The crowds were thicker than usual, which Rone normally would have hated, but each melancholy factory worker acted as a shield against watching eyes. Rone pushed his way toward the center of the road, letting the people herd around him. He and Sandis blended right—
Sandis.
Rone cursed and stopped, earning a similar curse from the person behind him. He weaved against the crowd, which meant he was barely moving at all. To his relief, Sandis appeared only seconds after he realized he’d lost her.
“Keep up!” he called.
“What?” she asked.
Rone opened his mouth, then thought better of it. Shaking his head, he grabbed her hand and held on tight as they slowly navigated the narrow road. It might have occurred to him that, despite having known several women intimately, he had never actually walked about holding one’s hand. But the day’s mission pressed too hard on his thoughts for him to notice. Much.
Many roads near the center of the city had been widened over the years to accommodate the growing population, but engineers and laborers couldn’t move buildings, so the girth of streets could only expand so much. People had to leave before the sun rose if they wanted to get anywhere without pressing bodies with strangers, and in the smoke ring, wagons were hopeless. There wasn’t space, at least not during shift changes.
Smoke towers spewed rolling gray clouds into the sky, which occasionally mixed with the steady spit of steam vents. Despite an earlier bath, Rone felt dirty by the time he reached the edge of the smoke ring. The crowds began to thin, but he still took the busiest roads toward the cathedral, constantly searching intersections for grafters—those he had met, and those he hadn’t.
Sandis squeezed his hand, even when there was little chance of them separating.
Once upon a time, Rone had thought the cathedral beautiful. It was likely still the most aesthetic building in Dresberg, if one didn’t count the Lily Tower itself. While so many buildings adhered to utility—making roof hopping all the easier—the cathedral broke the mold, standing out amid its surroundings. The Central Cathedral of the Celestial was mostly a giant tapering tower that came to a point, from which jutted a solid gold pole reaching toward heaven . . . wherever it lay beyond the polluted sky. The base of the tower folded out into a long, flattish structure, like a lying dog with its tail in the air. Two small wings flared out from either side of that. The cathedral wasn’t whitewashed—someone had used their brain when building it—but its exterior was patterned with dark river stone. In the late-morning light, its windows looked like sapphire.
Apparently the cathedral also used to have well-kept grounds, but the city had eaten those up as it demanded more and more space for industry and the Angelic lost more and more rapport with the government. But the building itself still stood, and its halls were still filled with worshippers, priests, and pilgrims, so that had to mean something.
It means these people are gullible suckers, Rone thought as he trudged toward the building’s front doors.
A white-garbed priest stood outside the doors greeting people. When he saw Rone’s and Sandis’s pilgrimage ties, he nodded and directed them inside. “Just down this hall, my friends. You’ll see a small atrium filled with other pilgrims. Have you come far?”
Sandis glanced at him.
Rone bowed. “Aye.”
The priest seemed pleased. Rone pushed past him with Sandis in tow. He released her hand halfway down the corridor, trying not to be annoyed with her slow pace as she took in their surroundings. Several paintings of past Angelics hung on the walls, along with embroidered scripture spewed out by the man who’d started it all. Panels of four-petaled lilies, designed to look geometric, were interspersed with the other decorations. That was how the Celestial was portrayed—either as a lily or an androgynous, overweight person with white skin and white clothes. The Celestial had no gender.
The atrium Rone and Sandis entered—one that brought up a cluster of half memories Rone immediately shoved back down—was centered around a statue of the latter portrayal of the Celestial. Every aspect of it was round and glistening. A window in the ceiling shone light down onto its marble head. About a dozen pilgrims stood around it, half of whom actually did look like they’d traveled far. Despite the throngs and industry within Dresberg, the land surrounding the capital was pretty barren. Dry in the summer, buried in snow in the winter. A few towns and trading posts dotted it here and there. The next-biggest cities were populated by fishermen on the northern coast, and from what Rone understood, they were small compared to Dresberg. The farmland and ranches lay farther south, where the rain was decent and the cold not so severe. Judging by the pilgrims’ clothes, he guessed two-thirds of them were farmers, the rest tradesmen.
