Chapter Twenty-One
Twenty-one
The way is saved. And when the Stone God returns, their efforts will begin anew, reach higher and higher, until those starry heavens above are finally reached.
—FROM THE WRITINGS OF THE HERETIC PLUTIS (RESTRICTED TEXT)
SETHANE IS BARELY LARGE enough to call itself a city.
There’s no grand wall surrounding it, no fine spires.
It grows out of a morning fog like a cluster of mushrooms out of a rotting log, dark and unwelcoming.
A haze of smoke rises from the cluster of large chimneys on its southern boundary; there’s a metallic tinge to the air.
Why anyone would want to live in such a dingy city escapes me, but then again, what better place for a trade as unpleasant and heretical as a Renderer’s to call home?
This is a fringed edge of the civilized part of the Devoted Lands.
The Goddess is nearly as far away as they can be, a distance that must be as reassuring to the Renderers as it is unpleasant for me.
As the last of the fog burns away, something bright flickers in the distance, appearing on the mountain range.
It’s followed by another, and another. I pull my horse to a stop, unsure of what I am seeing.
Spikes of faceted crystal rise out of the mountains, massive enough to make Belspire’s towers look like toothpicks stood next to trees.
There are dozens in view, more I suspect that aren’t, all stunning and impossible ornamentations.
A wonder, which begins to answer my questions about why anyone would bother to maintain a city in a place like this.
Entering Sethane feels as anonymous as my travels to it.
Few of its denizens take notice of me as I enter the squat gathering of buildings, all of which are gray and uninviting.
I pass through a lackluster market, where unenthusiastic vendors hawk their unappealing goods, and rotting bits of vegetables slick the road.
The people here are drawn, tired, and there’s a dark dusting of soot to everything from the chimneys.
Smelting operations, I gather. But clearly not prosperous work.
There are no fine smells to the air here, like in Belspire, no smiles, and the last thing I expect to come across is a festival.
Still, as far from Lumeris as Sethane is, the Goddess is here.
The flame insignia decorates stone facades or is painted on doors.
Sure, the paint is chipped and the carvings worn down, but there seems to be no lack of outward piety.
I make my way through the streets, frustration growing as I fail to locate the Renderers’ wagon.
That’s all I need: to have come this far in pursuit of them and Nolan, only to lose both at the very end.
Nolan can’t have much time; every moment the Renderers keep him alive is a moment he has to escape.
If I were them, I’d want to get him drained, chopped, and stewed as soon as possible.
I’m going to need help to find him in this unfamiliar city, and there’s only one place I can count on finding it.
A few minutes of searching is enough to bring me to a square with the Goddess’s visage at the center, upturned palms flickering with small, oil-fed fires.
A church sits nearby, dim within and smelling faintly of incense, wooden benches taking up most of the space before a small altar.
The pews are empty, save for one shriveled old man who appears deep in prayer.
He stirs as he hears my approach, takes me in, and then, clutching his reverie, rises shakily and makes his way to the exit with a hobbling gait.
Pious city or not, there’s something about Sethane’s brand of worship that already feels very different from Belspire’s. Which is a relief—I’ve had my fill of enthusiastic executions.
“Hello?” Small as the space is, the word echoes. Seconds pass before a cleric appears in the doorway beside the altar. No traveling mud cleric like Avery, and yet, there’s a shabby appearance to him, as if the road he’s walked has been a long one.
“Hello,” he says, with a touch of wariness. He must not get many visitors or strangers, or both. “May the Flame warm you.”
“Oh”—I turn my palm upright, summoning the flicker that passes as my divine ability—“it does.”
The cleric’s eyes widen and he drops to his knees, averting his gaze. “Chosen of our Goddess… forgive me, I… I didn’t realize…”
“Of course not, why would you?” I interject, annoyed and embarrassed. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to reveal myself so quickly, but I need information fast. “Get up, please. Kneeling is… unnecessary.”
He obeys, gaze remaining downcast. “I’d begun to lose hope. Not faith of course,” he clarifies quickly, stumbling over the words. “But it had been so many months, and we hadn’t heard anything from Lumeris…”
“I’m sorry?” The way he’s speaking, it’s almost like he expected me. “I’m looking for your Prior. Or Cleric of the Blood. Whoever is in charge here.”
