by J. C. Staudt
“Are you blind to the way she looks at you?”
“Nostalgia.”
“Far from it. To her, you’re more than a temple lover.”
“Of which she has many. So you see, it isn’t as though I’m leaving her all alone. She’s used to these sorts of dalliances. Further, as a priest of the goddess, I mustn’t let my attentions remain divided.”
“Your attentions are plenty divided. The prevailing wisdom would dictate you must sacrifice what you love in sufferance of your faith. Yet faith is meant to fortify us; to bring us together. Suffering for the sake of the gods is, if you ask me, a violation of the very foundation upon which faith is built.”
“This is why I maintain you have no true understanding of faith, Brother Maaltred. Your position makes plain your spiritual infancy.”
“How so?”
“Faith is suffering. It’s walking blindly. It’s not knowing. It’s persevering when all seems lost.”
We’ve certainly done a lot of that, Maaltred might’ve said. “And is this why we believe the gods benevolent? Because they require us to suffer?”
Norne grunted, shaking his head. “Why do I bother talking to you?”
“Because you enjoy sounding smarter than me.”
“Sounding smarter, or being it?”
“They’re one and the same, so far as it concerns you.”
“Appearances are everything, Brother Maaltred. I never let the truth interfere with a good pretense.”
“You certainly don’t. Come to think of it, you are a rather skilled liar, for a priest.”
“Why must you qualify your assessments like that? Why must I be a skilled liar ‘for a priest’? Why can’t I just be a priest who also happens to be a skilled liar?”
“I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s just that I’ve always had this idea of what priests were supposed to be like. Pious and rigid, and so forth. Vicar Sullimas fit the form well enough. Not you, though.”
When Norne smiled, there was something wistful in it. “My path to the priesthood has been an interesting one, to be sure.”
“I shouldn’t mind hearing about it sometime. Aside from your history with Darion Ulther, you haven’t said much.”
“If you only knew, Brother Maaltred. There are some things a man must take to his grave.”
Maaltred raised his brow. “I didn’t realize it was so serious as all that.”
“Nothing is ever as serious as we make it out to be. You can have fun with anything if you take the right point of view.”
“Now you’re being vague.”
“I’m being helpful. By not involving you in things you wouldn’t understand.”
“Ah, there’s the Norne I know and love. The one who likes being smarter than me.”
“Sounding smarter than you,” Norne corrected as he opened the door to the guest quarters.
“Careful. You’re apt to lose your own argument.”
“If I wanted to lose, I’d be serving a different king, wouldn’t I?”
“Like Tarber of Orothwain? How much do you suppose he’s hating his life right now?”
“Quite a lot, I imagine.”
“Serves him right. He’s relied on magic to maintain his rule all these years, and now it’s come back to bite him.”
“Too much reliance on one thing is never healthy.”
“The whole world will rely on Dathrond when its empire comes to power. Do you suppose that will be a good thing?”
“I’m not going to discuss the empire with you.”
“Why not?”
“Because only you could find a downside to ruling the entire world. Anyhow, I’m off to find Wolla. Don’t sleep too late. I want to cross the river before noontide.”
Maaltred took off his robes and slipped into bed. “Goodnight then, I suppose. Don’t take too long saying goodbye.”
“Do shut up,” Norne said as he closed the door behind him.
Maaltred drifted to sleep conflicted over leaving Ryssa and Vyleigh to their fate. What could he do, though? The king needed the sphere returned, and the longer they delayed the likelier his wrath. For all Maaltred knew, the Ulther girls were dead already. It wouldn’t do to look back in regret; he must look ahead now with hope. And the best he could hope for was to endure the king’s judgment and make it back to Sparrowmeet.
When he awoke the next morning, Norne’s bed lay empty and untouched. He packed his things and breakfasted in the kitchens, then paced the atrium floor for over an hour. Norne descended the staircase tired and disheveled, looking as though he’d been through a windstorm. Maaltred thought better than to reprimand him, so they headed for the exit without a word.
