“Can you tell me more about the Legacy of the Divine Order?”
The priestess blinked a little. “Ah, I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“But—”
“If you have interest in the Tenets of Arcadian, His Word, or perhaps even tales about the defeat of Iblis, I could tell you more. But I know little about the myth of those stones. Will there be anything else?” Florisse asked in a clipped tone.
“No. There’s nothing more. Thank you for your time.”
The temple of Moritan also lacked answers, though she lingered for a while to gaze into the gorgeous flame-lit altar. An ill-defined image flickered in its orange glow, though it was gone the moment she blinked.
Had it been a figment of her imagination?
In the temple of Avarae, an elderly elf with long white hair greeted her before she stepped off the long blue rug stretching from the entrance to the altar. He stood straight, eyes glowing pale silver in the light. “Greetings, my child,” he spoke up in Saudonian without prompting, unlike the other priests before him. “What a peculiar time to pay respects to the goddess of magic.”
“Is there ever a truly appropriate time to devote time to the gods?”
His pleasant smile warmed. “You have me there. I sense you are not one of Avarae’s followers, but close to her in other ways.” When Rosalia snapped a mental fist around her spark and snuffed it out, he chuckled. “Forgive my manners. I am Priest Calarin. How may I be of service to you?”
“Rosalia,” she replied, tipping her head in respect. “I’m not a follower of Avarae, but I…have mage friends back home.”
“Do you?” he said in the dubious tone of a man presented with a liar.
“Yes.” She raised her chin. “My friend is a senior mage at the Mages Guild in Enimura.”
“Quite the title. This friend must be quite accomplished.”
“He is. Bonare is an excellent enchanter, but I believe he instructs the youngling apprentices now.”
At that declaration, the priest’s eyes glinted with interest, and he leaned closer. “I’ve actually exchanged correspondence with Senior Mage Bonare. Is he well?”
“As well as anyone can when in mourning.”
“An unfortunate thing, what happened in your homeland. May the gods have mercy over the fallen and watch over our fellow magicians of Saudonia. Now, what brings you here to see us today?”
Visiting the other temples had allowed her to refine the crock of shit she’d come up with for Priestess Florisse. While he guided her to a pew at the end of the blue velvet aisle, she told him her interest in researching the Last Dynasty. And all things related to it, including the Legacies.
“You wish to know about the Legacy of the Divine Order? Such an unusual request. What do you need to know?”
“Why did they disappear? In the stories I read in my friend’s library, it was said they vanished at the end of the Last Dynasty.”
“Ah, child. Those are only a story, a tale left behind form an age long past.”
“But the books say they exist.” And she’d seen one with her own two eyes, glittering and beautiful at the top of Elora’s mage tower. A few moments inner debate told her not to mention that fact, but she held her ground and raised her chin. “Why would the books claim them to exist if they weren’t real?”
“They’re a metaphor for other gifts left behind by the gods.”
Her spirits plummeted like a lead weight sinking to the bottom of a lake. “You’re telling me that they aren’t real?”
The priest leaned back in the pew and gazed at the sculpture of Avarae standing above them, the regal goddess clothed in flowing robes. “I suppose in a sense they are real, but if you thought they were a physical object, I regret to tell you such things do not exist. The Light of Arcadian speaks of the honesty and integrity he gives our people. The Soul of Avarae is the spark of magic found in each practicing magician.”
As he continued to chatter of the other legacies bequeathed by the many gods, such as Nindar’s gift of motherhood, a creeping sensation warmed the back of her neck. The same sensation prickled her skin whenever she encountered a peculiar element requiring deeper study.
He’d lied to her. But why?
“Thank you very much for your time,” Rosalia murmured. “I shouldn’t take any more of it.”
If he’d lied to her once, he’d do it again, and intuition told her calling him out on it wouldn’t change a damned thing. Reluctant to waste more of her time, she rose, excused herself, and hurried back to Enimura.
