Dalathos and Ulric struggled up the first flight of stairs, panting and wheezing with the deadweight of the scribe between them. Tilirine stopped both, hauled the unconscious man over her shoulder, and carried him quickly up the rest of the steps.
When they reached the top floor, Dalathos came alongside her, staring. “How did a girl like you ... get so strong?”
“When I imagine my body as stone, I can easily bear this weight.” Tilirine knew Dalathos would not understand.
Jerine suggested that their captive should remain with Dalathos and Ulric, as they would make better guards. Tilirine accepted this, even though she had ensured, with a nerve pinch, that the scribe would not wake until morning. She only hoped it had been worth the danger of abducting him.
She laid the man gently on the floor of their room. She straightened her spine and felt muscles protest back into their proper place.
Despite the physical relief, her sense of danger continued. Somewhere, out there, they had been observed. It was a warning to be on their guard.
Dalathos insisted that the prisoner be bound, despite Tilirine’s assurance that it would not be required. Ulric tied the man’s hands and feet with a bow string. Sirath returned with a handful of wool from the privy to gag him, in case he cried for help when he woke.
“Are you trying to suffocate him?” Tilirine snatched it away, then faced Dalathos. “Just be alert in the morning, for when he recovers.”
“I’m sure I can be persuasive, when needed.” Dalathos tapped a hand to the greatsword at his back, and grinned.
Erin came out of her room to greet them. There was a swelling at her face, and her hands were trembling, as if from shock. Tilirine asked after it. Erin meekly replied that she had gone to look for a temple to pray at, only to be beaten and robbed.
Sirath shook his head at her. “After the warnings you’ve had? It’s people like you keep the footpads in work.”
“Beaten?” Ulric looked concerned. “Sure you’re not hurt, Erin?”
“I just have a small headache. I am thankful for nothing worse.”
Dalathos spat. “Bastards. Show me where, and I’ll find them and teach them a lesson.”
Erin shook her head, her voice wavering. “No.” She enquired after their night. Jerine waved her into their room, and gave a brief account of the fire at the warehouse. Erin fretted, not least at the tale of their abducting someone.
Eventually, everyone returned to their rooms, and closed their doors. Tilirine sensed exhaustion fall upon each of them, as they drank from their canteens, and settled down to rest.
Her own thoughts continued to whirl, and she remained awake, contemplating.
She had faced fire tonight, and frozen in terror. All of her training had fallen from her mind, and left her unable to save herself. Or her sister. Until Tilirine conquered her fear and completed her training to dance the Khalaki — the Way of Fire — then Jerine remained vulnerable.
Restless, Tilirine stood to the window of her room. Sirath already dozed on the bed, and Ezekiel was hunched in a corner. Their breathing was light and restless, with frequent coughing.
She opened the internal shutters, and stared out of the glass pane, tinged green and grimy with moss. A part of her still hoped to see palm trees and bamboo groves — hear cicadas and smell jasmine — as if she could step back into lush valleys beneath mountains that punched the sky.
Instead, all she saw was darkness and rain. A cold draft blew in. Was that a bat she glimpsed? No, it was far too big. It must have been a trick of the shadows, a reflection of her own anxiety. She did feel a presence, though, then ... none. She closed the shutters and stepped away. And with that, put away the night.
She seated herself on the floor, with her legs crossed and her back against a wall. She closed her eyes, but was too restless with worry for sleep.
She could only hope they had worked within the councilor’s brief. He might not be pleased by the destruction to city property. Instead of providing a reward, he could imprison them.
They had also made clear enemies — who might even know who they were, and where to find them.
Whether Jerine collected any payment or not, they must now leave Corianth. Before they were faced with the consequences of this night.
PART 3: FEAR AND FURY
Pieter Returns
Jerine
Jerine woke up coughing from a restless sleep. She’d dreamed of flames and of being choked by smoke, but unable to escape. She pushed back her blanket. Morning light slipped into the room through gaps in the shutters.
