Chapter Five #5
“… just rumors,” I heard a woman say from behind her handkerchief.
“If the Temple is bothering to …”
“What could the Temple possibly gain from covering up such rumors? If anything, it furthers their cause. It will drive the people further into their arms.”
“But it will cause widespread panic,” said the woman I had heard first.
“You don’t think the Temple knows how to profit from panic?”
“I think they are waiting to make their announcement,” came another voice, sharp and clipped, with the cadence of a man used to giving orders. “The king grows weaker every day. If he dies, the Temple will make its move.”
“They already are,” another voice responded, quieter. “Priests are preaching that his illness is punishment, or a curse. People are listening. They’re losing faith in the crown.”
“He’s coming to Quell for Plaguenight this year, isn’t he? He’d better double his guard.”
“The high lords aren’t blind, either. They’ll see an opportunity and strike while the throne is weak.”
“Or the mages.”
“Half the mages are in bondage to the wealthy, and half are serving at the Temple. The handful of independents will never be enough.”
“Who better to take over than the Temple if the Plague threatens us again? Clearly the monarchy has been too weak.”
“And you would rather have us controlled by a gaggle of Priests?”
“If it keeps the kingdom from falling apart, does it matter?”
My head swam as I tried to piece together their words. It sounded like the kingdom was coming apart at the seams.
One of the Novice Priests in the procession noticed Baldbeak and me and came bustling officiously over.
“What do you think you are doing?” he hissed, looking back over his shoulder to make sure the mourners weren’t listening. His breath stank of sour wine.
“We’re just watching …”
“With a raven on your shoulder! That’s terrible luck!”
Baldbeak snapped his beak at the man’s pointing finger, and he jumped back.
“That’s just a superstition,” I said.
“Of course it’s just superstition, you stupid girl!” snapped the Priest. “And superstition is bad for business. What if the grieving widow catches sight of the death bird? All the money she spent to ensure her husband enters the afterlife safely will be as naught. And we haven’t paid the Fool yet.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll go.” I spread my palms in surrender.
“It’s too late now!” the Priest hissed.
He grabbed for Baldbeak, muttering a string of words I couldn’t decipher.
Anyone else trying this would have lost a finger, but he must have been a mage—Baldbeak was frozen, with only his beady eyes able to dart about, and I saw the Priest wince and bite his cheek.
A tooth mage, evidently. The Priest tucked him under his arm like a bundle of rushes.
“No! He’s mine!” I grabbed at the Priest’s sleeve, but he wrenched it away.
Gasps rippled through the mourners as my raised voice caught their attention.
The Priest, holding Baldbeak, turned to them, pitching his voice so they all could hear.
“Do not fear, blessed ones. The Temple will cast out this corruption before it taints your rites.”
That oily tone made something hot and furious rise in me. I lunged at him again, clawing at his robes, shouting over the clamor: “He’s not a curse! He’s not an omen—you’ve no right!”
My voice cracked, but others had heard me.
Passersby started to gather. Some were shouting their support for me, while others were calling Baldbeak a demon, and worse.
The mourners looked like someone had waved a plate of old fish under their collective upturned noses.
The Priest frantically tried to silence the gathering crowd, reassure his paying customers, and keep Baldbeak restrained all at once, with very little success.
“Thief!” a man near the back of the throng yelled.
“Let the girl have her bird!”
As I had seen, there was already tension between the Temple and the commonfolk on the streets of Quell, and apparently it only needed something like this to set the powder keg alight.
The wealthy mourners shrank back against the closed crematorium door, but the rest of the crowd surged forward, shouting and jostling.
Elbows dug, someone threw a punch, and the first shriek went up as people stumbled over one another.
Someone fell against me, pushing me onto the Priest, who was wide-eyed and starting to panic himself.
He tried to push me off, snarling into my face, “Be grateful we do not haul you before the Temple court. This bird will be destroyed.”
I could feel Baldbeak’s fear through the bond between us, bright and sharp like lightning in my veins. And then I snapped, too. I clamped my hand around the Priest’s arm—the one that was holding Baldbeak.
I thought only of breaking his hold, but the bones beneath his skin bent to my will.
There was a sound like green wood splitting as all five of his fingers spasmed and snapped.
He screamed—a high, thin, ragged sound—and dropped Baldbeak.
The pain and shock must have made him drop the spell as well, because Baldbeak flapped his wings, unfrozen again, and landed on my shoulder with his feathers ruffled and eyes bright with rage.
Through all this, the skirmish went on around us, so loud that the Priest’s cry had barely been noticed.
Then the pounding of boots: the Watch, cudgels in hand, surging down one street, and the Temple guards down another.
I stood frozen for half a breath, with Baldbeak still on my shoulder, my heart hammering, then I turned and ran to the crematorium where I had been told I would find the Book Man.