He couldn’t help smiling. Ren the god! That’s what his teacher had called him. This was the time for lowborn and mixed breeds, he’d say, to rise and use their powers against the so-called greats. In the before-time, those priestesses would have seen past his illusion, their wills so much greater than his. But most were empty vessels now.
Did they only respect him because of the embroidered fox on his tunic’s collar? It was a light embroidery and could have been a rat on closer inspection. A girl in the Bottoms had done it for him. It looked faded, and that suited him. He didn’t want anyone thinking too hard about it.
The hairs on the back of his neck rose; shadow rippled a warning on his skin. He glanced over his shoulder and then stepped into a shop entrance. He peeked around the door frame. A half-shadowed man watched him from across the street, four shops back. People walked past the man. He had power enough. How had he known to follow Ren? Even Maunyn wasn't aware of this disguise.
Ren started sweating profusely, and he searched under the robe for his blades. He’d not even used the Dark. Was it the illusion trinket? He’d forgotten it would draw power from him to function. It must be leaving a signature trail.
He should just gut the man in an alley. If it was Maunyn’s man, his master would commend Ren for winning. How could he not? The game of shadows included such mishaps. Stab first, talk later, was the teaching he’d received. Don’t let the signs of fealty, friendship, kinship, or any other tie or link fool you.
The robe was awkward, though, and he didn’t want to mess up his disguise. And then there was the ampule with the special poison—couldn’t risk breaking it. He missed his light tunic and pants, so easy to move in. He should have made himself an adept instead of a senior, but only a senior’s robe could get him into the instructor halls where his target waited.
He scanned the street as a hard, fast rain washed out all the shadows with a sheet of white. Ren craned his neck, peering down the street as the wall of rain crashed into the crater wall, dissipating in a hiss. The shadow was gone. His blue slippers soaked through in a gully of rainwater as he aimed for the taller cobbles, uncaring of how ridiculous he might look. He had to use this momentary break in the rain to get away from his enemy. The next deluge would ruin his disguise when it crashed down on them.
Ahead, at the end of the street, was the drill yard and instructor’s halls where the declared young of the Uppers learned history, wisdom, numbers, art, poetry, music, and the rest. Ren knew his letters, some ballads and poems, the important tales. His teacher had taught him well. Such things will make you sound higher than you really are, he’d say. Learn what impresses and do it with the right voice and air.
The order was to gather information on houses preparing for a confinement and this disguise was perfect. Unlike valley Mornae, who accepted any old blue robe and painted head, these Mornae would expect something more. The murder was a side job, it turned out. Someone who’d irritated the high matron. Ren would take care of that once his first task was done.
As he moved up the street, his back stiffened, his chin lifted, his eyes narrowed. He must project an unnatural dignity. The weight of the ages, fifteen cycles, rested on him. That was what he must project. He’d practiced, and the way the acolytes and squires acted assured him his performance was successful. People of the lower houses were always so eager to appear like they knew their place, and part of that was recognizing their betters.
He marched right up the ten steps and into a massive courtyard with stone seating along the perimeter. Now the trick here—he smirked at his own ingenuity—was that these youngsters were off limits, all declared. But they talked. They talked about their mothers, their matrons, their sisters’ prospects. Boys rattled off details about guards and knights, the weapons they used. He’d practiced the questions on valley Mornae. The queries gently led his targets to reveal the inner workings of their houses.
If their matrons only knew how they blabbed away their secrets! Mornae trusted diviners. They were neutral, after all.
He stifled a chuckle. How little they knew about the bald cabal.
He walked the perimeter once to get a sense of the place and expertly snagged an unused instructor’s stool. It had a brand on the seat; its owner was not a tenured instructor. Those stools had a metal plaque with the chief diviner’s seal. He dangled it lazily, nose in the air. It didn’t take long for a throng of acolytes to glom on to the senior diviner.
He found a quiet spot from which he could watch the entrance. His stalker must still be searching for him, but he was determined to get at least three bits of useful information for his master. To begin, he asked the girls their names, their houses, their ancestry. This was the easiest way to create rivalry—if it didn’t already exist—between them. The girls were all acolytes preparing for their trials, mostly second sisters, cousins, or nieces of their heiress. They all seethed with the desire to be a matron. This led them to talk. And talk. Ren tried to keep it all straight. They spoke in veiled metaphors, but if he paid close attention, he’d learn truths about these houses that he could never learn otherwise. None of Maunyn’s men matched his ingenuity.
The smacking of training spears drew his attention away and across to the drill yard. His breath caught in his throat. His shadow was back.