Erin stood with her book bag over her shoulder. “I have returned your purse. I took nothing. I hope ... to thank you later, after my presentation.”
“Good luck.” Jerine tried to collect her thoughts. She’d forgotten that she’d hidden her money in Erin’s bag. “May the light be upon you,” she said, but Erin was already gone. It was a hope to see her again, if only to say goodbye.
Who would leave next? What about Sirath? Even before last night, the others had been ready to go their own way. Why should any remain now? They’d barely escaped last night’s fire with their lives.
Her throat felt tight, and her lungs ached to breathe. She sat up and drained her canteen but a raw thirst remained. She determined to buy herbs to treat the soreness. Mallow, honey, and sage should do it. She remembered Barillios with his broken legs. It might be prudent to purchase a range of medicines.
Until then, she needed to know if there was work left to do for Councilor Amberlin. Was the ledger useful? What might the scribe say? Would the councilor even punish them for their actions? She urgently needed to speak with Pieter.
The morning bell rang across the city. As the chimes faded, a familiar stride approached in the hallway.
Jerine rose quickly. She pulled on her boots, then her coat — it still stank of smoke. She hurried to the door and opened it. “Ah, Pieter,” she said with relief.
Pieter’s manner was impatient. He indicated to the doors, as if to ask which room they should speak privately in.
Tilirine stepped into the hallway with the ledger in her arms. She pointed to Ulric and Dalathos’s room.
Jerine nodded. “In there, if you will.”
Dalathos was on the bed, oiling his greatsword. Ulric sat in the corner, watching. The spindly scribe lay on the floor in his crumpled white robes, and mumbled in his bindings.
Pieter waited until the door had closed before he spoke, “Please explain what you were doing last night?”
Jerine raised a brow at the tone. “What makes you think that we did anything?”
“Because we had a man at the Ophidian Docks give your description.”
Jerine shared a glance with Tilirine, then briefly recounted what had happened with their search of the workhouses, the lead to Berton Bellinis, and events at the warehouse.
Pieter listened, interrupting at times for clarification. When Jerine had finished, he asked to see the ledger they’d taken.
Tilirine handed it over.
Pieter turned the pages with interest. His manner became excited. “Well ... it appears even traitors keep good records. You have confirmed what Councilor Amberlin suspected, and delivered the proof he needed.” He reached inside his satchel, shuffled through a few documents, then handed a parchment over. “The city rewards loyalty.”
Jerine took it. It was a merchant bond, beautifully decorated with swirls of calligraphy, all in colored inks. In neat handwriting, across the centre, it promised to pay the bearer seven hundred crowns. Jerine whistled involuntarily, both from relief and surprise.
Tilirine indicated the scribe, who squirmed against his bindings. “He will shortly become lucid.”
Pieter looked at her. “Do you know who he is?”
The scribe glared with awakening rage. “I am Bishop Serannos of Serrilinus. I demand you unhand me ... at once!”
The room fell silent. Jerine was certain they’d made a terrible mistake. Thank goodness Erin was n
ot here to see this, on the day of her presentation.
Even Pieter took a moment to recover his composure. “I am Pieter, a servant to Councilor Amberlin. He will not brook ill treatment of a man of your standing. Of course, if you really are whom you say, then questions will be asked. Not least why you were found in a den of treason.”
“I stand accused, not condemned. There is a clear difference.”
“All the more reason, Your Grace, to put your testimony before the city council. Until it convenes, we should ensure you are detained in a manner more suited to your status, at the Citadel of the Guard.”
“I would prefer to protest my innocence in the company of civilized men, than this rabble of peasant children.”
“Then consider yourself my honorable prisoner. However, should you attempt to escape, or otherwise call attention to yourself, by my life I will gut you there and then. Do you understand me, Your Grace?”
Bishop Serannos attempted to smile, but succeeded only in grimacing. “I understand perfectly.”
Pieter nodded. “Free him.”
Ulric knelt down and untied his bow string.
Dalathos sheathed his greatsword. “You want me and Ulric to accompany?”
