The Eye of God (The Fall of Erelith)

by RJ Blain

  Terin wrinkled his nose and got onto his hands and knees, staring down at the rooftops below in search of one of the district’s small military supply houses. The splash of a purple flag against pale stones drew his eye.

  He eased his way down a support arch to the roof of a shop and worked his way toward the single-story structure marked with Imperial violet. When he drew close, he crawled over the rooftop of a two-storied shop and stared down at those on guard. Two white-tasseled cadets whispered to each other, their heads pressed together, ignoring the steady stream of Citizens passing them by. An alley stretched along the length of the warehouse, and Terin crawled over the rooftops until he came to one of the arches crossing the street.

  Waiting for when no one approached the alley, Terin darted across the rooftops and scrambled down to the ground. Dark windows lined the warehouse. The glass was shadowed by the taller shops flanking the building. He glanced each way before pressing close to the wall, palm flat to the window. Words fell from his lips in a haphazard mumble. Blue and red streaks rippled over the glass. With a pop and crackle, it crumbled to sparkling dust under his touch.

  The back of his right hand itched and he scratched it against the stone with a soft hiss. His skin ached and stung from the abuse, but the itch remained. Muttering a few curses, he glanced down the alley before wiggling his way up and through the window to drop down among neat rows of crates and stacks.

  Crouching low, he took shelter behind a canvas-wrapped pile. The windows did little to illuminate the open room. Large stacks of crates cast long shadows across the floor. Holding his breath until his lungs ached, he listened for the guards. All remained still and quiet. Letting out his breath in a slow hiss through his teeth, Terin crawled toward the doors the cadets guarded and put his ear to the crack.

  The two young men rambled, discussing the women and the rare horse passing them by. When they bored of their talk, they fell silent. A muffled voice called out, and one of the cadets replied with a wordless grunt.

  “Do you think they’ll find it?” one of them whispered after a long moment, his deep voice rumbling.

  The other snorted, and boots scuffed against stone. Terin tensed. The scuffs didn’t draw closer, and he bit his lip to keep from sighing with relief.

  “Heads will roll if they don’t,” the deep-voiced cadet continued. “Especially seeing the trick the Church pulled on the Emperor last night. Rumor has it he’s fit to kill someone over it.”

  “We should’ve gotten rid of those interlopers long ago. They belong in Lower Erelith City with the foreigners and the rest of the curs,” the other replied. One of them sighed. “More trouble for us. Double shifts on the worst guard posts in the city. Just our luck.”

  “The Erelith Church of God serves its purpose, keeping the Citizens quiet and happy,” the cadet with the deeper voice replied. A boot tapped on stone. “Better them than one of those foreign gods coming in on our turf.”

  “The Emperor would never allow some foreigner’s god here, Carlis. It’s bad enough he has to let them have their way as it is. It’s not like the church really makes anyone happy, anyway. Has it made you happy?”

  “Do I look like a groveler to you?” Carlis asked.

  The deep-voiced cadet’s laugh boomed like thunder. “Not at all.”

  “If I wanted to grovel, I’d have become a priest. How much longer do you think it’ll be before our shift ends?”

  “Pay more attention, fool. Another hour. Didn’t you hear the bell?”

  Carlis groaned and Terin retreated to the depths of the warehouse. He glanced over his shoulder at the doors the cadets guarded. With so many treasures the Emperor of the Erelith Empire jealously guarded, Terin couldn’t begin to guess what had been stolen.

  With less than an hour to be gone, he needed to pilfer what food he could, scrounge together a disguise, and leave before he got caught. Then, he’d find a better place to wait and listen for news.

  ~*~

  Blaise listened to the cathedral bell toll the noon hour. Its deep tone sent shivers racing down his spine. He glanced at the sleeping form of General Horthoe, sprawled out on the cot. Blaise shook his head and swept out of his room. Men and women in military coats hurried by, their conversations were held in faint whispers.

  The quiet was that of the grave.

  Leaning against the wall on the opposite side of the hallway, Frolar waited. “You’re looking better.”

  “Thank you.”

  “There’s trouble,” Frolar said, pushing away from the wall. Blaise faked a sigh in order to breathe in the bishop’s scent.

