by Ashley Capes
Vadiya swaggered wherever they went.
When Pacela’s Spire finally came into view Never’s arms were burning from the stretcher but he didn’t bother calling a halt, better to reach the comparative safety of the spire sooner. The square resting beneath the Spire lay empty. Silver figures of Pacela in her flowing robe stood at each corner though naught but new weeds crept between the flagstones.
“Go,” one of the Steelhawks said, waving with his sword.
Never and Luis took Elina to the great, banded door, pausing a moment for Vantinio and Tsolde to join them. Then Never thumped upon the wood with the ornate knocker and waited.
“Will they let us in?” Elina asked from where she lay on the stone.
“Lina was confident,” Never said, turning to face the Vadiya as he waited. The Steelhawks were watching, one with hands on hips, two holding loaded crossbows. It was clear what would happen if the door did not open. “But I do hope she hurries.”
Never knocked again. Still no response from within.
The Steelhawks remained in place, their weapons ready but not aimed. Yet.
“This isn’t looking good,” Luis said.
“She’ll be here,” Never replied. She had to, or else events were going to take a turn toward disaster. Running across an open square under fire – or trying to outrun the bolts – was not something he wanted to experience. And it would be worse for Elina and Tsolde, who had to stand even before they could run.
They would be no more than target practice for the Steelhawks, no more than a story the Vadiya could later tell with much mirth around their fires as they gouged themselves on the fruit of Marlosa.
A wooden panel snapped open.
Lina’s large eyes appeared in the shadowy recess. “Messenger?”
“I prefer ‘Never’ if you could, Lina. And I’d like it even more if you’d open the door.”
“Of course,” she said, then closed the panel. The sound of a heavy bar being slid free followed and the creak of wood as the door swung inward to reveal Lina in her acolyte’s robe, lit by the warm glow of lantern-light.
“Welcome to the Goddess’ Spire, the Light of Isacina,” she said.
Chapter 18.
Never waited, the trickle of water from a fountain filling the hush.
The High Priestess Jardila regarded him with some concern, her four braids glistening black in the lamps that filled her chamber. They cast warmth across carvings on the walls too; images of Pacela working in hewn earth or tending saplings deep in forest glades – though there were images that revealed her displeasure too, where she cast forth a fierce golden light to eradicate unidentifiable shades that were devouring the very fields of Marlosa.
Jardila sat at a tear-shaped table, or, more likely for Pacela, it was to represent a seed. The High Priestess sat in a half circle that had been cut free of the point, attended by two priests and Lina, who knelt near the woman.
Never and his friends spread around the bulb of the seed, robes removed and cool fruit juice and wine in glasses before them. The juice was tart against Never’s tongue, but welcome. Yet he could not relax fully, not yet. Jardila’s expression gave him pause. While she’d welcomed everyone and offered Pacela’s protection, she did not seem to have decided how long that might extend.
“You may, of course, stay here in peace so long as the Vadiya allow us such leeway, but who knows how long that may be?” she said. Her voice was quite musical to Never’s ear, there was a slight inflection that he could not place. “We have perhaps kept ourselves locked away too often over the years, focused too inwardly, too deeply on our search for Pacela, done too little to spread her wisdom.”
One of the priests leant down. “My Lady, we cannot blame ourselves for what has happened to the city.”
“But it is our home, Gelvi, shouldn’t we be a part of protecting it?”
“Where possible only,” he replied.
“Perhaps,” she said, then stood and turned to Lina. “Will you take our guests down to their rooms, Lina? Arrange for baths and whatever else they require.”
“Yes, High Priestess.”
Lina motioned for everyone to follow. Never stood and joined the group as they filed toward the arched exit. Before he reached the door, Jardila’s voice stopped him. “Never, I would speak with you a moment.”
He stopped. “Of course.”
Luis had paused but Never gave him a nod and his friend continued on, just as one of the Priests was no doubt offered a similar gesture from Jardila, but when Never turned back, she was facing one of the carvings on the wall.
Never approached.
Jardila was tall, yet her robe still brushed against the floor, as if it had been cut so. Unlike the acolytes and priests, her arms were left bare. Each shoulder was adorned by a tattooed pattern resembling a tree within a circle.
She faced him and her expression was a hard one. “You are not a messenger from my Goddess.”
“That’s true”
His answer gave her slight pause, as if she’d expected something else. “Yet you have wings – Lina would not lie to me.”
“Would you like to see them?” he asked.
She raised an eyebrow, as if she had already made the request.
He chuckled. “Very well, My Lady. Here they are.” Never stepped away from the wall then flicked his cloak back and rolled his shoulders, letting his wings unfurl. Black feathers stretched to the carving on one side and he pulled them in a little.
Jardila’s eyes had widened, but she controlled her face better than Lina had. She circled him slowly. “May I see?”
“There is a tear in my clothing.”
She lifted the tunic and gave a gasp. “They are... a part of you.”
