From there, I head southeast, having completed the southern edge of Rheda. It’s another week of flying my sky skiff over the Guildland forest and along Lake Saki. I find myself thinking of Ren, the shapeshifter. Did she find her centaurs in the forest again? We needed you to help us, she told me. Maybe she’d be glad to know I have been. All the while, I see that glimmer in the lake, almost like sunlight glinting off a mirror. I’m not sure where I’m headed next. Maybe I’m looking for excuses to not go back to the Isles. The thought sends me spiraling.
Throughout it all, I stave off the drink and the lingering loneliness. And I ponder what Talmadge said. The Guild's as good a force in the world as a damp sock. Maybe these slaves need the Guild to go away more than they need money, although they need that in plenty. But Talmadge said the Guild’s got enemies, and that’s got me curious. I ask around, poking through towns and settlements. It’s easy enough, acting the bard looking for a story.
The Mask is a name everyone knows. They were responsible for some of the worst, most corrupt Guild officials disappearing years ago. They’re a veritable hero among my class of people. Pinning down an identity is another matter. One person tells me they’re a high elf woman of stunning beauty with heaving bosoms. Another tells me they’re a hulking dragonkin with bronze scales. Yet another tells me they’re an old birdfolk missing an eye. It’s starting to whiff of horseshit. Nobody can tell me what happened to them, either. They simply vanished, and the Minister they tried to kill is doing as well as ever. It's one of the oldest stories in the book.
I stop my sky skiff when I notice signs of a ruckus on the road below.
It’s got a translucent crystal globe fitted in a socket that lets it spin around a tiny ley line to steer the ship. I lower it against the road where it hovers about five feet off the ground. I jump down and peer around.
A turned-over wagon and scattered crates dot the road. There’s blood among the carnage. A dead horse is swimming with flies. And reddish feathers are tossing in the wind. Frantic footprints head into the woods, and I follow, hands on weapons. About ten feet in, I dart behind a tree.
There’s a figure ahead. I pause. It doesn’t move.
I peek around the tree. It still doesn’t move. It’s a person – a lizardfolk. I quietly step closer. The only sound is my faint footsteps and the birds and squirrels chirping overhead. I get close enough to touch her, and she still doesn't move. She's mid-step, like she was running. I draw a sword and tap it against her arm.
It grits against stone.
My guts drop. The hair raises on the back of my neck. I whirl, both blades out. But I don’t see anything. I glance at the figure again. She's petrified.
The fucking feathers. Cockatrices.
They escaped from those crates. I'm looking at an unfortunate merchant. “Who’s buying them?” I ask nobody in particular.
I slink back to my sky skiff and watch for wings. But there’s nothing.
A few days later, I come across Sunai again.
It’s the same as ever. That doesn’t make it any easier. I park my sky skiff along the beach. It’s got an unmovable lever to keep it in place, and it’s linked to the small fob I keep in my chest pocket. The sky skiff is enchanted with a sigil, so if anyone starts it without the fob, a charm spell goes off like a handful of pink glitter. I put the spell on it myself.
I ask a group of fishermen, and the nomads that Arriel, Weekes, and I helped from the Southland Dunes have moved on. I'd hoped to see Sulevi again, if only for someone familiar. Reserved, I head through town to the common hall.
“Oh, wow… Warchief!”
People turn. A human stands just outside, waving at me. He’s got short, dark hair and a patchy beard. He looks to be a few years younger than me, scrawny and slouching, wearing ragged Vasterholmian clothes.
“Gods, it’s really you,” he breathes while I approach. “You’re… you’re Chouncey of Seven Oaks. It’s such an honor.”
I’m more easily flattered than I like admitting. I straighten up. “Well, the honor’s all mine, seeing as you’re saving me the hassle of introductions. Who’ve I got the pleasure of meeting?”
“I’m Scur,” he says. “Scur Cox.”
I try not to laugh. “Scur, as in, a hair away from scurvy?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m terribly sorry to hear that.”
He doesn’t notice it. “They say you blew up Torm and his ship all by yourself.”
“It was just as spectacular as you’re thinking. Although he was a bit… rigid on the matter,” I say. “What brings you here?”
“Oh, I was on Jor, too. I worked in the kitchens,” he says. “Only for a few months. But you freed us all – and now you’re the Warchief. That’s incredible!”
