Sorrowfish

by Anne C Miles

  A guardian?

  A resident of hell?

  A teacher?

  A warning?

  A representation of inner darkness?

  She scrawled the questions under the sketch and made a few other notes.

  Styrofoam carving

  Concrete coating

  Paint

  She could create a new piece in a week if she used foam carving rather than clay. Plus, the piece would be created as theatrical sculpture. It should win her points. Sara set aside her notebook and grabbed a handful of popcorn. She stared at the fire.

  She could make a big heart and have flames inside it and call it heartburn.

  She laughed and thought about Bastien’s work. Gargoyles were symbols to scare away evil, protectors and guardians. He had done much within the film industry but had also done large-scale installations across the planet. All were designed to call attention to a social issue and raise awareness. He had created a series of huge plastic pink kapok trees to call attention to the deforestation of the Amazon. The installation had stretched across a desert out West somewhere. He’d wrapped a huge corporate building in Tokyo completely in quilts.

  No telling what that meant, but it was probably profound.

  Sara doodled for a minute and then wrote Heart’s inner fire = a why?

  Sara flipped open her laptop again and typed in gargoyle. A book cover with a gargoyle on it came up in the search results. She clicked and scanned a quote. The excerpt made her sit up and take notes.

  … a writhing awareness of the superiority of others will kick off an angry, defiant denial. You will wish to destroy it, full of resentment. Envy can drive a person, but it will devour your soul.

  Sara was shaking.

  Marilla. Envy.

  She closed her eyes, remembering Chantal’s sketches.

  I too am not a bit tamed—I too am untranslatable...

  The Walt Whitman poem had always spoken to her. The line floated through her mind like music. Right now Sara felt untranslatable. Absently she tapped a new search into her browser. She clicked on the first result, reading an interview with Bastien. “An artist’s path is a hero quest in a very concrete way. The monsters we face lie within us.” She copied the quote into her notes.

  Sara yawned and kept doodling, trying to concentrate. Her other idea, a dragon, took form. Snakelike, sinuous, it writhed across the page. She fiddled with her pendant, pulling it idly back and forth along its chain. Her eyes got heavier and heavier. She fell asleep sitting up, the pendant in her hand.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “SO I NEED a dispensation.”

  “Do you need a full or a partial dispensation?”

  “Full, please.”

  “All right. That will be ten gold.”

  “Ten gold? That’s outrageous.”

  “For ten gold you get a perfect excuse. No holes in your story whatsoever, guaranteed not to cause Dissonance, will resonate true even when used near a grotesque. It won’t raise a fuss among family or friends, will last a lifetime and keep working long after you stop. It’s the perfect solution. Now if you want a partial one, it will cost less, but will not hold so neatly. May unravel a bit, wear thin over time. But if you’re a gambling sort…”

  “How much for the partial?”

  “Five gold. Effects will last a lifetime.”

  “And no Dissonance?”

  “No Dissonance felt,” the cantor said. “You’ll receive it along with an indulgence to keep it from spoiling. You’ll need to carry it with you at all times, however. It might make you occasionally uncomfortable. Which will it be?”

  “I might only be able to afford the indulgence, how much...”

  The voices became muffled as they haggled. Dane grimaced through his gag. Stuffed into an enclosure behind one of the confessional nooks near the Chapterhouse Quiet Room, he could still hear everything. The patter of the cantors as they dealt with their flock’s needs turned his stomach.

  With a dispensation, an untruth could be spoken with no effects, undetectable by normal means. No grotesque would feel the Dissonance. Dane thought they were only granted in great need, perhaps to prevent a war or save a child. He was wrong.

  Lies created Dissonance, whether anyone felt it or not.

  Dane shifted in his bonds, uncomfortable with the thought. It pushed at him, heavy with portent. He needed to explore the idea further, but right now he had to escape.

  He’d woken, bound hand and foot to a chair and gagged tight. At first, he tried to kick and scoot, to alert the penitents of his predicament. He couldn’t reach anything. The chair would not budge. If anyone heard him, they gave no sign. He’d finally given up and begun merely waiting.