One of the former leaned toward his pregnant wife and said, “Soon, darling. Soon.” A rather pretty woman, Rone noted.
He turned his back to them and shoved his hands into his pockets.
Sandis approached him, with eyes wide, taking in their surroundings until finally settling on him. She blinked. “What’s wrong?”
He straightened and pulled his hands out of his pockets. “Nothing. Just have to wait until noon.” He glanced at her worn shoes. “Maybe they’ll have something that fits you in the donation box.”
Sandis looked at her feet. Wiggled her toes. “These are all right.”
Rone rolled his eyes, broke away from her, and headed back the way they’d come. Was it this way, or . . . Ah, there. He turned right and found a short hallway lined with crates of donations for the poor. People who could actually afford to do so brought in their used goods, food, and sometimes money to be distributed among the believers, for what good it did. Rone used to think of them as “guilt boxes,” since priests had to guilt the sinful rich into donating anything of real use.
He found a crate half-full of shoes and sorted through them. There was a pair of beaded heels in there. Who would have use for those? They’d been wedged between several worn pairs of kids’ shoes and some work boots ready to fall apart.
He pulled out some sturdy-enough boy’s shoes that looked like they might fit her. On his return trip to the atrium, he noticed a boy talking to Sandis—he was probably three or four years her junior and two inches shorter. Sandis didn’t protest the company, but Rone walked faster, anyway.
“Here,” he said, tossing the shoes at Sandis’s feet. “Try these.”
The boy looked at Rone and instantly turned around, scurrying back toward the cathedral’s entrance.
“Who was he?” he asked.
Sandis shrugged. “I don’t know. Came over as soon as you left, asking me where I was from.”
Rone frowned, peering down the way the boy had left. He hadn’t worn a pilgrim’s sash, had he? “Did you tell him your name?”
She shook her head and reached for the shoes.
He waited for her to remark on their wear, or on the poor fashion, or even on the fact that they were designed for a teenaged boy, not unlike the one who’d just left, and not for a woman. But she said nothing as she slipped off the dainty things she had on and pushed her feet into the new ones.
She smiled. “They’re a little big, but better for running, I think. Thank you.”
Her gratitude scurried up his neck like the wings of a moth. Rone shrugged. Looked for a clock. Still some time to go. He sighed and shoved his hands into his pockets again. Fingered the amarinth.
“Thank you, Rone.”
“I heard you.”
“No.” Her hand touched his forearm, drawing his attention back to her. She met his eyes for a moment before looking away, though her warm touch lingered. “Thank you. For everything else. For helping me. I . . . don’t know what I would have done, had you not come along.”
The muscles in Rone’s back tensed in a weird, shivery sort of way. He lifted his hand—Sandis dropped hers—and rubbed the back of his neck. “I didn’t exactly volunteer.”
“I know. But thank you, anyway.”
“Uh, yeah.
You’re welcome.”
She smiled at him. Despite everything, he sort of smiled back.
A small gong rang at the head of the room. Rone glanced at the clock. There was still half an hour until—
Celestial on a stick, they’re going to preach to us. He barely stifled a groan.
A high priest garbed in white and a tall hat motioned the pilgrims forward. Sandis seemed interested. Good. That meant only one of them had to fake it.
They loitered near the back, Sandis lifting herself onto her toes to see better as a few stragglers entered the atrium, Rone counting tiles on the floor. The high priest mumbled something about charity and cleanliness and whatever else would make the pilgrims, even the locals, feel good about themselves. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the high priest stepped aside and let two lower priests come to the front of the group. They organized the pilgrims into two columns, and Rone shouldered his way forward so he and Sandis wouldn’t be at the tail end. Harder to be picked off that way.
“Pull up your hood when we’re out there,” he mumbled to Sandis. Her expression instantly changed to that of pale fear. It was then that Rone realized she’d been . . . what, happy? Did she eat this stuff up like everyone else? Despite what she’d been forced to become?