I don’t remember him one bit from the kitchens. He could’ve been carrying bridges for all I know.
“Anyway, I just had an idea. You’re a bard helping people. What if one isn't enough? I’d make a great bard.”
I blink. “Can you hold a tune? Or do you know anything about magic, for that matter? In fact, have you ever been in a fight?”
“I’d learn it. You make it look easy – how hard could it be?”
“You know what? You’re right. Go for it. You’ve got confidence, and that’s the first part.”
“Really?”
My stomach grumbles. “Sure. Get yourself out there and see where it goes. You can’t be a bard without taking a big leap every now and then.”
He almost squeals. “I’m gonna do it, then. Hey, do you have time for a quick autograph? I know you’re probably busy.”
That’s a first. I pull a wanted poster out of my magical bag. It’s a copy of one I’ve already got – Chandler of Four Elms. I picked one up in Hayawara for Charlie of Two Yews. The chances I ever set foot in Takazaki again are growing slimmer by the hour. I scrawl across it with my arcane hand and give it to him.
“Thanks!” he beams, clutching it. “My wife will be so impressed. Hey, next time you’re around, I’ll buy you a drink.”
I keep a polite smile in place. I put a hand against my chest, bow, and head inside.
I knuckle through lunch.
I sit cross-legged at a low table so I’m not looking at the casks and bottles behind the bar, but it sings to me all the same. I can only think of when Weekes and Arriel sat here, making promises of winning my freedom. I breathe, but it’s not enough. I’m shaking. I’ve not heard from Arriel in all this time. She said not to be a stranger, but it’s never been so hard to keep my word, especially after the last time I saw her. It guts me every time I picture her tearfully smiling as I teleport away. I could send a letter, but what would I even say?
Just a shot would help, for old time’s sake. I’m in Sunai, after all. I pull out my flask, looking at it. But what if she hears of it? Would she blame me for the one time?
I need to get out of here.
I hand my empty dishes to the kitchens and tear myself from the bar, mouth dry at the thought of how reviving even some watery swill would be. It’d taste like home. I cross my arms and stroll through town, keeping myself moving. It’s midafternoon. Maybe I should leave. But to where? I can only put off going back to the Isles for so long. If I stay here, I’m gonna find a way to drink again. But if I go back? I'll be an arm and a leg in the bag before I'm even off the ship.
I stop. To my right, a bright sunbeam is casting over the building like a spotlight.
It’s a church.
I laugh, or maybe sob. I’m absolutely not going in there. The beam gets brighter. I glance around. The packed-dirt street is fairly busy. Does anyone else see it? It’s almost white-hot. Going in there is gonna send me after the bottle even faster. The last thing I need right now is to look up a cleric's nose. Two more sunbeams appear, crossing over the first. I can barely see the church.
“I’m not going in there,” I say to the sky. A gnome totters by, glancing at me oddly.
The lights turn pink.
I sigh, clapping hands on my face. I need a drink so fucking bad. It pulls at my blood. I miss the reassuring weight of my flask. I miss the comforting, smeared lens of being shitfaced. I could turn around and get a drink. I could get several. I could dive under the table, and it'd barely dent my coin supply. I’ve gritted my teeth through three long months. What’s one night? It'd take the edge off. Maybe it’d even help me feel like Arriel and Weekes are still here. Or that I haven’t lost everything. Three months ago, I brushed against the eighth ley line. Now, I can barely fumble for the second.
My throat wells. I could do a show, so at least I’m working for it. I drink my earnings and no more. My guts clench. I'm starting to make a good point. I have to go inside. Because if I don’t, I’m gonna get some whiskey.
I open the sliding door and step inside.
It’s a small church. Mats line either side of the center path to a life-sized statue of a person with a sun symbol etched on their chest. Soft light falls on it from no particular source. It’s quiet - dampened like the reassuring weight of a thick blanket on a chilled autumn night. People are standing around or walking past wearing white robes. A few townspeople are inside, too, sitting or kneeling. One’s even prostrate. I already hate it here.
I plop down on a woven rush mat in the back. I cross my arms, clenching my jaw. My blood hums. I close my eyes. I’m exhausted. I don’t know how much time passes, but I stay there. I'm getting jittery.
