m sure.”
Valen never understood what that meant. He lunged hard at the other Paladin, striking for his left side, throwing his weight into the blow. Galian caught it and let Valen’s lunge carry him forward so he could swing at Valen’s left.
Without thought, Valen flipped his sword to his other hand and caught the blow. Galian drew back, scowling, and they circled each other.
“Lyrica’s toenails!” No one in the world cursed— or didn’t curse, really — quite like Paladin Galian. “I forgot you could do that. And you’re cat-quick at it, too.”
A smile tugged at Valen’s lips, as he remembered how amazingly fast Maryx had blocked the demon’s blows. “Elf-quick.” He flipped the sword back to his rig
ht hand; he could fight with his left hand, but it was more awkward and slower than his right.
A very loud cough outside the chalked fighting ring drew their attention. A priestess stood there, with a sour look on her pretty face. “High Priestess Sola has a message for Paladin Valen.”
Galen first bowed his head deferentially to the priestess, then looked at Valen with raised eyebrows. “That’s that, then. Just when I was winning, too.”
The priestess gave him a vicious glare. She was not of a kind with the High Priestess. “Ensure you wash before taking guard in the shrine today, Paladin Galian.”
He bowed even more deferentially this time and headed jauntily into the Paladin quarters, leaving Valen to bow his own head to the priestess. “The blessing of Lyrica upon you, holy one.”
She nodded her head curtly in acknowledgment. “Valen the Herald-touched.” Her expression grew even more sour. “The High Priestess will not be able to meet with you at the Temple this morning.” Her tone was disapproving. Lyrican chastity was more of a strong recommendation but some took it seriously to the point of paranoia. “She just left for the Councilhouse with Crownsguard Commander Brandtalus. She requests that you meet her there, whereupon she will speak to you at the conclusion of her meeting.”
“Thank you,” Valen said.
That got him another curt nod. The priestess made her deliberate and graceful way back to the shrine, message delivered. The Temple’s female priesthood of Lyrica was not generally fond of their male Paladins. It was the only place he’d ever encountered the problem. Clerics at shrines in other cities behaved like family who hadn’t seen you in years.
It likely didn’t help that not even the High Priestess been visited by a Herald even once.
Valen rolled his right shoulder and returned his borrowed practice sword to the rack, heading back to the Paladin quarters’ bathhouse to make himself presentable.
At a guess, the meeting in the Councilhouse was a council of war. He didn’t know what he could do for the High Priestess on that front. He hoped there was nothing he could so, because the whisper of Immor hovered over his head even if it was insane.
Doomwalker Page 7
