A smile spread across Thelonious’s features, and he wrapped an arm around Syline’s shoulders to give her a grateful squeeze. She stiffened, her breath catching. His arm bounced back.
‘Sorry, sorry, should’na,’ Thelonious sighed. ‘You’re a sweet girl, Syline, thanks. Find me here later.’
Syline watched him go, wanting to say sorry in return, but finding her throat tight, the words strangled mute. The man in the lumbermill’s face filled her mind, grinning. She hurried into the church, suddenly cold.
The interior was truly something wondrous, as brilliant as the glimpse, she’d received from the outside, had seemed. That glimpse did no justice to standing within. The ground beneath her feet was marble. Different colours of the stone all fitted together to show the sun and dozens of star constellations spilling out from it. The pews were carved from this same stone. From stained glass windows showing the saints and angels of Soel, sunlight spilled into the church, enhanced tenfold by the enchantments laid upon the place, so that she felt as if it were the middle of summer, rather than on the cusp of deep winter. Suddenly she was glad to be a bit more lightly dressed than she would usually be. At the head of the church the altar rose, lit from behind by a titanic disc of gold, onto which sunlight was reflected from above so that it dazzled with all the radiance of the sun, casting the preacher in brilliant hues.
‘May I help you, my child?’ asked a priest at her back, making Syline jump.
He was dressed in white robes, a stole of brilliant orange and red hung around his shoulders. A symbol of the sun, carved from pure white marble hung at his neck. He made the symbol of Soel at his breast, hands forming a circle, before spreading his fingers down to show the rays. Syline returned it with the symbol of the Wanderer, a statement in itself, her linked fingers forming a curving bridge. He nodded his understanding.
‘Ah, you are not one of our flock. What brings a daughter of our brother church to the cathedral then, miss?’ he said with a genial smile.
‘I’m.’ She cleared her throat. She’d practised this in her head but was already forgetting the “script” she’d made up.
‘My name is Syline Petranski, daughter of the king’s foremost and general and close friend, Peter Petranski, and–’ She stumbled. She’d had a whole line of formally requesting the aid of their sister city, but all that made it out, as her voice broke, was, ‘I need your help. I’m in danger.’
The man had been mid-way through bowing in respect to her family name, but paused as she made that admission.
‘What, what kind of danger, my dear?’
‘Someone.’ She hesitated. ‘A powerful mage, with evil magic, is hunting me.’ Gods it sounded like she was living out a chapbook, there was no way they’d believe her.
The priest’s lips stiffened.
‘I believe this is a matter for the Dawnguard, if it was anyone else, I may have difficulty believing it, but with your family’s history and so far from home. Please, this way.’
He indicated a side door, tucked in a small alcove of the cathedral’s main hall, and led her through. Even in this more secluded hall, the architecture remained beautiful, glorious even. Walls were carved with frescoes that were married by stained glass windows opposite them, so when the sun was in the right position, the frescoes would be lit up in full colour. Despite the urgency of the situation, Syline found her steps stumbling, as she tried to resist pausing to admire them. The priest saw her doing so and slowed his step to let her enjoy the artistry.
‘Wonderful, are they not? Do you not have something similar in the Wanderer’s cathedral in Russenholde?’
The Wanderers’ worship was not as active as Soel was here in Dawnsteel. Syline only went once every three months, and on special days.
‘Mostly statues, I think we only have one stained glass window. A big one overlooking the altar.’ If she remembered correctly, it was made by Dawnsteel artisans. Maybe he was just showing off.
They passed several doors and, along the way, a number of armed men in a mix of shining armour and white robes moved by them, but near the end of the hall, he stopped at a fairly nondescript wooden door, but for a symbol of a sun and sword emblazoned upon it. He indicated a stone bench across from it.
‘Wait there for the moment, please. I’ll find a paladin with time to speak with you.’
