by Daniel Casey
“My order…we are, among other things, tasked with nurturing the mind.”
“A theosopher? That is a narrow calling.”
Pallas brightened somewhat, “Ah, so you know of us.”
“I’ve studied.”
“That you have. You were a merchant from your very earliest days. You practically rebuilt your family’s trade. You prospered to such a degree that the city of Rikonen itself looked to you to help right its path during the dark days when war loomed with the Merchant Fleet.”
“It wasn’t just me and you’re being rather melodramatic.” Wynne didn’t blush or betray any surprise in Pallas knowing so much about his personal history. What he was retelling was information that could easily be found out by simply talking at length with a native of Rikonen.
“Well, melodrama is just history with flair. In your case, however, it’s more than that. You made your city into what it is. At least, what it was before The Blockade. And then you disappeared. For over a thousand days, you were absent.”
Wynne clenched his jaw but otherwise betrayed nothing of his feelings to Pallas. The priest stopped again and turned to face Wynne. “Finally, you appear. You appear here in Sulecin to plead your city’s case to the patriarch. To have the Cathedral refuse to sanction the Silvincian action. To force a decision to be made.”
“In a manner of speaking, yes.”
Pallas grinned and pointed behind the wall to the great Cathedral itself still lit from the inside. The golden light pouring through the huge glass windows that rose hundreds of feet before a thin metal frame cut across them and a new window began. The Cathedral looked fragile, elegant, and as though it were glowing from the inside out.
“That monolith will never bend to any one man or woman’s will.” Pallas was smiling but his tone was bitter. “You have come here; your very presence is a reminder to all inside of just how much the faith has failed. How its idealism has been twisted by its pragmatism.”
“And that is why I have been able to enter but no one will speak with me? No one will hear me? Least of all, the patriarch.” Wynne turned away from the Cathedral.
“I am here speaking with you. I am here to hear you.” Pallas said.
“Who are you?” wearily Wynne asked.
“I am the one telling you that your daughter and your friends are sitting dumbfounded between the army of the Seven Spires and the Cathedral of the Amaranthine Light.” Wynne gave Pallas a hard look. “I am the one telling you that this patriarch will never sanction the Spires nor will he ever speak against it. I am the one saying that over the next couple of days, with an army at its doorstep, The Cathedral is going to close itself off from the world.”
The streets of Sulecin were wide, accommodating four wagons side by side comfortably, and the cobblestone well worn. Each street emanated from around the center, The Cathedral, like the rings of a tree. Narrow alleys cut through the buildings at random. One only saw a seemingly never-ending curve walking down the streets and peering into the alleys just revealed shadow. The city wasn’t a labyrinth of twists and turns, but rather a surreal coil of sameness. At least, that’s how it felt to Fery.
She gazed out the smoky window down to the street below. The house was silent. House, she thought, this isn’t really a house. She had learned most Sulecin homes weren’t houses of any kind but rather compartments. The rich owned a whole floor of a building from one street to the other. It was their narrow sliver of the world. This was called a ‘flat.’ For the middle classes, a flat was split in half and referred to as a ‘portion.’ The vast majority of the city lived packed into what were called ‘thirds.’ These were portions split into three sections. Buildings were surprisingly uniform in height, typically not more than five stories. No one own an entire building or, at least, that’s how it sounded when Kira had explained it to her.
It was a bizarre hierarchy. The four of them were squeezed into a top most third. Even though she knew how these people divided their homes, Fery was still having a difficult time remembering all their terminology. Bottom most, middle most, top most, which were all just ways of saying middle; instead of left or right, it was sinistral or dextral and they used that instead of north and south as well. It was ridiculously confusing. They were in a sinistral top most third, which meant the highest middle room facing south.
“But if the streets circle the Cathedral, that means that half way around the city the terms change.” She had said when they arrived.
Goshen had just looked at her uncomprehending, “What? Nothing changes.”
