Chapter 12
Twelve
Ivy
The hum of the Temple of the Crown’s magic wraps around me as I gaze up at the immense marble building. I restrain a shiver at the sensation.
The gold spires of the four towers—three at the corners and the one in the middle that looms twice as high—shine as impressively as always. There’s no sign that a week ago, a sorcerer of the most reviled sort of magic attempted to carry out a horrific purpose from that central tower.
If I’d had any doubt that the All-Giver abandoned our continent after punishing the first rise of scourge sorcery with fiery retribution, the scene before me would erase it.
How could the One who is all things be here and not have noticed a mortal carrying out such horrific work in one of the grandest temples on the continent, in the tower dedicated to the highest of all divine powers?
I’d wonder why the lesser gods the All-Giver created haven’t noticed either, but clearly at least one of them has. Kosmel helped me direct the backlash of my unpredictable magic while I knocked down Wendos.
Why haven’t the godlen intervened further? Is Kosmel up to something, and he’s hidden what’s happened from the others?
Are they all waiting, giving us mortals a chance to set things right on our own? Poised to rain down more punishment if we can’t prevent the scourge sorcerers from going too far?
I don’t know where they might draw the line. We could be teetering on the edge of a second Great Retribution right now.
Which doesn’t make me feel any keener to step inside those pale marble walls devoted to all nine of the godlen as well as their creator. But I’ve got my part to play in the whole mission to set things right.
Benedikt passed on word through Stavros that a couple of the bug club members from Wendos’s group played a few hands in the cards room last night… and mentioned that they were planning to make appeals to their godlen at the grand temple this morning.
Stavros decided we would spend our morning strolling the outer field near the main entrance marking out spots for future strategic exercises. At least, until I spotted the two students I was watching for making their way out of the college.
I followed them at a careful distance, only stepping into view of the temple’s broad front steps just as the two of them vanished through the huge arched door at the top. They’re inside now, asking for a blessing or insight from the godlen they’re dedicated to.
It doesn’t matter what they want. What’s important is that they see and hear me.
I square my shoulders and stride over to the steps.
Climbing them today in the bright autumn sunlight isn’t quite as unnerving as my first trip up these stairs through the thickening twilight. Not knowing if I’d be struck down the second I set foot inside. Not knowing what deviant magic was being carried out up in the tower.
I survived my initial venture, and as far as I know, no one’s trying to destroy the city right at this moment.
My boots tap across the smooth marble of the entrance hall. I’ve taken to wearing them with my dresses even though slippers are more the fashion.
I’d rather not end up anywhere without every knife I can have on me. You can’t conceal much weaponry in a slipper.
I could walk silently, but I want the worshippers inside to hear my approach. It seems as if Ster. Torstem has already mentioned me to at least one of his followers. I can hope these two will be curious about what I have to say to the gods.
A few other figures pass me on my way to the vast worship room. When I enter the space beneath the vast arching ceiling with its panes of stained glass, I see several people kneeling at the godlen’s alcoves or simply strolling through the room in silent contemplation.
Thankfully, Kosmel’s alcove is currently empty—other than the tall statue of the godlen himself.
I march over, letting my boots hit the floor a little harder than is strictly necessary. From the corner of my eye, I see one of the two bug club members—who’s crouched before Inganne, godlen of the arts and play, in the next alcove over—glance my way.
Good.
I sink to my knees by the base of the statue and look up at the marble-cloaked figure of the trickster godlen with his sly smile. The sight of the carved rat on his shoulder makes me want to grimace.
What does my self-appointed divine overseer make of the scourge sorcerers co-opting one of his symbols for their use? He’s been awfully quiet the past several days.
Casimir suggested that I should come here and open myself up to Kosmel, see if he’d offer more of his inscrutable commentary. Even here, with the multicolored light shining down on me from the painted glass above and an aura of divine power quivering through my nerves, my body balks at the idea.
The first time the godlen addressed me, I was nearly dead with my defenses crumbled. The second time, I invited him in out of pure desperation.
I’m not dying or desperate right now. I’m not sure there are any other circumstances where I’d welcome that imposing presence into my head.
It’s plenty crowded as it is.
