Chapter Eighteen
Eighteen
The Endless Storm is their promise to return.
—VILLAGER, NAME FORGOTTEN
WE WATCHED AN OPERA troupe perform in Lumeris once.
It was a rare treat, a lesson in the arts.
I remember how grandiose the story was, the ridiculous events piling atop one another, until the whole thing toppled like a cake with too many tiers.
But of course, a toppled cake is still cake, so it all worked out swimmingly in the end.
I can’t help but be reminded of it as Avery and I ride.
Me, a Potentiate of the Goddess, tasked to find heretics and bring them to justice.
Avery, a heretic costumed as a devoted cleric, plotting against the very deity he’s pretending to serve. Both of us with the same deicidal goal.
Surely the right composer could put that to song.
But that shared objective doesn’t make us allies. Sure, I could reveal who I am, what I overheard, try to join forces with my new friend.
And then I could ride right back to Belspire and confess my sins to Caius.
Not going to happen. Whatever kind of opportunity this is, I’ll bide my time in figuring it out.
Luckily, Avery likes to chat. You wouldn’t think it of a secret heretic, but he clearly has a cleric’s gift for gab, and the sort of personality that can walk into even the most unwelcoming place and find a seat at a table before the sun sets.
“—but of course, this far north, you can’t get fresh swordfish, only the dried or salted sort, which isn’t really any good at all. Except for stews. It makes a half-decent stew, especially if you can find some abalone to go along with it.”
“So, you’re from the southern coasts?” If his complexion hadn’t tipped me off, his culinary preferences certainly would have.
“Guilty,” he replies. “Have you been?”
“ ’Fraid not. They need bodyguards down there?”
“I’m sure there are ships or caravans that could use a good sword, er, sickle from time to time. There are pirates in the deeper waters. They hide out on the little unpopulated islands where they’re hard to reach, though I can’t claim to have ever run afoul of them.”
“What brought you this far north?” I venture. “Clearly it wasn’t our fish.”
Avery chuckles. “No, definitely not. I spend most of my time in the south, but my Order encourages a pilgrimage to the Cathedral at least once in a while. I’m on my way back from that, albeit along a winding, scenic route.”
The Cathedral. Could Avery have been at the execution? Not inside, clearly, since he’s still alive, but maybe the heretics had other spies around, waiting to see how their assassination played out. “I heard about the massacre that happened, during that execution. Were you…?”
“No.” The word is quiet, soft. “I’d come and gone before that. But the tragedy… what a horrific loss of life.” There’s genuine sadness in his voice.
“Yes, it was,” I say, expecting Avery to continue.
He doesn’t. Maybe he and his friends hadn’t considered what Tempestra-Innara might do to hide their vulnerability.
It’s slow going, two on a horse, and we don’t make it far before the sun begins to drag low in the sky.
But the decrepit forest has thinned, finally giving way to verdant fields peppered with wildflowers and stands of young trees.
We make camp in a copse, where Avery gets to work immediately, pouring water from a skin into a small cooking pot and filling it with a porridge made from dried grains, beans, and bits of meat.
I take care of the horse, wishing it was Mortimer as Avery stirs the food almost lovingly, chattering about a village he visited a few weeks ago and their generous gift of supplies.
“It’s almost as if they knew I’d need to feed more mouths than my own.” He takes a spoonful and blows on it before tasting, then adds a bit of seasoning.
“Must be one of those blessings from the Goddess I hear so much about,” I say.
“They provide for those who do their work.”
He lies so sincerely. I almost wish I could tell him how impressed I am. Few would suspect a cleric turning on the Goddess, fewer still one such as him.
“After Galeas will you head back south?” I join him by the fire, already aware that he’s got his orders from Novena, but the lies are entertaining, and one way to pass the time.
He shrugs, handing me a bowl of his creation.
He has only one set of utensils and graciously gives me the spoon while he makes do with a fork.
Fortunately, the stew is hearty enough to be eaten with either.
“A wandering cleric rarely goes where they want. Instead we go where we are needed, which might change from day to day.” He pauses, smiling. “Today you need me. Tomorrow?”
Tomorrow you’ll head straight for your fellow heretics. I smile back, chewing thoughtfully. It’s not the fare that came out of Belspire’s fancy kitchens, but it’s better than what Nolan managed over a campfire. Even the thought of him doesn’t dampen the flavor.