“Champion?”
I glance over. A young half-devil in a white robe is standing a few feet away.
She stutters, swallowing visibly. “Um… Do you need anything? Can I bring you to the High Priest?”
Of course, she knows me. I can’t tell her I need to stay right here. This would be easier if I were just another ditch tourist.
Suddenly, warmth eases through me like a warm summer day. The light coming through the paper walls and panels brightens, like the sun emerging behind a cloud. Her hesitant smile seems a bit softer. “Sure,” I croak.
“Okay,” she says. She beckons gently. “This way.”
She leads me past a pack of gawking white robes. I hope they're not expecting blessings from me, holy man that I am. The best I can do is a dirty poem and a splash of regret. I just put on my best winning smile. They whisper to each other as she brings me through a sliding door.
We go down a hallway lined with more doors. Slatted windows open into a cloistered garden around a small pool. An orange-striped cat sits on the edge of it. At the end of the hall is a door with a sun sigil etched across the paper. She knocks, then opens it.
“Your Brightness?” she says quietly. “Um… the – the Champion is here.”
I wish she’d quit calling me that. I don’t hear the reply, but she gives a bow and gestures for me to step inside. It’s an office – a low, modest desk takes up the center, laden with papers and ink pots. In one corner is a faintly glowing shrine with a figure like the larger one outside. Along a windowed wall is a small bed with a thin pillow and blankets precisely folded at the foot. Sunlight casts through the paned windows cut with gold-painted paper in the shape of a sun.
The door slides shut behind me. Sitting at the desk is a dark elf.
I laugh, clapping a hand over my mouth.
He’s middle-aged, with dusky indigo skin and starch white hair, long and pulled back halfway into a knot. He’s wearing a white robe, styled more like a hakama than those in Carthesia. It’s got gold trim and shimmering, embroidered lapels down the front. His yellow-green eyes, pupils quailing from the bright sunlight, glimmer with something like mirth. Or maybe kindness.
“It’s alright,” he says. His voice is soft. “You can laugh. I’ve seen everything.”
I glance at the sunlight streaming through the window. “Not in the afternoon, you haven’t.”
A genuine smile cracks his dark cheeks. “That’s a new one. I appreciate wit where it shines brightest. My name is Anwar – I’m the High Priest of this church. Please, sit. Rest.”
I park myself on a pad across from him, crossing my legs. “How do you know who I am?”
“To my understanding, three months ago, every clergy member at every church was shown your face with instructions to give you any aid you require. I knew you would come here, though, because I was instructed to give you this.”
He holds out a rolled scroll. I take it. The wax seal's in the shape of a sun. I’ve no clue what it is. I stick it in my magical bag.
He folds his hands and leans forward. “How may I help you?”
Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
There’s strength behind it, softened with authenticity. My chest stirs. It reminds me of someone. I take a deep breath. How do I explain this to a stranger? A cleric, no less. Gods, this was a terrible idea. “I don’t have a fucking clue. I just…” This is humiliating. I need to get out of here. I can’t. The words tear at my throat. “I need to stay here. Otherwise, I’m gonna start drinking again.”
He smiles softly. “I understand. You’re far from the first person with a dependency to come here needing shelter. We have beds for those who need them – among our acolytes or clerics, too. I’d even be honored to offer you mine.” He gestures to the bed against the wall. “I only require a few hours of meditation, which I can easily find elsewhere. I can even set a vigil.”
Sleeping in a church? At least it’s not a ditch. If I head back to my sky skiff, I’m not gonna make it there.
“If that’s what you need, you’re most welcome here,” he says.
I sigh. I dearly miss my teleport spell. But how bad could one night be? “Alright,” I say quietly.
The rest of the afternoon, Anwar shows me the campus. The church is bigger than just the atrium – there's the cloistered garden, as well as separate quarters for acolytes and clerics. Downstairs, there’s a gathering space and kitchen where he gets me a cup of coffee and gingerbread cookies shaped like suns. There’s even a relic stored away behind some locked doors – a crusty old buckler belonging to a Champion who slew a three-headed dragon hundreds of years ago. There’s also a library crammed full of texts, ancient manuscripts, tenets, and prayers. I play along with the clerics studying there, pretending I’ve read even a scrap of them. Almost every white robe wants to meet me, but Anwar keeps them at a distance. I appreciate it. I’m here claiming to be the Champion of Iros, meanwhile cowering from the clack of a shot glass.
