The Ventifact Colossus (The Heroes of Spira Book 1) (7 page)

“I’m counting it so we can divvy it up fairly,” said Tor.

Dranko gave Grey Wolf a toothy smile. “So, Mr. Wolf, will you be staying on as part of Abernathy’s team?”

Grey Wolf looked thoughtfully at the coin. “For a little while, at least. Abernathy told me that a…personal goal of mine may be easier to achieve if I join this merry band. So I agreed to give him a couple of weeks, see if there’s any progress.”

“Going to share?” asked Dranko.

“No.”

Morningstar did not fault Grey Wolf for not being the sharing type. And on the subject of sharing, should she tell Tor about her Seer-dream now, or wait until they were in private?

Eddings came in from the dining room. “Ah, Lady Morningstar. A letter arrived for you, not more than an hour ago.” From his jacket pocket he pulled a slim black envelope.

A letter from the temple? A swift rejection of Abernathy’s query, she assumed. She tore open the envelope and read.

Sister Morningstar,

We have learned of your changed circumstances, and your recent employment by the Archmage Abernathy of Tal Hae. Though I do not personally condone it, the High Priestess Rhiavonne in Kallor has allowed you special dispensation to walk abroad in daylight and to suspend any other church traditions that may conflict with your duties in the service of the archmage, so long as they do not violate specific temple laws. This dispensation shall be in effect until you and the Archmage Abernathy together agree that your service to him has finished; until then, the High Priestess prefers that you remain based in Tal Hae and follow the archmage’s instructions.

Morningstar, I know this will be a difficult transition for you, but we all must do as Ell demands, and the High Priestess Rhiavonne speaks with Her voice on this matter. We will miss you at the temple.

May the Goddess guide you,

Sister Fithawn

The blood pounded in Morningstar’s ears. Her skin prickled. Her eyes swept over the letter, two times, three times.

…walk abroad in daylight…

…suspend any other church traditions…

…High Priestess Rhiavonne speaks with Her voice…

“No,” she whispered. “They wouldn’t…”

“Wouldn’t do what, dear?” asked Mrs. Horn. Morningstar raised her head; the others were looking at her expectantly.

“I…they…”

How could she explain it? Though her sisters didn’t like her, or were scared of her, the Ellish temple was her identity, her lifeblood, her foundation.
We will miss you at the temple,
Fithawn had written. But what had been left unwritten was
…because you will not be welcomed back.
How could she be, if she walked beneath the sun?

This was going to confirm every suspicion that had ever been leveled at her, that she was not truly a sister, that she had no place in the black halls of Ell, that she had been a mistake. For those who had wanted to see the White Anathema expelled, Abernathy’s summons had provided the perfect excuse.

Worst of all, there would be no appeal to authority. The High Priestess Rhiavonne was the mortal leader of the Ellish religion in Charagan, and for sisters her decrees carried as much weight as the laws of the kingdom itself.

A roiling anger filled her. Her armor of composure shattered under a blow like none she’d ever faced.

She couldn’t keep her voice from trembling. “I need to speak to Abernathy. Alone.”

Morningstar stormed from the dining room and rushed to the secret chamber with the crystal ball. “Abernathy!” she demanded. “I need to speak with you.”

The glass ball filled with mist, and after a minute Mister Golem’s face appeared. The thing’s emotionless visage enraged her. “Not you,” she snapped. “I want to talk with Abernathy.”

“Is this an emergency severe enough to require his immediate attention?”

“Yes. I want his
immediate
attention.”

“One moment, please.”

Mister Golem’s face vanished into the fog of the crystal ball. Soon Abernathy’s aged face looked out at her. His stringy white hair was plastered to his cheeks with sweat, and his torso heaved with heavy breath, as though he had sprinted up several flights of stairs to answer her call.

“Morningstar,” he panted. “What has happened? Quickly, please.”

Morningstar held up the letter. “What is this? What have you done?”

Abernathy’s face grew larger in the crystal ball. “Is that a letter?”

“It’s from my temple! It allows me to go out during the day running your errands.”

“Er…oh. That was faster than I had expected. I’m pleased to hear it!”

Morningstar nearly hurled the crystal ball against the wall. “Pleased to…Abernathy, you’ve effectively had me thrown out of the temple! Kidnapping me was one thing, but this…this is…you’ve ruined my life!”

Abernathy’s wrinkled face grew grave. “You were thrown out of your temple? That was not my intent, dear girl. I only requested that you be given more latitude in your work for me, so that your obligations would not clash with those of your religion.” He glanced over his shoulder, then back at her. “Now, I don’t mean to belittle your anger, but is there some disaster or problem such that you truly need my immediate help? Because I need to return to my work right away.”

“No.” She spat the word, her fury blunted though hardly diminished. “Go back to what you were doing. Keep your prison door closed.”

She walked haltingly down the stairs and wished there were someone else nearby deserving of her rage. Tor looked up from his coins, and without thinking she said, “Tor, I had a dream about you last night. A Seer-dream.”

Tor immediately reddened.

