“I’ll be serving a fish stew soon, if you’re hungry?”
Erin could only nod as Nel flashed a polite smile. It had been a weary day of travel and she was hungry, but always feared the expense of accommodation. She only had a little money left, including the coins Father Clement had kindly provided for a room in the city, as opposed to the college dormitory — to allow Erin privacy to heal herself. Inns and way stations along the Imperial Way had proven extortionate. Even temples sought to charge an acolyte for a roof over her head. She had avoided them after Canalecht, and slept in barns and stables — luxurious by comparison to the pallet bed of her cell. She simply had to remain wary, in case some lusty groom feared little to harm a servant of Pollos, though that would imperil his immortal soul.
First, she needed to get changed out of her cold, wet clothes. She opened one of her waxed bags to ensure her woolen tunic was dry. A folded square of leather lay upon it, protecting her sealed letters: her recommendation from Father Clement, and another from Father Nicoras, the last Cardinal Pontifex.
The second had excited her otherwise quiet mentor, no doubt because the Order of Omicron had been without a Holy Father or College of Cardinals for seventeen years. Though it made little sense why any cardinal should take an interest in an orphan such as her.
As she looked at the letters, a careless impulse came to throw them onto the fire. That would be done with the whole question of her presentation. Then she could just walk away from the world and disappear.
Erin sighed, releasing her tension. Whatever choices she had made, she was resigned to their consequences. Nothing would bring God back into her life, or the children from death, or return Mallian’s love to her. In the meantime, she would be warm and dry. That at least was a small blessing.
Serving the Goddess
Jerine
Jerine had to will her body to calm, and her arms to still. An excited tingle teased her spine, as if she was going to shiver or sneeze.
In the cave, her sense of the Goddess at work had been almost overwhelming.
It was even stronger here.
Though the light was weak, the common room felt too bright. And empty — the locals had left some while ago, and both Sirath and Erin had gone to change into dry clothes.
Jerine itched for them to return.
And to be reunited with her sister.
She clasped and unclasped her hands, her palms clammy. She needed some leaf to calm her. She reached into a pocket and took one, rolling it between her fingers to release the juices faster. As she chewed and savored its bitter taste, a welcome warmth spread under her skin.
Rain rattled against the window shutters. The fire crackled in the hearth. Except for Ulric rummaging through his bag, this is how it had looked ten years before — if somewhat smaller. When they’d been separated, despite all their tears and fearful pleading: Tilirine to travel with Corannian, and herself to Mardin with Uncle Niccolo. Nel had been here, too. And her husband with the gap-toothed smile and roaring laugh. He’d tried to distract Jerine with jokes and tumbling tricks, after her twin had been wrenched from her.
What would Tilirine be like now? The little girl who shared her spinning top and peg dolls, and played hiding games with the servants? Before the fire, when their parents were murdered. The only person who could share in her grief. The sister who’d cried herself to sleep and screamed herself awake, her burns blistered all over her head, sticky and weeping.
Boots stomped down the staircase. Jerine stood expectantly. Her heart rose — then sank.
It was just some young thug, tall and bull-chested. A mail shirt covered a long scarlet tunic, and he wore a greatsword at his back. His blond hair had been cropped short, and chin roughly shaved. Yet despite his martial appearance, he lacked the arrogant swagger of a soldier or bailiff. Instead, a deep sense of uncertainty emanated from him.
Jerine’s disappointment faded and her gaze fastened on him. Something prickled at her spine.
Nel re-appeared through a door. The pungent smell of smoked fish flowed into the common room after her. “Evening, Dalathos. I trust you rested well?”
“Aye,” he replied, his accent similar to Ulric’s. “Small ale.”
“I’ll fetch one from the cellar room.” Nel left through a door.
Dalathos walked to an empty table. He unbuckled his greatsword, then rested it against the wall behind. He seated himself, all the while avoiding Jerine’s stare. He seemed somehow familiar, as if she was supposed to know him. She had to discover how and why. She stepped forward, wondering how to open their conversation.
A hoarse whisper came from behind her. “Jerine?”