Around evening, I endure my first ever church service in the atrium, glazing over and, for once, trying not to draw attention while singing. Afterward, Anwar brings me to his office quarters, where he fills a tub with a spell. I clean up and soak, humming to keep my thoughts away. The statuette of Iros on the shrine watches me. I turn it around with my arcane hand.
Finally, I sit cross-legged at the end of a long, low table in the gathering space downstairs. A dozen acolytes are seated around it similarly. They’re doing a lousy job of not staring. It’s dark, only a single lantern lighting the room. It's certainly a choice in a temple dedicated to the god of light. It’s making me tired.
Across from me, cross-legged at the foot of the table, is an old half-elven woman. Her hair’s ashy gray and thinning into its fanning knot quickly. She’s got fancier white robes, making her a cleric, I think. I can’t help imagining Arriel wearing the same thing, or maybe taking it off.
I reach for a bowl of rice, seeing as nobody’s making a move.
“Champion, would you do us the honor of leading prayer?” the cleric asks.
I freeze. If I’ve ever prayed, my last shit was made of silver. Everyone’s looking at me with big, hopeful eyes. Why in Coramine’s ringed asshole didn’t I nab something off a page in the library while I was there?
I press my lips together. “What a rare opportunity. I’d be happy to.”
They all close their eyes, bowing their heads. I stare at the table, searching for anything. Iros doesn’t throw me a single line. The lantern flickers. I grit my teeth.
I clear my throat. “Light Daddy, we’re gathered in the bask of your lovely light. I’m asking on behalf of these eager followers that, in all things, you intimately embrace us with the warmth of your touch, the pleasure of your presence, the stirring of your words and congress. Please consummate this meal, and spread your light deep, deep within us, nudging against our hearts and souls.”
“The light be with us,” they all mutter. Someone coughs. It’s dead quiet.
The acolytes draw straws or something for the honor of serving me dinner. I'm given a steaming bowl of rice, cooked onions and pickled vegetables, and half a small fish. It’s not enough. It’s bland and sauceless, too. I snap my fingers, fixing it. Everybody glances over. There’s only water to drink. I don’t ask if they usually have wine or ale with meals. I know the answer.
It’s still utterly quiet. I sigh. The only sound is scraping dishes and chewing.
“Do you eat all your meals like this?” I ask.
“We’re encouraged to spend mealtimes in meditation and prayer with the Dawn Lord,” the cleric says. I don’t like the point she’s trying to slide underneath it.
“That’s a fiery stack of fiend shit,” I say. Everyone’s chewing comes to a screeching halt. The acolytes gape between us. Maybe they’re witnessing a miracle when I’m not smote to dust. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Sister Mary,” she says, looking like her water went sour. “I oversee the development of our acolytes.”
“That’s lovely to hear. I was worried nobody has fun around here.”
The red dragonkin next to me muffles a snigger in her rice.
“Fine, then. Please tell us about yourself, Champion. Our acolytes have a rare opportunity to learn from your guidance. What sect do you belong to?”
“I’m a pescatarian,” I gesture with my fork. A teenage human snorts a laugh further down. “Although I’ve tried all kinds of sects.”
Sister Mary bristles. “We take the virtue of our acolytes seriously –”
“Please. They’re fucking. And you’ve got an overall vibe of being the one who cooks. Did you put the fat into burning that lantern over there? Sweet fucking hells. This is terrible, right?”
Another acolyte laughs. He’s a halfling. He nods. Others murmur in assent.
I snap my fingers at the food in front of him. “There. Try that.”
“Can I have some?” the dragonkin asks beside me. I snap. A few more scrabble for my attention, putting hands up. I get them all.
“Let’s get some light in here, too,” I say. I snap my fingers again, and all the lights come on. Sister Mary blinks. I flick out my pink arcane hand, fetching the bowl of rice and going back for another slab of fish.