“Hey, I had a dream too!” said Dranko. “But not everyone in it was fully clothed, so you might not want to hear about it.”

Goddess, but the goblin was relentlessly vile.

“What’s a Seer-dream?” asked Tor.

“A dream that is prophecy.” This was good to talk about. It was something
else
to talk about. She willed herself into a semblance of calm.

“Dreams are prophetic?” Dranko showed a tusky grin. “Then I know one fellow who’s gettin’ lucky sometime soon, if you know what I mean.”

Morningstar ignored him, and looked Tor in the eyes. “There are sisters of Ell who are Dreamseers. They are tasked to interpret the dreams of others, but sometimes they have their own dreams that mark the future.”

“And you’re one?” asked Tor.

“No,” said Morningstar. “I’m not a Dreamseer, or wasn’t until today. But last night I dreamt the future, and you were in it.”

“Neat!” said Tor. “What happened? What’s my future?”

“Do you mind if the others hear?” She could at least offer him the choice of privacy.

“No, I don’t mind! Tell me!”

And Morningstar did, including every detail she remembered, which was all of them.

No one spoke when she was finished; they were all looking at Tor. Defying all expectation, he smiled hugely.

“That’s great! I’ll bet the guy in the armor will be up to no good, and our job will be to stop him, and I’ll push him off the edge and kill him before he does his evil deeds. Maybe he’s even the monster Abernathy has locked away!”

Did Tor not understand? “But in my dream, you die too,”

“Did you see me hit the ground?”

“No, but—”

“That must have been on purpose! I bet I land on something soft, or I grab onto a flagpole or something. Thanks, Morningstar! It sounds like Abernathy was exactly right. Adventure, glory, excitement, we’re going to have it all!”

Morningstar sighed. “Tor, you should take this more seriously. Not just my dreams, but all of it. Didn’t you hear Abernathy? I think we won’t be going on picnics in the park.”

“We?” asked Dranko. “So Abernathy convinced you to tag along? What about you staying inside all day?”

The Goddess knew that she didn’t owe Dranko, of all people, any explanation, but now the others were looking at her. Aravia, Ernie, and Kibi had even come in from the dining room. She was suddenly too weary to deflect or dissemble.

“The letter from my temple. It gives me permission to travel outside before dark.”

“Uh, isn’t that good?” asked Dranko.

“You don’t understand.”

“True. So why don’t you explain it to us.”

There was mockery in his voice, she was sure of it. She flailed about for her island, her rock of equanimity, a swimmer caught in an unexpected undertow. Was Dranko any worse than the cruelest of her sisters? No. He was just a revolting street thug trying to get a rise out of her.

Anger was filling her. “One of the defining traditions of our church is that we do not allow the sun’s rays to touch us. It reminds us of how we are different and of the role we play in society. I am a Shield of Ell. My path was that of protector, against the dangers that come in the dark, against the creatures that prey on the sleeping. But now all of that is gone.”

The tide surged. The rock was slipping from her fingers.

“All of that is gone,” she repeated. “I was always one step away from being pushed out.” She grabbed the end of one white lock of hair and shook it at Dranko. “I was already an outsider! The Goddess gave me a sunlit name! Morningstar? She might as well have named me Pariah! And this!” She held up her arms, pale as moonlit snow. “I was born an outcast, and now Abernathy has made it stick. A sister who walks in the sun is no sister at all, and every single one of my peers is nodding to themselves right now and saying it was all for the best. Morningstar was never meant to be one of us. And now she’s not. I’m not. Now I’m one of you instead.”

Dranko took a deep breath.

Don’t speak to me, goblin.

But he did. “Do you have so little faith in Ell that you don’t think She has a plan for you? You don’t think She gave you your hair and your skin and your name for a reason? Ell wouldn’t torture one of Her own children, even if she had a tendency to whine. Have a little faith.”

She was swept out to sea on a swell of rage. She took two steps forward and slapped Dranko hard on the side of his face. He took a step back from the blow but turned again to face her. Goddess, but he grew uglier every time she looked at him. All those scars on his goblin face, his stringy hair, his wire-coarse stubble…his was a filthy countenance to match his filthy soul.

She turned and stalked to her room.

CHAPTER THREE

“THAT WAS NICE,” said Grey Wolf acidly. “You’re a real diplomat.”

“And you’re an overbearing arse with a stupid name.” Dranko felt he could really use a drink. “I think I’ll go for a walk and enjoy some fresh air.”

“Take your cigar,” said Grey Wolf. “That way we can enjoy some too.”

Dranko didn’t bother closing the door behind him, and prowled the streets in a snarling funk. He had a half a mind to rob someone, but his heart wasn’t in it. A few times over the years he’d barely escaped following botched petty thefts attempted without a clear mind and full concentration. “Never pick a pocket if either of you is drunk,” he once told Berthel. “One of you will be swaying too much.”

He had lied to Grey Wolf. He
had
kept a handful of coins for himself, though it was much less than the typical take for a professional fence. After an hour of wandering, he bought himself a mug of beer and a bowl of hearty stew at a dockside tavern. Sitting at a corner table and nursing his drink, he thought about Abernathy’s visit to his room the previous night.