Xavier startled her by occupying his own study. They’d been apart so many days it never occurred to Rosalia the man would be in his lair, making no noise, slouched in the chair behind the desk in his study like a gaunt and underfed specter. His hair wasn’t unkempt, but it definitely didn’t shine with the same luster she recalled only days prior. The weredragon had lost weight during the stressful week and neglected himself.
She gave a little squeak, a palm to her heart when she saw his pale face. He didn’t stir.
“Are you okay?”
Green eyes popped up and focused on her. “I’m alive.”
“But are you okay? These two things aren’t mutually inclusive, Xavier.”
“Gotta be. Here for a few hours to handle business matters then I return to canvassing Opal Park in search of a gremlin. I have two clients there who won’t bat an eye if I knock on their door after midnight for a routine inspection of their cold boxes, water heaters, and home chilling systems. Those are the primary locations occupied by them.”
“You haven’t found one yet?”
He shook his head. “I’ve put in long hours on the Dagger to meet the admiral’s demands, but without the gremlin, I can do nothing to delay your friend’s deployment.”
“What if I help you acquire one?”
Xavier blinked a few times. Slowly. “Would you know once if you saw it?”
Rosalia exhaled an irritable breath, blowing a few strands of her dark hair from her face. “I would if you described one. As we say in the thief business, two pairs of eyes are better than one when it comes to looking out. I can get in and out of homes that have yet to realize they need your services as well as the ones who aren’t on your clientele list. Tell me what to look for and how to recognize it.”
“It’s not quite recognizing it that’s the problem.” Xavier stroked his chin. “It’s luring the blighters out of hiding. They’re fond of anything with intricate machinery and enjoy eating the cogs or stripping the bolts. They’ll squeeze into small crevices. As the creatures’ soft bones allow them to squeeze between tight spaces, they’re excellent at remaining unseen.”
Rosalia steepled her fingers together. “But what does it look like?”
“Bipedal. About the size of a large rodent. They’ll be the color of whatever machinery they inhabit. Short fur, almost like velvet. Pointed ears like an Nairubian wolf.”
“They camouflage?”
“Yes. And they’re vicious. If you find it, you’ll have to smoke it out with sedating fog. It’ll have jaws powerful enough to grind metal to dust. Remember that. I’ve seen an unprepared apprentice lose a finger to one of them.”
“Ew. All right. Gimme something to dose it with fog then. I’m on the case. Any suggestions for where I should begin?”
When Xavier rose from the seat and stretched, his spine creaked. “I’d start in Rosewater. Owners of homes there and in Opal Park are always equipped with a chilling system, and they’ll have a furnace too for the winter nights.”
She followed him upstairs to the shop where he equipped her with a spray canister filled with sedating mist and a mesh cage, though she had her doubts about it protecting her for shit if the troublemaking pest awakened during the trip home. Assuming she found one at all.
“I appreciate this, Rosa.”
“Don’t mention it. Why don’t you go crawl into your coins and rest?”
“I shouldn’t. I have—”
“
Go rest. Seriously, Xavier.” She cupped a palm to his unshaven cheek. She still liked the look of the dark stubble on his chin and jawline. “You don’t look like you’ve slept or eaten properly in days.”
“I haven’t. I’m fucking starving. Came in a few times for a quick shower as needed, but you weren’t here.”
Something told her he hadn’t had a bite to eat since they parted ways six days earlier. As he protested, she turned him around and guided him down the stairs and into the lair. She left him in the coin vault and headed into the hoard’s larder where sides of dry aged beef and enormous smoked legs hung from frost-enchanted hooks. Grunting, she hauled down four legs of lamb and stacked them on a dining cart along with an enormous punch bowl of wine from one of the many casks. Within moments of coming down from the storage hook, the layer of frost thawed.
Later, she’d ask why he had such things when he clearly never entertained guests.
Or maybe he’d once hosted grand dragon parties. Or his grandfather once had, during a time when their people were more plentiful and paid visits to each other’s hoards. With the meat arranged on a lovely silver dining platter, she pushed the cart down the stone path into the coin vault and found him sprawled on his bed of gold.