What are you going to say? Julita whispers. You can’t mention anything too unsettling with all these other worshippers around.
As if I need to be reminded. But I’ve had time to contemplate my tactics while waiting for the chance to act.
I bow my head and pitch my voice so that it sounds low but still carries beyond the alcove. As if I’m trying to stay quiet but my emotion is getting the better of me.
I’m hardly yelling, but if anyone nearby pays attention, they’ll be able to make out my words.
“Kosmel, please guide me. How do I make them see that sometimes change is necessary? I know that’s what you’d want too.”
I lapse into a brief silence. No divine voice resonates through my bones, but if there’s a door inside me I’d need to crack open, I’m definitely holding it tightly shut.
I’d rather the godlen realizes I’m not actually asking him these questions genuinely.
Maybe this is the last time I’ll have to put on a show. Stavros passed on word yesterday that Wendos was showing more improvement. Maybe he’ll wake up within the day and spill everything he knows, and the conspiracy will fall just like that.
Until that moment comes, I have to continue as if it won’t.
After a few moments, I speak up again. “Give me the fortitude to hold my ground when so much around me is wrong. Let them see how it could be better. Let us not cower in fear of the risks worth taking.”
Julita hums with an uneasy sort of amusement. Those do sound like the sort of sentiments Wendos would have approved of. And my brother would have whole-heartedly agreed with your point about risks worth taking.
I can hope I’ve earned a few points with any eavesdropping scourge sorcerers, then.
My gaze settles on the dice scattered around the feet of the statue. Gambling falls under Kosmel’s purview, and his dedicats often make their appeals or ask their questions with a roll that may convey his answer.
A tumbling die feels a lot less intimidating than a divine voice ringing through my skull.
I pick one up and squeeze it against my palm, thinking as loud as I can at the stone figure before me. Am I on the right path? You want me to take down the scourge sorcerers—is infiltrating their conspiracy a sound strategy?
Then I flick the dotted cube across the marble base.
It taps against one of Kosmel’s boots and rattles a short distance to the side, landing on a three.
The standard interpretation is that odds are yes and evens are no, higher numbers indicating a more emphatic response. If I believe the godlen had any hand in how the die fell, I could take a little comfort from that result.
If I believed it. Sometimes I still have trouble believing I haven’t hallucinated Kosmel’s interference with my life altogether.
I stand up, giving one last addition to my performance. “Thank you for watching over me and all others who don’t quite fit expectations.”
Without glancing around, I head out of the temple.
My stance doesn’t start to relax until I’ve left the last marble step behind. I meander across the cobblestone courtyard, taking a few moments to simply breathe before I barge back into the equally judgmental atmosphere of the college.
An urge niggles at me to rove farther into the city—to slip into Crow’s Close and find out the latest shady street gossip, to check in on the outer-warder families who haven’t been visited by the Hand of Kosmel in weeks now.
To snoop around the brothel where Torstem hid some of his accomplices or the orphanage he plucked them from in case the Crown’s Watch has missed something.
But I don’t know how closely the conspirators might be watching me. I can’t do anything that could suggest I have other, suspect motives for acting like a good scourge sorcerer candidate.
As I amble into the lane around the side of the temple that leads to the college, raised voices catch my ears. I pick up my pace and spot several guards milling about outside the palace wall farther down the lane.
My magic quivers in my chest with a hitch of my pulse. What’s going on?
I slow down to give me time to study the guards as I continue toward the college gate, and a well-built figure falls into step beside me. I have to suppress a twitch of surprise at Benedikt’s boldness, approaching me here in public.
“Don’t worry,” the bastard’s bastard says from the corner of his mouth, strolling along at a matching pace with his hands slung carelessly in the pockets of his embroidered trousers. “I’m using my gift of distraction to divert curious eyes.”
It can’t be that strong a gift when his dedication sacrifice was nothing more than the lobes of his ears. But there isn’t much traffic coming in and out of the college along this road anyway, and the guards now hustling into the palace grounds aren’t paying us any mind.
“What was so urgent you had to see me right away?” I ask, keeping my gaze ahead as if I’m walking on my own.
Benedikt pauses. His jaunty tone turns strained. “Those guards have a lot to answer for. Wendos is dead.”
