Chapter 27
They were travelling through a town called Tarflin when the faceless priests caught up with them.
Sunay didn’t seem to need an explanation: she just saw the look on their faces and began hurrying them down a side street.
Elver glanced over her shoulder, catching sight of a slice of white robe as it disappeared around the corner.
There had been a small group of them and they were carrying something heavy between them, although she couldn’t see what it was.
‘Down here, look,’ said Sunay, shoving them without ceremony down a narrow alleyway that was slippery with mud. ‘You see those blue doors there?’
The pair of doors looked as though they had seen better days and were partly covered with pasted-up advertisements for a nearby tavern. Artair touched one hesitantly.
‘In you go, in you go.’
They stepped through into a darkened space, and a large man loomed out of the shadows. Elver had an impression of barrels lined up against the walls, dusty crates covered in blankets.
‘Who’s that?’ snapped the large man. He had an equally large beard and a puckered scar that wound its way from his left ear to the bridge of his nose.
‘What are you doin’, just walking in like you own the place?
’ To Elver’s alarm, she saw that he was carrying a heavy club, the end of it blackened and smooth as though it had been dipped in tar, and he was eyeing up Artair like he’d be happier with his brains spread over a wall.
She raised her bare hands—at least there was plenty of skin on display to poison.
‘Oh Creg, I’m glad it’s you,’ said Sunay, rushing up to the man and patting him familiarly on one enormous bicep. ‘I just need a place to hide these two idiots for a moment. Do you mind?’
‘Sunay?’ The man—apparently called Creg—visibly relaxed. ‘I didn’t think we’d be seeing you until next month. The boss is still working on the tithes…’
‘Yes, yes, I’m just passing through on a bit of other business.’ From outside, Elver could hear people shouting. She couldn’t be sure it was the priests of Trilot, but whoever it was, they didn’t sound friendly. ‘Somewhere to hide these two, my friend?’
‘What they done?’ Creg looked genuinely interested, as if he hoped they were a pair of passing murderers.
‘ Creg. You know better than to ask those sorts of questions,’ Sunay replied brightly.
He chuckled. ‘Follow me.’
The man led them along a squalid corridor and down a short flight of steps into what was clearly some kind of store-room.
There were more boxes here, taking up most of the space, and a set of long, narrow windows that looked out onto the pavement above at foot level.
They were dirty and scratched; Elver wondered if the people walking past them outside even knew they were there.
‘Perfect,’ said Sunay. Creg, for his part, was already stomping back up the steps.
‘What is this place?’ asked Artair.
‘Just the business premises of another client of mine,’ said Sunay rapidly. In her brightly embroidered coat she looked very out of place amongst the boxes and dirt. ‘You can lay low here for a while, and I’ll have a little peek outside and see what’s going on.’
‘We don’t have time,’ said Artair. ‘We have to keep on towards Mother Maura’s sanctum or she’ll… We need to hurry.’
‘If we go out there now, they’ll catch us,’ said Elver. She glanced at the windows again. She could see a pair of feet, clothed in sandals, and the hem of a white robe. ‘Look.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Sunay’s right. We have to wait until its clear.’
The cub, who had been in her arms, wriggled abruptly, demanding to be put down, so she tipped him out of his sack. Immediately, he went over to the boxes and began sniffing them with great enthusiasm.
Blood , he said happily. Blood has been spilled near these things.
‘I’ll be back when I know the coast is clear,’ said Sunay, already heading back out the door. ‘Keep your heads down, my lovelies. I’m going to lock you in, just in case any faceless priests come rattling doorknobs.’ She closed the door behind her and they heard the key turn in the lock.
‘What is this place?’ asked Artair.
‘I guess it wouldn’t be surprising that a mage dedicated to the god of lies would do work for… less than respectable clients,’ said Elver. She nodded to the crates. ‘I think those things are stolen.’
Since there was nowhere else to sit, they made seats for themselves on the boxes. The cub settled down to sleep at their feet, his nose on his paws.
‘We don’t have long now,’ said Artair quietly. ‘A handful of days.’
