Motega nodded, but he was a bit confused. “Why are you telling me this, father?”
Sharef smiled and rested his hand on Motega’s knee. “Firstly, if you do not know about our lands, then who will? Neenahwi still does not visit us, and so you are the only person I can pass this down to. One day, you will return to our lands, and though the world has changed, you should know something of how it worked and where there might be hope. But secondly, we know that you met an Alfjarun dressed as a soldier of the invaders.” Sharef squeezed Motega’s knee, his fingers and thumb pushing hard into his flesh, his gaze like hard unyielding ice. “You need to know that not all of our people will be your friend. That some of them were never our friends. I commend you that you did not want to take his life, but you will be faced with that choice again and you must not hesitate to act.”
Motega considered what his father told him. It was true, he’d always thought of all the Alfjarun as part of one place, like a single one of the kingdoms of the Jeweled Continent, but that wasn’t the case. Each tribe or settlement had their own ways, and that may not have been in alignment with the Wolfclaw. But in some ways that didn’t matter. All the Alfjarun were impacted by Pyrfew corruption, and he wasn’t going to be able to neglect that. Yes, he wanted revenge against Llewdon for his father, for their clan; but he also wanted the people of the Wild Continent to be free. Even if that meant the freedom to wage war against each other.
“I understand,” he said eventually. “At least, I understand what you are saying, father. But I don’t know if I will be able to do it. I don’t know if we can deliver justice through the blood of our own people.”
“There is an old saying of the dancers. ‘Beat, or move. Choose one. Those who try to do both, will do neither next season.’ At some point you will need to make a choice.”
Motega nodded again, but he resolved to discuss this with his sister when next given the opportunity. Another thing suddenly struck him. “How do you know about the Alfjarun soldier?”
“Really, you do not know?” Sharef said in surprise.
“No.”
“Your spirit animal. He is the bridge between these worlds. We can see through the falcon’s eyes as clear as you can when you join with the bird.” His father laughed a long deep laugh, a sound that brought joy to Motega’s heart—but also caused him a certain amount of confusion. So often these visits were somber affairs that he was glad for this lightening, but what had he said that was so amusing? “At least that explains some of the behavior that you have done in front of the bird. We did wonder if you were an exhibitionist.”
Motega felt his cheeks redden, which was a new discovery to find that he could blush in the dream world. He would have to be more careful about where he had Per roost from now on; no more time spent inside his bedroom, even if it was cold outside.
The sun was out, though a wind off the sea brought with it a chill as Motega, Trypp and Florian left the residence. That morning, Neno had heard back from one of his old friends, promising to sponsor an audience for him with the Assembly later that day. Neno had dangled the bait of knowing valuable information about the attack on the ball and thankfully one of the four fish had bitten.
Motega was always happy when things were moving forward, and it seemed like he had a kindred spirit in Alana—judging by how animated she had been when they met after breakfast that morning. He’d obviously been very aware of how instrumental Alana had been in organizing their efforts during the election in Kingshold, but he was becoming more and more impressed by the capabilities of that girl. She wasn’t an administrator now, she was the person in charge, and even Crews didn’t question her orders when on land.
Alana would go to the Assembly that day with Neno, but she wanted to make sure that the Saint received the warning about Pyrfew, and she wasn’t able to be in two places at once. So Motega and his friends had been picked for the job. She’d given them a handwritten letter of introduction; they all knew it wasn’t likely to get them through the front door, just help when they wanted to talk to the boy. The rest was left to them, and Motega relished the prospect of the creative license that he and his friends had been given to work out how to gain entrance.
The city was bustling as they walked the length of the foreign quarter, their intention to stay on the far side of the grand canal from the old city before crossing over to the Sanctum. They were pretty sure that no one would have them pegged from the incident two days past in the Ladders, but Minimizing Risk was Trypp’s middle name. Or it might have been. As it was, he didn’t even have a last name.
It was the eve of the Blessing of the Children, the culmination of Wintertide, and tonight promised to be a big party. Citizens hurried around securing the items for their feasts or hanging garlands outside their homes. Children sat on their door steps, working on paper lanterns that would rise into the night’s sky on the heat of candles. And at various points along the esplanade, teams of men worked on the larger versions of the lanterns, mammoth sacks of colorful silk that later would be transformed into balloons.
“It’s going to be quite a show,” said Florian.
“Aye. I’ve always wanted to see this,” said Motega. “It will really be the City of Lights tonight.”
As they crossed through the Brass Isle, named for the horns that were sold there, they heard bands practicing the music that would trumpet the revelry later that evening, and Motega couldn’t help but acquire a bounce in his step. Trypp shot him a look that screamed a reminder to be professional. Florian noticed and clicked his fingers in time to the music. Trypp didn’t say a word, but Motega laughed. Trypp knew when he was beat.
A few more bridge crossings and they reached the Isle of the Sanctum. The wooden scaffolding on the square outside the great white temple was still up from the Blessing of the Swords; it would be used one more time to bless the children that would come before their child Saint. The great doors to the Sanctum were open, and locals and pilgrims alike filed to and fro through the portals to presumably have quiet conversations with their god.