Her stomach dropped in recognition. The tone was pitched lower, deeper. But that rasp remained unchanged after a decade. Her sister’s voice had been damaged by the fire — and by the hole briefly cut into her throat to help her breathe. Slowly, Jerine turned.
Tilirine stood at the foot of the stairs, dressed head to foot in crimson robes. A deep hood covered her head, and a veil covered her face.
“Tilirine? Tilirine!” Jerine hurried over with trembling knees and embraced her.
Tilirine remained still and unyielding. It was like holding stone.
Jerine stepped back and ignored her sister’s cloudy eye to look into the good one, hoping to see joy reflected in it. All she found was a scowl. Jerine’s good humor was shaken by this cold stance. She crooked an uncertain smile. “And how have you been?”
“Waiting.”
Jerine swallowed. “About that ... ”
“I have been here a full interval. If it were not for the rain today I might have left.”
Ten days was a long time to wait, and that did require patience. But so had ten years of separation. Jerine bristled at the chastisement. “I wouldn’t think you’d be put off by the weather?”
“It did not. But I thought it might give you another excuse.”
“Well, I’m here now.” Jerine tried to sound polite. She opened her arms. “I’ve welcomed you. Aren’t you going to welcome me in return?”
“No.” Tilirine turned her back, and walked to the table.
Jerine could only watch, astonished by the haughtiness. Was there so much distance between them now? They were sisters — twins! They were supposed to share a bond of blood. She tried to regain her composure as she sat down across from her, but any good cheer she’d felt dissipated. Worse still, she couldn’t feel her sister’s being, as she could with others — no sense of her emotions or thoughts at all. It was as if Tilirine was closed to her, even though she was the one person in the world she wanted to touch.
There was little point trying to explain anything while Tilirine was in this foul mood. Being late was regrettable, but Jerine could never have foreseen what would happen with the spring performances, or the murder of Decimos at the Crossroads Brotherhood. She had run when she could, and arrived when she should, and would make no apology for that. Especially for being guided by the Goddess onto that cattle track, and standing under that overhang, waiting, waiting to discover her reason for being there. Until Erin had appeared and Jerine had known she was meant to walk with her. She forced a polite smile. “How was your journey?”
“Mostly uneventful,” Tilirine said.
“Mostly?”
“Bandits stopped me on the road from Castea. They demanded my money or my life. I took both from them. The coins I left with an orphanage.”
Jerine stared, with no idea how to reply.
Ulric finished rummaging in his bag. “Hard to work buckles with cold hands.” His smile dropped as he looked at both sisters. He averted his gaze as he seated himself at their table.
An uncomfortable silence stifled them.
Sirath and Erin returned to the common room, breaking the tension. Sirath came from the privy, changed into a plain tunic and hose that Nel had provided, and were far too long on him He looked ridiculous, but he smiled at Jerine. Erin came down the stairs in a woolen tunic and breeches. Nel a
ppeared with a mug of ale for Dalathos, then took the wet clothes from Sirath and Erin, and hung them on a drying rack by the fire, before scurrying off again.
Jerine introduced everyone to her sister, but her attention drifted to Dalathos. Something about him seemed important, and she didn’t dare ignore that. But she also feared to further offend Tilirine, by abandoning her dour company too quickly. Jerine reached out with her being to feel the path of the Goddess, but found nothing. It was Tilirine’s manner that unbalanced her, and left her blind to what her next step should be.
Nel came back with a steaming pot and an armful of wooden bowls, spoons sticking out from the belly of her apron. She set them out, along with a damp, linen towel to clean hands with. Nel ladled thick servings of a pungent, dark cream stew of smoked fish, into each bowl. All the time she made small talk about the weather and her sister’s sheep.
Dalathos glanced over to their table, and Jerine could sense it was the smell of hot food that drew his attention — he’d ordered none. Now must be the moment to speak with him.
Jerine dared to stand, then strode over. “Merry meet! I don’t mean to intrude, but I feel rude leaving you to sit alone. Come, share our meal. I would be glad for you to join us.”
