‘I’ll cut your bindings,’ Caliper said. ‘How did your priests die?’
‘There were five, and two wanted to feed us.’ Shelaker took a deep breath. ‘The others said the plan didn’t have spare food.’
‘The plan?’ Caliper fished Christina’s tools from his backpack and set his knife to cut their bindings.
‘They told us to eat less. Everything measured, and no growing extra or saving food for feasts. One of them said nothing mattered long-term.’ Shelaker faced her neighbour. ‘What was the phrase?’
‘“Hard landing.” We didn’t understand but they argued. The room shook and twisted, and they screamed and fought. They killed the two who didn’t want the hard landing.’
‘Hardly a fight: those hard-landing priests brought knives,’ Shelaker said.
‘It’s the shock: it breeds anger.’ Caliper stripped away the binding twine. ‘That’s you free, but keep rubbing your wrists. I’ll have you clear soon, Shelaker, since everything’s rotten.’
‘We found Dad’s telescope and books inside a brick hut, but do you know where he’s gone?’
‘I’ve not seen him since we arrived, but keep looking.’
‘Don’t worry.’ Phos kissed her mother’s forehead.
The twine wrapping Shelaker’s wrists snapped, and the woman cradled her jaw before heaving herself upward to clasp Caliper’s shoulders.
‘Thank you, Caliper. Where do we search?’
‘You’re hurt and need rest, so leave the looking to us, but we must leave the roof before the evening winds.’ Caliper sliced through the last woman’s bindings and handed over a water bottle before brushing plaster from their shoulders.
‘Mum, there’re a sea of empty huts below; Leester people might have their own area. We’ll find Dad.’ She whispered in her mum’s ear and smiled before glancing at Caliper.
Wind buffeted them as they stepped onto the roof. Below, huts spread out into the gloom. One distant fire had spread into a shack, and its flickering light scattered shadows through the village. Caliper layered beams from roof to ground to ease the women’s route, and they crept downward while clutching Mitch’s rope.
‘They’ll look like other villagers,’ Caliper said.
Phos stayed silent before facing him. ‘The priests heard me ask a question at school, and afterwards they singled my parents out, so can questions cause damage?’
Caliper watched Phos’s mum and her friends pick their way over rubble. ‘The church wants control, but it’ll get nothing until we lose our strength, and this place is meant to weaken us.’
‘They built this place to control?’
‘I knew Torzene as a monastery where good men harmed no one, but now priests are building a prison. The priests have been binding people tighter and tighter these last few years till no one breathes without their say – can’t grow this; got to let guards check your tools – and now those rules have spawned this place. It’s slow-spreading, like the rotting fields, but everything’s there.’
‘I still need to find Dad.’
‘There’s wind to avoid, but I’ll help.’
He’d dream of Christina tonight, that was sure, but while he stayed awake, he’d help the girl. Churchmen had written the girl’s name in their priest letters, and those scratching runes always smelt of secrets and trouble. If she came with him to Christina, the guards would come screaming, but helping Phos find her dad might ease a chunk of his guilt, like rubbing dock leaves after you’d touched a nettle. He’d no room for caution now: if he ignored the girl’s spirit he’d suffer.
Chapter 10: the words of stepping out
Shadows swallowed Mum’s figure. Raindrops spattered against Phos’s face, and she raised her tunic collar before walking to the eveward roof edge. Clouds hid the sun’s arch, and the moor stretched into the distance while the shattered remains of Torzene’s rooms lay scattered over the slope. Splinters needled her palms; hugging Mum had let her ignore the pain, but now it flowed back.
Mitch and Caliper stood behind her.
‘You’ll think you’ve seen the last priest, but one more always slopes out of the woodwork, so we stay sharp,’ Caliper said.
Mitch sneezed. ‘Your dad had illegal books, so the high priests would have words for him, and they work high up.’
‘It’s a right scrap they have on fighting for the higher rooms. “Climbing the stair,” they say.’
‘And now there’s no upstairs ’cause the top rooms fell forward, and they’re smashed.’ Mitch pointed forward.
