Web of Eyes

by Jaime Castle

  Whitney picked himself up off the floor, then moved to Sora’s side. The bed’s dressings were soaked with sweat. She’d stopped convulsing and it looked like a bit of color was returning to her cheeks.

  “Come on Sora,” he whispered. “Hurry up.”

  He fixed her pillow, then strode back to the front door. Sunlight beat against his face and the crowd hushed as the door opened again. The rancher and another man had their hands on each other’s collars and were ready to exchange blows, but stopped at the sight of him.

  Whitney knew he needed to stall them while Sora was recovering. If the town burned itself to the ground, she’d be caught in it.

  “Your name again?” Whitney asked the rancher.

  “Pherry.”

  “Bring them next door to the chapel, Pherry, and I’ll convene with them momentarily.”

  The door shut again. Whitney made sure Sora was properly tucked in and comfortable, then made sure he looked pious enough before exiting the cottage through the back door, which led directly into the chapel’s altar.

  By Glass Kingdom standards, the church was quaint. But compared to any other building in the town, save for the constable’s mansion, it was a palace. The vaulted ceiling was framed with a thick wood structure and cross beams and painted with scenes from scripture. Iam’s gift of sunlight to humanity which thrust them out of darkness, his molding of the first human, and, of course, the God Feud—that terrible war of legend where Iam had to watch as his brethren slaughtered each other out of selfishness, and was left alone with Pantego after banishing the One Who Remained.

  The Eye of Iam hung against the back wall, surrounded by stained glass, just above a raised dais upon which a golden podium—one worth more than most of these humble folk would have made in a lifetime—stood.

  The people flooded the room, filling the long, hard pews. Aside from the occasional groan or the wailing of a baby, they remained quiet as they sat in hopeful anticipation.

  Whitney surveyed their many faces, coated in grime. Elderly, children, the maimed and the broken; they all stared at him as if he’d brought rain to the desert lands in the far east. It was then he realized he’d never paid attention to a sermon in his life. He’d stolen gold-clad Eyes of Iam from plenty of churches across Pantego but never listened.

  Poor saps... Came here for guidance and instead found me.

  “Children of...” He had to pause to clear his throat and properly affect his voice. “Children of Iam. Long has the world stood and longer still it shall remain. The remaining of this world will be long and it will stand.”

  Good one, Whitney.

  He hoped the over-zealous inflections he used to punctuate every sentence would distract the people from his improvised drivel.

  “We work and toil, the land itself bringing pain upon its back,” he said. “Pantego is no easy place, far less, Bridleton!”

  Many of the townsfolk nodded and whispered their agreement, which started to give him confidence. He knew that was probably a bad thing, but he always acted at his finest when he had a captive audience.

  He took a few steps closer to the people until a man in the front pew coughed so hard he could hear the phlegm gurgling. He cringed, making no effort to hide it. The man looked about ready to keel over.

  “I—uh—Iam sees you!” Whitney exclaimed. “His Vigilant Eye is upon you, yet you seek His hand? What good then, is a hand without an Eye? And what Eye has no face? Seek not His hand, but His face! He looks down upon these sick and hurting with compassion, but not all can be set free of their afflictions!”

  More whispers, less of them agreeing this time.

  “Why him?” a man shouted, pointing to the rancher.

  “Is it for any one of us to question the ways of Iam? Are his thoughts not deeper than what we can contrive? Allow His peace to wash over you, children. Whether healed on this plane or the next, we shall all bask in His eternal peace.”

  Someone threw a hunk of bread at the dais. The crumbs peppered Whitney’s robe. He wondered what kind of impoverished dullard would waste good food because they thought they were deserving of a miracle, then recalled all the awful people he’d met throughout his years traveling the realm.

  “Wait! Wait!” he shouted. “You misunderstand! You shall all receive your healing!”

  The glares of his onlookers softened, though many brows remained furrowed. He needed to keep them happy just a short while longer, until he and Sora could hit their mark and disappear. Then they’d be some other charlatan’s problem.

