Some habits, like the way she moved, couldn’t be unlearned even after passing beyond the rank of Enforcer and earning her first Sun-Blessed earring–—a reward not given for her numbers of captures as an Enforcer, but as a prize for her handling of the outlander, Ordoño. It was she who had earned his confidence, learned best his language, and taught that skill to other Children of Dal as Ordoño had gone from hated foreigner to fascinating vault of wisdom, showing the Children of Dal new mysteries first in secret and then openly. And all the time, she had been at his side, indispensable and keeping his feet on the path to the next life, ensuring he never stepped wrong and earned punishment or committed blasphemy.
A rare smile curved her lips. Yes, as he rose in popularity, it was she who had advised him what the people wanted to hear. Her Sun-Blessed earring was a just repayment, and Ordoño’s whispers in the right ears had gotten it for her. Now she returned the favor and cleared his path forward.
Four assignments had been her duty this day, and now three lay behind her and one remained. She could take a nice hot bath after this one. Impatience grew and her pace increased.
A small cottage of stone loomed through the trees, isolated and alone. Master Jemkinbu had earned the reward of solitude with his mastery of creating Diviners long years before she’d been born. He’d asked and received, not just a room to himself, but an entire house. He claimed it necessary for his art as he must be alone to hear Dal—a claim no one could dispute.
Santabe had never heard Dal herself and doubted anyone else did either, a belief she very carefully never expressed aloud as she was not ready to be sent to another life.
She knocked softly at the cottage window and then entered, having requested this visitation days earlier. Master Jemkinbu awaited her at his table with the tools of his carving trade spread around him. Chisels and tiny hammers, planes, and files, along with pieces of einhorn, lay scattered across the stone table. He held one tool hidden in his thick fingers. He had changed his silk robe for wool in the comfort of his home.
The years had not been kind to the Master. His bulk had only increased, putting extra strain upon his joints and making it near impossible for him to rise unassisted as rheumatism wracked his legs. Veins that had been spiderwebs had become ropes at his ankles, and his once sparse hair had vanished altogether. Yet, his skill at carving the einhorn remained unsurpassed—no matter how many apprentices he trained.
No doubt Master Jemkinbu was careful not to teach his students everything. The glory of Dal was important, but not at the expense of losing one’s place. She admired him for that as she would have done the same if their places had been reversed.
And though his body failed, his eyes remained shrewd. He noted quickly that she carried no Diviner and allowed the tension in his shoulders to ease. Her time as Enforcer had taught her to read the slightest body display, especially those that benefited her.
“Walk with the sun on your face, Honored One,” she said pleasantly.
“And you, daughter. How may I help you this day? Does Ordoño wish to watch me carve again?”
“Not this time, Master. He wishes something a little . . . more.”
Jemkinbu set down a thin-bladed chisel. “Oh yes. I’ve heard that the rallies of his followers grow ever larger, and that you took him on a tour of all our cities and even the smaller villages—several times in fact.”
“Ordoño is very interested to learn all there is to know of Dal—and of his children.”
“So it seems. Five years and he hasn’t tired of us.” The Master pushed some invisible dust to the floor where a small heap of einhorn shavings gathered over his foot. The sale of that pile would have fed a clan for years. “His speeches have raised the national pride. The common people are happy to be Children of Dal again. And I’ve heard rumors of more: hints of a whisper of marching upon the southern outlander blasphemers and bringing them to Dal.”
She faltered, forgetting her prepared words. None of the others she’d approached had heard anything. “Indeed. Well, that saves some time. We have many friends in the priesthood now. And that is why I came to you today, Master. We want you for our friend as well.”
“That depends on your definition of friend. I believe I always have been. I assigned you to Ordoño in the first place.”
“I remember.” Her hand darted to her hidden pocket. As if she could forget. She had thought that the end of her dreams for advancement. Instead, the results of that one day had set her on the road to everything she wanted—travel, adventure . . . power. Yet, Master Jemkinbu hadn’t planned for that to happen. He’d always sought to keep her down, the same way he ensured his apprentices failed. On top of that, she also remembered the many beatings he’d given her before her rise to full priestess. “I never thanked you for that.” Her hand tightened in her pocket and she had to make herself let go. Her orders still stood—no matter her own feelings.
“But we would know where you stand now,” she prompted. “And eventually, yes, we’d like to take the southern lands—for the glory of Dal, of course.”
“Of course. Though to take so many priests from the cities and from Dal some would say is blasphemy. While to use Diviners as weapons against the unenlightened is a crime. So it is written.”
Ordoño had anticipated these arguments. Securely on solid ground again, she moved closer to his table as one driven by enthusiasm. “But Dal does not return to us for over five hundred years, and we would raise many more priests before taking any out of the country to war. The priests would take their Diviners as self-protection only. That is hardly the definition of a weapon.”
He nodded and she allowed a smile in return. Well did she know that beauty could often fool and distract the elderly or the young. Ordoño had taught her that a pleasing face could be a powerful tool. But his next words stripped the smile away.