  The faint aroma of discomfort—too gentle to be fear, but unease all the same—tickled at his nose. It wasn’t quite the souring of deceit, but close enough that Blaise stared at Frolar for a long moment without speaking.

  Frolar matched his sigh. “You better come with me. The general, too. Ah, where is the general?”

  “Asleep,” Blaise replied, pointing at his chamber. “Should I wake him?”

  “We better. This is important.”

  Blaise frowned, sighed again on a deep breath to confirm what his nose had told him, and returned to General Horthoe’s side. The man woke at a single prod to his ribs, blinking at Blaise with bloodshot eyes.

  “There’s trouble,” Blaise announced.

  General Horthoe let out a wordless complaint but swung his legs off the cot and stood. “What now?”

  “You wouldn’t believe it even if I told you,” Frolar said from the door.

  Something in the old bishop’s tone drew Blaise’s attention, but he wasn’t certain what bothered him. Frolar tapped his fingers on the door frame impatiently.

  “I don’t believe we’ve met,” the general said.

  “I’m Bishop Frolar, General Horthoe,” Frolar replied.

  The two eyed each other and Blaise shook his head at the territory battle. “What’s going on, Frolar?” Blaise tried—but failed—to keep his annoyance out of his voice. While General Horthoe hadn’t slept for long, Blaise had kept a wary watch when he should’ve slept. Exhaustion made his muscles ache and his eyes burn.

  “The wrath of God,” Frolar whispered. “The wrath of God has fallen on us for the destruction of the Daughter’s soul.”

  Aurora buried herself deep in Blaise’s chest, the chill of her presence slowing the beat of his human heart. A surge of strength bolstered him, allowing him to stand straighter and stare at the other bishop without swaying from fatigue.

  “The Daughter, Bishop Frolar? What are you talking about?” General Horthoe asked, rubbing at his eyes and stifling a yawn.

  Frolar glared at the gray-clad man before adopting a more passive expression, and Blaise narrowed his eyes. The Frolar he knew would’ve humored the general without complaint. Blaise didn’t voice the suspicion growing within him, and brushed past the man to leave his chambers once more.

  “Of course I talk about the Heart of God, the manifestation of the Daughter who lost her soul to Lucin, the one forever imprisoned within the Hand of God. What else could I have possibly meant?” Frolar snapped.

  When Frolar opened his mouth to continue the lecture, Blaise cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Later, old friend. Just show us what is so important, since you can’t tell us what it is.”

  “Yes, yes,” Frolar grumbled, and the bishop’s tone chilled Blaise more than even Aurora’s existence within him. The man turned and walked down the hard, waving a hand for them to follow.

  Blaise sniffled and faked a cough. Frolar jerked around, the man’s eyes wide. “You aren’t ill, are you?”

  “Nothing more than what I deserve,” Blaise muttered, coughing again before clearing his throat. “This is where you’re supposed to tell me ‘I told you so’ and start laughing.”

  Frolar stared at him, and the man’s eyes rose to the linen wrapped around Blaise’s head. “I would, except I think you’ve been punished enough for once.”

  The laugh took Blaise by surprise, and he forced o
ut another cough. It was strong enough that his throat ached in earnest. Sniffling one more time, he rubbed at his nose. The scent was Frolar’s but something had changed in the man, and Blaise didn’t know how or why; Frolar’s eyes were a little brighter, his words a little sharper, and his manner a little bolder.

  Blaise felt his brows furrow and the gash across his forehead ached. What had changed? He forced a smile. “I never thought I’d live to see the day, old friend. You can’t say I didn’t give you a chance. What’s going on?”

  “It’s not good. I suggest you brace yourselves,” Frolar warned before leading them to the sanctuary doors. Blaise frowned, glancing at the two men guarding the way in. The soldiers saluted and General Horthoe returned the gesture.

  “Well, speak up, Bishop. What’s going on? Brace ourselves for what?”

  Instead of answering, Frolar opened one of the doors.

  Blaise looked within and sucked in his breath through his teeth.

  The Gate to the Garden shimmered in the air over the sanctuary’s dais, shedding its floral perfume into the chamber in a visible, rose-colored haze. The scent of it burned Blaise’s nose, and he sniffled and coughed.