They were on their way through the city by late morning, but the going proved slower than expected. Throngs of people, pushcarts, rolling market stands, and horse-drawn wagons flooded every avenue along the way. Maaltred was forced to fall in behind Norne so they could squeeze through some of the more densely packed mobs.
“Do the streets seem crowded to you for this time of day?” Maaltred asked after a time.
“The Festival of Atonement begins tonight,” Norne replied. “Everyone’s heading home early, either to prepare for it or to get out of its way.”
“I’m glad we’re leaving, then. This festival sounds like something I don’t want to be around for.”
“Never had much taste for it myself. Though I admit I’ve been enthralled by some of the proceedings. They’re often a curiosity to behold, so long as you’ve got the stomach for them.”
“You’ve been aboard ships with me, Vicar. You know I haven’t the stomach for much of anything.”
Norne managed a dour chuckle as he mopped his bald head with the sleeve of his robe. “Then it’s as you say; good we’re leaving.”
Down the street, Maaltred caught sight of another bald head. The man it belonged to was a head and shoulders taller than everyone around him. He was pushing his way through the crowd with a heavy sack slung over one shoulder, and making good progress thanks to his size. Even from the rear, the man looked familiar.
“Brother Norne. Look. That’s Blinch over there. Or Briynad. I can’t tell which.”
Norne stood on his tiptoes. “Where? Where do you see him?”
“There. Down the lane.”
Norne spotted him. “After me. Quickly now.”
The two priests hurried in the big man’s direction. Maaltred tried to be polite to those around him, but Norne never hesitated to push his way through a cluster of townsfolk or cut a sharp turn past a moving cart when he needed to. They were getting close when their quarry hit an open patch of street and turned down an alley beneath an arched overpass connecting two adjacent buildings.
“We’re losing him,” Maaltred shouted, close on Norne’s heels.
“Yes I know. If it weren’t for these—” he turned sideways to slip between two commoners carrying firewood in wicker pack baskets, “—crowds, we would’ve caught him up by now.”
They forced their way into the clearing and darted for the alley. When they reached the opening, the quarter-giant was about to emerge onto the opposite street. Norne broke into a run and called out to him. “You there. Stop.”
Blinch—or Briynad—cast a glance over his shoulder. He turned to face them, and Maaltred saw the line of silver studs in his ear. Briynad, he remembered. Blinch was the one with the tattoos.
“You?” Briynad bellowed. “What are you doing here?”
Norne stopped running. “Where are the girls?”
“None of your concern, that.”
“Tell me, or I swear in the name of Yannui I shall strike you down where you stand.”
Briynad wrinkled his brow. “Don’t start a war you can’t win, little man. We had an agreement.”
Norne gave Maaltred a contrite glance and began calling the wild-song. Briynad turned on his heel and ran. They followed him to the next street, where a man of normal size might’ve eluded them in the crowd. Briynad, however, couldn�
�t hide.
Norne moved his arm in a sweeping arc. A cloud of insects descended from nowhere and converged on Briynad, who was shoving people aside on his way down the avenue. The townsfolk scattered around him, swatting the air and dancing in their clothes. He turned and dropped his sack at his feet, fists clenched and shoulders bunched. His skin reddened with the bites and stings of the swirling insects, yet he did not cry out or break his gaze.
Maaltred fumbled the stack of folded parchments from his pocket. A breeze snatched them from his shaking hands, and he scrambled over the cobbles to gather the ones he could. He chose a spell and tucked the others away, clearing his throat as he unfolded the sheet.
Norne was casting again, but so was Briynad. The giant-kind’s voice was calm and steady, his form exemplary. Maaltred was relieved at first, thinking their foe was summoning the mage-song and would soon discover its weakness. Briynad was calling upon nature’s power, though, and the spell bloomed before him with a shimmer.
Briynad took a step forward, then another, stomping hard the second time. A shockwave rippled through the ground, tossing cobblestones like popcorn and leaving a gopher mound in its wake. Maaltred stumbled out of the way as the earth rumbled past, shaking dust from the surrounding buildings. Norne was busy casting and didn’t react fast enough.
