by Kesia Lupo
‘Neither are you!’ she hissed back, her heartbeat slowly settling. The cat grabbed its dinner and slunk off into the shadows, acknowledging her superiority. Constance stood up straight and smoothed down her skirts.
She walked upstairs and into the great hall, setting her glowing cane on the stone floor while she lifted the heavy doors back into place.
She hadn’t really expected success on her first night of searching. No. That would be far too easy. It’s possible that it isn’t even down here any more, she thought glumly.
Suddenly she caught movement under the door to the courtyard – a pair of feet. In shock, she dropped the trapdoor the last couple of inches, a loud boom reverberating through the silence. She winced, quickly extinguished her light and stood very still in the darkness. Maybe she’d made a mistake – maybe she hadn’t seen anything at all.
Quick footsteps retreated outside. ‘Jurah’s tits,’ she cursed, and hurried to unbolt and open the door softly, peering out into the night. But whoever had been there, the storm cloud had swallowed them.
Her mouth was dry, her heartbeat shallow and rapid. Someone must have pressed their eye against the gaps in the old wooden door or looked through the defunct keyhole. Someone had seen her. And whoever it was, they’d seen her emerging from the forbidden crypts with her cane glowing. They knew she was a mage. They knew she was a heretic.
Once she’d unjammed the servants’ doors, she picked up her cane and stepped out into the dying night, heading for her room. She tasted salt on her tongue and realised that she was biting her lip so hard it was bleeding.
SEVEN
The Temple
The carriage thumped as it hit the ground, the wheels instantly rattling over the cobblestones. The noise was unbearable – a brain-shaking roar, ridiculously loud after the smooth passage through the air. They hit a pothole at a gallop and Lena pitched to the side, glad of the straps holding her steady as the horses slowed to a canter, a trot, a walk.
The carriage drew to a halt. Emris stepped down and offered his hand to Lena. She allowed him to help her, his hand warm and dry. The driver, Fowler, was stumbling sleepily out of the interior, straightening his uniform.
The sun had vanished now, and a full moon was rising, low and ghostly. Lena allowed her vision to adjust to the semi-darkness as Emris gathered together his things and instructed Fowler to drive the carriage to the stables. The narrow alleyway was empty and sparse but for a few leaves and scattered papers rustling in the autumn breeze. On the right, she spied the plain rear walls of tall townhouses. They reminded her of the quiet backstreets of the upper town in Duke’s Forest, dimly remembered from childhood, when she’d accompanied Vigo to the houses of rich dead people who had to be removed from their mansions and prepared for the Descent. Here, though, the stone was straight-hewn, not crooked. On the other side of the alley, she saw a huge building with a gently curving wall – part of an enormous dome, perhaps. Moonlight – low, intense and blue-tinged – streamed through the narrow gap of sky far above. Lena craned her neck. The building on the left was at least as tall as the castle towers. She tilted her head. The walls seemed oddly insubstantial, shiny.
She gasped as she realised the thousands of tiny bricks were actually window panes reflecting the masonry on the opposite side of the street. The windows – tier after tier of diamond-shaped glass – began at ground level and stretched so high she couldn’t see where they ended. ‘How does it hold itself up?’ she breathed.
‘By the will of the gods,’ Emris said, appearing at her side as the coach rattled off down the narrow lane. ‘Or so they claim.’
‘Is this your temple?’
‘Gods, no.’ He barked a laugh. ‘That’s the Holy Council, much grander. Now follow me. It’s time you got cleaned up and had something to eat. You’ve had a long day.’
To Lena’s disappointment, he led her away from the amazing glass dome and down a narrow path between two townhouses – a gap barely wide enough for two to walk abreast. At the end, set in a grubby wall, was an unremarkable wooden door. As Emris opened it with a small brass key, Lena gazed longingly back at the dome. She’d never seen anything like it before. How would it feel to be inside?
‘Don’t worry,’ Emris said, smiling at her. ‘You’ll see the Holy Council in time. For now, you’ll have to make do with this.’
Inside, the cool hallway smelt faintly of damp. A lantern hung from the ceiling, casting flickering yellow light over the narrow space – the mop leaning in a corner, the metal bucket on the bottom step. Emris shut the door softly. A rickety wooden staircase rose to the upper floors.