Finally, the cleric raises his head, blinking. “I… Oh. Apologies, Chosen One. I assumed you were Prior Fedic’s replacement.”
Fedic. The name isn’t familiar, but all that tells me is that they are old enough that we didn’t share time at the Cloisters. “Prior Fedic is the Goddess’s hand in Sethane?”
He nods. “But he departed some months ago. I thought perhaps you had come to take up his position.”
“Departed? To where?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know. He left quite abruptly, leaving no word on where he was going or when he might return.” The cleric’s eyes drop once more. “Of course, I would never question the comings and goings of the Chosen. It’s only… at Prior Fedic’s age… I had concerns, you understand.”
… no decrepit Prior… The memory of what was said in the barn is less than heartening, and I suspect Prior Fedic isn’t showing up again anytime soon.
But if the Renderers got him, why hasn’t the conclave in Lumeris sent a replacement yet?
Or investigated the Prior’s disappearance when reports stopped coming in?
“I would not presume to know your business, Chosen One,” the cleric continues. “But if I can be of any assistance…?”
“You can,” I say, still mulling over the possibilities of Fedic’s fate.
It doesn’t make sense. There is no greater asset to the Goddess than their Chosen…
or so we’ve been told. I examine the humble surroundings plopped in the center of this distant smudge of a city.
This isn’t exactly a choice assignment. It wouldn’t be given to anyone considered of high value among the Goddess’s ranks.
And the strength of our blessing fades, eventually.
Maybe Fedic’s had faded so much that he wouldn’t be considered any great loss.
Prior Petronilla’s threats rise in memory. I always thought she’d be doing me a favor, making sure I was stationed in some quiet, boring place. But if a city like Sethane is the reality of that? No… even Petronilla would never send me to a place filled with Renderers, not knowingly.
I turn my attention back to the waiting cleric. “I’d hoped to find the Chosen in charge, but it is not necessary. First, no one else needs to know I’m here, nor do you need my name, or any other identifying information other than what I’ve already communicated. Do you understand?”
The cleric nods emphatically.
“Good. I’m here to investigate some… disturbing rumors about heretical practices in the area.”
The cleric blanches a little. “Heretics? Here? That’s… unthinkable.”
“Is it?” I crook an eyebrow.
“I mean, not unthinkable,” he stammers, growing increasingly nervous. “Sethane is pious, of course. Dedicated entirely to Tempestra-Innara… and their Chosen.”
“But…?”
He twists his fingers. “You must understand… here, so far from Lumeris, beneath the crystal ziggurats…”
“The ziggurats? Those towers on the mountain?”
“Yes.” The cleric seems surprised at my ignorance of them. “The former places of worship of… of…”
I stand straighter, summoning my feigned authority. “You may be frank with me, cleric. No punishment will come of it.”
This seems to assuage him a little. “The Stone God,” he gets out finally.
“Prior Fedic was dedicated to smothering any questionable practices, but the ziggurats have always drawn those who cling to heretical beliefs, who feel they are a symbol that dead gods only sleep. Sethane used to be… more than what you see, but the number of penitents needed to work the mines at any meaningful level of production…” He pauses, hesitating again.
“There were uprisings, aided by the heretics. Lumeris deemed support an inefficient use of resources, and so the majority of the mining enterprises were abandoned.”
And a disposable Prior installed.
“The ziggurats,” I say again. “Tell me what you know about them.”
His head ducks. “Very little… and only what is common knowledge in the city,” he adds quickly.
“They were built by the Stone God’s followers centuries ago—the materials quarried from the mountains—to be closer to the heavens, to the stars.
They believed the Stone God’s heresy that the answers to all would be found in the marriage of the stone to the heavens.
But then… when the Stone God fell…” He trails off.
“Please.” I keep my tone soft, encouraging. “You may continue.”
“When the Stone God died, the ziggurats changed. It is said the earth quaked like it never had before, and a great wave of power washed through them, changing the normal stone to the crystal that remains today.”
Crystal? “Interesting,” I say aloud, yet again irritated that my extensive, Cloister-based education has so many gaps that a simple cleric in the middle of nowhere is better informed than I am.