The quake flung the vicar backward through the air. He struck the nearest building in a hail of cobbles, puncturing the plaster and sticking there like a folded slice of bread, two fathoms above the ground. Maaltred wasn’t sure whether to help Norne or distract Briynad. Since the vicar wasn’t going anywhere, he opted for the latter course.
When the wild-song appeared before him, he folded his parchment sheet and slipped it into his pocket. Turning both palms outward, he joined thumbs and forefingers and captured the wild-song in the space between. With a slow exhale, he dilated the tiny ball of light until it glared across the square in a heavenly ray. He shifted it to rest on Briynad’s face. Keep your gaze on this, he thought, taking a certain pride in his rudimentary spell.
Briynad groaned and turned away, shielding himself from the blinding beam.
From his cubbyhole above, Vicar Norne reached a shaking hand toward the darkening sky, fingers curled like claws. The wild-song was in his grip, crackling through his skin. He wrenched downward as if to tear out the very heart from the heavens.
A bolt of white lightning lanced down and pierced Briynad’s bald head. His body pulsed with pure light; his eyes bulged, and the line of silver earrings around his left ear glowed red-hot. Then the lightning storm was gone, the street left in calm daylight again. Briynad staggered and collapsed to the cobbles, where he lay steaming in the noontide air.
Maaltred let his spell dissipate. He stood watching for a time to be sure the big man was dead. Onlookers began to gather round, now free of Norne’s insects. Someone brought a ladder to help him down. Maaltred clambered over the mound of earth left by Briynad’s quaking spell to join Norne as he reached the ground. He was dusty and bruised, standing with a crooked lean in his back and a grimace on his face.
“You should sit down.”
Norne waved him off. “I’m fine. Thanks to you, that is. Quick thinking you did there.”
“Desperate thinking, more like. It was only by Yannui’s grace I found the right spell in time. Is Briynad dead, do you think?”
“I’m certain of it.”
“Why don’t we go have a look at what’s in that sack of his?”
Norne held him back. “I don’t think we should. Too many people around.”
“Surely you jest. We’ve been looking for these people for more than a week. Now you want to walk away and leave him there? He could be in possession of a clue that will lead us to Ryssa and Vyleigh.”
“We must be going, Maaltred. I expect the city watch will be along soon. Best we not run afoul of them.”
Maaltred set his jaw. “Go hide, then. I’m having a look.”
Norne started to protest, but followed instead.
A crowd was already huddled around Briynad’s body by the time they crossed the square to where he lay. Pushing their way through, they came to stand over him and found with dismay that his eyes were dislocated from their sockets, staring up at odd angles. The bystanders were chattering and asking questions, but the two priests paid them no mind.
Maaltred knelt and began removing items from the sack. First he withdrew a brown cotton drawstring bag filled with translucent amber nuggets. They looked like shriveled pebbles or hardened tree sap.
“Coliph resin,” Norne said.
“What’s that?”
“It comes from the coliphora tree, and has many uses. Sometimes it’s burned as incense, or pressed into oil and applied as a perfume. In this form, it often acts as a preservative agent for the dead.”
“Meaning…”
“They use it to prepare bodies for burial.”
Maaltred frowned. His heart was pounding, yet he dare not end his search. He found a lock of curly brown hair, tied with a leather thong; a brass censer suspended on the end of a long chain; a small leather book containing instructions for various rituals scrawled in a messy hand; and an ornate dagger with fur ribbing and frosted sigils on the blade.
“A ceremonial knife,” said Norne. “Look at the markings there, and there. That’s an icon of Dalahmet.”
Curious, Maaltred examined Briynad’s body. There was a thin leather cord round the corpse’s neck. He felt squeamish about touching someone deceased, yet he pulled the cord until a pendant emerged from the neck of Briynad’s tunic. Upon a plain wooden circle was mounted a golden symbol of Dalahmet, a viper with three heads spreading like flower petals from a red jewel at the center. “He was a druid. Did you know he was a druid?”