He looked peaceful, and she noticed for the first time that he had dark lashes framing his enormous eyes. Even as a fire-breathing beast, he was the most gorgeous creature she’d ever seen.
“Hey, big guy. I brought your dinner.”
Taking in the size of him after glancing at her offering, she doubted it would be more than an evening snack. He probably required far, far more.
He rose onto his hind legs and peered at her, faces level. Gripping the ledge with both claws clicked his dark talons against the stone. “You brought me food.”
“Yes. Now eat.”
“I thought you hated me.”
“I don’t hate you. You may not be my favorite person right now, but I don’t hate you. I…” She sucked in a breath between her teeth, searching for adequate words to describe the turbulent feelings warming her chest. “You’re my friend. And friends take care of friends. Now please eat.”
He ate and sipped down the entire bowl within seconds, gnashing the bones between his powerful teeth. Though it must have barely whetted his appetite, he burrowed under the coins afterward until little more than his tail tip remained above the gleaming surface.
She had to find Xavier’s gremlin. After all, he wouldn’t need the critter if it weren’t for Adriano—her only surviving friend. That made acquiring it her responsibility.
13
Gadgets and Gremlins
Four hours later, an empty-handed Rosalia slunk down an ivy trellis, leaving the attic window of her fourteenth home. Creeping in and out of wealthy Rosewater District manors hadn’t yielded anything but cobwebs in dusty, neglected attics. It was boring work made faster by her advantages over Xavier’s method—she didn’t have to announce her arrival, plead for entrance, or do a routine mechanical check on their goods.
She also didn’t steal, finding she pitied them too much to perform to her usual burgling standards. All her life, she’d thought them privileged, people of middle class wealth who would never understand pain and suffering.
The mourning banners dangling from windows said otherwise. Each neighborhood had at least a few. She shivered, wondering how many citizens had tried to protect a loved one and joined them in death. All of them couldn’t be dead thieves.
Overhearing a few conversations during her night confirmed the number was too many to count. Not one soul across Enimuran went unaffected, each citizen changed by the atrocities committed by King Gregarus and his spymaster.
Her outrage grew when she reached the middle of the lane, where the gutted remains of Madame LaVerci’s boarding house sent pangs of heartache trembling through her chest. Before the ashen wreckage, piles of memorial flowers and ribbons littered the area. Rosalia turned the knob on her goggles to magnify her view.
Mira Valiente, talented actress and dancer, we will miss you.
A bright star extinguished too soon.
No production will ever shine without you, Mira.
Those were only a handful of the messages left by members of the troupe. Rosalia read the notes, signs, and banners one after another with tears in her eyes, wishing she could kneel among them and touch the flowers up close.
Heartsick again, she thanked the gods for the small miracle that Mira’s name hadn’t been associated with their criminal acts and ruined as thoroughly as the crown had assassinated her character. To anyone else in Enimura, with exception to the Mages Guild, Rosalia was a murderess and a traitor.
When a whiff of baking spices reached her on the wind, her stomach rumbled as a reminder of both the busy night and her neglect to practice self-care.
Shit. She was starving. When had she last eaten? Not since early the previous afternoon while on the road from Villisië. Chastising Xavier for failing to look after himself had made her the biggest hypocrite in the eleven kingdoms.
Rosalia eyeballed Madame Maxmila’s Bakery and tapped one index finger against her bottom lip, aching for just one summer roll. She could be in and out with what she needed in minutes. Hints of baking cinnamon, cardamom, and caramelized sugar filled the air with a mouth-watering aroma, more temptation than a siren’s call.
Crossing the road where the pools of light cast by the street lamps didn’t overlap, she moved to the rear of the bakery and all but put her face to the glass. The windows were open and the chimneys were pumping out heat from the ovens, and the smell was altogether wonderful, stirring memories of the first day she and Mira visited this section of the Rosewater District in pursuit of a flat to rent.
