Chapter Fifteen Claire
Language is evolving. If we hope to liberate future generations from Diu’s curse, it is imperative that all Florentians understand the Gods’ War as written in L’Histoire des étoiles. I propose we separate the Old Tongue from the new.
Chapter Fifteen
Claire
As I step into the Church of the War-Torn Gods, the sharp burning smell of melted wax makes my eyes and nose prickle.
Churchgoers laugh and converse in small, scattered groups that linger between the pews.
Service has just ended, thank goodness. A green-robed cardinal steps down from the pulpit on the dais and retreats out a back door.
Rows of candles flicker on the wall, below the suns’ perfect-eclipse emblem.
The donation trays—full by now, I’m sure—are nowhere in sight.
The pews are mostly empty, except for Lyle in the back row. He hangs his head as if resigned to the guillotine.
“Bonjour.” I take a seat beside him. “Angéline found you quickly.”
“I made it easy. I asked the concierge at my inn to send a message to the station.”
My fingers tighten around the stiff wood beneath me as I take in the interior of a church with dragon eyes for the first time.
This one is larger and grander than Sellecastel’s church building was, with finer architecture and drapery than anything our donations could afford.
Rarely did a cardinal travel through our little town to bring new wisdom or philanthropy funds, but still, we were grateful.
It was the community—the friends—we found under that roof that kept us close to our faith.
Now I have none.
“You’re settled in?” Lyle asks. “Somewhere safe, I hope?”
“The top floor of a five-story building. We’re very lucky.”
He sniffles and rubs his nose. I’d cry too if Papa were missing. Boys like their tough exteriors, though. So do I.
I bump shoulders with him. “The candles irritate my nose. Why don’t we step outside?”
He chokes on a laugh. “Thanks for the cover, but I want to stay for a while longer. It makes me feel closer to Ma.”
Poor Lyle. We have three weeks until the next Ignition Day. He won’t find his mother in this church until then at the earliest. The wait will be miserable for him.
“You don’t feel safe here?” he asks, noticing my tight fingers on the bench.
“Diu ruined my life. Can you blame me?”
“I suppose not.”
I force my grip to soften. “Abel wants to know how you’re holding up.”
“Not well.” He lifts a piece of folded parchment.
“What’s that?”
“Another demand from Ma’s captors.”
I snatch it. “Already?”
He nods. “Someone slipped it into my pocket before service.”
It takes me a moment to parse out the Old Tongue, but mentally, I gather the gist of the scrawled note.
Learn which dragon pit Monsieur Estellio will use to slay Hanna’s target. Deliver a note with the precise location to the church before the full moon.
I bring a hand to my mouth. This demand proves that my hunch about their motives was correct. There’s only one reason those silver-masked criminals would risk their lives to ambush Abel at the scene of a slaying. They plan to assassinate him—and pin the blame on the dragon.
Just as they did to Ravinfort.
Abel was right about his bad luck. The attack on Ravinfort wasn’t even meant to include him, but we still stumbled upon it.
Between that massacre and Lyle’s extortion, those assassins must be working hard to suppress any scrap of progress toward a cure. This second demand note is just more of the same—another attempt to stage a death by dragon, then slink back into the shadows, like the silverwolves they tamed.
If the assassins are this motivated to remain undetected, I’m starting to wonder about Madame Afi’s chances. Lyle’s, too.
I risk a sideways glance at him. His posture is decent, eyes anxious but alert as they wander the pews. He hasn’t reached the same conclusions I have. No need to frighten him without taking my thoughts to Marshal Bard first.
“This demand doesn’t specify where inside the church to leave the note,” I whisper. “They must plan to pickpocket it from you.”
“I can’t believe I didn’t catch who planted it on me in the first place.” Lyle lowers his head into his hands. “Do you think those killers are among the clergy?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised, personally.”
His smile turns watery. “This place doesn’t feel safe after all.”
“You’re still alive, though. Once the Gendarmerie form a plan, the truth will come out.”