  Sure, his visage would don another wanted poster in a place which he’d never return, but he was featured in about as much artwork throughout Pantego as there was in Yarrington Cathedral. What would be the harm in one more?

  “Once a day, come one at a time after midday,” Whitney said. “Until all are healed. My friend, here.” He pointed to the Rancher. “Will schedule your visits based upon need.”

  The rancher nodded.

  “I will do all I can to bring Iam’s benevolent mercy upon Bridleton, where it has been lacking so long! Have patience, and you will all be rewarded. Now please, go, I need my rest.” He performed the circling of his eye and turned to walk away, and that was when the front doors of the chapel swung open.

  In the entrance stood a proper priest of Iam, thinning hair as white as the robes he wore, his face weathered by time and study. The Eye of Iam was tattooed in the center of his forehead and his own eyes were wrapped by a cloth. It was a look only the most devout clerics bore, those that were so stringent in their faith they blinded themselves so that only Iam’s sight could guide them.

  The two useless Glass soldiers who had been watching the town’s entry flanked him, swords resting atop open palms. All three looked like they’d just stepped in steaming shog.

  “Father,” Whitney said, “you’re just in time.”

  He bolted for the back door and burst into his cottage to find Nauriyal hovering over a waking Sora.

  “What the yig are you doing in here?” Whitney snapped as he turned to lock the door.

  “Please,” she said. “I’m here to help.” She lifted Sora’s arm so she could get her sleeve on. Sora stared at Whitney as she accepted the aid, her lips trembling, silent.

  “How did you get in here?”

  She waved a key over her shoulder with one hand as the other continued its work. “Daddy has a key to every building in the town.” Her features darkened. “You both seem so nice. You have to leave this place before it’s too late, Father.”

  “Trust me, I know. The real fath—” Whitney caught himself. If she’d called him that, it meant she didn’t know the truth yet. The real father must have been led straight to the chapel by those two goons in front of Bridleton. That meant he was short on time and severely lacking allies.

  “A bad feeling struck me when I met your dad,” he said. “As if Iam Himself were issuing a warning.”

  A sudden pounding came from the door behind him and he knew it would be only moments before they were at the front door as well. He rushed over to help Nauriyal.

  “Open up in the name of the Glass, father,” the fat soldier from the town entry said. His sarcasm was obvious, but luckily Nauriyal didn’t pick up on it.

  “Why help us?” Whitney asked.

  “Like I said: you seem like nice people,” Nauriyal replied. “My father has terrorized this place long enough. Do you know how many priests have mysteriously died since he became constable.”

  Whitney didn’t respond, only packed his and Sora’s bags—careful to grab the daggers he’d hidden when they’d first arrived. He placed Sora’s arm around his neck to lift her. She winced and tried to whisper something.

  “Six,” Nauriyal answered for him. “Six priests over the past two years.”

  “It’s about to be seven if we don’t get out of here. Those men outside, they think I did something wrong.”

  “I know. Word about your miracle healing reaching my father’s ears. Miracles l
ike that don’t fly around here. No one is allowed to be more respected than him.”

  A grin touched Whitney’s lips. He thought better of it and cursed under his breath. If Darkings felt threatened by a miracle of Iam, that meant his ruse had worked flawlessly. It wasn’t his fault the man was a self-conscious prick, or that the real priest decided to arrive ahead of schedule. It was a perfect storm of plans going sideways, but that didn’t mean they weren’t planned to perfection.

  “There’s a horse out back for you,” Nauriyal said. “I’m tired of watching him ruin good people.”

  “I won’t ask again!” the fat soldier shouted, slamming on the chapel-side door a few more times.

  Then another knock came at the front door, causing Whitney to nearly drop Sora as he spun.

  “Open up, Gorenheimer,” said another angry voice. This one belonged to the bigot guard he and Sora had met guarding the constable’s house. “Mr. Darkings would like to speak with you about what happened at that ranch. Now!”