“A good idea,” Pieter said. “Your escort would be welcome.”
Jerine feared if they separated now, she might never see them again. “We should arrange where to draw the bond,” she said quickly. “Together, to ensure it’s fairly shared.”
“Merchants Row,” Tilirine replied. “We will meet there.”
Jerine nodded, familiar with it from her journeys here with Uncle Niccolo. Most of the city counting houses stood along it. The amount suggested Councilor Amberlin intended each of them to take an equal share. That would mean one hundred crowns each. Everyone would hold a small fortune. Enough to leave, and seek new paths. Drawing on the bond kept them as a group. If, perhaps, for one last time.
The Sweet Taste of Vengeance
Daria
Daria sipped her blood wine. Thick drapes remained pulled shut across the window, leaving the dining room in shadow. Today saw Molric’s ascension — and the beginning of vengeance fulfilled. It was such a sweet taste.
Eira snorted lines of Lithian spice from a silver plate.
Much as though Daria loved her sister, the woman could be positively barbarian at times. Silver demanded better respect than that. “Isn’t it a little early to start powdering your nose?”
Eira relaxed into her high-backed chair. “There is nothing like ... starting the day ... with a little pampering.”
Daria raised an eyebrow. After spice, Eira tended to make rather a mess in the basement. Two of their guests were probably still alive down there. Common blood ruined fine clothes, and made a terrible waste of good needlework.
A knock came at the door. Their aged steward, Mellar, entered. Daria sensed an unusual anxiety upon him. She sat straighter, and composed herself. “My dear Mellar, what news?”
Mellar bowed, “I regret to inform you that there has been a fire at the Ophidian Dock. A warehouse of yours has been destroyed, along with its stores ... the Sun Flower, and all her cargo. There are many casualties ... many deaths.”
Daria held her breath as she considered this. Then sighed. “A sad loss. Alas, witchfire is a dangerous substance. I have seen it for myself. We should take greater care with the next shipment.”
“Oh, my masters, this was no accident. The warehouse was stormed by armed men who burned it.”
Eira scowled, her cheeks red. “Is this real? Did he just say what I thought?”
Daria kept her voice measured, despite her indignation that someone had dared challenge their authority. “Why were we not informed of this immediately?”
“I wished to be in possession of facts, rather than disturb you with half-truths and rumors,” Mellar replied. “The waresmaster, Emerin, is dead. Captain Lannas is burned, but lives. And Bishop Serannos is captured.”
Eira hurled her tray across the room. It struck a polished silver mirror against a wall. Both clattered to the floor.
The noise was like a physical assault. Daria felt a surge of anger for her sister’s lack of discipline. “Oh, stop it! Enough of your tantrums.”
“Did you hear what he said? That’s half a million we lose if we — ”
“It was only half a million. That will hardly burn our purse.” Daria regretted that her sister had addled her wits with spice before receiving this ... unfortunate news. “Mellar, do we know who did this thing to us?”
“Agents of Councilor Amberlin were seen at the fire, recognized by an overseer named Argen, who encountered them at one of Berton Bellinis’s workhouses.”
Daria rolled her fingertips together. This matter must be dealt with, and swiftly. “Find out what you can about these agents. See if Rodrigan has any information on them.” This problem required a certain professional efficiency. There was one rare tool available to her. “Corraldo Silvano is returned from campaign in Eptemia, yes? Find him. He gets one thousand crowns for each head. And a bonus of ten thousand if they are all lined up by that wall by tonight. That amount halves each day that passes. Under no circumstances allow Corraldo’s name to become known to Rodrigan, or Molric. I do not think our dear friends will look kindly on us having a cardinal killer on our books.”
Eira spoke up, “What of Serannos?”
Daria nodded. “Corraldo gets twenty thousand for the bishop. But only if done today. We wouldn’t want him talking too much, would we?”
Daria dismissed Mellar with a wave. Lifting her cup, she sipped her blood wine. It was sharper on her tongue. She reflected again that there was no sweeter taste than vengeance.