  “By the bloodied hells,” General Horthoe gasped out. “What happened?”

  It took squinting and rubbing at his watering eyes for Blaise to make out the room through the glare of the Gate’s presence. There were long shadows on the floor, and they didn’t shift in the pulsing divine light.

  It wasn’t until Blaise stared down at the floor that he realized the darkness wasn’t a shadow, but ash. He sniffed, and he recognized the undertone of charred flesh and hair.

  All that remained of the people held for questioning were little piles. Some of the stains retained human shape. Blaise shuddered, and tasted the sour, acrid bite of bile on his tongue. He swallowed it back and stood straighter.

  He twisted around to stare at Frolar, and the man shook his head. The silence stretched out between them.

  Frolar sighed. “No one knows what happened. The Archbishop summoned me some three hours ago. By the time I was done answering questions for him and His Imperial Majesty, I returned and found this. No one heard anything happening within.”

  “How many are dead?” General Horthoe asked in a whisper.

  “At least several hundred. Maybe more. It’s impossible to know now, the sanctuary was full. More than full. Some had to stand because there weren’t places for them to sit. The Archbishop has already informed the Emperor. Adviser Leopold and Colonel Cassius are among the dead, as well.”

  Blaise closed his eyes and drew a deep breath to try to still the rage boiling within him at the wasteful deaths. The scent of roses wasn’t enough to mask the sour odor of a lie. No matter how hard he thought on it, he couldn’t figure out where the lie was. He stared at Frolar, and wondered why he lied, who he lied for, and what he lied about.

  “First the Hand and the Heart. Now this?” Horthoe asked. “What in the bloodied hells is going on here?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” Frolar replied.

  The sourness in the air intensified, and Blaise breathed through his mouth so he wouldn’t choke on the stench.

  “Blaise?” Frolar touched his arm, and the floral perfume once again dominated the air.

  Blaise opened his eyes. “Has anyone prayed for them yet?”

  “What? Oh. Oh, no. Not yet.”

  “Well, what are we waiting for, old friend? We’ve work to do, and lots of it.”

  “The Archbishop demands your presence as soon as you’ve seen this,” Frolar replied in a whisper.

  A spark of heat kindled in Blaise’s chest, and not even Aurora’s presence could extinguish it. “Then you can tell him if he wants to be in my presence so much, he can come here. He can wait,” he snarled, thrusting out his hand to gesture at the sanctuary as a whole. “They cannot. General, you’ll go with him, won’t you?”

  General Horthoe stared at him with arched brows. “Of course, Bishop Blaise. I’ve much to report to the Emperor.”

  “Blaise!” Frolar exclaimed. “You can’t do this right now. We’ve no guarantee that the sanctuary is even safe. No one is to enter it.”

  “Frolar, where are the other bishops?” Pressing his lips together in a thin line, Blaise met the other bishop’s eyes until the man looked away.

  Frolar swallowed and glanced at the sanctuary. “They were here, Blaise. They’re dead.”

  “All of them?”

  “They’d all come for the service for Steward Volas. Everyone posted in Upper Erelith City came,” Frolar whispered. “All from Lower Erelith City as well. Many of the acolytes and monks perished as well. There’s no one left to do the prayers.”

  “I’m here,” Blaise replied, staring down at the ash-stained floor. He ran his tongue over his teeth. “I’ll handle the prayers. The Archbishop will understand.”

  “The Emperor won’t.”

  “The Emperor isn’t the one who ordered me, now is he, Frolar?”

  “I believe I can handle His Imperial Majesty,” General Horthoe said, lifting his hand to stop Frolar from speaking. “Please, guide me to him, Bishop Frolar. Major, Lieutenant, keep watch. Should Bishop Blaise require anything, please find one of us immediately.”

  “Yes, sir!” the two men barked out, saluting in unison.

  “What about the sanctuary? It might not be safe!” Frolar exclaimed.

  “I’ll make it safe,” Blaise hissed.

  Frolar’s cheek twitched. “You’re going to do something reckless again, aren’t you? What have I told you about moderation?”

  “Frolar, old friend, I intend to pray for the dead. There’s nothing reckless about that. If whoever did this is wise, they’re long gone,” he replied, unable to keep his anger from adding a tremble to his voice.