‘I know,’ replied Elver. From somewhere above their heads, she heard a slow chanting. Quiet at first, as though it were some distance away, and then growing closer. Gradually, the words became clear and a cold feeling settled over her like a shroud.
Father of purity
Father of justice
Let us not be tainted by those with ill blood
Send your light
To burn the monsters away
The worst thing about it, she thought, was that it made her feel guilty, like she had genuinely done something wrong, when all she was really doing was existing. That was the insidious evil of Trilot: it made a home under your skin and stabbed at you from the inside.
‘What is that light?’ asked Artair sharply.
It was early afternoon on an overcast day outside, yet the strip of street they could see was growing brighter and brighter, as though the sun itself was edging towards them.
It was a hot, white light, illuminating the street and the other buildings so that every tiny detail was exposed: in a glance, Elver saw the marks made on a brick by a stonemason that told the world who had shaped the stone, a broken bottle that had been thrown into the gutter, green glass as clear as lake water, and the elaborate knot tied in a pair of laces as the owner of the boots scampered away along the cobbles.
And then a beam of pure white light flashed across the pitted surface of the road towards them.
She had a second to see that the bulky item the priests of Trilot were carrying between them was a vast iron lantern, and then the beam of Trilot’s light sliced across her arm—it burned like she’d been dashed with boiling water.
She yelped, scrambling backwards, and then Artair was there, shielding her body with his. Smoke rose from them both.
‘Quick,’ she said through gritted teeth. ‘Get directly under the window. It won’t be able to reach us there.’
They pressed themselves against the grimy wall, the cub twined around their feet. The little creature was trembling with terror. Artair crouched and placed his hand on top of the monster’s head, scratching behind his ears.
‘They’re scouring the streets.’ Her anger felt very close, like a hand around her throat, slowly squeezing.
‘The Twelve cursed shower of dung beetles. The faceless priests talk a lot about purity and justice and safety, but all they really want is for all jih spirits to suffer. Trilot feeds on our pain.’ When Artair didn’t answer, she found herself searching his face.
The lamp had passed on by, and much of him was hidden in shadows again.
‘Why do you hate your own kind so much?’ she asked quietly.
The cub looked up at Artair, pushing his snout into the boy’s leg.
I have decided I do not want to eat you , he said . So you shouldn’t hate us.
‘I don’t hate our kind,’ said Artair. ‘I just hate… me. Or what’s inside of me.’
‘Why?’
Artair shifted on the box. In such a small space there wasn’t a lot of room for his long legs.
‘Five years ago, I lived far, far to the south of this place. Far enough that even in the monastery’s library, I never found a map that showed it.
My people were a travelling people, living out of tents and caravans, always moving with the seasons.
I spent so much time outside then. I knew the sky overhead better than I knew my own face.
’ He paused. ‘I don’t remember that much of it these days.
I think what happened fractured all those memories, somehow.
We made our living from the breeding and selling of a particular type of pony.
They were hardy and fast, perfect for getting around the plains where we lived, and we’d take them to markets and sell them, or people would come to us—they were famous, those ponies, and they were the heart of our wealth.
And our lives, really. Just after we took our first steps, we’d learn to ride.
’ He smiled a little. Even in the gloom, Elver could see that smile contained very little that was happy.
‘One summer, my last summer, it was so hot all the grass died, and the plains were full of dry, inedible white grass, and we kept moving, looking for a place for them to graze. Usually, we’d let the ponies roam a little—they always came home—but that summer we were keeping them all together, paddocked in a herd so we could be sure that they were regularly watered. ’
Artair stopped, his head down. He scratched the cub between the ears again, and the silence spooled out between them.
‘What happened?’ Elver asked eventually.
‘I wish I knew, but in truth I have no memory of it.’ He sighed heavily and looked up at her.
‘I woke up to the smell of horse flesh cooking. My father was shaking me by the shoulders. At that time, fires were strictly forbidden, even for making our food, because the danger of the grass catching was so great…’ He trailed off again.
‘It’s alright,’ she said quickly. Seeing him in this much pain was unbearable somehow. ‘You don’t have to tell me.’