  Yep, a perfect storm.

  Enemies battering at the gates from all angles, each blaming him for something else. He’d been caught in pincers like this before, but usually by two women.

  “What’s going on,” Sora said blearily. “Whitney?”

  He was too frantic to be excited to hear her voice again. “It’s fine Sora.” He studied the room for another way out. There was a window, but it was high and there was no way she’d be able to make it out in her state. The front door was the best option. Ram it open hard, knock the guard back, and make a run for the horse.

  More clatter came from both doors of the cottage. Whitney looked to Nauriyal. “You have been very kind. Iam will not forget, and neither will I.”

  The girl smiled meekly, then bowed and traced her eyes. Whitney almost forgot to return the gesture, but offered a halfhearted version that would never have passed in Yarrington. Again, she took no notice. Whitney checked his hold on Sora and moved for the front door. Nauriyal stopped him in his tracks.

  “When father finds out he’s going to kill me,” she said.

  Whitney stopped and turned.

  Sora groaned. “Leave it alone,” she whispered.

  Whitney ignored her. He took a few steps and kicked the table beside the bed. The old wood hit the floor and snapped in two. Nauriyal jumped back.

  “What are you doing?” she yelped.

  “Get on the floor and make it look like you’ve been punched.”

  Her brow furrowed. “You’re a priest. You wouldn’t—”

  “Trust me, your father will believe it.”

  “I’ve never been punched... I... I don’t know.”

  “Just lay down and groan. Look, I’d do it for you, but I wouldn’t want to damage such a pretty face.”

  Nauriyal’s cheeks momentarily went pink, until her circumstances struck the color away. “This is crazy, Father. Just run, please, I’ll take care—”

  Sora suddenly lashed out with her fist, catching Nauriyal on the chin. The young woman slammed into the wall before toppling over onto the bed.

  Whitney stood, stunned.

  “You’re welcome,” Sora groaned at Nauriyal. “If I had to hear any more of you two I was going to puke.”

  “How in Elsewhere did you learn to hit like that?” Whitney asked. The poor, young woman was completely limp, the side of her face red and already swelling.

  “I learned a lot after you left. Now let’s do the same.”

  Whitney regarded the motionless heap that was Nauriyal, then circled his eyes one last time. Sora elbowed him in the ribs, spurring him to help her toward the front door. It appeared much of her former strength had returned, as if Father Gorenheimer had performed his second miracle.

  They paused in front of the door and drew some deep breaths.

  “Ready?” Whitney asked.

  Sora grunted her agreement.

  Whitney quietly unhinged the door’s bolt lock and counted. A three, they threw all their weight against it. The door swung open, sending the guard sprawling through the mud. Another of the constable’s cronies froze between trying to decide whether to help his comrade or give chase until the former barked the orders to seize them, mouth filled with dirt.

  They were too late. Nauriyal’s horse was hitched right around the corner, just as promised. Whitney gave Sora a boost onto the saddle then followed her up. One of the constable’s goons grabbed his leg and earned a boot to the face, then Whitney snapped the reins and they took off.

  A thunk followed a zip and Whitney turned to see an arrow quavering, the whole head buried in the wood of the wall where they’d just been. The one-eyed guard stood, bow in hand.

  “Shooting at a priest?” Whitney said. “Shame on you!” He led the horse around a few wooden hovels to get out of the man’s aim.

  “You’re still going with that?” Sora answered.

  “Lesson three,” he shouted. “Never give up the grift until the grift is done!”

  Sora snorted and said, “There are at least a dozen more coming down the hill!”

  Whitney glanced right to see the silhouette of the constable’s mansion painted against the failing sun. On his left, the real priest and the other thugs rounded the far side of the church. Enemies closing in from every angle. Even without horses, the guards gained on them. The winding roads of Bridleton didn’t allow his horse to build up much speed. He’d have to lose them in the woods outside of town.