  Dane searched the nook with his eyes for the hundredth time, looking for anything that might help. He wriggled, working against his bonds again.

  A new voice spoke within the confessional. A woman’s voice, it rang clearly in Dane’s compartment. “Bless me, Brother, for I have sinned. In the name of Domini, Lord of All and His servants. It has been three days since my last confession.”

  The responding voice was new. It sounded smooth, like velvet. It comforted, wrapping around the hearer like a warm blanket. “May the cyntae, who enlighten every heart, help you to know your sins.”

  “Amen.”

  The cantor continued, “Worship all the cyntae, they are Many and worthy to be praised. Fear them and suppress all desires in your heart, listening only to the Apokrypha for all guidance. By your offering, receive forgiveness. Judgment is swift for those who will not dona…er…obey.”

  The penitent answered. “Cyntae bright, I am sorry for my sins. In failing to obey, I have sinned against You. I firmly intend to give my penance. Our Lord commands me to give that I might be forgiven. Please do not let me fall ill because of the Dissonance in my life.”

  The small window in the confessional slid open and coins the clinked.

  The brother said, “Domini, Lord of the bright, sent the Conclave among men to receive gifts for the forgiveness of sins; through the Conclave He gives you pardon. I absolve you from your sins in the name of Domini and all cyntae.”

  Bells tinkled in the air, hanging there. Almost visible. Dane recognized a form of the Song. Something like the Song; it was changed. Empty. Something was missing, as if the tones had shifted. The difference was palpable. It wasn’t good. It wasn’t good at all.

  The woman said, “Amen.”

  “Give thanks to the cyntae, for they are good,” intoned the brother. “The cyntae have freed you from your Dissonance. Go in peace.”

  “I won’t be sick again, Brother?”

  “No, child,” he assured her.

  Dane stiffened, growing more angry with each word. Paying gold for forgiveness and relief from Dissonance? Absurd! Dissonance causing sickness among common folk as if that were normal? Outrageous. Petitioning the cyntae. Cyntae cannot forgive. They should never be worshiped. They’re telling falsehoods! But of course, they teach the Storm King is dead. So they have replaced Him with the cyntae. And lies.

  Footsteps faded away. He pushed harder at the knots holding his hands. The rough rope tore at his wrists. Now he was desperate. He didn’t know what the Conclave cantors had planned for him. He didn’t want to find out.

  Brother Bren and Brother Flyn barely fit in the nook where Dane waited. They made the best of it and picked him up, chair and all, carrying him to a nearby chamber. The chamber was very large, with vaulted ceilings and abstract colored-glass windows. Elaborate tapestries told the story of the Broken Tree as they softened the walls. The ceiling, painted with the likenesses of the eight cyntae, arched over rich cherry furniture and a thick Fennish rug.

  The High Cantor Siles appeared not long after Dane arrived. The door locked behind him. Brother Flyn prepared censers, filling them with a sweet aromatic, while Brother Bren began Canting. His rich baritone dissipated in the large space as background noise.

  Siles walked around Dane’s chair
, examining him from various angles. Dane stared straight ahead, impassive and resolute. Siles drew up a low ottoman and settled himself, black robes billowing.

  “Danethor Thomas.” He tapped his finger on his mouth, tracking Dane’s eyes. “Danethor Thomas...Whitley, isn’t it?”

  Dane winced as he realized what the possession of his full name meant. He glared at the cantor.

  “Ah, yes. The young cabinetmaker from the lovely village of Dohnavur. Tell me, Danethor, how is it you became apprenticed to the Forge? An odd choice to make, since your business is so profitable. It’s been in your family for generations, has it not? You even build custom pieces for nobility.”

  Still gagged, Dane couldn’t answer if he tried. The cantor didn’t seem to care. Brother Bren kept Canting, a droning monotone sound. It reminded Dane of a bee’s buzzing. Dane wondered what the Canting was supposed to accomplish.