If the word ‘temple’ had conjured anything for Lena, it certainly wasn’t this.
Emris climbed the stairs, beckoning Lena with a glance over his shoulder. His footsteps barely sounded in the empty landing at the top. But she had clumsier feet, the wood creaking and popping under her hobnail boots, hand-me-downs from some older cryptling who’d outgrown them. Somebody stirred elsewhere in the house – a rattling cough, a groaning bed. Emris opened a narrow door and ushered Lena inside. He shut it behind her with a click and drew across a thick velvet curtain.
A long wooden table dominated the room, surrounded by high-backed chairs. Its surface was hidden, scattered with papers – maps, in fact, each of them impossibly large and overlapping, pinned flat with paperweights.
‘Welcome to the temple of Faul,’ said Emris. ‘The huntsman’s temple.’ He poked the fire, replenishing the embers with a fresh log. Sparks drifted up the chimney. ‘We came in by the back door. There’s a big impressive hall downstairs, through the front entrance, full of incense and statues and suchlike. But we’ve all got to live somewhere, so they tacked a whole terrace on the back. There are bedrooms, a kitchen, training rooms, offices, a bathhouse and a huge dining hall – and rooms like this, for temple meetings or study. This one’s the map room.’
On the mantelpiece, Lena noticed a silvery wooden carving of a hunter, his bow drawn tight, aiming with a narrowed eye.
‘What’s that?’ she asked, approaching it. ‘Is he your … your god?’ She gulped, the word felt strange and dangerous on her tongue. As if, in speaking it, the statue might suddenly spring to life.
Emris nodded as he crouched down in front of a cupboard, rooting around inside.
‘Why hunters?’ She glanced at him. ‘What is it you do exactly?’
‘We’re a sort of peacekeeping force.’ He turned and met her eyes. ‘We catch magical criminals, or Rogues, or Radicals – anyone who might present a magical threat to themselves or others.’ He took out a couple of plates, a wheel of cheese and a loaf of bread, and set them on the table as Lena sank into a velvet-cushioned chair. ‘Like Constance, for instance.’ He appeared to struggle to say her name, as if it was too bitter to taste.
‘She’s a Rogue too?’ Lena asked, frowning. ‘She didn’t seem particularly—’
‘No.’ He cut her off. ‘She’s a criminal, Lena. She broke the law – in fact, she broke the most important magical law of all.’ His jaw tightened; he looked angry. He returned to the cupboard and pulled out a lidded jug and two metal goblets.
‘What did she do?’
Emris shook his head as he set the things on the table. ‘I can’t tell you any more right now.’ He turned to one side as he poured them each a measure of the deep red liquid.
‘You promised me answers,’ she pointed out.
‘I know, and you will have them. But not this one … not yet.’ He sounded upset, but firm. She didn’t feel able to argue, although curiosity burned at her mind. What was his link to Constance exactly? And what had she done that was so terrible?
‘Who is Mythris?’ Lena asked instead. ‘You said no one knows where that temple is.’
Emris pulled himself together. ‘Mythris is one of the gods – a deity of indeterminate gender. It sometimes appears as a man, sometimes a woman – sometimes even as a child. Sometimes it is merely a cloaked figure, neither one thing nor another. It i
s the god of disguises. Of mysteries. A force of nature as much as it is a deity. The location of its temple is unknown – its disciples are equally elusive.’ He paused. ‘In fact, they have something of a reputation as spies and assassins for hire …’ He nodded, as if deciding to tell her. ‘The temple of Mythris was Constance’s temple.’
‘Oh,’ Lena said in realisation, perfectly able to imagine the haughty cane-wielding lady as an assassin. Perhaps she had assassinated someone important – had that been her crime? Emris had cut her some bread and a slice of cheese, which he offered her on a battered tin plate. ‘Can you tell me more about the gods, please?’ she asked, accepting the food.