“Yes it does. A house facing north but on the southern side would have to become dextral, right?”
“It’s always been dextral.” Goshen replied.
“Right, but building itself is sinistral.”
Goshen winced, “That’s not how it works.”
“But that’s how it should work. Just to be logical.”
“You’ll get the hang of it. It’s easier to do than explain.” Kira had reassured her.
Fery was shaking her head about to protest as Goshen and Kira led them inside. Declan stood behind her and in a rather conspiratorial tone said, “Every place has its own logic. Just let it wash over you. It’ll be simpler.”
And that had been it. Let it wash over you, she mouthed to herself that first night and every night since. She didn’t feel comfortable in the city, in this city. In a proper bed in a room with a door that closed and locked, she had begun to dream again and she dreamt of Rikonen. She saw the smooth, bright white walls of the buildings as she walked the winding streets that crawled up and over gentle rises. She saw the pristine city, the city before The Blockade. Luminous against the fluid but deep sapphire of the sea. It was always the same. Just an empty, beautiful city. She didn’t even have a body in the dreams, just vision traveling. When she woke, her heart would be frantically beating but otherwise nothing. Her eyes would open immediately, she’d be awake and still. Alive in yet another strange place.
This third had a half-wall that divided it into two rooms. Kira and Fery were in one and Declan and Goshen in the other. At least, that had been the plan. But Declan was spending most of his time on the rooftop, alone, and Goshen always sat as a grim sentinel before the entrance. The vigilance of the two was getting tiresome. On the street below, there were vendors setting up their stalls and pushcarts and laborers scurrying off to work. There was a dusting of snow everywhere making things quieter, it seemed the folk moved slower. The sky was completely clear, an open blue from which the sunlight poured. It was the brightest morning that Fery had seen in a long time.
“The snow will be gone before mid-morning.” Kira said. Fery looked down to the bed next to hers and saw Kira looking up at her. She was on her side with her pillow twisted under her body. Fery could only see her big eyes staring up at her as Kira buried the rest of her face in the pillow and blanket.
“Up are we?” Fery replied turning away from the window and sitting cross-legged on her own bed facing Kira.
“For all the good it’ll do.” Kira mumbled, stretching, and receding back under her blankets.
“None of that now,” Fery leaned forward and poked her in the ribs, “I’m awake, you’re awake. We have things to do.”
Kira let out a groan as she threw the covers back and rose. She walked over to a tall table that held a pan of water below a mirror. Kira rolled up the sleeves of her shirt and splashed the icy water on her face. She rubbed it in holding her hands to her eyes for a moment, and then looked into the mirror at Fery.
“Today then?” She asked Fery.
“That’s what they said before they left.” When the Spires kyrio and his guards had left them all those days ago (abandoned them, Goshen had asserted), they had given her a map to this safe house. Tobin had also told her where to go to leave a message for Wynne. She had and now finally got a reply back. They were off to meet with him today.
“Do you think that he’s been able to do it?”
Fery shook her head
and stood, “No. No, I don’t think so. How could he?”
Kira paused looking down into the pan, “You know there was a time when he was a good man.”
Fery knew Kira was talking about her stepfather, vicegerent Sinclar Somerled, the man they now knew had sent his daughter on a false mission. A man who had sent his daughter to die. Fery had put on her grey jerkin and was buttoning it. “Was there? I mean, do you really know? Do you really think so?”
Kira turned away from the table and back to her bed where she kicked out her pack from underneath. She squatted starting to pull out her own clothes. “I have to believe so.”
“He wanted to kill you. Probably still does.” Finished with her last button she pointed through the wall. “That’s why our heroes there are so on edge.”
“He can hear you.” Kira said of Goshen in the other room.
Fery made a face and bushed it off, “He’s asleep; I’m sure of it. No one can stay awake for two days.”
“Not without going mad.”
“So we know he’s crazy then.” Fery smiled.
Kira gave a weak grin in return, “He cares for us.”