“I keep thinking back to that day I yelled at Hanna about Abel’s research.” His knee starts to bounce. “If only I’d kept my mouth shut—”
“You couldn’t have predicted what happened.” I squeeze his shoulder. “Besides, even if you hadn’t done it, I’m sure someone else would’ve alluded to a cure in his possession. Rumors of Abel’s research had reached Port-de-Chance well before you said anything. It’s the reason I hired him.”
Confusion cuts into his expression. “Why did you want a slayer with a bad reputation?”
I pat my satchel. “I was fishing for a discount.”
“Just business, then.” He laughs, accepting the demand note when I offer it back. “I’ll need to let Ma’s abductors pickpocket me to appear compliant. Did Abel reserve a dragon pit yet?”
“He’s working on it.”
“Tell a gendarme as soon as he does. Hopefully it helps create a rescue plan for Ma.”
I pick at my petticoat. “We probably shouldn’t make direct contact for a while. If the culprits see me around you more than once, they’ll realize you sought help.”
He nods. We sit in contemplative silence while the rest of the crowd filters out.
A young altar girl soon enters. She extinguishes each lit candle with a shiny brass snuffer.
I keep my head down and my scar angled away.
Her back is turned and she’s unlikely to hear, thanks to the open doors and the boisterous city crowd, but I didn’t survive this long by taking risks. Time for me to leave.
“Challenges your faith, doesn’t it?” Lyle says.
I blink. “What does?”
“When harm comes to innocent people. Like Ma.” He smiles wearily. “Sometimes it feels unfair that Diu took the miracle of immortality and creation magic from everyone just to teach our ancestors a lesson about crime and greed.”
I remain in my seat, intrigued that a Guild member would say something akin to my beliefs. “That’s a lesson your mother’s abductors refuse to learn, it seems.”
“I wish Ma were immortal.”
“If only The Tale of Stars had a verse for this.”
He must not catch my sarcasm, because he asks, “Do you know a good one for death?”
“Your mother isn’t dead,” I say gently.
“I want to mentally prepare, in case her survival is too much to ask for.”
A copy of The Tale of Stars is tucked into the back of the pew in front of us.
The modern translation for L’Histoire des étoiles.
No author nor translator is listed on the title page inside the green cover.
I flip the pages with unpracticed fingers.
Lies, lies, lies, shouts the darkest part of my mind.
Stories of magic and morals that protect no one from Noctu or Diu.
I find a familiar page near the end, in Part III: The Age of Mortality—the scripture dated After Ascension. Papa read it to me once when I was a little girl who wouldn’t stop crying because I’d never get the chance to meet my late maman.
“I like this one,” I lie, offering him the book. His eyes glaze with tears. “Would you like me to recite it for you?”
He nods.
“ ‘Life is, for mortals, borrowed time. Just as the flowers sprout and wither, so to stardust you must return. Be at peace upon final breaths, for even under these violent skies, you have lived well, and as designed.’ ”
Once I finish, I slide the book into the back of the pew.
Thickness fills my throat. That passage, although written by the first generation of mortal humans, doesn’t bring comfort.
It glorifies human fragility by suggesting our bodies will live on as another creation, the ingredients of our existence broken down and sorted back into the solar and lunar domains of magic.
Imagining my maman watching me from the stars once consoled me only because it consoled Papa. I was following his lead. Now all I see in the night sky is an unmovable owl constellation that means nothing to me.
“Thank you.” Lyle wipes his eyes. “My faith has been…slipping somehow. I sense it like I sense the density of moonmetal under my mallet.”
“It’s not greedy to think your mother deserves better, Lyle. You’re under a lot of pressure.”
“So are you.” He casts me a pained smile. “Protect Abel for me. He always tries his best, but he grew up with a silver spoon in his mouth, so he’s not very street-smart.”
“Believe me, I know. We’ll keep in touch.”
I leave the church. The city stench is a welcome friend as I inhale deeper than any breath I took inside. Out here, I’m free. The Tale of Stars cannot touch me.
I’m not faithless, though.
I have faith in the journal of Abel Estellio.