There was a small table at the front where they’d eaten flaky rolls filled with gooey, hot chocolate fudge and sipped the most fragrant orange tea. She wanted one.
No, she didn’t just want it. She needed it, and since she was currently under the influence of the most brutal cramps to ever bludgeon their way into her womb, she thought herself deserving of the chocolate delight only Madame Maxmila delivered.
Were she prudent, she’d ask Xavier to fetch her one the next day during business hours, but the desperate part of her that longed for a piece of her lost friend demanded fulfillment now. And truth be told, Rosalia wasn’t all that wise. Recklessness had been the one negative trait Hadrian could never train out of her, and it got her into one tough spot after another when a more sensible woman would mind her own business or play it safe.
From what Rosalia learned living beside the bakery, Madame Maxmila awakened just before the second hour of the morning to begin her baking for the day. With the windows open, her wards had been deactivated, allowing Rosalia easy access to the kitchen. She crept behind Maxmila’s back and melted into the shadows, easing into a dark corner. Satisfied with her hiding spot, she crouched beneath a table while the matronly woman sliced fluffy biscuits for breakfast sandwiches. Two long trays of summer rolls cooled on the rack to her left.
“Mum?” a young voice called from the doorway. Rosalia didn’t know the age of Maxmila’s daughter, but she couldn’t have been much older than nine.
“Yes, Pia?”
“Do you need help?”
“No, love. Go back to bed.”
“But you said oven six is broken again. Won’t it take you longer to bake everything?”
“It will, but I had a nice head start this morning. Go back to bed. You can help me during the lunch rush.”
“All right. I won’t let you down.”
The little girl trailed out of the kitchen again. Maxmila chuckled and returned to folding strips of dough over a half-dozen pies filled with diced fruit. Dreaming about the flaky crust, Rosalia watched Maxmila load unbaked goods onto trays and stacked them on a four-tier cart. The woman pushed them out the door onto a narrow strip of paved walkway leading to an unconnected bakehouse, the adjacent structure designed to hold multiple ovens without heating the
main building where she kept her storefront. In the desert city, her home would quickly become unbearable, even with a cooling system.
“Finished at last. Didn’t think I’d ever get done. Think I’ll enjoy a good book over a nice cup of tea until these are ready,” Maxmila murmured as she returned, passing through the kitchen and into the bakery’s storefront. “And maybe they won’t take so long to bake this time.”
The moment the door shut behind her, Rosalia dove at the tray and snatched a roll.
One bite delivered her to culinary heaven as rich, spiced chocolate exploded in her mouth. It was so delicious she didn’t care that she was burning her tongue and the roof of her mouth. The discomfort faded quick enough and left only pleasure behind.
Respecting Maxmila far too much to steal from her, she set four silver bits in place of the roll. It only cost two.
Something clanked behind her and made a hollow thump. She jerked to the left and glanced behind her, seeing nothing.
Shit. She needed to take her roll and go.
Then a low knocking sound echoed from beyond the wall, and she realized she was hearing noise from the direction of the bakehouse.
Someone sensible would leave.
But Rosalia had already decided to base her life around making foolish decisions time after the next, one chain of rash choices after the next.
With what remained of her roll between her teeth, she crawled out the window again and made her way to the bakehouse. It was a large single-room building, as big as the bedroom she enjoyed in Xavier’s hoard, but instead of treasures and antique furnishings dating to the Last Dynasty, six enormous ovens filled it. She shut the door behind her, startled to find the room cooler than expected. Maxmila stored much of her unused equipment in the room, from tall carts to enormous baking trays, plus dozens of cake pans and tins.
As she nibbled the last of her roll and licked chocolate off her fingers, the knocking sound echoed from one of the pipes again. Only five of the ovens were lit, the sixth cold and unused, though it was absolutely spotless save for metal shards at the bottom of it beneath the rack. Almost like steel flakes.
Fool's Gold: a Fantasy Romance (Daughter of Fortune Book 2) Page 11