Black Bottle

just nodded quietly and gathered up his clothes.

She made him breakfast. Tebeshian coffee for herself.

After that she put him to work caulking cracks in the basement and set herself at a small table to formulate her budget and forecast expenses. The savings made by buying instead of building had stacked up in the church’s larder: great sacks of wheat and shelves of canned goods. The northern brands offered no reassurance, all of them strange. Without a sense of quality, she chose the canisters of powdered milk that seemed the most welcoming: cartoon faces of bovine happiness shining in purple ink.

By the end of the day, she judged her stores sufficient to maintain the shelter for several months. She could begin pulling some of the burden off Cripple Gate, planning to feed one hundred twenty meals a day. The larger soup kitchen, two miles to the west, served nearly five hundred. But Cripple Gate was supported by Hullmallow Cathedral and the Church of the Mourning Beggar. They had more resources—a fact that didn’t keep them from noticing her efforts.

Taelin read the paper on the morning of the seventh and smiled. She was making an impact. People knew who her father was. The government couldn’t ignore her for long. And it didn’t. Mail arrived shortly after the paper indicating she would have her audience with Sena Iilool.

Taelin tried to contain her joy—and her anxiety. Don’t be rash. Be persuasive. This was her chance. The one she had been waiting for. Everything else she had tried in her life had ended in disaster. But this was going to be different. Deep inside, Taelin knew she was still young and inexperienced, perhaps even a bit naive. But she also knew that she was special because, unlike so many other people, she had the desire to do great big fabulous things and that was what she hoped to accomplish here in Isca.

She wanted to unleash something that would change the world, something they would remember her for. Forever.

But before attempting to bring public censure down on Sena Iilool, Taelin wanted to meet the woman face- to-face. After all, none of the papers or magazines Taelin had read indicated that Sena’s church had been established by her. Rather, the phenomenon had come out of the Pplar. Whenever a journalist had put forth the question about people worshiping her, Sena had always politely declined to comment. It gave Taelin hope that eventually the blasphemy would end.

Taelin spent the rest of the morning rehearsing what she would say. She left the midday meal service in Palmer’s hands, caught a streetcar at five before the hour and arrived on time, eighty minutes later.

The gates of Isca Castle were free of snow and a traditional Stonehavian carriage shuttled her from the gatehouse, through the south bailey and up to the castle doors. It was a cold ride.

A butler with the name GILVER pinned on his lapel signed her in.

After a brisk walk they arrived in a distant wing of the castle. Gilver stopped outside a set of oaken doors, knocked lightly twice then turned the polished porcelain handles and stepped partway in. His body expertly fenced Taelin off in an unobtrusive way. “My lady, the missionary Taelin Rae to see you from the new—”

“Reestablished,” corrected Taelin.

Gilver gave her a tight smile then continued. “Reestablished Church of Nenuln.” His voice echoed as if he were talking into a metal drum.

Though Taelin heard no response, Gilver stepped aside, granting her access to the chamber. This single gesture, and the demeanor with which he performed it, seemed to elevate her from stranger to guest.

Taelin walked into the stark room.

A sheet-draped piece of furniture despaired in the southwest corner. Aside from that and a ticking thermal crank the space was empty.

A woman in tight black riding pants straddled a wooden stool. Blond as a candle flame, she perched proud, silent and eerie.

Maybe it was her irrational sense that this was an ambush that caused Taelin to look up at the frescoed ceiling. Against the gray plaster, resplendent egg temperas of creepberries and vines had darkened with the centuries.

The ticking of the thermal crank was deafening.

Is she going to welcome me?

Despite the chill, the High King’s witch wore a white summer blouse. Ruffled off the shoulder. It revealed too much of her in equal directions, up and down. Taelin found herself staring at the woman’s bare trunk and the gem, like a lustrous black currant, that occupied her bellybutton. A heady mix of sensual physicality and dream-like etherealness volatilized the air. A fever-dream.

Gods! Those eyes! Empty and glyptic—litmus blue—so different from the billboards and yet—

Gilver shut the door. The sound tipped Taelin back on her heels. Stiffly, she looked over her shoulder but the butler was gone. When she turned, Sena’s eyes pierced her.

The High King’s witch held an ancient red book with one hand, vertically, like a ledger pressed into her thigh. The faded black sigil decorating its cover delivered a jolt to the center of Taelin’s head.

Taelin looked away.

In the other hand, Sena twirled a fountain pen languorously across her thumb. She was radiant, powerful and relaxed. Taelin began to understand by increments that this was not likely the place or manner in which Sena took most of her appointments. This had been blocked out, carefully. There were no curios. No distractions. Even the anemic lemon-chrome glow of a tiny window, which must have been unique to this quarter hour, kindled a halo around the witch’s head and enflamed the highlights presumably burnt there by the sun. Taelin got the feeling that everything had been perfectly timed and staged.

Finally Sena stopped spinning her pen. “Lady Rae, would you care to sit down?”

Taelin managed to keep from curling her lip. “No … your majesty. I wouldn’t dream of taking your stool.”

Sena smirked, showing spare amusement. “You don’t have to call me that.”

“What would you like to be called?”

“Sena.”

Taelin watched the woman tousle her curls. Pure swagger.

Then Sena’s neck extended slightly in Taelin’s direction. A feral cat catching the wind. “You smell like apples.”

Taelin laced her fingers. “Strange. Your priest said the same thing.”

“My priest?”

“I assume he was a priest. I visited your temple, what? Over a week ago now, I think.”

“Really?” Sunlight basted Sena’s naked waist as she leaned back on one arm. “What did you think of that?”

“It didn’t make me feel like I think a temple ought to make you feel. Let’s put it that way.”

“Haugh.” Sena pushed her tongue into her upper molars as she made the pensive sound. “Well it isn’t exactly a temple.”

Taelin sneered. “Then what is it?”

“It’s a colligation.”

“My father is an attorney. I—”

“I know who your father is. He used to come to Sandren.”

Taelin laughed. “No offense, Miss Iilool, but I doubt you and he were in the same circles back then.”

“Well, it was only a few years ago. Summer of ’59? Bishop Wilhelm introduced us. I had dinner with your father one night at the Black Couch.” She smiled thinly.

Taelin’s face turned hot as a lightbulb. “What are you suggesting?”

“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m just telling you that I know your father.”

“I doubt it. My father is a good man.”

“Is he? I’m glad to hear it. You asked about the colligation?”

“No, I don’t think I did.”

Sena smiled.

“I’ve come to build a mission in your city … and to speak with you … candidly.” Taelin took a breath, ready to begin her rehearsed admonition.

“It’s all right,” said Sena. “You’re not the first impassioned clergy that’s wanted me to publicly disavow all