Skewed and broken plasterboard sheets caught the wind on the moor below, and scraps of resin paper blew past. Below, half a dozen rooms clung together like battered dice. Two bodies slumped over the moor like broken puppets, and Phos shivered.
‘We’ve steps leading down,’ Caliper said. ‘Want to search those cabins?’
Phos nodded. What nightmares did those broken rooms hide, and why hadn’t they found Dad? She’d cross them off her list before searching the monastery. Stale grey light doused the world wall on her right as shadows grew around her.
Caliper took the stairs two at a time and kicked a box out of his path before skidding onto the road below the monastery. The miller’s hands blended skill with passion – he’d bandaged Mum’s leg without fuss or trouble – and Phos followed him onto the moor.
Several cubicles had survived the fall. The closest one was a half-crushed box open to the air on one side. Caliper grabbed his torch.
‘Everyone will see,’ Mitch said.
‘We’re visible now.’
‘Priests will think we’re other priests, and they’ll come running.’
‘I’ll handle them.’
Phos rested her hand against a battered wall and waited as Caliper draped cloth over the torch’s head. He walked to the open end and snapped on the light.
Loose paper and tapestries curled around a table’s broken legs, and silvery goblets rested on the dark grass. A dagger pierced the soil. Nothing else showed, and Phos rested her eyes.
Another tumbled room sat further down the slope. A doorway had survived but now sat horizontal. Caliper glanced at her and gripped the door before heaving it up like a flap to flood the inside with light, and rays shone through the cube’s gaps.
Words wouldn’t come, so she waited as Caliper’s head nudged inside. His gaze fixed on the far corner, and his head stayed still. At last he turned back to her. ‘Don’t go in there.’
‘Is it a body?’
‘I’ll not lie: they’ve cut his throat and tied his hands, but there’s no way your eyes should see this.’
‘What does he look like?’
Caliper fell silent.
‘You can’t keep me out,’ Phos said. She stood beside Caliper, and he jabbed his arm out to block her from the doorway, but she gripped his sleeve. ‘Can you describe him?’
‘You want the knowing?’
Phos nodded.
‘There’s fine blonde hair on him, and good clothes, and he wears a waistcoat.’
Phos knew other men with similar hair, and money counters liked their waistcoats, but what did finding the two together mean? She dashed to a corner. They’d stitched the walls together with rope, but the fall had sliced through the cords, and she wrestled back a plasterboard sheet.
‘No, Phos. Stay.’
The plasterboard snapped as Caliper let his torchlight die. She scurried through the gap, and enough light crept into the shattered cubicle to show a body on grass – half-covered by a crumpled reed mat. Blood matted half the hair, and for a heartbeat, the darkness let her hope she’d found a stranger, but her eyes lingered. There were the hooked nose and thin lips he’d given her, and those blonde eyebrows he’d always fussed over. She’d grown up with this face. He’d bathed her and read stories and scolded her and coaxed her through illness. Silent now, his thin lips pressed together, and his eyes stayed closed.
Death had drained a quality she couldn’t name to leave this cold mask of a face. Phos’s
gaze veered to the scar ripped across his throat, a dark red invasion, and an end to the shelter he’d always offered. Rough cords bound his wrists to his belt while blood soaked his shirt and waistcoat.
Phos’s fingers raised themselves to her throat. Were any guards watching? Had anyone seen her squeeze inside this broken room? She slid her hands under his waistcoat to learn if his warmth tarried there, but she felt nothing, and tears fell from her cheeks to leave icy trails she’d never forget. What had their last shared words been? Time might let her remember, but for now speech wouldn’t come.
Caliper and Mitch opened the gap. Phos unclasped her fingers from Dad’s chest and stroked his cheek before standing. Her red-headed doll sat in her backpack, and part of her demanded she leave it here, but her hands stayed to wrap Dad’s face.
‘I can say the words,’ Caliper said. ‘I’ll never make a priest, but I’ve heard the words of parting.’
Phos wiped her eyes. ‘Later. Those are church words, and the church killed him. Find much else?’
‘I’ve not looked, so should I keep looking?’
