Black Bottle

shine lights on the two of them. The ambrotypist begins with a litho for the papers and then takes two images on treated plates of glass.

She doesn’t want this. She works her demonifuge nervously between her fingers. She remembers that it is too much money. She must stop this. She must decline. She must turn this event to its one true purpose and the only reason she agreed to the High King’s donation in the first place: so that she could refuse it in front of the press, then tell all the journalists what she intends to do … how Nenuln will change the north forever. But it is too late. Is it too late?

The litho-slides have already been taken. If she declines now, they will print the slide of her accepting and then write that she changed her mind. She will look foolish and capricious. If she accepts, her entire goal will be compromised. But it is too late. She has been thinking while the flashbulbs pop and the journalists scribble. She has been smiling and nodding while her eyes circuited the room.

The ceremony has been abridged for her sake. The High King is already leaving. Taelin sees Sena standing by one of the crimson window panes. Wait! Weren’t all the panes replaced? The witch breathes on the window and then draws something on the frost-covered glass. The knight has reopened the front doors and the air is freezing. Sena gives Taelin a private smile and floats out into the snow.

CHAPTER

9

Royal Charity Backs Pandragonian Religion

by Willis Bothshine, Journalist

In a move some have called political desperatism, High King Caliph Howl gifted three hundred forty thousand beks to the reformed Church of Nenuln in the form of a solid gold trade bar. The king’s public donation took place at thirteen o’clock on Tes eleventh, Day of Whispers. The gift was accepted by Lady Taelin Rae, currently the church’s only acting clergy, before royal knights escorted it to Crullington Bank for deposit …

Taelin’s eyes skipped down, passing over details of her arrival and purchase of St. Remora.

But according to Dr. Yewl, professor of Stonehavian Politics, “Even if the [High] King’s donation doesn’t ease the tension between [Pandragor and Stonehold], it’s a smart thing for him to do, locally. He should do more of it. Shelters bring order [instead of] rogue panhandling to pay off squat lords. We need more infrastructure for rebuilding [people’s] lives.”

Before it came to its smug conclusion, the article turned out another line or two about the High King’s failure to build relationships with the south.

Taelin set it aside with a feeling of despair. Papers were for entertainment, skepticism and veiled malice, not messages of hope.

What had happened? But she knew. Last night she had had a dream. A beautiful white figure had appeared to her, standing in St. Remora. Haloed in gold, and orbited by fantastic lights, the being had told her, in a pure high language, about the blackness that had come crashing through her chancel.

So much like a train …

All darkness and smoke and dials spinning. Like a locomotive bursting into a station.

It was the witch’s train.

And Sena had her bags packed. She had used Stonehold up. She was done here, on the edge of escaping … far away.

The language was so simple, so beautiful and perfect, that Taelin hoped Nenuln would never stop talking.

Don’t let her get away, Taelin.

But I don’t understand the other things I saw. There was a man’s body, I—

You saw the future, Taelin. It is a gift.

*   *   *

TAELIN touched the demonifuge against her chest. So it was meant to be. She was meant to accept the High King’s money. She was meant to meet Caliph Howl.

Yet her dream had given her no clue how to chase Sena down. Taelin didn’t know any holomorphy. She had never been good at math. Nenuln will provide a way.

She set her cup of coffee down and got up to shovel snow.

As she approached the front doors, she stopped.

A single pane of red glass confronted her. How had she missed it? Its ill-fitting edges leaked cold air. Taelin looked at it closely. There was a finger-drawing melted into the ice, flower-like.

She wiped her hand across the mark. Strangely, she couldn’t make it go away.

She rubbed harder, scrubbing with her sleeve. She began to panic. Why wouldn’t the ice melt?

“Lady Rae? Is something wrong?”

Taelin whirled. “I thought I told you to have all the panes replaced!”

A former squatter named Vera, nearly Taelin’s age—whose youth had been rasped off against sidewalks and back alleys—put a worn, ruddy hand emphatically against her concave chest. “I did.”

“Then what do you call that?” shouted Taelin, thrusting her finger at the glass.

Vera shook her head, utterly confused.

Vera liked to remind everyone that she had been a landlord and had once taken good care of her properties. Taelin now doubted that was true and regretted having given charge of the church’s restoration over to her.

“I want that red glass changed out,” said Taelin. “Today!” Then she hefted her shovel and opened the door, squinting against the sudden brightness of the snow.

There had been no knock which was why, when she stepped out onto the powder-laden step, the man standing there startled her.

Thankfully, he gave no indication that he had heard her yelling. He wore a long black coat of felted wool that fell to his ankles and his smooth head, dappled like an eggshell, framed a warm face that smiled through a soft white beard.

“Good morning,” he said brightly. “My name is Alani.”

Vera poked her head out, interrupting. “Pardon me, Lady Rae.” Vera’s tone didn’t indicate that she wanted to be pardoned. “But there ain’t no fucking red glass to change out!” Then she disappeared and slammed the door, leaving Taelin outside.

*   *   *

“THOUGHT she was exotic, did you?” Sena smirked. “It’s all right. I’m not jealous.”

“Why are we talking about this?” asked Caliph. His neck was hot from the conversation.

“Oh, be serious. That priestess costume she wears? That’s just for show—”

“Just for show?” Caliph started laughing. “Well she’s a damn good fake then. She bought that horrible ruin with her own money.”

“Not her money.”

“Whatever. It’s her money now. Daddy’s name isn’t on the account at Crullington. Maybe I just handed a trade bar to a theologaster but—”

Sena’s smirk faded away. “Maybe you did.”

“Maybe I did. It doesn’t matter. It’s political.”

The night of her arrival had blown over. His desperate search, the way she had avoided him: the argument had already come and gone. Another stone tipping the pan toward something he didn’t want to think about.

The thermal crank’s fan had kicked in. He sat across from her in the east parlor watching the hot breeze tug her oiled ringlets. When she leaned forward in the chair, legs braced in an elegant K, shoulder extending so that her fingers could deposit an unfinished cup on the coffee table, Caliph coughed.

An angelus bell sounding from Temple Hill cleared his thoughts, reminding him of the time. “You’re sure you want to come with?”

“I’m all packed.” Sena looked up from her position, stretched between cup and chair. The filigree in her skin