I flinch before I can rein in my reaction. Julita lets out a cry of frustration in my head.
With a deep inhalation, I regather my composure. “What? I thought he was recovering.”
“From what I’ve heard, he seemed to be. He was starting to move, to murmur—more like he was in a dream than unconscious. The medics left him for the night—supposedly guarded, of course—and this morning they found his spirit had… departed.”
The scourge sorcerers murdered their own to cover their tracks, Julita mutters. No surprise at all.
The same thought had occurred to me. My jaw tightens.
I drop my voice to the faintest murmur. “It must have been his ‘friends.’ They realized he might talk.”
“Agreed.” Benedikt lets out a rough laugh. “Although how they breached the security of the palace prison… Well, I suppose if they have even rats on their side, we’re doomed.”
Not doomed. Just out of hope that we can count on anyone other than ourselves.
Anyone other than me and my precarious plan.
As my stomach knots, Benedikt risks a glance over at me. He seems to hesitate again.
“Ivy… Did something more happen up in the temple’s tower than what you all have shared with me?”
Shit. It takes all my self-control not to let my gaze jerk to his face. What has he figured out?
“I can’t think of anything,” I say cautiously. “Why?”
At the edge of my vision, I see Benedikt’s mouth slant at a discomforted angle. “I’ve simply gotten the sense that our lovely group dynamic has been thrown off since that night in a way that doesn’t fit what I do know. Stavros in particular has been acting rather oddly when it comes to you.”
I’m going to have to lay into the former general about how poorly he’s been hiding his hostility. My mind scrambles for an excuse.
“I think he’s a little sore that I tackled the threat without him,” I improvise. “The man does have quite the ego.”
Benedikt chuckles, but he doesn’t sound quite convinced. “You know, if there was anything else going on—we’ve been on this mission together from the start. We’ve looked out for each other. I hope I’ve never given you any reason to feel I couldn’t pull my weight.”
I swallow thickly. I don’t think Benedikt has fumbled the investigation. He’s been a valuable ally… Sometimes almost a friend.
When he kissed me that one time, mainly to give me cover, I could have imagined us being even more.
But he’s also the half-nephew, bastard or not, of a king dedicated to ridding the country of the riven. A king I’ve seen him yearning to impress, as much as Benedikt tries to pretend he doesn’t care much about anything.
I have no idea how he’d react if he found out the truth about me. And taking that gamble would put not just my life but our one current hope of destroying the scourge sorcerers in jeopardy.
“Of course not,” I say firmly. “Although I might start questioning your judgment if you insist on accompanying me right into the college for all to see.”
I give the second part a teasing lilt, but it serves its purpose. Benedikt winces and gives another chuckle that doesn’t manage to hold much humor.
“Point taken, Knives. I’ve got matters to attend to elsewhere anyway.”
He tips his head and veers off to make for the palace rather than the college.
Guilt sits leaden in my gut as I flash my bracelet to the gargoyle at the entrance and navigate the conjured maze to the directions embedded in this week’s absurd password. Flaming roaches lurch for righteous lust. I’m not feeling any better when I step out into the courtyard.
Julita makes a sound as if clearing her throat. I wouldn’t tell him either. He didn’t see Kosmel’s mark on you—that’s what’s kept Stavros from going overboard. And Benny can be a little erratic. This isn’t a matter where we’d want any more excitement than we’ve already had.
Her confirmation takes the edge off my guilt but doesn’t dissolve it completely.
I force myself to duck into the dining hall, because I’m supposed to be assisting with classes for most of the afternoon. Stavros will be incredibly unimpressed if I faint from hunger.
All through the hallways and between the tables inside the vast room, I sweep my gaze in search of furtive creatures sneaking about. I don’t see anything except the usual haughty nobles.
I’m making for the classrooms in the Quadring after my hasty lunch when a prickling sensation spreads across my left palm. I jerk my hand open in front of me.
The prickles soften into an unnerving tingle that seems to crawl across my palm alongside spindly lines even paler than my sallow skin. Spindly lines that form letters before my eyes.
You want more from this world. Tonight at the single bell. 50 paces into the woods. Come alone.
As the conjured writing fades away, my mouth goes dry.
I’ve been summoned.