A Moment of Peace
Erin
Her books in her shoulder bag no longer felt like the weight she had carried all her life. Instead, there was a lightness to her being, as if all her troubles had fallen away. In the Garden of the Blessed, passing under trees, by shrubs, and beds of spring flowers, Erin looked upon the world with new eyes.
Life was everywhere. Reaching out, moving. It surrounded her. The plants, the birds, a squirrel in the branches of a pine — all life was in motion. She could see it, feel it. An unreal calm washed over her. Truly, this was the miracle of life, Creation revealed. She smiled at the revelation.
Then was pushed from behind and tumbled onto the grass.
Fearing to be beaten again, she scrambled to her feet. A pair of Cardinals’ Men marched by. They grinned at her as they passed.
She had marveled at the work of God, only to be pushed away by the guardians of God. Anger surged through her body. She stomped back to the path. She glared at the Cardinals’ Men, tempted to shout after them. But what words would make them sorry for mistreating her? She never had any that worked back at the monastery. Especially on Sister Alexia.
There had been no words for Mallian. This moment, this day, is why she had forsaken him. She absently touched her wrist, only to remember that his bracelet was stolen. Now he was gone from her completely.
She took a deep breath and looked to the path ahead. It was one she had always been destined to follow. At the end of it lay the answer to her life. Though she feared to know it, she faced its inevitability.
She walked. And attempted to sense life around her, as she had before. But that feeling of peace and clarity was gone. She lowered her gaze and continued on.
The gardens became busier and noisier. She caught glimpses of pilgrims in rough-spun robes, city folk in their colorful clothes, and a few acolytes in their habits — but no one she recognized. Erin looked up, and stopped.
She had glimpsed the First Temple of Omicron from a distance. Now she had passed the last screen of trees and saw it whole. The white-washed walls seemed to bubble up and tower over the collegiate buildings clustered around it. Four golden domes stood at its corners. In the centre rose the massive glass dome — said to be constructed from thousands of prisms within a metal frame. It captured the sky, and the essen
ce of Pollos with it. The nave was supposed to reveal transcendent God with the colors that filled it. As like when Attacos demonstrated, with water, that light was made from seven colors, and reasoned that everything was made of these divine elements.
Erin did not doubt that the interior might be beautiful to look upon. Not least on a bright spring day like this. The temple in Pora had followed the simpler Eptemian design — an open courtyard, the colors of God demonstrated in a floor mosaic that the sun shone directly onto. But that was all she would find within the First Temple: daylight, not Divinity.
Sad to think that once she would have stood here and marveled, eager to enter. But after the past year, after today, she had no stomach for it. The object of her dreams now held empty promise. Sirath had the right of it — the First Temple was only cold stone.
Her feet dragged. Though she had walked all the way from Pora, her last steps now felt like the longest journey she had ever made.
The growing bustle of noise became too much to ignore. The central plaza was filled with a crowd and all the cheer of a pageant, and animals for sacrifice. People wore colorful masks, representing the Blessed, or those demons defeated to clear a way to the seven heavens for all contrite souls. There were even a few painted-up as the Blue Man. Banners flew from the many stalls of fresh-baked bread, every loaf stamped with the Eye of Pollos.
Erin was forced to ask for directions. She was pointed to an imposing building with a long marble staircase — the College of Ministers. Erin muttered her thanks and approached it with a flutter in her stomach.
Her boots scuffed the steps as she climbed them. Before long she passed under a great arch and open wooden doors. Cool air, thick with incense, washed upon her as she entered a colonnaded hall.
Gold ikons of the seven Blessed, the incarnations of Pollos, covered the walls in jewel-encrusted frames. Each was rich with their respective colors, from red to indigo — Gallas, Anis, Arthaxes, Hurran, Pantocles, Erranin, and Rimidias. Scenes from their lives were painted across the plaster of the vaulted ceiling. She nodded to them, and kissed her prayer beads in a perfunctory gesture of respect.
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