Dalathos looked up warily. “I enjoy my own company.”
Jerine centered herself in a sea of calm. She imagined herself standing serene, like an angel in an Apellis painting — allowing feelings of peace to wash out from her. “Consider the food a gift of spring. It would be a blessing if you ate with us.”
Dalathos frowned. He stared over to their table. “Well ... it would be rude to refuse that. Especially if you offered more ale. These cups are small.”
Jerine nodded. Dalathos stood and towered over her. He retrieved his greatsword. Jerine led him to her table, and introduced everyone. He pushed onto the bench beside Ulric. “Another bowl, please, Nel?” Jerine asked.
Erin said a blessing over the meal. Nel finished serving — her eyes lingered on Ulric, then she left.
Jerine carefully tasted the stew: a little fish, nowhere near as strong in her mouth as her nose, with chopped onions and pulses, stewed in sheep’s milk thickened with bean flour. After a long day traveling it was delicious. Everyone ate quietly, grateful for the food. But there remained the silence of strangers seated too close.
Sirath glanced anxiously at Dalathos, but Jerine challenged him with a raised brow to deny her act of hospitality. Sirath shrugged. “Did you offer that work to him, too?”
The whisper caught Tilirine’s attention. “What ... work would this be?”
“I mean them jobs of yours,” Sirath said.
Tilirine stared. “Jerine? What have you been telling these people?”
Jerine felt her chest tighten, and feared that her sister might work against her. “You mentioned work for the councilor in your letter — ”
“I told you I presumed he would want me to hire hands. I did not say there was a definite offer of employment. Only that it could be an opportunity for you, if you were short of money.”
“I’m sure he’ll be looking to hire, otherwise you wouldn’t have suggested it to me. And I’ve found them!”
Tilirine spoke carefully. “How many have you invited into this business?”
Jerine indicated around the table. “Only these. Including him.”
Dalathos scowled as he was pointed at. “What’s that?”
Jerine knew that she frayed what remained of Tilirine’s patience — but if the Goddess connected her to Dalathos, then she had to bring the man in now. “We could offer you paid work in the city. If that interests you?”
Dalathos scraped at his bowl. “I plan to find my own, thanks. I’m not interested. I don’t think Tilirine is, either.”
Tilirine glared at Jerine. “I do not share my sister’s enthusiasm because I was asked to await the councilor’s instructions. I did not plan on hiring without consent. He may not wish to at all.”
Ulric looked puzzled. “You not offering work, then?”
Tilirine sighed, and her tension visibly drained. “If the councilor does hire, he will ask me to do it. I only wish my sister had told me of her ... intentions, so I could have taken account of them.”
“Well, I’ve told you now,” Jerine said, thankful that she had been allowed that much.
“Yes. But promise me one thing.”
“Anything.”
“Don’t invite anyone else to join with us, no matter how much you want to.”
“You have my word!” A shiver ran up Jerine’s back, and she sneezed. Her hands trembled as she looked to the others at her table. They all seemed so young, and none had any meaningful status. Was it possible for such ordinary people to help her on her own extraordinary path? She could only hope so.
Even though that meant her death.
The Sun Flower
Serannos
Bishop Serannos stood under the stars, the fate of the empire a weight upon his shoulders.
A biting wind cut through the ill-fitting robes he wore to maintain Molric’s deception. What he would not give for his vestments of authority, and the meager comforts of an inn. A servant or two would not go amiss, either. But Captain Lannas had ordered the groaning barge anchored midstream, to ensure that this journey remained as clandestine as possible. Serannos leaned his elbows against the rail of the deck. The inky river lapped the hull below.
Far ahead in the darkness lay the city of Corianth. There the Sun Flower would take on board her cargo: weapons and armour, oil from the pitch springs of Accadras. And barrels of witchfire — as Molric’s terrible powders had been named. Then return sail to Mardin, where Serannos would rejoin his entourage, arm Molric’s allies, and become the savior of Irithia — by preventing Bishop Honarios from crowning Nicepheros Comas both as king, and a false Emperor. In their gratitude, Irithian lords would clamor for Serannos to become their new cardinal. They would deliver to him the richest bishopric of the empire. He might even be nominated to become the next High Priest for the College of Ministers.
