by NS Dolkart
If Ravennis was good, He would protect Narky and his family from whatever dangers they faced. But Narky had never been one to rely on his God’s benevolence. He obeyed Ravennis and feared Him, but trust? Trust did not come easy.
There were no inns along Narky’s path to Arca, but it didn’t matter these days: every home he stopped at rearranged itself to accommodate him. The honor of hosting the High Priest of Ravennis overrode all other concerns, and people would slaughter their finest animals so that Narky could feast. His blessing was worth more to people than money, which he frankly found disturbing. Did his blessing have any value at all? He knew better than to think Ravennis would respond to his every request.
Visiting strangers’ houses and having them treat him like royalty would never feel normal. Even after twelve years as High Priest of Ravennis, Narky couldn’t get used to unquestioned deference. His experience as a teenage refugee had conditioned him to expect harsh words and slammed doors; even now, he instinctively expected to be greeted with fear and suspicion.
He arrived in Arca shortly after noon on the third day. The townspeople were ready for him, having received a messenger from Criton about their impending meeting. Criton was expected to arrive by sundown. The preparations for that evening’s welcome feast were already well underway: several ewes were being roasted in the town square, their mouth-watering scent permeating the whole neighborhood. Narky chose to wait for Criton outside, chatting uneasily with the town elders and watching the locals fill the square with chairs and long tables.
When Criton did arrive, it was with a small retinue of trusted friends and, Narky noted with a wince, his youngest wife. If he’d brought her, Narky should have just gone to meet them in Salemica.
Delika regarded Narky coolly. As a girl she had been frightened of him, and now that she was a bit older she seemed to be proving her maturity by exchanging her fear for disdain. Well, either that, or she was reacting to a poorly-suppressed look of disgust on Narky’s face. That was a real possibility. He was useless at hiding his feelings.
Criton didn’t seem to have noticed, though. He strode forward with a big grin and embraced Narky. “It’s been a long time!”
“It has.”
“How is Ptera? And Grace?”
“They’re fine.”
“I’m sure Grace has grown tremendously since the last time I saw him.”
“Yes. Well, you know kids.”
Narky hadn’t meant that last answer to sound so accusatory, but there you had it. It was hard to concentrate with that teenager’s scornful eyes on him, and etiquette and pleasantries had never been his strength. Criton frowned and changed the subject.
“You have some news for me? Your messenger didn’t tell me anything; only to meet you here.”
“I brought something I want you to see.” Narky opened his satchel and handed Criton the blasphemous scroll with its Sephan satire. “Read it, and we can talk about it when we have more privacy.”
Criton nodded and took the scroll from him, but he did not unroll it. “Have I done something to offend you, Narky?”
Narky couldn’t help but glance at Delika, who was staring at him with the expression of a sullen child. Like a coward, he shook his head. “Don’t worry about it.”
That didn’t satisfy Criton; naturally it didn’t. It hadn’t even been a proper denial. Still, how could he fail to understand what was bothering Narky? He was being thick on purpose. Here he was, parading his wife-daughter around like their marriage was something to be proud of. Why should Narky play along?
But then, maybe it wasn’t a matter of pride. Maybe now that he had her, Criton couldn’t bear to part with Delika. Would that be better, or worse? No matter which way he tried to think of it, Narky couldn’t come up with an explanation that made him feel better. He would rather not have thought about it at all, but he didn’t have that choice because Criton had brought the girl along and now she was staring at him. He’d never been so deeply uncomfortable in his life.
Narky’s disapproval was probably harder on him than it was on Criton. He had always admired Criton for his bravery and generosity, for what he had thought of as Criton’s natural decency; but now that Criton had done something so clearly indecent, Narky was beginning to notice all the flaws that he hadn’t seen when they were younger. His image of his friend was crumbling.
And yet, Criton hadn’t changed much. He was still the same brave, idealistic, terminally stubborn man Narky had always known. It was Narky who had changed, and Grace who had changed him.
Narky had never understood the urge to protect children above all else until his own beautiful son had been born. Grace had taken the whole world and shaken it. The first night with him had taught Narky to fear as he had never feared before, to ache at the thought of harm coming to this tiny, delicate creature. That protectiveness had never gone away, even as Grace had grown bigger, and he didn’t think it ever would.
It was strange to think about how different he had been before Grace’s birth. As a teen, Narky had once suggested abandoning a small crowd of children to the elves. He still remembered the others’ shock and disgust, and how he hadn’t understood their reaction at the time. He had thought he was being practical and that they were sentimental to the point of self-endangerment; they had clearly thought he was horrifyingly callous.
Well, they had all been right.
Delika had been one of those children, not that she would remember Narky’s suggestion unless Criton told her about it: the elves had a way of hiding children’s memories from them when they left that other world. It was perhaps ironic that now, when Delika was seventeen and not nearly so helpless, he was finally inclined to protect her.
Or maybe not that ironic. Narky’s perspective was different now that he was a parent himself, and Delika was still closer in age to Grace than to her husband. It was disgusting to exploit her youth and malleability the way Criton was doing.