“I see this is more than rumor. Your invasion is already a well thought out plan, not a dream.” He tapped the floor with his priceless cane of einhorn and touched the sun-shaped gold in his ears. “But I would expect nothing less from one so young. Without both Sun-Blessed ranks, you do not comprehend all the mysteries yet. Your plan is dangerous.”
“What do you mean?”
“Child, Dal never rests.”
She could only stare for the blink of an eye, but then she laughed. Why must the old be so off target? His brain wandered. “What are you saying, Master? All know that Dal rests for twenty-five hundred years. Never has that pattern been broken. No amount of blood can call Him early. Some have tried.”
“That’s not what I’m saying.” He looked down, studying his lap with unseeing eyes until she fidgeted, shifting from foot to foot.
“Old man, this is not—”
He held up a thick hand. “Wait. This is not something you should know yet, but Dal doesn’t truly rest. Rather, he moves between lives—between times. When He is not here, He is in a prior life or skipping ahead to one of the lives to come.”
“That makes no sense.”
“It is mystery. But you must remember: Dal is a god. Time cannot hold Him.”
Her patience broke. This meeting was taking too long. It should have been over long ago. The Master kept trying to distract her. Why? Was someone coming? “That changes nothing, makes no dent in our plans. Do you stand with us or no? We want your wisdom and your skills on our side, but I would have your answer now.”
Laboriously he pushed, grunted, and heaved his bulk to his feet, leaning on his priceless cane. His back was bowed and curved like the arch of a beautiful woman’s brow. “It’s a lesson, child. As Dal can travel between our lives, so what you do in this life has consequences for all the rest of your lives, even in the past. As you know, we were given this charge to keep Dal to ourselves for our part in waking Him. It is our curse and our blessing. So it has been and so it will always be, in this life and all others. The red Diviners give us the means to trap him among us and protect others. Over time that warped to be a matter of pride—o
nly we could have Dal.
“To go from our lands. To seek out others to use as sacrifices to Dal . . . It goes against our ways. You are doomed to fail. Your plan is blasphemy.”
He yanked on the top of his cane. It tore apart in his hands to reveal a staff as long as a forearm, smooth and bone white. A Diviner. “I must stop you.”
Her eyes widened, and her hand drew forth what hid in her pocket. Age slowed and made him clumsy. She had no such handicap. As he turned with the Diviner, she ducked and let the killing weapon go over her head. She thrust the chisel taken from her pocket at his ear. Haste drew her off slightly, and the bright metal cut across his skull, peeling up skin. It didn’t kill him, but it was painful enough to slow him even more. He tried to bring the Diviner in again, but her aim was true this time. She stabbed the tool into his brain, pushing with all her strength to drive the chisel to the hilt. Blood bubbled over her hands.
He twitched and twitched again, eyes filled with an emotion she could not identify. Scorn? Betrayal? Disgust? It mattered not. His hand sprang open and the Diviner fell. Then the life in him died and his body went limp.
She drew out the chisel and let Master Jemkinbu drop to the floor. The collapse of his body sent the pile of feather-light einhorn shavings scattering to every corner, a fortune lost.
That didn’t matter, either.
Breath rushed to her lungs, threatening panic. He was supposed to be defenseless, weak. That had been closer than she liked. She pushed the adrenaline away, forcing her body to relax.
“So not a friend after all, Master. I’ve been looking forward to that for a long time.”
She cleaned the blood from the chisel on his wool robe and set her weapon on the table with his other tools. She’d taken it months ago in anticipation of this very day, though she would have followed orders and let him live if he’d been amenable. But Ordoño didn’t send her to meet with those likely to be agreeable to their side. No, others got that job. All four of her meetings this day had ended the same way.
They should have listened and seen where the future of this life was headed.
But done is done. Let Master Jemkinbu enjoy his new life while they changed this one, making over the Children of Dal.
She carefully scrubbed all the blood from her hands onto his robe, then left the cottage. People might suspect her work in the murders, but they would also expect her to use a Diviner, and there would be no proof. Her mind dismissed the night’s activities, already dwelling with pleasure on her bath.
Chapter 20
Telo stared at each vein, knot, and scarred knuckle of his remaining hand as if memorizing every detail. The flickering light of torches revealed the specifics but fitfully; however, the sight was clear enough. Strange how flesh remained largely the same even as the soul changed. And Telo feared he was much changed inside.
Father Ansuro’s warning not to go back to the man he had been rang in his head.
He pushed the thought of transformation away. By the saints, studying his flesh was better than examining his soul and much better than staring at Santabe as the Northern priestess lay on a tomb, sleeping off the effects of the drug they’d given her. After they’d survived the laundry chute and left the cathedral, Telo had taken them to a forgotten hidey-hole of his childhood. A place deep underground and another part of his shelved past—an abode of tombs that were centuries old. While Ramiro fetched his horse and Teresa took a light to read epitaphs to lost souls long dead, he stood guard over their unconscious charge.