‘There are nine in total,’ he said, obviously relieved at the change of subject, ‘but some are more important than others. Each temple serves a different government function, you see. Faul’s is a relatively small operation, as is Nomi’s, the temple of adventurers and explorers. Mythris – well, who knows? Then there’s Jurah, the goddess of justice – and Jok, the god of combat.’ He met her eyes, noticing her confusion. ‘Here. This is important, so I should show you properly.’ He stood up, took a large scroll from the bookcase and laid it over the top of the maps on the table, securing it with three heavy glass globes and the wheel of cheese.
Lena stood and leaned over. A series of colourful interlocking circles centred on the words ‘Holy Council’. Each circle was labelled, branching outwards into intricate streams of text. The simple lettering and bright colours implied an illustration for young children. Lena felt suddenly very warm and very ignorant. She might as well be a child here, after all.
But Emris was already explaining the diagram, apparently blind to her discomfort. ‘As every mage starts their training, they are assessed, interviewed and assigned a temple best suited to their powers and temperament. Later in their training, they can of course switch temples – in fact, interdisciplinary study is positively encouraged – and most end up experiencing apprenticeships in two or perhaps three temples throughout their novice years before taking vows and committing themselves to their best match for life.
‘Here we’ve got all the temples laid out with their functions, gods, symbols and magics simply explained. There’s Turah’ – he pointed to the ochre circle – ‘whose disciples handle food and agriculture. Their magic aids fertility and, at its most advanced, concerns the creation of life. And Regis’ – he pointed to the circle outlined in bright white against the yellowing paper – ‘handles the political sphere, using the magics of foresight and persuasion.’ He ran his fingers over a couple of the other circles, marked ‘medicine’ and ‘finance’. ‘The disciples of some of these temples are thousands strong – their worshippers beyond count. Others, like I said, are smaller.’ His finger settled on the grey circle marked ‘Faul’. ‘But I’m overwhelming you. Here, keep this for your own reference.’ He rolled up the scroll and laid it on the table in front of her. She stared down at the worn paper. Nine gods! The Ancestors are so simple by comparison. But when she thought of everything she had learned as a cryptling – the rituals, the prayers, the precise and ceremonial preparation of the body for interment – she knew it wasn’t true.
‘Sorry. This must be difficult for you,’ Emris said a little sadly. ‘I’m afraid it’ll get a lot harder before it gets easier – and soon. We’ll require you to pledge your faith to the gods. To accept their help. We can’t afford to leave you without a proper Binding, or training, or you could—’
She nodded. ‘I know. I could lose control. Become a … a Radical.’ Panic washed through her, and she turned away from the table, gazing into the fire. The flickering flames calmed her a little as she took a deep breath. ‘If I pledge myself to the gods, I abandon the Ancestors forever,’ she explained quietly. ‘Is there really no other way?’ Lord Chatham and his promises echoed in her mind.
Emris appeared to read her thoughts. ‘Lena, Lord Chatham clearly wants you to seek him out. A Rogue is a rarity here, and I’m sure he would love for you to place your trust in him. But, please, do not accept his invitation. There is no other way but what I am offering, not really. And the King’s Men – Chatham most of all – are extremely dangerous.’
Lena blinked. He hadn’t seemed particularly dangerous. Vain, yes. Haughty, yes. But dangerous? ‘Why?’
‘The King’s Men are a group of thirteen independently licensed magicians favoured by the King, who’s young, proud and reckless. They believe magic is simply a tool, a natural force to be used however they please – not a gift from the gods to be treated with utmost care and respect.’ He shook his head. ‘They are all blatant atheists, and they think they’re above the law – and for the most part, it seems, the King lets them do as they please. And of course he does: without gods, there is no one above the King. He is blinded by their flattery.’ He swigged on his wine – his eyes distant, as if he’d forgotten about Lena altogether. ‘To me, it stinks of Chaos.’
‘Oh,’ said Lena quietly, her mind racing and returning again to her butterfly. ‘What about his mechanical things?’