He disappeared inside and, folding her dress, Syline got comfortable on the bench, hoping against hope this would work, and once more rehearsing lines in her head.
Thelonious had done a little shopping. It was hard to find shadier areas in a place where the light touched all things, but no one on the up and up in this place was going to give him a fair price without Syline at his side. Those mercenaries in the baths had been able to point him in the right direction for a few things on his list at least. Nice bunch as far as sell-swords went, respected a fellow professional, and that’s all you can really ask for.
That was why he was enjoying a fine imported cigar as he walked through the streets. Lodgings were next on his list, but he figured he’d check in and make sure Syline wasn’t waiting for him outside the cathedral. Nice girl, but he figured if this was a sure thing with the Dawnguard, this might be where their contract ends. If that was the case, he wasn’t lodging here for all the money in the world. He’d camp in the woods or try and join up with those mercs before they left town.
Thelonious’ head whipped to the side as something exploded on his temple, he couldn’t see, nothing but red. He was bleeding. He dragged a hand across his eyes as he moved back, blade half drawn from its holster on his back.
It wasn’t blood. The remnants of a tomato came away in his hand, juices splattered his new clothes.
A child across the street, standing at the edge of a courtyard, pulled back their hand with another before their mother caught them, and dragged them away. She didn’t apologise, but she at least had the decency to give him an apologetic look. He heard her hiss.
‘That’s a hellblooded, dear, not a devil. And he hasn’t done anything, yet.’
Yet. Always yet.
The child blew a raspberry at him as they went. Thelonious blew one back.
The crowd was dispersing from the courtyard now, only remnants like the child and their mother had been there by the time he arrived. That let him see to the centre, where another hellblooded, stripped to a loincloth, was bound in stocks. He was covered in the remains of tomatoes. A few rocks lay around the stocks as well. He noticed the sign: “A real devil, bound for the pyre”.
Well. Surely even these people wouldn’t mistake a hellblooded for a devil. Russenholde was a lot more liberal with his kind than most and they wouldn’t put up with their allies burning them at the stake.
As the crowd dispersed, Thelonious approached. Gods blood! The knee-scuffers had done a number on him, livid burn and whip wounds showed across his flesh and his eyes were practically stuck closed from bruising. How did you even burn a devil. He didn’t seem to notice Thelonious as he approached, too absorbed in cursing out this city, the Dawnguard, some woman named Amberly, the gods, and the hells alike.
Thelonious rested an elbow on the stocks, and leaned down, offering the man a cigar.
‘Oh, yes please,’ Laes said, pinching it between his teeth. Thelonious went for a match, before noticing the cigar was lit already.
‘So, you the real deal then?’ Thelonious asked, looking out at the dispersing crowd, many of whom were whispering and pointing as they noticed the hellblooded coming to talk to the devil.
‘Half.’ Laes blew out smoke from the corner of his mouth. ‘You’re a brave or stupid man yourself for coming up here. You know, I know they say there’s a difference between us, but I wonder how much these people really care.’
‘Ah, they’re more scared than anything, their preachers always telling them anything not in their “all so holy light” is out to get them from the moment they’re born. No wonder they’re full o’ hate,’ Thelonious mused. ‘Are they really going to burn you?’ he asked, as he locked eyes with an old woman glaring at the pair of them. She ran when he brought up his hand in a fist, pointer and pinkie raised to make horns, a common sign for hellblooded that many of his kind took as their own.
‘Oh, most definitely. Thankfully, that’s not the end for me, but it’s certainly going to be a lot of steps back. The real shame’s Amberly, she doesn’t deserve this. Doesn’t deserve these people.’ He sighed, blowing out another stream of smoke. ‘You’re very insightful for a…’ The devil craned his neck to look at Thelonious. ‘Well, no offence friend, you sound like a true hayseed. A farm boy.’
Thelonious laughed. ‘That I am, that I am. Never meant for the big city. Who’s this Amberly?’