  “Don’t mind Bren, he is just making sure we have privacy. It’s so important to have privacy for a dewin, isn’t it? There are so many things you need to keep hidden. To be honest, we have been protecting people from the likes of you for centuries. I’ve met many dewin. Do you know what you all have in common, Danethor Thomas Whitley?”

  Dane relaxed into impassivity, determined not to respond in any way, not even with a facial expression. He fixed his eyes on the cantor’s pin, worn at his collar.

  Siles leaned in as if relating a secret. “All dewin lie. Every one of them. They all tell outrageous stories, and they lie. Tell me, do you worship the Wyrm? Do you Cant to Him the way we Cant to the cyntae?” Siles searched his face, looking for answers. There were none.

  “It isn’t Brother Bren who should concern you, you know, it’s Brother Flyn. What is he mixing, I wonder? What sort of thing shall you be inhaling? Something to disable you? Keep us safe? Purify you? Or should we even bother trying to help you find a path back to wholeness? Should we just put you to death?”

  Siles waited. Dane refused any thought of fear. His fate was in the hands of the Storm King alone. The Storm King had brought him here.

  His eyes remained solely fixed on the pin on the cantor’s collar. It was eight sided and shone golden in the glowlight. It looked exactly like Dane’s binding sign, the sign of the Storm King.

  “One of the dewin we’ve met is from your village. I think you know her. Bell Pennyweather? She’s a lovely girl. So delicate. When Dohnavur was purified, of course we detained her. She didn’t take the purification process well.” He paused, letting the words strike home. “Shame, that. Nadir was always a bit enthusiastic about these things.”

  No, not Bell. She couldn’t be gone.

  Dane lifted his gaze, looking into the high cantor’s eyes. He was telling the perfect truth.

  “Ah, that’s better. I can see your true self, the man you are, in your eyes. You need not speak. She means something to you. Interesting. She’s here. You can see her. She’s quite diminished, I’m afraid. She’s conscious, healing and can speak, but she tires easily. Nevertheless, it’s so good to see her improving. I’d hate for her get worse. It’s quite repugnant to see a beautiful woman drooling and soiling themselves, don’t you think?”

  Dane looked up at the cyntae painted on the ceiling. The two lovers, Solimon and Lalo, stared at each other. She was alive. He could save her.

  “Dane, normally we would immediately disable you. But you obviously have had training. We cannot risk the threat you pose to common people. Whether you accept it or not, there is madness in you. When you begin to fail, it will happen quickly, and you will destroy all who surround you. You will kill them. You will not be able to help yourself.

  “We have two options. We can force you to use your gifts in our service. You would be under our power. We would give you Essences to keep you docile. You would not be able to think for yourself, but you could still be very useful, I think. However, it would also diminish your abilities, and those seem considerable. We think it would be rather better if you simply cooperate. We could train you to avoid madness, in time, and restrain you before you hurt anyone, if needed. We’d like to offer you the chance. Do you understand? Nod if you do.”

  Dane nodded. He exaggerated the motion so there could be no misunderstanding. He would rather cooperate than become mindless.

  “You’ve been lied to Dane. Likely you’ve been lied to your entire life. Everything you think you know isn’t true. It might contain seeds of truth. Believable lies always do. As you come to accept truth and serve us and the cyntae from your heart, you will gain more freedom. I hope in time you will come to love the Conclave and serve her as you would Bell.” Siles held up a hand. “Flyn, you may stop. Release our new acolyte.”

  Brother Flyn stopped. He turned and approached Dane with a dagger, cutting his bonds. He left the gag in place. Dane sat, waiting.

  Siles eyes rested on Dane’s bald head. “You have already adopted some of our ways, I see. You’ll need to shave your head daily. Bren will take you to your rooms and guide you. You’ll begin your instruction today. Your voice has power, as you know, and so we command you to utter silence at all times, whether alone or in the company of others. If you disobey, we shall remove your tongue. That would be unfortunate.

  “I don’t have to explain to you, Bell Pennyweather’s fate rests in your hands. Should you disobey at all, she will suffer. In time you’ll come to see this precaution was necessary. It’s for your own good.”