The crowded streets were welcome, and they went unnoticed—dressed in finer clothes than usual that they had borrowed from the wardrobe of the residence—as they talked through their plan. Per was flying high above somewhere, Motega did not want the falcon close by now that he knew that someone from Pyrfew was known as the birdman. He wore a leather satchel across his body, his axes hidden away inside along with some other tools for their plan.
If Neno was right and the Archimandrite was not to be trusted—and that did align with Alana’s own observations of the old priest—then requesting an audience with the Saint was going to be impossible. Most likely they would be laughed out of the Sanctum if not actually arrested. Using the front door would also require that they declare themselves to be part of the Edland delegation, which they still wanted to avoid at that moment. They had decided on an alternative plan; a simple variation on ‘the juggler’.
Motega clasped hands with Florian in farewell as he split away from him and Trypp and headed around to the front of the Sanctum. As Florian left, he swore he could see his friend’s lips moving as he started counting to five hundred. Motega and Trypp walked around the stone-paved edge of the island, moving toward the rear of the Sanctum. A pair of armed church knights patrolled back and forth, but they did not give Motega and Trypp much more than a passing regard as the two friends played the part of tourists looking out to sea, admiring the oyster fishing boats that bobbed there.
Trypp flicked glances over his shoulder until he tapped Motega on the arm, the signal that he had found the place they were looking for. Which was right on time, as all of a sudden, a great deep cry of anguish filled the air; so loud, and so sudden, that a flock of startled seagulls took to the air. The juggler was going to distract the crowd, though they weren’t the typical balls he would be showing off.
“Why Arloth, why? Why did you have to take her from me?”
Motega saw the guard turn at the unexpected c
all, stopping their patrol, but they didn’t move to look around the corner of the Sanctum from where the noise had come.
“I come before you naked as I was born. Take me too!”
He smiled at the thought of his friend, stark bollock naked in front of the church, daring the guard to work out what to do with him. The sentries that he and Trypp had been watching turned and walked around the side of the wall to see what the commotion was all about, smiles on their faces at the entertainment that had decided to visit them today. Once they were around the corner, and Motega heard the clatters of a few armored men being dumped on their behinds, likely not expecting that the naked Florian would be so passionate in his grief, the pair of them dashed to the wall. Motega fished out the grappling hook, the thin cord already attached to it, and flung it first time to latch onto the top of the twenty-foot-high wall. Doing this in broad daylight was risky, but they hoped that they could be out of sight before anyone noticed.
“Arloth, I hope your soldiers don’t do anything too bad to my friend when we’re just trying to help your boy out,” said Motega in mock prayer.
Trypp scurried up the rope first, Motega hurrying up after him. The wall they climbed was the outside wall of the administrative buildings, where Alana had met the Saint and the Archimandrite. She’d given them a pretty good idea of the layout—another tally in her favor when it came to Motega’s estimation of her—and it was less than a minute for them to scurry across the rooftop and find the interior garden. They dropped another rope and descended down to the little square of garden.
Motega looked around the little patch of paradise he had dropped into, thinking of where to find the Saint, when the golden boy found them, stepping between two unseasonably-fruitful blackberry bushes.
“Who are you?” said the boy, not in the least bit surprised to see them, or afraid for that matter. Simply curious.
“Ambassador Narring sent us to talk with you,” said Motega. He fished a hand into his satchel and pulled out the sealed letter which he held out at arm’s length. “We mean you no harm, but we have an important message.”
The Saint took the paper and read it. It was brief. They had not wanted to put any words on paper that could potentially fall into the wrong hands.
“I do wish Alana had come herself,” he said, looking back up at Motega. Trypp was lurking nearby, tasked with keeping watch. “But she says you have a message for me? What could it be for you to risk breaking into this most sacred place?”
Motega looked around. He wasn’t really a scholar of the Arloth faith, but he did know enough about the stories of the founding of the church to put two and two together and realize that this must be where the body of Arloth had first been found. Fuck. Alana hadn’t mentioned that. Maybe she’d thought it was too obvious. If they were caught then it wasn’t likely they’d just be getting a slap on the wrist. Well, not much he could do about it now.
“She wants me to warn you about Pyrfew. We have intelligence that their interests in Ioth go beyond ship building. Go beyond forming an alliance with the Church. She wants you to be… careful.” As he said the words, he realized how stupid they sounded. Why was he warning someone with the power to calm the sea? But Neenahwi was worried too, and she had a better idea of what they might be dealing with. He wished she was there instead of him.
“Is that all?” asked the Saint. “You do not need to worry. If they happen to be duplicitous then Arloth will help me deal with them.”
“You don’t understand what they can do,” said Motega, pleading with the boy. “I’ve seen it first-hand. Edland has dealt with their schemes for centuries. But Ioth, the Church… you have no idea.”
The boy looked Motega in the eyes and didn’t say a word. Motega felt a warmth spreading through his body, from his stomach all the way to his cheeks. He felt calm, peaceful, at ease with being still for the first time he could ever remember, and he was unable to tear his eyes away from this child and his golden aura.