“I care for us. We all care for us.” Fery watched Kira put on a thick fabric skirt. “Am I going to have to wear one of those?”
“Please, it’s not like you’ve never worn a dress before.”
“I’ve worn dresses, gowns, but not some half thingy. Looks like it’ll slip right off. Seems rather lurid.” Fery pretended to be offended and it was enough to get Kira to smile genuinely.
“I’m happy for the change of clothes. Honesty, I think we rather stink.” Kira scrunched up her nose, and Fery blurted a laugh.
There was a tap on the door, it opened, and Declan stood looking them both over. “Awake then. Ready ta go?”
“Obviously.” Fery held out her arms and stared at him as though he were an idiot. “Can I put my trousers on? Can she put her top on?”
“Sorry,” Declan replied as he came into the room and sat on the foot of Fery’s bed. “Goshen’s gone to get the horses they said they’d have for us.”
Kira had gotten use to Declan’s lack of propriety. Out in the wild and on the road, she quickly realized the modesty she was raised with was a useless affectation. Also, it was clear that Declan wasn’t interested in her in that way. She couldn’t tell if it was because he just wasn’t or if he wasn’t because of some agreement with Goshen. Or with Fery. It was different than she was use to but felt more comfortable, more genuine. Declan was rather interested in Fery, that much had been clear from the moment they met. Yet, again, it didn’t feel like something to remark on, didn’t feel immodest. It felt honest, casual.
“Do you think that kyrio can be trusted?” Kira asked.
“Well,” Declan thought a moment, “he paid me in full. He got us out of that Spires camp. He set us up here. And now we’re going to meet back up with Wynne. So I think, if he can’t be trusted, he’s gone through a lot of effort.”
“That’s a fair assessment.” Kira said.
“Still,” he continued, “Gosh is a wreck. The combination of refusing to sleep and all that’s gone on…” He shook his head. “Jittery.”
“He angry.” Fery said plainly, as she finished tying the lacing on the front of her trousers. “He angry at Sinclar, he’s angry at that kyrio for abandoning us, he’s angry about the fight at the Cruor, he’s still angry and hurt about what happened in Bandra and before that.”
“Aye,” Declan agreed, “He’s feeling he needs to do something. I’m worried he may…act out, make a bad decision, something rash.”
“Those are fair concerns.” Kira said quietly.
“M’lady, perhaps you could expand on your thoughts.” Declan prodded.
“I don’t doubt Goshen will be able to keep command of himself.” Kira said plainly. “Whatever happens, no matter what anyone says, he’s a paladin and they keep control of their thoughts and feelings.”
“He’s not some slave that’s had his emotions beaten out of him.” Fery replied.
“No,” Kira picked up her pack and looked around the room to see if there was anything she had forgotten, “he most certainly is not. But he is a warrior, a guardian, and he will protect us—all he has left—to the best of his ability. What you’re seeing,” she pointed at Declan as she made for the door, “is a man who is dealing with all of his faculties being poured into a single task.”
“Which is?”
“Keeping us alive.”
“I loathe festivals.” Cochrane sneered.
“What’s wrong with a festival?” Jena prodded. They had been on the road early nonstop since leaving Arderra. Cochrane had insisted that they only stop for brief naps and to quick meals. He never wanted to be unmoving for long convinced that he was being shadowed by something or someone malignant. Jena didn’t fight him. In fact, she had reached the point where she just agreed to everything rather than expend the energy otherwise.
They had heard rumors at first but then firm evidence of the Spires army camped to the east. Fortunately, they were coming into Sulecin from the south and it didn’t look like it would be too much of a hassle to get into the city. That is, until they realized that the Winterfinding festival had begun. For miles outside the city, groups of pilgrims and county folk had erected tents under which they were building processionals. These were long carts pushed or pulled by horse or ox, platforms with ridiculously tall icons that would be carried on the shoulders of a dozen men or more, and bizarre looking effigies that would be paraded through the streets like gigantic marionettes. This last one Jena found particularly unnerving.