  “I suppose not.”

  “General,” Blaise said, nodding to the man.

  “Bishop,” General Horthoe replied.

  “If you’ll please pardon my rudeness, I’ve work to do.” Blaise stepped through the door into the sanctuary and closed the door behind him. It thudded shut with the same hollow echo of a stone sarcophagus lid falling into place during an interment.

  ~*~

  Terin shoved his slave collar down as far as he could before buttoning the green coat. Digging through the crate of casual clothing, he pulled out a gauzy scarf. Golden threads glinted in the Speech-wrought light radiating from his hand. He wrapped it around his throat and secured it. If the collar of the coat slipped, his best—and only—hope was for the golden band to be mistaken as part of the scarf.

  He shivered, tracing his fingers over the rough material.

  The matching gloves hugged his hand and the material pulled at his knuckles and pinched the skin between his fingers. He made a fist, and nodded his satisfaction when the glove didn’t tear.

  Without a mirror, he wasn’t certain if the yellow flour dusted in his hair paled it enough to pass for a Citizen’s hue. He hesitated. The Speech to set the color—at least for a while—stuck in his throat. It’d only last a few hours, but by the time it faded, he hoped it’d be night, and no one would notice his dark hair.

  He shook his head. Doubt nagged at him. If he made even one mistake, his crimes would be so plentiful that it wouldn’t matter if he was an escaped slave or not, he’d be killed without question. As though accepting the risks he took, his slave collar remained cool around his throat.

  He took off the glove and reached up to touch his powder-encrusted hair. “All things change. Not even the roses of the Garden bloom forever in the same way; ask not how to avoid change, but how to accept it in a manner pleasing to God,” he Spoke in a whisper. Turning from the crate of clothes, he bowed down and ran his hand through his hair.

  The dust that fell away was no longer golden, but a pale gray. Whispering another verse of scripture, he cleaned the powder from his clothing.

  It didn’t take Terin long to find a pair of boots. With his heart pounding
a frantic beat in his chest, he put the crates back as he’d found them, draped the canvas back over them, and hurried to peer out the window. The alley was empty. Taking off the gloves and shoving them in his pocket so they wouldn’t get damaged, he climbed out of the building, pausing long enough to check his clothes for dust one final time, before walking in the opposite direction of the guard post.

  Fear held him in a chilly grip, tightening his throat until he struggled to breathe. Adopting the hurried stride of a Citizen, he emerged from the alley and slipped into the steady stream of people. He slipped his hands in his pockets, took out the gloves, and put them on to hide his scars.

  No one paid Terin any attention at all, and he lifted his chin so he wouldn’t duck his head low. Instead of watching legs, he was forced to stare at faces. While there were slaves on the street, usually in the company of at least one Citizen, most of the people around him were paled-hair with blue or brown eyes, and he shivered each time someone met his gaze. They didn’t stare at him long. Each time, they’d nod their head in greeting, and he returned the gesture. Some noticed Terin’s eyes, and they smiled at him.

  It left a sour taste in his mouth, but Terin forced himself to smile like the Citizens did.

  A group of men in the gray coats of the military marched down the street. Terin jerked when one of them barked an order at those in their path. The Citizens scattered from their path, and when the group came toward him, Terin mimicked them. The cluster of men and women absorbed him, crowding against him and shoving him closer to the two-storied shops lining the street.

  They passed by without another word or glance. Like those around him, Terin watched them go.

  “That’s the fifth patrol I’ve seen today,” one of the women muttered. Terin glanced at her. Old enough where wrinkles marked the edges of her eyes, the Citizen, like him, wore green. It turned her skin a sickly yellow.

  The group didn’t disperse, and trapped among them, Terin didn’t dare push his way through to escape into the emptied street.

  “As if anyone would be stupid enough to carry that out in the open after going through all of the work of stealing it,” a man replied. Terin glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. The Citizen’s blue eyes focused on the woman. He was middle-aged, with a stomach so swollen it struggled to break free from the confines of his coat. The first signs of gray marred his neatly trimmed beard. “I don’t think it’s been stolen at all. He’s just looking for an excuse to do another purge. It’s been at least a few years since the last one.”