Bits and pieces of the living lay scattered all around from past refugees hiding from other troubles—a bent spoon too valuable to discard and meant to be retrieved but never recovered, a rag doll so rotted as to be barely identifiable, ashes of campfires between the stone sarcophagi. All remnants of those who were as cast off as the dead. Once upon a time Telo had been one of those castoffs—maybe against all his best intentions he was again. His life become a loop.
A soldier, his father had died before his birth, killed in some meaningless border battle between Aveston and Colina Hermosa. His mother had joined his father just a few short years after Telo’s birth, worked to death in supporting them both, while alone and kinless. Telo had grown up running in the streets—a street orphan—hiding from authority and stealing to feed himself. He had spent much time below ground in such hidey-holes until he was old enough to work in the brawl pits and learn a more sophisticated style of fighting. From there it was a small step to stints with bandits, harming others in a larger way.
He would have stayed there if not for two things: His small memories of his mother all revolved around her praise of the priests—he’d promised her to go to them for help—and the concern of a few such priests, like Father Vellito and Father Ansuro, who helped him without judgment. They had seen something of value in him when he could not. Various other priests had repaired his education and instilled enough values in him to bring him out of his sinful life. Perhaps they had fed upon his guilt, but for that he cast no blame, as it had saved his life. In return, he’d eventually joined them to make amends for his criminal past, to do good for others instead of harm.
In the priesthood he’d been content, not seeking fame or importance, choosing the life of a wandering friar rather than the political risings of the Church. Never part of anyone’s life in a permanent way, or connected to one acre of the world for long, or key to the center of events—until now.
Somehow Beatriz Alvarado had seen in him a counselor fit to help her husband. Julian Alvarado had found in him the courage to fight for the lives of children held by the Northerners and his role had grown from there. And Ramiro Alvarado had trusted him enough to follow his lead in capturing Santabe. Each step forward small and natural until he’d been yanked from his self-imposed humbleness into a battle to stop a god.
Ah, pride, he chided. As if you are more important than the rats hiding in this darkness. Yet here you are, back where you started.
He shivered, eying the shadows around their small fire, but without fear of the rats. No, he’d spent too much time with such creatures to fear them. But the air down here had an icy touch; moisture dripped in slow plops in an unseen corner, enough to chill anyone. All the chambers for the dead led to three or four others, doubling back on each other, resulting in a tangled web of interconnected rooms that would be a maze to anyone unfamiliar. The ceiling spanned high above, lost to the darkness. Too chilly for spiders, the catacombs were part natural cave and part man-made. The stone coffins—chest high, some plain and others covered with designs and lettering—took up just about all the space, meaning barely enough room existed between them for a person to sprawl out straight. Telo sat on one of them with Santabe on another—the carving an uneven lump under him.
In his fearless youth, Telo had traced out less than half the space in this catacomb with the sort of unheeding bravery only children were capable of. Others of his friends had learned many more of the twists and turns. And some had died here of hunger and neglect, their small skeletons hidden by the larger tombs of what had once been Aveston’s most wealthy citizens—the unwanted and the rich, now mingled together in holy equality.
Telo touched mind, heart, liver, and spleen to drive away the gloom that had entered his soul. God will provide. He always did.
But the confidence and peace of mind Telo had gained from witnessing miracles had been snapped by the death of Father Ansuro and his violent reacquaintance with Santabe, leaving him feeling emptier than before. Why had a God who worked miracles abandoned one of the best of souls to roam this land? Father Ansuro hadn’t deserved to die. And Santabe didn’t deserve to live.
Telo had pondered the unfairness of life many times, yet never felt it more keenly than today. Faith faced with concrete evil seemed like so many empty words, and gone was his sense of prevailing over depravity. Suffering had stripped from him the one virtue that had always saved him: the ability to laugh at life and himself—leaving his heart unable to sense truth. It hurt
to acknowledge that his humor had been subsumed under so much grief, and he wondered if he had the will to face the world again when they might fail. If only a source among the living or dead could provide answers.
Santabe lay still and Telo strained his ears for a holy word, but the only noise came from Teresa some feet away as she struggled to read in the faint light. As he’d feared, the Lord would send no answers to him. He was no saint. No one worthy of God’s time. Just a man doing his best in a world breaking down.
His eye lingered on Santabe as the epitome of all cruelty. Telo had witnessed enough cruelty and immorality in his lifetime to recognize the real thing when he saw it. Dal and the Northerners were no group of bandits selfishly grabbing for what they needed without thought of consequences. Instead, they were a deliberate evil with a vocation to harm as many as possible.
Eyes downcast, he rubbed his thumb over a callus in his palm, seeking something real.
“So, you understand now,” a thin voice asked.
Telo jumped before he recognized the voice as Santabe’s, and noticed her eyes had opened. She held one arm flung across her forehead, eyes squinted as though pained by the small light.
“You’ve seen Dal’s work.” Her pained laughter rubbed unclean fingers on his soul. “Your eyes have a freshly haunted look. You’ve seen. Killing me will not stop Him.”
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