He watched his shadow through narrowed eyes. It was hard to make him out, not being in shadow himself. He asked the most vocal girl what she thought of Saethana’s conquest of the crater––always an easy conversation starter among young women. She straightened, chin up, as if she prepared to lecture. When she was well into it, he dismissed himself, claiming an urgent matter, but encouraged them all to listen to her.
He waddled away, his back stiff from sitting on that low stool. The blasted robe with its long, wide sleeves ensnared him as he searched for the handles of his blades. He’d had enough of his stalker. He needed to get out of there, but he’d only garnered one lousy tidbit from those girls. He could just discard the robe. He hated the thing, but it was valuable. Not like there were lots of senior diviners about. And his embroiderer had moved on, taken into a pleasure house or working as a housekeeper or servant in an estate.
He entered a small atrium for boys learning history. The boys were free to move between instructors as they wished. As he walked through, four stood up, expecting him to teach. He waved them away, glancing about for his shadow.
The sanctuary spire loomed ahead, a solitary spike of gleaming white stone. That was as good a place as any to wait out the assassin. Would a Naukvyrae dare sully sacred ground? His heart pounded in his throat. The place was full of fully kitted knights. There was a pre-trial celebration for an acolyte. He bobbed his head generously to everyone that looked important and meandered through them to the other side. He snuck behind a column to wait.
His hand trembled on the knife, pulling it from its sheath, keeping it hidden in the long sleeve. He didn’t like daytime work, not like this, not without the shadows to shield him.
Something sidled behind him, and before he could stop himself, the knife whipped out and with uncanny—perfect really—accuracy, sliced the throat of a pristine acolyte. Her lovely pale blue eyes widened, and her hands went up, but too slowly. Her pale gray skin reddened as a thin scarlet line split her open and blood sprayed out onto the diviner’s robe and his false pate.
He froze and watched her fall to the ground like a pear blossom, soft and lovely. Lungs in his throat, he turned and sprinted away, pushing a few people on purpose. The diviner did it, they’d say. Who had he been? Of what house? Let them remember what he looked like. The robe was no matter now. The acolyte’s blood staining it would cry out for vengeance for a thousand cycles. It was cursed. He was cursed.
The flesh of the acolyte is of the goddess.
Not now, he thought. Don’t speak to me of prayers now. I know I’m cursed.
He leapt over the garden wall; the branches of a blossoming tree grabbed at the robe. The alarm went up behind him, even a scream as someone discovered the body. He shed the blasted robe in the woods and dispelled the illusion. Nervous sweat drenched his hair, all of him a cascade of nerves, prickling and itching. His lungs ached as he ran up a slope away from the sanctuary. Slick rock fought him, and he slipped flat on his chest, crushing the ampule. He scrambled forward, choking back an angry scream. What else could go wrong? His master would kill him for breaking that stupid vial. Now he’d have to make up a story or just plain lie.
He ducked behind a pile of boulders.
Goddess above, what have I done?
His arm ached suddenly, so hard had he grasped the blade. Never let go of your blade, unless you mean to, his teacher had said. Her blood was on it, and up his arm. It hadn’t been as clean as he’d like. Who kills from the front? And her face, like a statue… so perfect.
Now, in the forest's silence, raindrops tapping on the ground below, every detail of her emerged to haunt him. She could not have been over fifteen. Her lustrous, silver-white hair gathered in coils, cascading down the sides of her head. A dress of fine silk, the hint of her breasts, the length of her. She was quality.
“Goddess above,” he whispered hoarsely. “What have I done?”
A priestess is the face of the goddess. So, went the saying, or something like that. Her sacred blood was on him. But a true priestess? Probably not. Why didn’t the goddess defend her if she was so precious?
He grew hot and angry. Why was it his fault? She snuck up on him! He was just minding his own business. Why was everything his fault? Regret burrowed in him. All his mistakes, conscious and unconscious.
Empty vessel or not, she was to be a priestess… Face of the Goddess.
Could he do nothing right? Such a crime could not stay hidden for long, not in a place where the very stones housed the goddess. She of a thousand, thousand eyes. Nothing hid from her power. They’d find him. Shadows would cut him down, torture his spirit until he begged for release. Oh, to be a failed priestess, swaying in the moonlight! The Zauhune champion was slaying Roturra’s finest because of an acolyte ruined centuries ago…
I’ve killed an acolyte, he thought. His insides melted.
No one knew this illusion, only the man following him. He was certain it was not his master’s man, and Ren needed to silence him.
He masked himself in shadow and fled the area. They’d send dogs soon enough. Not any dogs either, but the goddess hounds of Lor’Kiseyl. Those fierce, black beasts could smell him through any illusion.
Ren the god, indeed.
42