“This is – obscene!” she flubs. “The Dawn Lord would be appalled –”
“I’m sorry, I can’t understand you with that golden cock in your mouth,” I throw back. Her thin lips quiver, apparently at a loss for words. She makes Arriel seem like a riotous time. “Do you have music around here or does that go unsalted, too?” Gods, to have my illusion back. I lean over to the dragonkin, whispering. “Ask me if I can do a song.”
She fumbles for a moment, then raises her voice. “Could you do a song?”
“Absolutely.” I bring my mandolin around and snap out my pick. Inspiration’s perking my blood.
“Like a hymn?” an efreetin asks.
“Fuck hymns.” A dwarf chokes. “Here’s in honor of our dear and dedicated clergy.”
I strum some chords, trilling a melody. I sing:
On a sweet summer’s night, I heard nary
A thing in the light of the holy eyrie
It split with a sound, rancid and scary
What could it be? I asked myself, wary,
But oh, did I wish I did in fact tarry,
I found dear, sweet Sister Mary
Praying, blowing hole out her airy –
“By the – darkness take you!” Sister Mary flusters. She staggers to her feet, gathering her robe and stomping toward the door. She glares daggers at me, and I flip her a middle finger. The acolytes snort with muffled laughter. One of them spits a mouthful of food. The door rattles shut.
“Now that’s taken care of,” I say, slinging my mandolin back and eating. “My sincere apologies that you’ve had to deal with that. I thought this was a place of fellowship.” I’m starting to understand some things about Arriel.
“I don’t think she likes being a cleric,” the dragonkin says.
“She’s certainly good at it.” Silence falls as I eat more. They’re raptly attentive, hanging on my every movement. I set my fork down, gesturing. “Look, if you’re expecting a sermon, you’d best go follow her. I can’t stand that sort of thing. This is miserable. There’s no virtue in suffering – it just gives you justification to pass it along. If you’re feeding and clothing the poor rather than making sure nobody’s poor to begin with, something’s terribly wrong.”
The door cracks, and Anwar steps in. He quietly slides it closed behind him, standing and watching.
The halfling speaks up. “They say you freed a thousand slaves from the Byrian Isles. Is that true?”
“It is,” I say, stuffing down more fish. I don’t want to talk about any of this. But they’re watching expectantly. “The Light Daddy told me his followers are useless. We should be breaking chains and toppling governments, not stuffing away wealth and under-salting our food in the name of more Sisters Mary. I was a line in a ledger for five years, if you want to talk about suffering for a greater purpose. One of his clerics pulled me out of a ditch, utterly soused, but he picked me over her because I did something about injustice. If you want to be a force for good in the world, everyone should know it by what you do, not how palatable you are.”
It's quiet for a moment. “Was that Saint Arriel?” the red dragonkin ventures.
I nearly spit out my food. “She’s a saint?”
“She was canonized a few months ago,” an elf says.
“What’s she the saint of? Long-suffering?”
More of them laugh.
“Did you know we got chucked in jail together? I had her tipsy and singing on a table, too. In fact,” I grab my mandolin and swallow my mouthful of food, slugging down some water. “I wrote a song about her. Would you like to hear it?”
They give emphatic nods.
I glance at Anwar, then back at them. I lower my voice conspiratorially. “The clean version or the raunchy version?”
They laugh. I hear a quiet chuckle near the door. And then it opens and closes.
That night, I can’t sleep.
My blood buzzes. My mouth is dry, imagining the cool, sweet burn of whiskey. What am I gonna do if this doesn’t go away in the morning? How long can I stay here? Am I gonna end up right back where I started? Who’s gonna save me from myself this time?
Deep inside, I stare down at the calm pool of water, casting the image of a pink sunset. I still feel like a spiky, black face will emerge any moment. Sometimes I can see the outline, the rippling of a claw reaching from utter darkness. I back away.
I toss and turn in Anwar’s cot. I've slept on more comfortable benches. Eventually, I sit up, lighting my pick. Soft pink light casts around the room. I tug the sealed scroll out of my magical bag, opening it.
It’s a catalog. I peer at the faintly glowing stickers on my flask. There’s twenty-five. One would get me… a coffee mug. Some options are profoundly useful, though. Forty gets me fluency in the angelic language. Seventy-five lets me rent a planetar for a few hours. If I get a hundred, I get a minor boon. It's good that Iros waited until now. I’d have already spent my stickers.
I tuck the scroll away and start walking. I need to move.