“I see what you have been through, and I am sorry you had to experience so much pain as a child. No one should have to go through that.” The Saint’s head tilted to the side as he spoke, as if he was the adult talking to a child who had been beaten. “I know you’ve tried to run away from it. Tried to run away from what might be the truth. Have you ever thought that it is not revenge that is needed, but instead, love? Have you ever considered that it was the Emperor who first tried to reach out with his heart when he gave a home to you and your sister?”
Motega couldn’t talk, shocked as he was by the Saint’s knowledge of his history, and by his own need to hear what the boy was saying. “He didn’t harm you, did he? Maybe he was making amends for what his people did to your home? I have spoken with the emissary of the empire and he has told me how no one starves there; people work and live in safety. Could you say the same of Edland? They want to share their prosperity with other nations. Working side by side with our Church. How can we turn down that opportunity to do so much good?”
Motega’s head swam with the barrage of questions, the twisted perspective of Llewdon’s motivations. But what if he is right? said a voice in his head. No, it couldn’t be.
“I don’t know who’s fed you that pile of horse shit, kid,” said Motega, his anger rising and dispelling the warmth and peace from the Saint’s regard. “But they forgot to mention the slaves. The conquests. Forcing people to abandon their own gods and traditions. Maybe those that wolf down the bollocks they are fed do have it all laid out for them on a silver platter. But life ain’t supposed to be easy. I know you’re not a normal boy, but you sure sound like a gullible child right now. Trust but verify, or better yet, don’t trust any fucker who brings gifts.”
“We better go,” came the hushed call from Trypp, and Motega realized that his voice had risen. They both moved to the rope that led to their way out of the evergreen garden.
The Saint, even after being on the receiving end of Motega’s harsh assessment —likely not something he was used to receiving—still smiled. “I wish we could talk longer. Please pass on my warm regards to Alana. And you can feel free to exit through the Sanctum if you wish.” The Saint gestured behind him to the gleaming white temple.
Trypp was already half way up the rope as Motega replied. “Sounds like a gift to me, so I’ll pass, but thanks all the same. One last piece of advice if you care to listen. Watch out for your Archimandrite. He’s a lot older than you, and in my experience, people are like fruit; the passage of time just gives a man opportunity to get rotten.”
Before the boy could respond, Motega was gone.
The Saint waved a hand and from where the rope coiled on the ground it slowly turned green, sprouting tendrils and leaves and then bright white flowers of jasmine.
Chapter 40
Falling on Deaf Ears
Sergeant Morris was not happy about having to wait outside with the Ravens that had accompanied Fin, Dolph, Neno and her. Even though Alana thought he should probably have been used to it by now. When the soldier on duty at the Palazzo Confluens had reminded him that personal guards were not allowed inside, Morris had pointed out that they hadn’t done such a great job ensuring the safety of the people within at the ball most recently; surprisingly that did not improve the guard’s mood. Alana had to step in before things got out of hand; she needed this meeting, and wasn’t prepared to be turned away at the door. She convinced the soldier on duty that Dolph was not a bodyguard, but a secretary, so that appeased the sergeant somewhat. She was thankful that the soldier had turned a blind eye to the sword at Dolph’s hip, and the fact that he had not so much as carried a book or a pen.
They had been led through the great hall, cleaned up since the ball, and up a grand flight of stairs to a part of the building that she had not seen before. The Assembly chamber was situated on the second floor, and they were instructed to wait in a wood-paneled room, furnished with long tables and austere chairs. Others were waiting there too, officious looking men and women sitting apart
from one another, all of them attempting to look both busy and important, with stacks of papers in front of them. Neno explained that each of the Assembly members kept a few members of staff on hand when the body was in session. One such young man, Estafo Zerelli, nephew of their sponsor Langit Zerelli, greeted them and explained that his uncle would call for them when the discussion turned to the events of the attack. He warned them that he had no idea when that would be, as the agenda for the last Assembly meeting of the year was characteristically long.
Alana spent the time alternating between pacing, standing, and occasionally trying to sit—before she was reminded that was quite uncomfortable. Fin had suggested that she wear the armored corset again today, and she hadn’t argued about it—she didn’t know how what she had to to say was going to be received, but she had insisted on a slightly more practical dress that was limited to just the one petticoat. In fact, Alana had even suggested that she would like to wear her hair up and it was secured in place with a pair of long pins, more typically suited for a hat, but at least she knew they could be used for self-defense in a pinch. Not that they had come there to fight, but she wasn’t sure whether they would be charming a receptive audience or walking into a nest of vipers.
Fin had been quiet since they left the Ambassador’s residence. She sat on a wooden chair, her hands resting on the leather satchel in her lap, not moving for minutes at a time, steadily breathing in and out through her nose. No one had thought to inspect her bag—it would hardly be proper form to go through a lady’s things—and Alana knew that she too was prepared. A pair of knives rested within.
Boys came in and out of the waiting room, apparently messengers from the meeting chamber, fetching attendants at various moments who disappeared, only to return again a short while later. Hours passed in this manner. It had been shortly before lunch time when they had arrived at the Palazzo Confluens, and the afternoon was getting short when finally a new messenger spoke to Estafo. They conversed for a moment before Estafo walked over to Neno and told him it was time.
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