He sighed and faced forward. She’d know the truth soon enough.
To Rone’s relief, the trek to the Lily Tower, though long, was uneventful. No grafters, no policemen, not even a rudimentary check of his identification. Though outside Dresberg’s walls, the Lily Tower was still considered part of the capital, and thus citizens could go to and from it without being harassed by guards. Leaving the city in any other direction required a review of papers. The walk made Rone’s feet hurt, but his hems would be soiled enough to appease even the sternest of gateway priests.
He rubbed his stomach as they approached the Lily Tower—a seven-story structure made of granite and quartz piled atop one another like a layer cake. The tower was cylindrical, though the topmost floor was smaller in diameter than the rest. Enough circle-top windows had been cut into the thing that the stone resembled lace. Somewhere inside, a woman was singing.
Rone’s neck felt too tight, like his vertebrae were fusing together. He kept his face forward. Forced his tense shoulders down.
Sandis noticed. “Rone?”
He simply shook his head.
They reached the door. It happened just like before. No one paid him any particular notice, save for a sweeping glance that ended at the hem of his trousers. A priestess murmured something soft and kind to the pilgrims as they passed. Rone didn’t hear what she said to him.
Inside, everything was so blasted white. He didn’t think he would remember it this well, but he did. He remembered all of it. He remembered having to take his shoes off like he was now. Remembered the texture of the carpeting under his feet. He swore he could even remember that giant fern growing in the middle of the round sitting room they passed through, though it was bigger now. To his chagrin, he found himself gaping like Sandis did, like all the other pilgrims did.
They entered a small space with pillows scattered on the floor. Everyone sat on one. Rone followed suit, hovering in the back with Sandis. Yes, he remembered this, too. Someone was going to come talk to them about the importance of the pilgrimage and how it first started. A story he’d heard time and time again. He tugged at his old memories as a high priest chattered away. They’d have to separate themselves from the rest of the group, but not too soon. Not if they wanted to talk to the Angelic personally, and without an audience . . .
“Rone?” Sandis whispered.
He didn’t look at her. “Just stay close.”
When the sermon was over, the priests directed the pilgrims to rise and—yes, Rone remembered these stairs. He thought he recalled blue carpet on them, but they were solid marble. Had they been renovated, or was Rone’s memory faulty?
A headache began to build at the base of his skull. More sermons. Maybe one for each floor? The Angelic would be at the top. It symbolized walking toward God, or at least to the Celestial’s mouthpiece. Yes, that was—
Sandis jumped beside him. Rone instantly went on alert, but there were no apparent threats around them, nothing but paintings and flowers and a passing priest. The priest lifted a brow at Sandis’s reaction, but then nodded at Rone and went on his way.
Sandis stepped so close to him he nearly tripped over her. They passed a room of worshipping women, and Sandis shied away from it, nearly running into a marble column.
Rone was about to ask what her problem was when it hit him like a mallet. He’d only found out the truth about her yesterday, and already he’d forgotten how high the stakes were for her. She was a godforsaken vessel. A walking sin. If any of these people discovered the markings on her back . . .
She was terrified, and he hadn’t thought twice about it.
That constant, gnawing guilt in his belly doubled over. He stifled a wince.
They turned the corner, and Rone put his arm around her shoulders. “Breathe,” he whispered as quietly as he could manage. “They don’t know. They won’t. Nothing will happen to compromise you. I promise.”
She took in a deep breath and nodded. Another priest passed. She watched him go, but this time she didn’t startle.
The pilgrims gathered into a second room, then a third, listening to stories of their predecessors and the glory of the Celestial. Rone’s churning thoughts and broken plans made the time pass surprisingly quickly. By the time they moved toward the stairs again, hunger and guilt had rolled into a dull ache against his spine, hardening his resolve.