“I thought you believed Lina?”
Jardila returned to face him. Her expression was more uncertain now. “I said she would not lie to me. She may have believed that you truly had wings and yet been mistaken. Follow me, I must show you something.”
She led him to a carving of Pacela where the Goddess was speaking with a boy, her face serene and his awed. Jardila produced a pendant from her robe and held it up against the carving, aligning it with corresponding jewellery in the artwork.
Stone rumbled and part of the wall slid open.
The High Priestess entered the dim passage and Never paused. “Do we need light?”
“It is not far.” Her voice echoed.
Never followed the sound of her footsteps. The passage was smooth but narrow. Natural light soon appeared ahead and he joined Jardila in a small room that held a single podium lit by a skylight. A heavy tome rested atop. Beyond waited a closed door, but no indication of what might lie behind.
The High Priestess gestured to the book. “There is something within that I wish for you to see.”
“Is there a particular page?” he asked as he reached for the cover.
“Yes. Three pages marked by yellow ribbon – gently now.”
“Of course.” Taking care, he opened to the first yellow ribbon, pages settling with a crackling.
Before him, a winged man appeared to have burst from a stormy sea, a young child in his arms. Ancient text, so Never supposed, lined the bottom of the image. The words were not Amouni... but what of the picture itself? Never glanced at Jardila, who merely indicated that he should view the next page.
He took the next ribbon and revealed a winged woman. By her stern expression, she was pronouncing judgement upon people who had gathered. Some of the folk wept, and others clung to one another in despair, their bodies slumped.
“And the third?” Never asked.
“Can you not guess, considering what you are?” she said, steel entering her voice.
“Considering what I am?”
“Amouni. Old Masters here. Or tyrants.”
Never turned to the final page and shook his head. A winged man, this time a man standing atop a pile of corpses, blood streaming from his hands and flying into the air. The writing beneath thi
s image had been written taller, with a more forceful hand.
Snow – it didn’t have to look like his brother to remind Never. Or even his own actions in Ficcepa.
His every fear summed up in one image.
“And you show me this why?” Never asked, his voice heavy.
The High Priestess was watching him. “To gauge your reaction, for one.”
“And have I passed your clever test?”
“Perhaps.”
“What do the words say?”
“The first page speaks of the Amouni as arriving to save us, as messengers from the very Gods.” She closed the book. “The second describes the onset of their overwhelming arrogance as they began to decide what was best for the world. The final was a warning, urging us to prevent the return of the Amouni at all costs, lest humanity become utterly enslaved, utterly lacking free will, purpose, hope.”
Never folded his arms. “Do not paint me with such a brush.”
“I am giving you a chance to convince me that the warnings were false.”
“You are most generous.”
Her eyes flashed. “Don’t mock me, Never. It is not outside my capabilities to stop you now.”
“Are you sure of that?”
She hesitated, barely a moment, but it was enough. She could not stop him, or at least it seemed, not if he was ready for any such attempt. “You are here as a show of mercy, do you understand?”
“I understand. Can you also explain how our squabbling helps Isacina?”
Jardila rapped her fingers across the cover of the book. “Your point is well made.”
“Then what do you want from me?”
“Proof that you are better than your ancestors – I want you to be the Amouni in the first image, to fulfil the promise of the Gods, that which we have been taught through the generations.”
“And you believe it?” Never asked.
“I must.”
Chapter 19.
Never paced the thick rug of his room, glaring at the bed. “And those tassels, they don’t serve any purpose that I can see.”
His room was comfortable and pleasant, spacious too. And yet somehow even that offended him. The soothing pale yellows and greens, it was all too much after his interrogation. Or was it the reminder of his cursed heritage that had gotten beneath his skin? The reminder that Snow was forging a path that would see him upon a throne of corpses.
“I think they’re nice,” Tsolde said from where she sat on Never’s bed. Like the others, she had bathed, washing the grime of travel from her face and coppery hair. She lifted the blanket and ran a tassel between her fingers. “Such soft thread.”
“Never, that can’t be all she said,” Elina interrupted from where she sat at the small table. Luis stood nearby, still eating cold meat from a plate, while Vantinio leant against the window, staring down onto the city. Only halfway up the Spire, it had still been a serious climb.
“I’ve told you it all,” he said. “She expects me to save Isacina. All of it.”
“Aren’t you trying to do that anyway?” Vantinio said without turning.
“Not truly,” Never replied. “It would be more of a welcome after-effect to stopping my brother.”
“Splitting hairs, I see.”
“Can’t we simply enjoy this respite?” Elina asked. “I don’t imagine a place this secure or well-provisioned is going to be usual in the middle of an occupied city.”
Never slumped into a chair and threw a leg over the arm. “Truly spoken, Lady Elina.”
“Then we plan our next step during the morning meal,” she said. “We all need to rest now.”