  Dane nodded.

  Brother Flyn removed his gag. Brother Bren stopped his Canting.

  Siles stood, lifting Dane to his feet and wrapping him in a warm embrace. He leaned back, regarding him with the pride and affection of a father. “Enough of the unpleasantness. Welcome to the Order.”

  Siles released him, stepping back and signaling Flyn, who presented Dane with a small slate and chalk. “You’re not the only acolyte with a vow of silence. Use this when you need to speak. All are accustomed to them. You can read and write, can you not?”

  Dane nodded again. He shifted from foot to foot, letting blood flow back into them.

  “I imagine you are hungry. Go with Bren. He will see to your needs.”

  Dane followed Bren into a vaulted passage. They walked through a labyrinth of hallways and stairs, arriving finally at a long corridor filled with doors. Bren stopped at the end of the row and opened one into a small cell.

  “You’ll find robes. Change out of your clothing and place them on your bed,” said Bren. “I’ll have food brought. Vespers are held at the sixth bell. Be prepared to join us. You will, of course, remain silent through them.”

  Dane nodded and bowed, then entered his cell. The door to the tiny room closed. A lock clicked.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  TRYSTAN LISTENED INTENTLY. Tabor pointed to his own head, where a mop of dark hair curled under his sailor’s hat. “This is a wig,” he said. “As a Spinner, we often need to disappear. One of the best ways to accomplish this is a disguise. Disguises should become second nature, easily adopted or discarded. A few simple preparations will aid you greatly. The first aid for the disguises we employ is to keep your hair close-cropped or shave it completely. We have several barbers in the nest, and many throughout the land are friendly to our cause. They create our wigs.”

  He walked around Trystan, inspecting him. “’Tis a blessing you don’t have the braided beards of your countrymen. Those would be costly to replicate.

  “The shaved head is your first line of defense in subterfuge, hiding, and freedom. Need to capture the eye of a soldier and distract him?” Tabor whipped off his hat and wig and took up another from those arrayed on the shelves in the narrow mirrored room. Long, curled tresses framed his mobile face. He simpered at himself and Trystan.

  “A pretty face can quickly lead a guard from his post.”

  He leaned forward and tapped Trystan lightly on the shoulder. “But the best thing is to blend in. You want to not be noticed. A selection of wigs for every occasion and clothes to match. That’s wh
at you’ll find in the Spinner’s nest and in a Spinner’s pack. Try for nondescript cloaks, hoods, and of course, a variety of mustaches.

  “All right, you have five minutes. Create a disguise to fool me and escape the nest,” he said. Tabor left the room, closing the door behind him.

  Blend in. Trystan set to work. He assembled a sailor’s black tunic and breeches, a standard uniform in the nest. He stuffed a cloth in his boot to give himself a limp. To this he added a long brown beard and matching mustaches. A bit of clay and some paint lengthened his nose. A few dabs of dark powder in the right places made him look older. He topped his cropped blond hair with a medium-length brown wig and added a broad-brimmed hat. He put on a pair of spectacles. Lastly, he picked up a large sack filled with flour and hoisted it on his shoulder.

  He was ready.

  Trystan fixed his eyes on the floor, using the flour bag as a shield to hide his face. He struggled to keep his limp consistent as he made his way to the lift. Seth didn’t give him a second glance as he manned the lift pulleys. Trystan stumped through the short hallway to the main warehouse. Almost there.

  “Here, let me help you with that, sir.” Tabor’s voice was friendly. He pulled the flour sack from Trystan’s grasp with a wide grin. “Well done, you nearly made it on the first try.”

  “Has anyone ever bested you?” asked Trystan.

  “No,” he said, clapping Trystan on the shoulder. “But I have a lot of fun letting them think they’ve fooled me. The limp caught my eye, by the way.”

  “Great.”

  “Next time, stoop and don’t drag your leg. It changes your height. All right. Ready for the next lesson?” Tabor placed the flour bag on a nearby shelf.