He made sure he and Sandis lingered at the back of the group as they ascended the tower. He glanced behind to ensure no disciples followed them. As they reached the seventh-floor landing, the pilgrims fell into a reverent silence. Not helpful. The priest leading the group began to chant. This was Rone’s cue to act.
He found a pillar and pushed Sandis toward it, behind it. Spotted a privacy wall. Moved toward that. Sandis silently followed him. He pushed aside a curtain so they could see, but lingered to the side, where they would not yet be seen.
He stood at the front of the room. The Angelic. The mouthpiece of the Celestial. He looked different—but of course he did. He was older, and a little heavier in his face. He wore long white-and-silver robes and a hat with a thick linen veil hiding the sides and back of his head. A lily marked its front, as well as the breast of his robe.
The pilgrims approached him with awe, some with tears. They knelt before him in a perfect line. The Celestial opened his arms to each of them in turn. Rone’s insides turned to lead.
“My children, my friends,” the Angelic said. “Welcome to the Lily Tower. Welcome to the home of the Celestial.”
Rone winced—his hand had been forming a fist. He forced his fingers open. A small amount of blood welled up from three crescent-shaped cuts at the base of his palm.
Sandis touched his elbow. He held a finger to his lips, urging her to be silent.
The Angelic addressed the group of pilgrims just as the priests before him had, congratulating them on their journey and speaking of his god. Then he talked to each person individually, his words too soft for Rone to hear. The pilgrims thanked him, blessed him, cried against the backs of his hands. It took a long time—the Angelic did not rush, even as he reached the last of the pilgrims. The priest who’d guided them in looked around at one point, perhaps realizing two people were missing from the group. But he did not interrupt the ceremony to go searching for them.
Rone’s skin itched more and more with each passing minute, but he didn’t scratch. He barely breathed. Sandis leaned close to him. He almost wanted to brush her away. He almost wanted to hold her hand, if only to remind himself that he wasn’t doing this alone. Not like last time.
Finally, finally, they finished. The pilgrims rose, bowed to the Angelic, and were guided back down the stairs. They would all be fed, and those who had come from afar would be gr
anted board for one night. The Angelic watched with a warm smile as the pilgrims left. Once the last one disappeared from sight, he turned back for the curtained hallway behind him to retreat to his quarters or study or whatever lay beyond this space.
Rone pushed his way into the room. He didn’t try to mask the sounds of his footsteps. The Angelic turned around, his white brows pulling together in confusion. He opened his mouth to say something, but Rone spoke first.
“Hey, Pops,” he said in his most jovial, sarcastic tone. “Miss me?”
Chapter 12
A slight widening of the eyes. That was it. The only reaction his father gave him.
Rone’s fingernails dug back into the crescent cuts on his palms. “I know what you’re going to say.” He tried to make the words lighthearted, but each passed his lips like the tip of a razor. “Oh, Rone, you’re taller. Puberty’s been good to you. Yes, well, thank you for that.”
Sandis touched his wrist—a featherlight touch that was barely there—and looked between him and the Angelic. “Your . . . father?”
The Angelic squared his shoulders. “All men are my children, my friend. I am sorry if you traveled here with the other pilgrims and lost your way. If you entreat the priests, they will give you a room, and you may return here to worship on the morrow.”
The enamel on Rone’s teeth threatened to chip, he ground his molars so hard. “Not here for the Celestial, Pops. Here to talk to you.”
The Angelic shook his head. “Dear child, my schedule is very full. Please, seek out one of the priests.”
He turned away.
He turned away.
Sandis’s touch tightened. She stepped in front of Rone, as if to go after the Angelic, but stopped at the length of her arm, unwilling to let go. “I don’t understand,” she whispered.
“Oh, don’t you know?” Rone’s eyes pierced his father’s back, and he spoke louder than was necessary. His voice had a slight echo in the spacious room. “Once a high priest accepts the election for Angelic, he becomes . . . what did you call it? ‘Father to all.’ He disowns his real family for the glory of the tower.”
Smoke and Summons (Numina Book 1) Page 14