Still, he hadn’t come here to scold Criton about his wives. He had come because of the Sephan heresy, and because of the unique chance he now had to end it. He needed to focus.
This scroll was the key, an unexpected weapon he’d been given by Sephas himself. But for all that it was a weapon, and he was bound to use it as such, he couldn’t help but feel it was more than that. The scroll spoke to him, just when he had given up hope that Ravennis would send him any message. Could he accept the contents as prophecy and call for Sephas’ death as its mortal originator? He couldn’t think of a way to do so openly, and he hated hiding what he believed.
He knew what his top priority ought to be, what a high priest of Ravennis ought to do: he should suppress the satire entirely, order its disseminators killed, and forge a military alliance powerful enough to demand that Atuna hand Sephas over. That was more or less the plan he had presented to King Mageris. Why was he having second thoughts now?
He was glad he had come here alone. He could ask Criton what he thought of the scroll without alerting anyone in Ardis that he was having these doubts. If it spoke to Criton too, maybe Narky could find a way to rehabilitate it, even if it meant letting Sephas go. A message from Ravennis was far more valuable right now than capturing a few powerless dissidents.
He couldn’t shake the feeling that the scroll was the only message Ravennis would be sending him. Calling the scroll’s message a prophecy felt right, and that was what mattered; a high priest should trust his instincts about these things.
So while Criton read, Narky sat quietly, trying to articulate his feelings into a theory he could explain. He couldn’t help but overthink it. Every time Criton frowned at the words in front of him, Narky decided that his explanation was no good and that he should start again. At first Criton whispered the words to himself as he read, but he soon stopped, looking up. Narky nodded at him in acknowledgment. Criton had once told him that he needed to sound words out in order to read them, but these were not words he’d want to say aloud if he could help it. Had Narky been able to read, he wa
s sure Father Lepidos would have gladly handed the scroll over to him silently, so as to avoid speaking such blasphemous words. It was his poor luck that Narky was illiterate.
When Criton had finished reading, he looked up and sighed. The feast was still in progress, but he rose to his feet and took a bottle from the table. “We should discuss this privately. Come on.”
He gave Delika a little squeeze on the shoulder and he and Narky retreated to the town hall. The building had once been a temple of Magor, but the people of Arca, caught on the border between Ardis and the Dragon Touched, had repurposed it for secular use rather than have to choose which God should claim the edifice. Narky and Criton sat down in what had once been a small sanctuary and was now a meeting room, taking turns drinking from the bottle. It was full of aniseed liquor, a specialty of the northern plains. It was very strong.
“This is about Father Sephas, isn’t it? You want my help convincing Atuna to arrest him and give him to you.”
“You guessed it,” Narky said. “But first I want to know what you think of it.”
“I think Atuna might hand him over, but if it didn’t, you’d be dragging my people into another war. And if we’re being honest, Narky, I might trust you, but I don’t trust Mageris. I’d worry about Ardis turning on me halfway through the campaign so they could steal their land back.”
Narky took another swig, though it burned at his throat. He didn’t even like aniseed. “No, that’s not what I meant.”
“It doesn’t matter what you meant, it matters what happens. You can’t control Mageris and we both know it.”
“No,” Narky repeated, putting his head in his hands. “I didn’t mean… the scroll, what did you think of it?”
Criton blinked at him. “Um. I’m not sure what you want me to say. This stuff isn’t coming from the Dragon Touched, so there’s not much I can do to suppress it. It’s definitely Sephan.”
Narky shook his head and found that it made him dizzy. That liquor really was strong. “The thing is, it doesn’t sound like Sephas. At all. Everyone’s telling me that he got some Atunaean playwright to write it for him, but I don’t think so, because it’s not much of a play either. It’s easy enough to see the blasphemy and stop there, but besides that, what is this thing even about?”
Maybe Narky was slurring his speech, because he didn’t get the reaction he had hoped for. Criton mostly looked confused as he reached for the bottle.
“It’s not a good play? I don’t – what’s the problem?”
“The problem is that it doesn’t make sense for anyone to have written this. Everyone thinks it’s Sephan because it insults both our Gods, but the thing is, it doesn’t do anything to advance his cause. It doesn’t even mention Elkinar! Who’s going to read this and turn to Sephas for their answers? No one. It’s just about this bet between Ravennis and God Most High, with some blasphemous insults added on top. It isn’t just unlike him. Its whole existence makes no sense!”
“You’re saying nobody wrote it? It just appeared?”
Narky sighed. “I… I think it might be a prophecy.”
He had hoped, foolishly, that Criton would agree with him, but he could see the disapproval coming even before Criton’s expression changed.
“What God would dare insult God Most High like this?” he demanded. “Which God could possibly have sent such a message to Sephas and his followers?”
“Ravennis.”
Criton’s mouth dropped open. “Hear me out,” Narky said, though he needn’t have: Criton stared dumbly at him, making no attempt to interrupt. Narky took a couple of deep breaths and spoke.