But I’m not here to learn about the Stone God.
“The heretics who still worship the Stone God, are there any in the city?”
Again, the cleric hesitates. “We try to keep them out, drive them away, but…”
“Just tell me, cleric. I’m not here to report back on how well you are doing your job.”
That doesn’t seem to encourage him. “Most keep to the mountains, near the ziggurats. They come here for food, supplies. Every so often one of your honored Bellator brethren and their legion sweep the hills, but the heretics simply retreat deep into the mountains. And, of course, Prior Fedic tried to find them when he could, but they are like rodents. No matter what is done they return.”
“I am seeking some very specific heretics. I know they are here, though I don’t know the city well enough to guess where they might be. Do you have any idea where they might congregate?”
The cleric shakes his head. “In the city they are very… discreet.”
Not helpful. I try my next idea. “Would you have a map of the city I could consult?”
He brightens. “Yes, yes, of course. Please, follow me.”
The cleric leads me deeper into the little church, into the rooms at the back. One appears to be an office, small but nicely appointed, though it’s clearly been used by many as opposed to few. There’s a door, half cracked, that opens up into a bedroom of a similar situation.
“These are Prior Fedic’s chambers,” the cleric explains. “I keep them dusted, but otherwise everything is as he left it.” He goes to a bookcase filled with ledgers and scrolls, and chooses one. “It’s a bit out of date, but—”
“This is fine.” I unroll the map on a desk, using a pair of dried-out inkwells to weight it down. “Might I peruse it in privacy?”
The cleric blinks at me for a moment, unable to fathom that I’ve asked politely instead of barking an order. Maybe Fedic wasn’t a pleasant boss. Then again, who would be, shoved off into this sad little corner of the Devoted Lands?
“Yes, of course,” he says finally, with a final duck of his head before leaving me blessedly alone.
I start to examine the map, but my attention is drawn to a stack of letters at the corner of the desk.
There are dozens of them, tied into bundles, but it’s their seals that pique my interest: the fiery-red wax of the Cathedral.
Dispatches from the Priors and Clerics of the Blood who manage the more mundane affairs of the Devoted Lands bear that seal.
I slip one letter out of its binding and open it. Inside is a message, short and direct.
Your report has been received. Proceed as previously.
I take out another letter, and another. All have some variation of that simple, dismissive message.
They might as well have not written back at all, because what they are saying is clear enough: You’re no longer of use to the ranks of the Chosen; have fun trying to not die while being miserably far from the Goddess.
It’s enough to almost make me feel sorry for Fedic.
But there’s nothing I can do for him, so back to the map.
It’s a simple thing, black ink scratched on parchment, though better detailed than I expected.
I trace a finger through the streets, starting at where the shrine and church sit, following the avenues through the same market squares and residences I’d expect to see in any town.
As I do, I play a game: If I were going to dismember and render a human body, where would I do it?
There’s a nagging sensation in the back of my mind, since I know any building in the city might do, and that there’s no way for me to search them all.
But there’s another thought too: one that says that if I didn’t want to be caught doing the worst form of heresy, I wouldn’t do it in the city at all.
My finger travels around the outskirts of Sethane until I find something of interest.
“Cleric!”
It’s almost amusing how quickly he reappears. Probably waiting no more than a step outside in case I needed something else. Which, now, I do. I tap my finger on the parchment, on an area filled with buildings and chimneys, though they have been scratched out. “What’s this?”
He looks. “The remains of the old refineries, Chosen One. Only a few still operate, but when the mines were more active…”
“So, no one uses them?”
He shakes his head, pointing at a spot between them and the bounds of the city. “The city dumps its waste here. Beyond that… all ruins.”
Ruins and trash. Not the sort of area anyone would frequent. Unless they had something to hide.
“Do you require anything else of me, Chosen One?”
I stare at him, summoning what I hope is something akin to the rock-hard, no-nonsense expression that Prior Petronilla used to affix me with. “Only your discretion. You are to speak to no one about why I was here, or what I asked you about. Do you understand?”
His chin drops to his chest in an instant. “Of course, Chosen One. I am only at your service, as representative of our most divine and holy Goddess, Tempestra-Innara.”
With his head down, he doesn’t see my eyes roll.