‘I need to know where this started. I need…I need another room.’
Caliper flicked on his torch and stared at the far wall before hoisting it into the air. Phos and Mitch followed towards the next heap of broken timber, where three walls still held together to shape a corner huddling in twilight. Blinking didn’t stop her remembering Dad, but she’d keep moving.
Tens of books had spilled over mud here, and shattered chairs filled the corner. A framed mirror still clasped the wall.
‘Any plans, Phos?’
She bent to scoop a book from the muck and angled its spine towards Caliper’s light. Herbs for Medicine, illegal enough to make her gasp. She’d never concentrate now, but she’d savour these words later and remember Dad by learning.
‘I spent ages watching for change, but now nothing stays still.’
‘Let’s take a couple,’ he said. ‘They’re heavy, so choose—’
Shouts from behind, and Phos swung around as a dark figure crashed into Caliper. The miller staggered before twisting to face his attacker, but his torch smashed onto the floor to fling shadows over the walls. Leather tunic and belt; the guard bellowed and punched Caliper’s face, and their arms locked.
The guard screamed. ‘Ma’am, this way! Villagers.’
Caliper’s leg buckled, and he slammed against the earth. The guard pounced on Caliper’s chest and grabbed his neck.
Phos froze as part of her wanted to run screaming into the night. If she smashed the mirror shards might come, but guards always laced daggers into their jackets. The guard bent over Caliper’s face and roared. What had Dad seen in his last moments? Caliper scrabbled at the priest’s wrists, but his grip slipped, and Mitch stood still.
Another figure loomed from darkness: a hooded and cloaked priest.
‘Some help here, ma’am.’
The priest tossed back the hood. There stood a slim woman with an age-stroked face and hooked nose. A slick of grey hair coated her scalp. She plucked a small dagger from her belt and rested her free hand on the guard’s shoulder before slicing her blade across his throat.
One heartbeat of stillness passed before the guard’s hands snapped against his neck, and he gurgled out a scream as blood spattered over Caliper’s chest. The woman stepped back with the blade balanced in her wiry fingers. The guard fell backwards and slumped over the grass, and the woman’s lined face broke into a gentle smile as she sheathed her dagger.
‘Caliper. Lovely to meet you at last. Reading about you wasn’t the same.’ Her words sounded as if a sculptor had carved each syllable, and her eyes darted over Phos and Mitch. ‘I don’t believe anyone’s introduced us, so excuse me one moment.’ She twirled to the mirror and flicked back a strand of grey hair. A ring with a black jewel sat on one finger, and shimmering crimson cloth lined her entire cloak.
‘There. Where were we? Introductions, yes. I am Frinelia, and I apologise for my ex-colleague’s rudeness. We had differences of opinion, though I believe they’re now resolved.’ Her boot tapped the guard’s skull. ‘Aren’t they?’
Phos closed her mouth. Here stood a female priest of the highest rank, a smiling killer who’d read about Caliper, and the four-syllable name rattled around Phos’s mind.
Frinelia smiled while finding out their names. ‘I would enjoy your company in my cell. Rank entitled me to a high room, but I prefer keeping contact with the ground, and for once I chose well. Can you walk with us, Caliper?’
The miller struggled upright. ‘I should thank you, but you’re a priest.’
‘I left the priesthood long ago, but the church never knew, and I kept the cloak.’ Frinelia flicked a speck of dust from her sleeve as she waited for his reply.
Caliper picked up his torch. ‘Can I trust you?’
‘Should the tiny matter of my saving your life prove insufficient, I can alter my wardrobe.’ Frinelia flicked her cloak from her shoulders, and for an instant, their broken room turned rosy.
‘Disrobe, and you’re still a priest.’
Frinelia held the cloak before her and let its hem brush the ground. Her eyes closed as she mouthed words. The grass shimmered, and Frinelia’s cloth glistened before flaring into a forest of red and orange streaks to flicker like fire without heat. Flames ate half the cloak before Frinelia opened her eyes. Her hands opened, and fire gulped down the remaining cloth before winking out. Dusty streaks rose through the air.