Dranko hadn’t taken much convincing to sign on. The Greenhouse was a palace, the bed was vermin-free, a magic box made magic food, and he had a patron who could turn his enemies into frogs in a pinch. But Abernathy’s pitch had gone beyond that. The old wizard must be able to see right down into his private dreams. He had zeroed in on the thing in life Dranko desired most. Which reminded him, it had been a while since he had thrown his last bottle.

With the extra cash, Dranko had another ale or three and drank away the afternoon, belching defiance at anyone who approached. Sometime after sunset he lurched to his feet, leered at the barmaid, and stumbled out the door. Rain began to drip from a quilt of low gray clouds as Dranko sulked his uneven way through the busy nighttime streets of Tal Hae. He tried and failed to banish the image of Morningstar’s face from his mind.

You’re so Gods-damned good at poking people. You’ve been doing it for so long, I think you’re addicted to it. That’s what you do. You pick at scabs, you get under peoples’ skins. And then they get rid of you. Praska always told you to tone it down, and you always ignored her warnings.

Dranko stopped. He had arrived at his tenement on Fishwife Row. Quietly as he could, he crept up the creaky stairs to his little apartment, hoping Berthel would leave him alone for once. Inside he went first to a sealed jar full of paper scraps and pulled one out, then groped behind his beat-up dresser until his fingers closed upon a half-drained bottle of cheap wine.

By the time he emerged back on the street, it was entirely drained. Drunken and angry—at the world, at Morningstar, at himself, at Abernathy—he made his way up a scrubby hill to a familiar cliff-top path above the sea. To his left was the harbor, with lanterns winking at him from dozens of ships as they bobbed and creaked. He turned right. Half a mile later he had rounded a wide headland and now stood above the Middle Sea, where the currents swept around the coast and out into the wide blue. The sea wasn’t blue now—it was a moonlit black—and Dranko gazed out over the murmuring water, listening to the slow song of its chop.

He fished the paper scrap from his pocket. Three words were scrawled upon it:
Dranko was here.
He uncorked the bottle, stuffed the note inside, and replaced the cork.

From the earliest days of his memory, Dranko had wanted to be famous. His grandmother told him stories of Cencerra the Bold, a mighty warrior maid who slew dragons by the dozen, and while the dragon parts scared him, he loved how at the end of the tales Cencerra’s name was shouted by throngs of grateful peasants, or the king proclaimed her a Dame of the Realm and showered her with gifts. He dreamt of someday doing great deeds, such that crowds would cheer and statues would be raised. What deeds those would be, he was never quite sure. That was less important. But in the little circle of his aggrieved childhood, his own name had been known and despised, and that filled him with shame and a burning dream of redemption. One day his name wouldn’t be spoken with a curse and a glob of spit. One day he’d make a difference, and Mokad would regret every scar he had carved into Dranko’s flesh, and his grandfather would stop blaming him for all the ills of his family.

He hurled the bottle—not the first and not the last—as hard and far as he could, out into the sea. The waves swallowed it up.

I’m going to be famous, Praska. Abernathy said I would be.

The thought of his old friend, and the wine in his blood, filled him with a maudlin nostalgia. Instead of returning to the Greenhouse, he detoured into the so-called Pious Quarter where most of the churches, temples, and shrines to the Travelers were set in a ring around a sprawling public park. He hadn’t shown his face at the Church of Delioch in several years. How old would Praska be now? Twenty? Twenty-one?

The grounds of the church were surrounded by a high fence of iron bars, and the main gate was closed, though two Healing Brothers stood guard. He thought he recognized one—Nolman, wasn’t it? Not a bad sort, if he recalled rightly. Dranko straightened his shirt, hoped the wine on his breath wouldn’t travel too far, and approached the gate.

“Greetings, brothers!” he announced. “Long time no visit. Is Praska still here?”

One of the guards squinted. “Who’s asking?”

“Dranko?” said the other, the one he recognized. “Is that you, Blackhope?”

“S’me!” said Dranko, wincing at his own slurred speech. “Nolman, isn’t it? I never forget a fa-name. Name. Or a face. Either one.”

“You’re Dranko Blackhope?” asked the first man. “I’ve heard…” He stopped and smirked at his mate. “Your reputation is remarkable.”

“Praska is not available,” said Nolman. “She is serving out a punishment in the Closet.”

“The Closet?” Dranko shuddered. Isolated confinement had been a controversial disciplinary measure back when he was a novice. The scarbearers claimed it was effective, but High Priest Tomnic had nearly always overruled any suggestion of its infliction. “What did she do?”

“That is not your concern,” said the second man.

“Never mind,” said Dranko. “When she gets out, tell her Dranko came by to see her, okay? I live in the Greenhouse on the Street of Bakers now. Praska can stop by any visit. Any time for a visit.”

“Go home and sober up,” said Nolman. “I’ll give your message to Praska when she’s released.”

Dranko bowed so low he nearly toppled, wind-milled his arms to keep his balance, and staggered into the night.