“I see your wanderings have taught you a thing or two about cooking. This is really good.”
He smiles, genuinely pleased by the compliment. “Thank you. My duty is to teach the will of our Goddess, but I learn too. I’ve managed a particularly extensive study of regional porridges and stews.”
“What else do you pick up on your travels?” A talker will talk, sometimes saying more than they intend to, so I’m happy to keep our conversation rolling.
He thinks. “I’ve learned to sleep on the ground to start. And I’ve learned just because you can’t see the bugs in the mattress, it doesn’t mean they aren’t there.”
Great, now I’m going to worry about mattress bugs. “Here’s a better question: Why did you choose to serve the Goddess?”
“We all serve the Goddess.”
Not even a hint of hesitation.
“Of course.” I keep my voice light. “But not like you do. What made you want to enter the kind of service where you get to sleep on the ground, curled up with bugs?”
His gaze drops to the coals, which glow with a velvet heat that almost looks divine.
“That’s not much of a story. I was an orphan,” he says, “living on the streets until I was taken in by a kind merchant. He was also a scholar of sorts, with an impressive collection of clerical texts. His influence inspired me to join the clergy, when I was old enough.”
How utterly normal.
“I hope to repay his kindness through service,” he finishes.
“Seems like you’re doing a good job so far.” I scrape my bowl, the last mouthful of food helping me swallow what I’m really thinking: that being a conspirator in the worst heresy in living memory is a strange way to cover that debt.
I keep watch most of the night, then catch a few hours of sleep once dawn rolls in.
Another delicious porridge greets me when I wake, this one dotted with bits of dried fruit and touched with maple sugar.
One could almost feel guilty, deceiving Avery while he’s being so kind.
But he’s deceiving me as well, so maybe it’s an even trade.
Another day passes (too slowly) as we plod our way toward Galeas.
Avery talks more often than not, but about nothing, innocuous topics like farming communities and the best times of the year to travel to certain areas.
Even after the long hours, he’s easier to chat with than I would have expected, but no matter how I try to nudge our conversation in a useful manner, I don’t learn anything helpful.
This is the last day. Either he gives up some good information or tomorrow I take his horse and go. I don’t feel guilty about that. Clerics are used to walking. He’ll be fine.
“Tell me about the southern ports,” I ask after we’ve made camp, the touch of early dusk glazing the forest surrounding us. It’s not a clever prompt, but it’s something. “Maybe once I get back on my feet I’ll head that way.”
Avery nods approvingly. “They’re beautiful,” he says. “Well, the ocean more than the ports themselves. Blue waters, breezes that smell like salt and flowers at the same time. The winters are cold, but not like they are up here, where you can freeze to death too easily.”
“Yeah, seen a few cleric-sicles in my time.”
He appears vaguely horrified at that. Which gives me an idea. I’ve been asking questions about his travels, his life, and offering lies in return. Maybe a sprinkle of truth is the way to go.
“I grew up in a mountain village,” I explain. “There were always a few that didn’t have the sense to know when a storm was coming.”
“Ah. That must have been upsetting to see.”
I snort derisively. “No… well, a little. I used to think they were mad, though, to die in such a silly way. And all to spread a divine word we’d already heard before. You’d think they’d want to live for the Goddess. Not die for them.”
Avery is thoughtfully quiet for a few heartbeats. “It’s an honor to die in service to the Goddess. Though I’d like to think the Goddess is kind and merciful enough not to desire a pointless demise.”
My mouth tastes sour all of a sudden. And when I tap the spoon against the wood of the bowl, it sounds too much like cracking. I set the food down.
Avery’s brow knits. “Are you okay?”
No. I feel angry and frustrated. And cold.
“Just remembering those frozen clerics. And… I came through Belspire before you found me. They burned a heretic there recently.” A lump forms in my throat.
“It was ugly, more than it needed to be. A violent death that seemed pretty pointless to me. Sometimes… I wonder if the Goddess even cares.”
Avery blinks at me across the fire. Interrogation might not be my specialty, but I know a little something about blasphemy.
“The flame is the punishment for heresy.” Avery speaks in a carefully neutral timbre, giving away none of his thoughts.