‘Lord Chatham started creating his … his inventions perhaps twenty years ago. Illegally.’ Emris’s voice was dripping with loathing. ‘He set up a business – a shop, really – offering magical services and curiosities to members of the public. The Holy Council was determined to shut it down. But Chatham, of course, had aristocratic connections. His services gained popularity among the nobility, and eventually royalty. The King himself, who was but a child at the time, was infatuated with his creations. When he came of age, he awarded Chatham a royal licence … and that’s how it all began.’ Emris shook his head. ‘Now the King has thirteen magicians, taught and “licensed” by Chatham, creating magical devices at his request.’
Lena blinked. ‘So … how do these devices work? Why are they so bad?’ She resisted the urge to reach for her butterfly.
‘Ordinary people want magical things,’ Emris said, ‘of course they do: people want whatever they can’t have, particularly beautiful and powerful things. But there’s a reason why the temples control magic so carefully, Lena. These magical devices aren’t safe – in fact, they’re a real threat. Essentially, the magician infuses each machine with a fragment of Chaos in order to bring it to life.’
‘Really?’ The butterfly hadn’t looked particularly dangerous or chaotic as it fluttered, lost, among the graves.
‘I know – it’s unbelievable,’ he said, mistaking her meaning. He looked genuinely outraged, warming further to his subject. ‘It’s the only way the creature can possibly act with some measure of independence – but for some reason, no one questions it. And he sells these things to ordinary people with no means of defending themselves if anything goes wrong. There have been stories … but somehow they never reach the newspapers.’ His expression was truly thunderous. ‘And that’s only the beginning of it: ever since it started, his “Emporium” has always been a front, really, for the dangerous private commissions he accepts from – well, not just the King, but anyone with the money to pay.’
Lena’s mouth felt dry. ‘What kind of commissions?’
‘We’ve all heard rumours about magical weapons – devices to enhance magic, or perhaps even steal it. But of course no one dared investigate.’
If Chatham had truly created the butterfly, as she suspected, then had someone commissioned him to do so? Or was it just a toy? At Lena’s thoughtful, confused silence, Emris suddenly smiled.
‘I’m sorry, I’ve frightened you. Rant over, I promise. Anyway, what I mean to say is that you really shouldn’t seek Chatham out. You’re better off here, learning how to control your powers in the proper way – and we’ll begin tomorrow.’ He gave her a measuring look. ‘For now, it’s time you had some rest. Here, follow me.’
He led her to a door half-hidden in an alcove beside the fireplace, unlocked it and pressed the large brass key into her palm: inside was a small and sparsely furnished bed-chamber with a low pallet, a chest of drawers and a bathtub in the cor
ner.
‘This is one of our guest rooms, but it’s yours until we get you settled. I’ll send a novice with hot water for the tub. You’ll find fresh clothes in the drawers. I’ll check up on you in the morning.’ He walked back to the table, downed the rest of his wine. ‘I’ll need to make my report to the First Huntsman, and set up your initial assessment and training as soon as possible. I’ve a feeling he’d like to assess you personally.’
‘That’s … reassuring,’ Lena said, managing a weak smile. ‘And thank you.’
‘What for?’ He looked surprised.
She shrugged, embarrassed. ‘You know … I was dying from snake poison. And then I didn’t die. That’s because of you.’
He nodded, shifted on his feet but held her gaze. ‘Please don’t leave this room unless I fetch you, Lena. I still have so much to explain, but trust me, few of my fellow hunters will take kindly to a stranger – let alone a Rogue.’
‘All right, I understand,’ said Lena, although she did not.
The door shut, and she was alone once more.
EIGHT
The Burden of Rule
After a couple of hours’ restless sleep, Constance woke early in her mother’s bed, listening to the hounds howling and barking below. The south tower was above the kennels, and as a child she’d often woken to the sound of dogs preparing for the hunt. But they weren’t just hunting hounds any more: they were executioners, and somehow the tenor of their howls had changed altogether, like the cold keening of a sharpening blade.
As she pushed out of bed, her thoughts returned to the great hall, to the footsteps outlined in shadow under the door. Who had seen her night-time explorations? And when would she feel the consequences of their knowledge? Whoever it was, they hadn’t raised the alarm instantly, as she might have expected from a terrified Forester. Perhaps they were intimidated by her status – or frightened. Or … or perhaps they simply weren’t alarmed. What if the person who had spelled the gates shut was the very person who had followed her?