Murmurs of agreement as his companions sought their own rooms but Elina paused at the door; he felt her eyes upon him as he rose and dragged his weary limbs toward the next room where his bath still steamed. “Yes?” he asked.
“You know I have doubted it in the past... but I do believe you can make our lives better, Never. And not only I, but my grandfather and the Order of Clera believe it too. Don’t let Jardila’s fear convince you otherwise.”
Never leant against the doorframe. To exist simply to make the lives of others better, to be a tool only, to have no fate of his own, no name even, it was hardly of comfort. It might have enraged him. Might have set him off again, railing at Elina until he was hoarse.
But it did not.
Unlike the High Priestess, Elina was telling him something few dared, Elina was saying he was not a force for death and destruction.
How rare, such words. How welcome.
“Thank you,” he managed.
She closed the door and he continued on, removing his cloak and tunic, pausing at the glow on his chest. The five-pointed leaf symbol blazed and pulsed in time with the blood in his veins, yet as before, the light did not last. Why? What did it mean? He had no answers, of course, and so he started on his boots and continued, remembering to retract his wings, until he could finally slip into the still-hot water with a deep sigh.
Tomorrow. Everything could wait until tomorrow.
*
Lina and several other acolytes brought sliced fruit with tall glasses of milk on trays, arranging them on the table in Never’s room. The others did not seem to care for Lina if their dark glances were any indication, or the way they laughed when Lina fumbled with the knives and forks. But they all bowed to him and scurried out to the hall, something he could have done without. He called Lina back while his friends started the breakfast, cutlery clinking behind him.
“Lina, will you send for the High Priestess?”
She swallowed. “Send for?”
He grinned. “You can phrase it however you wish, but I need to speak with her this morning.”
“Of course, Mess – ah, My Lord. I will request a meeting on your behalf. If that is all?”
“No,” he said. “I noticed the others did not act kindly toward you.”
Tears built in her eyes but she dashed them away. “It is nothing.”
“Lina.”
“They do not believe me, that I saw you on the roof, that you have wings or that you are a Messenger.”
The childishness of youth. “I see. Don’t let them trouble you, Lina. I have a feeling they will change their tune soon enough.”
“Thank you,” she said as she left, though the tone of her voice suggested she did not believe him.
Never returned to the patch of light provided by the window, where his companions were devouring the fruit. “What have you left me then, you wonderful pigs?” he asked.
Vantinio laughed and Luis grinned around his apple, while Tsolde gave him a mock-frown.
“You seem in higher spirits today,” Elina observed. She, like the others, appeared much better after bathing, a good meal, and a deep sleep in a secure place. The bruises were well and truly faded now and her skin no longer bore additional paleness.
“Let’s see if it lasts until the High Priestess arrives,” he said.
“You don’t expect her now, surely?” she asked.
“Not truly.” He drank his milk – cool and clean against his tongue. “But while we wait, let’s talk about the next step.”
“We have to discover if Snow is even here,” Luis said.
“Which means sneaking into the palace, doesn’t it?” Tsolde asked. “Rumours on the street won’t be enough.”
“Don’t like our chances of sneaking in there,” Vantinio said.
“I’m not worried about that, I know a way in. Even if I have to fly you over the wall one at a time – I’m worried about how to move around once we’re inside,” Never said.
“Snow first, remember?” Luis took a sip from his own milk.
“What if we cannot gain entry to the palace?” Elina posed.
Silence around the table. Never drummed his fingers on the wood, the gesture bringing Jardila to mind.
“Take a high ranking officer,” Vantinio said. “A First or a Commander.”
“That has possibilities,” Never mused.
“We can assume our disguises won’t hold up within the palace,” Luis added.
“I doubt any disguise would work,” Never agreed. “Boldness, speed and stealth, perhaps,” he said. “There are places we may be able to hide for a short time. But I fear this will be another of those times when I may have to take the final step alone.”
More silence.
Tsolde finally broke the hush. “How will you stop him, Never?”
He did not answer at first. “I fear I won’t know until we meet again. The last thing he would accept... is that I would seek to kill him.”
A knocking came from the door.
“Enter,” Never called.
A Priest opened the door and approached, his stern face seeking Never. “The High Priestess requests you join her in her private altar room, once you have had a chance to prepare for the day.”
“Certainly.” Never stood. He looked to the others. “See if you can discover whether the Steelhawks are watching us.”
He followed the priest outside and into a nearby stairwell where he started up, boots echoing. The priest climbed without comment and after a time, Never found himself glad of the silence, concentrating on his breathing instead.
Jardila’s altar room was not so high as the roof, but when he was finally admitted, it was with no small amount of relief. The altar room was as sparse as the hidden chamber with the old tome, yet the statue of Pacela that filled it was unlike any Never had witnessed anywhere in Marlosa. The silver figure was female in suggestion only, via the graceful lines perhaps, but she appeared more a frozen flame here.
The High Priestess stood before it, hands clasped before her.
“The Goddess appears unlike herself,” Never said after a moment.