Norne did not answer.
“These are sacrificial implements. Do you understand what that means?”
“Brother Maaltred,” Norne said in a warning tone. “Let’s not discuss this here.”
Maaltred ignored him. “If Briynad was a druid, I’m willing to bet Blinch and Eril are as well. They never meant to sell those girls. They mean to sacrifice them in tribute to Dalahmet. That’s why they brought them to Forandran.”
“Now let’s not make presumptions, Brother Maaltred.”
“Presumptions? How can you discredit evidence like this? This lock of hair must be Vyleigh’s, don’t you think? And with the Festival of Atonement happening tonight… that only gives us a few hours to find them before they—oh dear heavens. What if we’re too late?”
“Slow down, Brother Maaltred. Please. I’ve just been thrown through a plaster wall. I’m hardly in any state to make sense of your prattling. We ought not do this in the middle of the street anyhow. We’ve found a clue. It’s something, but our work is far from done.”
Maaltred began putting Briynad’s things back into his sack, including the symbol of Dalahmet. “I agree. Yet we seem to be at odds about the urgency this requires. Come, help me pack this up.”
They left Briynad’s body in the street where it lay. As they headed back toward the alley beneath the arched overpass, Maaltred noticed a pair of city watchmen approaching the body from down the street, pennons streaming beneath the tips of their spears. The city watch were a privately funded force commissioned by Lord Chancer himself, so they wore yellow tabards bearing the city’s golden sunburst emblem instead of the traditional Dathiri raiment.
The watchmen stopped in front of the corpse and spoke briefly to the bystanders there. As Maaltred ducked into the alley behind Norne, he saw a bystander pointing in their direction. “We’d better hurry,” he warned. “We’ve been spotted.”
“Hurrying is a bit of a problem for me right now,” Norne said, wincing as he touched his lower back.
“Then let’s hope we can make it to the temple before they catch us up.”
“Temple? Which temple?”
“The Temple of Dalahmet.”
“Why would we go there?”
“B
ecause we’ve found the girls.”
“We’ve found nothing. A dead man.”
“A dead man who claimed you had an agreement. What did he mean by that?”
“I haven’t the slightest—”
“Oh, come on. Do you truly think me so naive?”
“I think you’re wise enough to understand when something isn’t your business.”
“How is this not my business, Vicar Norne? I’m a part of this as much as you are.”
“I’d hoped you wouldn’t need to be.”
Maaltred saw it now. “You’ve been trying to make me go away since Sister Wolla took us in. First you offered to lie to the king on my behalf, then you tried to shame me into leaving. Is this why? Because you struck some deal with Eril you didn’t want me finding out about?”
“Because I wanted to spare you the penalty of my misjudgment. We’re in over our heads now, Maaltred.”
“You speak as if we’ve already lost.”
“You saw how dangerous Briynad was by himself. Do you imagine we’d stand much chance against Eril and Blinch at the same time?”
“I’ll take my chances with them if it means saving the girls.”
Norne gave him a sober look. “It would mean our deaths.”
“Those girls will die tonight if we do nothing. And so will we, if Olyvard King discovers the truth of what you’ve done.”
Chapter 25
When Draithon finished speaking the sigils, the tumult inside the red ironglass sphere fell still. Tarber’s eyes widened, but Darion was quick to rein in the king’s astonishment. “It’ll only last a moment. Best we engage our enemy now.”
“I can hold it longer this time, Father,” said Draithon. The boy’s body trembled; his face twitched in concentration.
Darion turned to address the waiting members of the king’s household. “Back in your cells for now. This could prove messy. Alynor, go with the king down the far hallway. Kestrel and I will take the near.”
“Be safe,” she said, and followed Tarber from the cell.
The King of Orothwain bounded ahead in his underclothes, leaving his embroidered robe behind for Draithon’s use. When the hallway was clear, Darion pulled Kestrel to the near corner and began casting. The heavy wooden door shook with each blow Palavar’s men delivered. By the time the first axe head came through, Darion had assembled a formidable collection of spells.