“It’s not unlike Ravennis to use His enemies as tools, right? He goaded Magor into helping Him conquer the underworld, so why not use Sephas now? I think He gave Sephas the inspiration to write this prophecy, and Sephas added the insults himself. He would. Anyway, all those insults are separate from the real point, which is about the argument or bet or whatever between Ravennis and God Most High. That part speaks to me. It’s like what Hunter said that time: I’m bound to die eventually, so isn’t it always more important to please Ravennis than to survive? I know it sounds weird, but it feels like it’s a personal message just for me. I’ve been hoping Ravennis would speak to me since the quake, and I’m starting to think He has. Does that make any sense?”
Criton frowned sympathetically. “No, not really. It doesn’t make any sense for Ravennis to talk to Sephas instead of you, Narky. I’m sorry He hasn’t given you any guidance, but clinging to this blasphemous stuff is… desperate. If you want me to raise an army to threaten Atuna then we can discuss that. Sephas is attacking God Most High here, so it might be necessary. But if you want my opinion about the scroll, I think it’s much worthier of fighting Atuna over than of taking seriously as a prophecy. It’s shit, Narky.”
Narky sighed again. “Well, thanks for your opinion. It’s good to get a second look from someone who isn’t a priest of Ravennis.”
“If it helps, I’m glad. That can’t be all you came for, though.”
“No,” Narky said, “it’s not.”
He told Criton about his discussion with Mageris, and how Ptera had suggested that a joint delegation from Ardis and Salemica might carry enough of an implied threat to bully Atuna into handing Sephas over, while still granting them the opportunity to save face peacefully should Atuna stand firm. Criton listened patiently until Narky had finished, and then at last he nodded.
“That all makes sense,” he said. “You can tell Mageris that Salemica will send a delegation along with yours.”
And just like that, their business together was settled. The Sephan tract faded into the background of their conversation and never resurfaced. Criton asked again about Ptera and Grace and told Narky about Goodweather’s latest visit with its explosive ending. He tried to avoid telling Narky what Vella had been angry at him for, keeping things vague and making her sound altogether unintelligible, but Narky didn’t buy that for a second.
“Hold off,” he said, “what was she yelling at you about?”
“She hates me, Narky. She was just yelling and blaming me for everything.”
“Blaming you for what? The quake?”
“No, not the quake. Something happened with Bandu, and she blames me.”
“Like what? Marital problems?”
Criton’s tone of voice had suggested as much, but he shook his head sheepishly. “She looks like she’s been aging double. That’s what Vella calls it, and she blames me for it.”
“Bandu visited you?”
“Yes. She actually came in while Vella was yelling at me.”
“And when you say she’s aging double, you mean that…?”
“Literally?” Criton sighed. “Yes. She used to look younger than us, right? Like, maybe our age but small? Well, now she could be your mother. And Vella says it’s my fault.”
“How?”
“She said Bandu had to sell part of her life to bring me back. Bandu never told me that, so I didn’t believe her, but then I saw…”
They fell silent, Narky trying to respect the gravity of the situation despite his burning desire to know more. If Bandu had sold a part of her life away so that she looked so much older now, why hadn’t Criton noticed her looking that way when he had come back from the dead all those years ago? Had it been less prominent then? Why hadn’t Phaedra said anything the last time she had visited him? If Bandu had requested privacy, it must have been the first time she had ever done so.
Narky felt bad for having never sought Bandu out, after she had done so much to save not just Criton’s life but Narky’s as well. Narky’s whole family, maybe even his whole city, owed their survival to Bandu, but the ugly truth was that he had never really got along that well with her, despite their shared history, and had felt no urgency to see her again. It was enough to hear her news second-hand from Phaedra and leave it at that. Even after Bandu had come back from the underworld, he had convinced himself that Phaedra had wrung as much cohere
nce from her as anyone was liable to get – there was no point in making a pilgrimage to visit a woman he couldn’t understand.
He had never liked the way she looked at him, like he was a resource to be used or set aside as the need arose. All the qualities he was proud of in himself – his wit and humor, his quickness of mind, his history of being underestimated – all these were meaningless to her. Her open sexuality had bothered him too, or more precisely, he had been bothered by the fact that she clearly didn’t care how he reacted to it. It had made him feel worthless.
But Ptera had cured him of those insecurities, or was at least a powerful antidote, and he still hadn’t visited Bandu. He hadn’t even met Vella and hadn’t seen Goodweather since she was a screaming infant. She’d be a proper person by now, Goodweather – she was what, eleven? No, twelve. Bandu had saved Narky’s city and his happiness and his life, and he’d shown only the most passing interest in her wellbeing. Now that fact stood out to him as the shameful thing it was.
“Anyway,” Criton said at last, “Vella blames me for what happened, even though none of it is my fault. I didn’t choose to get killed. I knew my cousin was angry, but I trusted him. And it’s not like I forced Bandu to come and bring me back, though I’m grateful she did. But she did that on her own. Vella blames me anyway.”
Narky shrugged. “I guess that’s easier than blaming her wife.”
“If she weren’t Kilion’s daughter, someone would have killed her by now. She’s impossible, and her and Bandu – that’s unnatural.”
Narky raised his eyebrows. “I don’t think I’d call anything about Bandu ‘unnatural.’ She’s got to be the most natural person I’ve ever met.”
“Very funny.”
