“Lady Deel?” Fess prompted again.
“I was just thinking how, after watching him lead the Vigil these past months, I’ve never seen Pellin so sure of himself,” she said. “It seems ironic.”
Fess almost smiled. Almost, but not quite. “Ironic that he seems more decisive in following the Fayit’s guidance than he ever did enforcing his own?”
She nodded, noting the formal turn his speech had taken since Bronwyn’s death. And Balean’s. “Yes. I hope he’s not making a mistake.”
“It is difficult to argue with someone who’s been alive so long they make Pellin seem young by comparison,” Fess said.
“Does age equate to wisdom?”
He gave her a direct look. “I’ve no experience with which to answer. Few in the urchins live long, Lady Deel. They die from the wracking cough in winter, or they’re caught stealing from the wrong man. Even if they live, age forces them to leave the urchins and join their lot to the thieves’ guild or the night women, where the chances of a long life are just as thin.”
His bleak assessment roused more in her than he’d intended, and she blinked to clear her eyes. “That seems a very wise answer to me, Fess. Perhaps if we survive this war, we can venture north and west to Bunard once more and see how Lord Dura’s bargain fares.” To secure the aid of the urchins during the slaughter of Bas-solas, Dura had wrung a concession from the church—they would adopt every urchin who was willing into homes where the children might find love and a future.
He nodded. “I’d like that, but I have the feeling that the city and the people in it will be as strange to me as I would be to them.”
“We should—” she began, but Fess held up a hand.
He cocked his head. “Someone is out front.” He paused. “Make that several someones.”
She knew better than to question him. The footfalls of their company were known to him, and they weren’t expecting any other visitors. “Bring Wag,” she ordered. “If they are not friends, we must be on our way.”
She followed him, thankful for the dirt and hay that silenced their footsteps. Her heart set a cadence that urged her to run. She groped at her waist for the only objects she couldn’t afford to leave behind, her scrying stone and her purse.
With Wag at their side, they ran out the back of the stable toward the wall and the gate that opened onto the back street. Throwing the bolt, they slipped through, casting glances to either side. She took enough time to close the gate, wincing at the sound the hinges made.
She reached out and grabbed a handful of Fess’s shirt. “Don’t run. You’ll attract attention.”
“I was raised in the streets, Lady Deel. I know better than to call attention to myself that way, but walking won’t disguise a sentinel.”
She nodded, turning toward the nearest alley. “Let’s get off this street and circle around. I want to have a look at our visitors.”
Moments later they crouched behind a large planter, watching men who moved with the fluid grace of the gifted, each wearing similar clothing.
“Do you know them, Lady Deel?”
“I have a suspicion that they’re church guards,” she said, turning away. “That would mean the Archbishop wants something badly enough to send them. But it doesn’t matter. We’re leaving.”
Fess didn’t stir from his crouch. “Lady Deel? What about Lord Dura and the rest?”
She couldn’t help but hear the tone of accusation in his voice. “How many men did you see, Fess?”
His features closed into a scowl. “Perhaps a dozen, with more already inside.”
“Too many for us to fight,” she said. “We will have to let Lord Dura and the rest settle this with their wits.”
“We can’t just—”
“We can and will,” she said, “or have you forgotten Ealdor’s instruction?”
“What about Modrie?” he asked.
She paused, weighing options and possibilities. “She has plenty of food and water. Willet can tend to her better than we.”
“What about the horses and supplies?” he asked.
“No time. I have money enough in my purse to replace them.”
“Is this what happens with the gift of domere?” he asked. “With all that time, do we all become stone inside?”
She chose to answer his question instead of his accusation. “The gift is given in the hope that those who receive it will manage to retain their humanity.”
Chapter 9
Time and rain in the south had been just as merciless as the forest in the Everwood, both conspiring to reduce their churches to nothing more than a shell. Though the church here had been built to last for centuries, even the best construction had to be maintained. The red tile roof had withstood the elements better than thatch would have, but it hadn’t lasted through a century of disuse.
As I picked my way through the narthex and entered into the sanctuary proper, I tried not to think of the parallels between the village church and myself. Spots of light came through holes in the roof, where tile and plaster had failed at last to keep the outside world at bay. “The pews are gone.” I don’t know why that surprised me. The sea had been implacable, but slow. The priests had probably taken everything of value.
I scuffed my foot in the sludge that covered most of the floor and noted the similarity to Ealdor’s church in Bunard. A broad central aisle provided the main access to the confessional rail and the altar, while smaller aisles on the outside ran past empty holes where I assumed stained-glass windows had been.
The altar was gone too, though for some reason they’d left the confessional rail. Evidently the exodus from this church in Aeldu had been more orderly than Ealdor’s little parish. I kept an eye out for snakes but didn’t see any as I made my way to the dais at the front, stepping to each puddle of light like a child playing hops.
Of Ealdor, there was no sign.
I