I’m buzzing. My feet are inches from carrying me to the common hall, but when I pass the sliding door in the atrium, a couple acolytes are sitting by it. They attentively watch me. It’s dark except for the faint, soft, gold light streaming over the statue of Iros. I walk more, finding the cloistered garden. It’s quiet aside from chirping insects. I stare at the stone pool filled with orange and white dappled fish.
“Champion.”
I turn. Anwar appears. He’s still wearing his fancy white robe, arms tucked into wide sleeves.
“It's just Chouncey.”
He smiles kindly. “Of course. Are you alright?”
I laugh. Words come out before I can stop them. “I’ve never been alright. Not since they tossed me on that ship.” Or what happened just before it.
He puts a hand on my shoulder and nudges me along. We walk together. “The Dawn Lord’s domain is light, but it also encompasses things like joy, fellowship, and music. And healing – both for physical wounds and… those not so easily seen. It’s not a coincidence that you found your way to his light.”
I stop. I reach for my flask but don’t find it. I put a hand over my mouth instead. A few months ago, I’d be shaking. But the waters still hold steady. “It hasn’t gotten easier.” I’m not sure why I’m talking about this. Maybe I can’t keep it in any longer.
“It may never be easy. In fact, those kinds of wounds often take a lifetime to heal from. You’ll likely always struggle with drink. You’ll likely drink again. But don’t let anyone judge to be failure what you know as progress.”
I cross my arms. A cold breeze trickles through. I can’t keep talking about this. “Maybe you can help me with something.”
“Oh?”
“I figured out a new spell. One of the slaves in Iwakotan had an infection, and I fixed it. But I can’t figure out how I did it.”
He peers at me for a moment, nodding to himself. Then, he smiles. “The Dawn Lord gave you some of our divine magic. Curious and delightful. When you normally cast a spell, what happens?”
I shrug. “Before, it was easy. It’s all vibes – you just match what the ley line sounds like. One moment, you’re singing ‘Baby Shark’ and the next moment you’ve got time and space warping to your wishes.”
He only nods, a brow quirking upward.
I continue. “Lady Arriel said it's praying for what you need. But that’s boring, so I spewed out a little song, and it worked. I've got that one. But I'm a fairly fast learner. That’s why I’m confused.”
He takes a breath, straightening. “A cleric's way of channeling magic requires a little preparation. Each morning, we convene with the Dawn Lord and anticipate how we can best make use of our connections and in which ways we’ll direct them. Perhaps your inspiration no longer comes entirely from you.”
I sigh. I hate it already. “You’re assuming I wake up anywhere near morning.”
“Find what works for you. The Dawn Lord is nothing if not forgiving.” He pauses, then speaks more somberly. “The clarifying spell you mentioned has other uses. It can also remove the effects – and aftereffects – of inebriation.”
“Don’t tell me that,” I say tiredly. “You’re making it easy.”
He smiles sadly. “Remember that so you can mitigate harm. Spreading his light is your primary task. It’s far more important to do something imperfectly than nothing at all. I’m sure you see the wisdom in that.”
“I’d not be so sure. I’d love being even half as wise as you or Lady Arriel.”
“You give yourself too little credit.”
“I’m fairly sure I’m specifically just under half.”
He raises a brow. “Still, the Dawn Lord has chosen you for a reason. You’ll do great things.”
I’ve already done great things. So why does it feel like there’s more to be done?
We chat more, and I return to bed. I catch some light sleep, waking near dawn. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. I ponder what Anwar said about these new spells. Divine magic, he called it. I breathe, closing my eyes and glancing inward, down at the pool. I brush against my connections, humming with music and wrapped in gentle light. If drawing on the first drains me, how will I ever reach the seventh again? How did I even do it in the first place? My blood spikes.
I breathe. I’m supposed to be meditating or something. It's working as well as paying attention to my head ever does. I give up and hum with the connections instead, matching their thrumming song, following their scale. I remember touching Sarah’s shoulder and the feeling of guiding warm light. Within the pool, the image changes. The memory plays out. A tune comes to me, words and rhymes springing to mind – a feeling, maybe. Inspiration.
My eyes snap open. I’ve got it.
