“Tell me where he is. You have my word, Billy. And I’m sorry about your face.”
He was trembling, the scarf knotted up between his fingers, fresh blood on his lip. His shirt was ruined, and I couldn’t imagine he had that many shirts, not working in this house.
“Williamson,” I said. “Where’s my father?”
“The Singer,” he whispered, tears anew in his eyes. “He’s at the Singer. Praying.”
I nodded, then set Emily’s gun in the corner of the tiny room and went to the kitchen. I came back with wet towels and a bottle of dad’s better whiskey. The shotgun had been moved, bloody fingerprints on it. He probably picked it up, just long enough to see it wasn’t loaded. I’d never seen Billy use a gun, and I didn’t expect that to change today. I cleaned his face, made sure he drank three expensive fingers of the whiskey. He felt guilty about that, I could see, drinking the master’s bottle.
“You won’t hurt him?” he asked.
“And give him a way out? No.” I picked up the shotgun. “Thanks, Billy. Williamson. Get some ice on that lip.”
“Billy’s fine,” he said. He followed me out, locking the door behind me.
The Dome of the Singer sits on the edge of the river Ebd, on the far south side of Veridon. It’s seen better days, and most of those days were a decade ago. We kept one of our old gods here, one of the Celestes the original settlers found waiting for them in silent vigilance, hovering over the delta that would eventually become Veridon. That was from before the Church of the Algorithm, and their techno-spiritual dominance.
There are five Celestes, or were the last time I checked. Used to be six, but the Watchman flickered and disappeared, twenty years ago. I barely remember that; my mother crying in a closet, my father drawing heavy curtains across the dining room window and burning secret, heavy candles that smelled like hot sand. My parents followed the old ways, at least in private.
The door to the Dome was open, so I went in. The walls were thick, three feet of stone shot through with iron braces to hold it all together. The other Celestes had ceremonial houses, just places for worship and ritual. The Dome of the Singer was, at first, a practical matter. She sang, loudly. Or she used to. When I stepped into the cool dark interior of the Dome, all I heard were feet scuffing on stones and the low moan of breezes circulating through the drafty heights. She was silent, and I felt a chill.
The main level of the Dome was a single open room. The floor was loosely fit stone, time-eroded and haphazardly level. The walls were hung in the remnants of holy tapestries, framed in sconces that held cold torches. There was little light, at first just the illumination from the open door at my back.
I walked inside. In time my eyes adjusted. There was other light, a bluish glow that descended from the second floor. A broad central staircase of wrought iron twisted up at the center of the room. It circled a patch of empty dirt like a screw ascending a pillar of air. The ceiling was thirty feet up, with a matching opening, about twenty feet wide, through which the staircase rose. The glow came down through that hole.
Pausing at the bare patch in the floor, I looked up. I could see the shadowy smear of the Celeste eclipsing the smooth white ceiling of the Dome. She hung in empty space. I looked down at the bare dirt. One thing we’d learned about the Celestes; you couldn’t build under them. They exerted some kind of eroding force straight down. Any structure below them would wear away into this gritty gray sand in a matter of weeks. The flagstones near the sand’s perimeter were starting to show age, the corners crumbling like stale cheese under my feet.
The staircase ran around the perimeter of this circular patch of god-eroded dirt, slowly ascending until it reached the second floor. The inner handrail was raw, pitted rust. I put a foot on the first step and listened to the metal complain.
When I first entered, I remembered, I heard footsteps. They were still now. This level was empty, so whoever was here had to be upstairs. My father, hopefully. I sighed and started up. The staircase groaned and popped the whole way. Halfway up I swung the empty shotgun into my hands. It felt good, even though it was a threat I couldn’t follow through on.
The higher I got, the brighter the Singer seemed. I kept my head bent and my shoulders turned, to keep her out of my direct field of vision. I needed to be able to see clearly. I was making enough noise that whoever was waiting up top would surely know I was coming.
The staircase held up, and I made the second floor, crouching as I cleared the floor level. At first glance, the room was empty.
There were prayer shrines against the curved outer wall of this level, six of them, one for each of the other Celestes, including the boarded up shrine of the dead Watchman. They were arranged so that the supplicants would face the appropriate dome elsewhere in the city. Two of these shrines were on my side, dark wood for the Warrior, iron and glass for the Mourning Bride. The Watchman’s shuttered shrine was there too, smeared in the wax drippings of the mourning candles. I turned to squint past the luminous form of the Singer.
She hovered in the air at the center of the opening in the floor, surrounded by an iron railing. Her skin was pale against her bulbous, crimson robes. Her clothes were dark red and shiny, retaining form almost like a chitinous shell. Her eyes were closed. Her lips and the tips of her fingers were blood red and smooth. Light poured off her skin like mist on the river in winter. I had forgotten how beautiful she was, hidden away in this drafty stone building. How had we forgotten this, how had the city gone on to other gods?
“Put the gun down, son.”
He was just behind the Celeste, on the other side of the platform. Alexander was formally dressed, very sharp, a long black coat inlaid in crimson. He had one hand in the pocket of his coat, and with the other he pointed a revolver at me.
“I’d rather keep it,” I said.
He shrugged and flicked the pistol to his left. I came around the railing and walked toward him, the shotgun casually cradled in my arm.
“Here alone?” I asked.
“Yeah. You? All your friends waiting outside?”
“I’m alone.”
We both nodded thoughtfully. I looked up at the Singer and leaned against the rail.
“She’s quiet,” I said.
“Has been,” Alexander said, barely taking his eyes off me. “Three years now. Went from full volume to nothing in an hour.”
“You were here?”
He nodded. “We all were, all the Families.”
“But you still come?”
“Some of us.” He looked away, glanced at the shrine of the Noble, then back to me. “I still come, at least.”
“There’s a story for you. Dead goddess, still worshipped by the dying Families of Veridon.” I smirked.
He scowled at me and poked the revolver towards me.
“Get rid of the shotgun.”
“It’s not loaded,” I said.
“So why carry it?”
“Same reason you come here, I guess.” I smiled bitterly. He didn’t like that, but he dipped the revolver down.
“So why are you here?” he asked.
“Looking for you, I guess. Had a word with Billy. He says hi. I was at the Church of the Algorithm, earlier.” I turned to him. “Do you still carry an Icon of the Singer in your pocket when you go there?”
He grimaced, ran a hand over the smooth pocket of his formal coat. “That’s not a chance I take anymore. Times are too difficult. Too little trust, these days.”
“Yeah, I can bet. When did you stop?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Shortly after you left, I suppose.”
“Were you carrying an Icon when you sold me to the Church, dad?”
He froze, absolutely still.
“That’s not-”
“You sold me out, pop. Sold out everything I cared about.” I took a step forward, prompting the return of the