Caliper stared. ‘Who have you talked to?’
‘Your exploits caused quite the stir in the church, and as we share talents we should talk.’
The miller slipped his torch into his blood-soaked apron and winced. ‘Learn that at priest school, did you?’
Dust still hovered in the air. Was this a cousin of Rastersen’s candle trick? Had this woman shared a teacher with Caliper, and why wasn’t he surprised at the cloak’s burning?
Frinelia didn’t waver. ‘One question remains, Caliper, one crucial query: how do you take your tea?’
***
The pale lantern in Frinelia’s cell struggled against night. Age-chipped stone loomed on four sides. Caliper smelt roses, and threadbare tapestries hung from two walls while Frinelia’s cot rested above a thick black rug, and guards must have dragged in a trunk and a table. Books and crockery littered the floor beside the shards of a smashed mirror, while three wooden heaps had been chairs.
Frinelia touched the lantern, and the glimmer grew to show a body sprawled in a corner.
The priestess smiled and pointed at the corpse. ‘I prefer walking my clients to their resting place before their passing, but we must grasp opportunities as they arise. Could you porter for me?’
‘A friend?’
‘A friend of your attacker; a puppeteer.’
‘You’re killing entertainers?’
‘Not quite. It’s our term for a certain group. Tea before explanations.’
Still warm, the body had the spotless skin of a young man, and Caliper carried him several yards before laying him on grass and smoothing his hair; no telling what lies others had fed him. Ahead, cooking fires flared between huts, and cheers rang out as a ring of dancers linked arms around a pile of burning clothes.
Laughter might mean there’d be no priests left except this uncloaked woman who’d read his secrets, a smiling killer who’d saved his life but kept her dagger. Was she hiding a spare cloak?
Caliper headed back as Phos and Frinelia rigged a tattered sheet over their doorway.
Phos’s fingers twitched. ‘Mum needs telling, so can we find her?’
‘Certainly, though I’d advise waiting till dawn.’ Frinelia draped a blanket over a box before kneeling beside a fireplace and heating water in a battered tin. Mitch stacked her books in neat piles as Phos sagged onto the rug – her hands trembled.
Caliper sat before her and held out her dad’s hymnal, and she paused before taking the book and stroking it.
�
�Remember the church words of bearing?’
Her reedy voice quivered as she recited. ‘“Strong the family of one child, weaker the family of two, weakest of all the family of weeds and dregs.”’
‘It says that now, but your dad’s book is older than me and tells a different story.’ Caliper teased the book open and pointed. ‘“Give birth to the future, and let your seed bear witness to the passage of the years.”’
‘Those aren’t the words.’
‘Those were the words.’
Phos’s body shivered as her fingers darted through the pages. ‘Who wrote this?’
Caliper shrugged. ‘Ask our priestess. They say nothing changes, but now you’ve proof they’re lying. Your dad knew the hymns had changed, though I suppose fear sealed his lips.’
Frinelia poured boiling water into a teapot, and Caliper winced. Was she brewing one of those damp flower teas?
‘Even the quietest people have stories,’ Frinelia said. ‘I should hear yours, but you deserve mine, so let’s start there.’ She lobbed her dagger onto the table – its blade was clean. ‘Our miller noticed the changes.’
‘Stinking grain and rotten wheat?’
Frinelia nodded and wrapped a shawl around her shoulders. ‘Orchards stand bare, and berries wither on the vine; vegetables rot before they ripen, and animals fight over scraps.’
‘And fighting spreads our way.’ Caliper perched on the cot. Had Frinelia heard of ghosts, and would a sane man mention women made of mist? Christina’s plea festered inside him, but he stayed silent.
Frinelia sat on her trunk. ‘Walk the world’s length, and you’ll see the same story: whole stretches of our ring stand barren, and each year more land falls into famine; streams become bitter, and blackberries poison children. Nature is dying.’
Phos glanced up. ‘You said nature never changes.’
‘We said enough to stop panic, and until now we scraped together enough food.’
‘Until now, but the decay spreads, so what’s next?’
Mitch arranged the surviving crockery into squares.
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