An hour later, I emerge from the office, clean and ready. I head downstairs, where coffee is already brewing, and fill up my new pink ceramic coffee mug. On it is painted: Don’t talk to me until I’ve prepared my spells. There’s a sun icon on the bottom.
The atrium is still dim, except for ambient light over the statue. I give a sharp whistle, and the sliding doors batter open. The whole church trembles.
Footsteps pad behind me. “Chouncey.”
I turn. It’s Anwar. “Good morning, dear High Priest,” I say. Inexplicably, I’m feeling better than yesterday.
He smiles, indigo cheeks creasing. “I hope you found the respite you needed. You’re always welcome here.”
“That’s kind,” I say. “I always seem to come back this way. I’ll pay a visit.”
“If you’ll allow me, I’d like to give you a parting gift. It’s one of our most sacred spells, and, I would think, necessary for a Champion of the light.”
I sip milky coffee. I gesture at him. “By all means.”
He pulls a familiar amulet from the neckline of his robe. He holds it in front of him, incanting. “Dawn Lord, bring light to this place.”
Magic channels. A spark flares from the amulet. Then it becomes the middle of the day.
I blink, my eyes burning. I turn away. It’s like staring at the sun. The amulet sears with bright light that casts around the whole atrium, careening out the slatted windows, rudely waking people two doors down.
I put a hand up. “Sweet fucking hells – can you –”
It fades. The orb of a small sun swims in my vision, green and magenta. He chuckles, tears streaking from his eyes. His watery pupils are pinpricks. He wipes his face with his sleeves. “Use it sparingly, of course.”
I’ve seen Arriel do that, I realize, when we helped those nomads move here from the shore. My heart sinks. That’s a connection higher than I –
Something nudges me.
I pause, looking inward and down. Like a whisper of light, like the first brushes of sun on a dark morning, a tendril of light brings me to the second ley line connection. It twirls around, beckoning, encouraging. Its harmonic overtone rings with potential. Maybe I can grab it.
Anwar gives a knowing smile and continues. “I’m certain the Dawn Lord has plans for you, and I’m certain it involves breaking more chains and toppling governments. Before you go, remember that you can’t topple governments alone.”
I freeze.
He continues, rubbing his indigo hands together. “Unfortunately, change is slow. For decades, I’ve labored to introduce a church of Iros into the undercity of my people, where, you can imagine, no such light exists. But the light has spread even there. Sometimes, someone comes along and drives change quickly and to great effect, inspiring people for generations to come. I’ll be honored someday when my grandchildren hear your name sung even there.”
I sip some more coffee. The sun’s rising in earnest, piercing sideways through the slatted windows. Things become clear.
Through me, you’d have power to break chains and make governments quake. That can spread more light than any cleric.
I laugh. I freed slaves from the Byrian Isles. Now I’ve gotta do it with the Guild.
How in the nine sundry layers of hell do I do that? Talking through my lower cheeks won’t cut it this time. This is a whole other order of magnitude. I can be a frontman, and quite a spectacular one, but it's a distraction at best. I need someone good at doing the background work. I need someone who knows the Guild and how to play their games. I need someone who can sneak past their defenses. I need someone who can part them with their vast riches.
I need a rogue. I need a team.
I nod. “It’s been a pleasure. But I’ve got work to do.”
“Of course. Remember to rest. And look for the light if you’re ever lost.”
I turn and exit. Sunai is beginning to stir, the light breeze rustling leaves in the quiet trees. More light casts into the atrium. I glance over Lake Saki. A faint light glimmers in the center.
I turn back. I gesture over my shoulder. “What’s in the middle of the lake?”
Anwar waits patiently, arms tucked in his sleeves. “The Shadow Vault. It’s the Guild’s most highly secure prison, said to be mostly underwater aside from the island you can see. They place violent criminals and political enemies there. Why do you ask?”
I sip more coffee, looking at the glimmer. I catch a faint whiff of citrus and pine. I think I know what happened to the Mask.
I turn back to Anwar. I put on a pair of sunglasses with a sun icon on the frames. “It’s winking at me.”
Sci-fi ? Telepathy ? Psychics
The technocracy will fall. And my powers started it all. Oops.
- Straight & queer romances. (No harem.)
- Seven-book interconnected series.
- Comedy Space Operas: .
- WLW Psychological Thrillerss: .