Growing up on the Falkstone River, she was familiar with the festival. From Far Port to Havan, they celebrated Winterfinding the same way—a daily processional through the streets of the town city culminating in one huge procession a week after the extreme of winter. It was a bit much, Jena thought, but given just how bleak true winter could be, she couldn’t begrudge folk. Jena had been mucking along the Novostos Sea for so long she found herself missing true winter. The cold, the ice in the air leading to the visible heat of breath, how everything got tight, the world got quieter, and the snow. She hated ice but she loved the snow. Thick, loving snow inviting you to wrap yourself in it. At least, that’s how she felt as a child.
There had been plenty of times she had seen people freeze to death or be crushed by the weight of snow. Winter rain, the Novosar liked to call it. After experiencing the thick heat of the southern seas, she had come to covet winter. Winter meant you had to get warm. She could always get warm, but she could never cool down enough. She remembered so many nights laying in her hammock cocooned with netting so the pernicious insects wouldn’t feast on her, drenched in sweat, and unable to fall asleep. The air felt nearly too thick to breath, it felt like it was pushing down on her skin trying to get into her body. She hated it. The farther north she went, the more comfortable she became.
Their horses were strong but tired and as Cochrane was jerking his head every which way trying to keep an eye on all the common folk around him, Jena decided they needed to stop for the day. “Oi, let’s make camp.” Cochrane shot her scowl. “There’s no way were going to make any progress through this throng and you needn’t worry about anyone sneaking up on you. We need to rest. Be ready for the next day. Right.”
Cochrane slowly nodded, “Yeah, alright. Right. Right.” He led his horse off the side of the road to a patch of open lawn, and Jena followed. They made camp and watched as folk seeming to keep coming into the city.
Jena was baffled, “They know what’s going on, they know there’s an army just a few miles beyond. An army that’s threatening this city. And yet they still come.”
“That’s why festivals are the worst.” Cochrane had set up a pot to boil and was cutting potatoes and tossing them in. “These fools are so starved for some kind of escape for their daily routine.”
“I don’t think it’s that.” Jena mumbled as she took a bite of an apple.
“No? These are common folk. There are some traders in there but most are laborers, peasants. Not even villeins, they’re already in the city. These people are dumb muscle, the wide base that everything is built upon, that everyone looks down upon.”
Jena pointed at Cochrane and smiled, “You’re a bit bitter for a holy man.”
“I’m not a holy man. I’m…something else.”
“I know a paladin. At least, he used to be a paladin.”
“You never stop being a paladin.” Cochrane said abruptly.
“You have.” Jena chided.
“No, I was never a paladin. Justiciars are not paladins, I told you. Paladins can’t…won’t do what we do.”
“Spying, assassinating, hunting, murdering.”
Cochrane tossed the last potato in the pot and closed the lid. He sat down and glared at Jena. “You’re free ranger, a blade for hire; you’re going to tell me you’ve never done those things?”
Jena shrugged and tossed her apple towards the horses. “I don’t pretend to be doing it for anyone other than myself. I don’t do it for some imaginary force or some long dead ancestor or in the name of some creed written down before anyone knew the things we know now. I choose what I do and for who. The moment you lot decide to do things for yourself you’re branded heatheners.”
Cochrane chuckled, “Well, that is what a heathener is, someone who only thinks of themselves and not the Light.”
“Seems to me that means being a heathener is our natural state.”
“You aren’t wrong,” Cochrane looked off toward the road watching the people coming into the city as the day’s light faded, “but you’re not right either.”
“That what make you a justiciar? That little bit if insight.” Jena grinned.
“Why are you goading me?”
“Honestly, I’m bored and it’s fun. I’ve not been able to talk with a normal person in ages. I like to pretend I’m doing it now. With you.”
“You’re a bit too smart for a free ranger.” Cochrane’s eyes narrowed. “And a bit too…not kind but…”