  “Think he pays well?” Whitney asked. An arrow bore into the wall of a house as they skirted by, just missing. “I bet he pays well.”

  “Shut up and get us out of here!” Sora yelled.

  “You didn’t want to stay for tea?” He kicked the horse’s sides to spur it faster, then bent into the horse’s mane and held on tight.

  Sora dug her nails into his ribs.

  “They should be calling you knife-fingers!” he yelped. “Yig!”

  They narrowly avoided several more arrows. Whitney steered the horse down a hill and for a moment the constable’s men disappeared.

  “The woods are just up there,” Whitney said. “If we can get there, I think I can lose them.”

  The men crested the hill. The voice of the one-eyed bigot from the constable’s mansion’s voice carried. “I want that liar and his knife-ear pet on a stake!”

  “That wasn’t very nice!” Whitney shouted back to them.

  The naked trees drew nearer as they galloped on. Just another minute or two and they’d be safe within cover. Whitney had ridden plenty of horses in his day, but he wished he were more of an expert. The woods were dense, and in there, at a full gallop, steering would be down to the horse.

  He closed his eyes as they whipped into the forest. Low branches snapped all around them, their sharp tendrils slapping against his face and neck.

  When he could no longer take the pain, he pulled the reigns. Once they were at a manageable speed, he glanced back at Sora, whose face, which had been hidden behind his back, remained clean of cuts.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  “Is this really the time to worry about my health?” she replied.

  “Just answer the question! Are you in pain?”

  “No.”

  “Good.” Whitney turned and angled his arm awkwardly around Sora. “Ready?”

  “Wait! What?”

  He pushed off the horse. They slammed against the forest floor and rolled, the landing softened by a layer of fallen leaves.

  “Why did you do that!” Sora turned punched his arm. “We had a horse!”

  “Just be quiet and stay low. Hurry before they see us.”

  Whitney took her hand, led her to a fallen tree, and ducked behind it. She started to scold him again but he placed his hand over her mouth. The ragtag mob of the constable’s men reached the forest, their boots crunching atop fallen leaves. When they reached the spot where they’d abandoned the horse, Whitney thought he saw a faint hesitation by their leader, but they continued following t
he horse, cursing under their breath.

  “I can’t believe that worked,” Sora said once the men were at a safe distance.

  “You doubted me?”

  “You haven’t given me a lot of reason not to.”

  “Well, maybe now you’ll trust me. C’mon, this way.”

  “That’s the wrong way,” she said. “That’ll take us right back to town.”

  “I know. I’ve still got clothes to steal.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “I don’t joke.”

  “Whit, you’re going to get us killed over a shirt.”

  Whitney stopped and leveled his gaze. “You really don’t believe me, do you? I stole the Glass Crown from Liam the Conqueror’s own head! In the middle of a crowded party. At the Glass Castle. And you think we’re going to get killed stealing a shirt from some wish-he-were-King, backwoods constable?”

  “You really don’t need to prove anything to me.”

  “To you? This was your test, remember? To see how we work together.”

  “It wasn’t my idea to play priest.”

  “No, but things went sideways. That’s how this works, Sora. Remember lesson two? You make a plan, abandon it, improvise.”

  “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “Yet it’s the only way. Now let’s go before they realize that horse is riderless. Unless you’d rather fail?”

  “I never fail.”

  “Good.” Whitney helped her up, and they started back toward Bridleton. Some birds flapped through the brush, but that was the only sound save for the distancing cries of the constable’s brainless men.

  They emerged from the forest onto a relatively flat plain. “This is about the place the kid brought us to his dad, right?”

  Sora stopped and surveyed the area. Mostly grass with a few lonely trees looming, branches rattling like dancing skeletons. “Over there,” she said.

  The rancher’s blood still stained the ground and the bark of the tree.

  “What exactly happened here?” Whitney asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You,” he said. “You ended up in bed for the better half of the day and now you’re fine. Nothing wrong in the least.”