Only that ambition warmed him now.
Captain Lannas left the ship’s cabin. Light and laughter briefly escaped with him, like foul air. The captain buttoned his long black coat as he approached. He settled his elbows on the railing and looked up at the stars.
Serannos felt compelled to greet him, “The light be upon you, captain.”
Captain Lannas nodded and doffed his leather cap. “Hullo, bishop.”
Serannos found the silence that followed uncomfortable. “May I ask why you are out here?”
“You may.”
Serannos waited. Annoyance forced him to ask, “And may I expect a reply to such a polite question?”
The captain grinned and scratched his black beard. “I was just looking out and thinking.” He pointed to the sky. “That there is Alteranin, moving through Herel the Shepherd. That’s my lucky star, and my birth sign, too. A good omen. Why are you out here this cold evening, bishop?”
“I became tired of my view.”
“You don’t fare too well on water, do you? Still, we’ve got less than a day’s plain sailing ahead. The swollen current will speed our way.”
Serannos sighed. “Only to endure the return journey.”
Captain Lannas laughed. “You can’t even cope with the ease of a river crossing? Just imagine the hardships if we sailed the far blue ocean. The heave of the waters and the roll of the deck, the roar of the spray and the thunder of — ”
“Enough!” Serannos fought to regain his composure. “That has nothing to do with our situation, and does little to alleviate my discomfort and boredom.”
“You don’t know when you’ve got it good. This is nothing to the terrors of the deep. You wait till you feel a ship really moving.”
“Your comments are pointless, tedious, and inane. We are not on any sea, but the most sailed river of the empire. If I were you, I would remember the task ahead.”
“You’re no barrel of
laughs neither, bishop, but I does me job.”
“And what a poor one at that. You still fail to address me as Your Grace.”
Captain Lannas turned slowly. “Let me tell you, bishop ... there’s only one authority on my ship, and that’s me. That goes for all spiritual matters. I knows all about God, and I’ve got the amulets and charms to prove it. I avoid haunted places, and don’t let the spirits of broken timbers near my ship. I don’t say the real name for longtails, and I walk my ways well. I’ve seen God’s work. You don’t need to teach a sea-dog about fear and prayer.”
Serannos flushed with anger. “You dare lecture me on matters of morality?”
Captain Lannas lifted his face to the stars. “Are you sure you don’t mean conscience?”
“And what is that supposed to mean?”
“It’s not like no-one knows what you’ve been doing to that pair of far-eyed boys you’re traveling with.”
Serannos snorted. He had only been able to bring two on board, new boys picked up from Canalecht. They lacked the training of the ones at home, but he was teaching them discipline. “My own private business is exactly that.”
“Maybe, but sailors is a superstitious lot. Tears and the sea mix bitterly, and my crew are made uneasy by them boys weeping. They’re already unsettled by rumors of this ... witchfire we’ll carry. You bear that in mind. Because, God grant that it doesn’t, should this ship leak, or snag a sandbar, or break out with fire, you’d better pray my men are on good terms with you. Else, by God, you’ll face the rising waters alone. Do you understand me, bishop?”
Serannos sighed, resigned to this distasteful temporal hospitality. “Yes, I do, captain.”
Captain Lannas tapped his cap as he turned, and walked back to the cabin.
Serannos felt dark clouds pass over him. He would pray for patience, to endure the moments before his reward. Then it occurred that, perhaps, he should pray first for his personal safety. Soon they would have Molric’s witchfire on board, and its power horrified him. He hurriedly circled the sign of Pollos at his chest, and placed his hand to his heart. He would never forget the sight of those stone buildings obliterated, and that terrible, terrible thunder that had washed over him. Soon, he would be upon a ship filled with a hold of it. Despite the chill wind, it was that thought which now made him shiver.
Gathering (Chronicles of Empire 1) Page 3
