“Ganna, please,” begged Mora. “Don’t tell her.”
“I won’t. It’s okay.” Her husband must also have been grieving—in fact, this must have been an even greater shock to him. Only his sense of duty to support Mora allowed him to maintain a tenuous hold on his composure. He went to speak to his daughter on the other side of the door. “Shenira, your mother has to talk about something very important. This is a Saints’ conversation, so you’re not allowed to listen.”
“Daddy, am I not gonna get better?” Shenira asked, sounding anxious.
“What are you talking about?” Ganna replied. “It doesn’t hurt anymore, does it? Auntie Torleau says you’re going to be okay.”
“I’m better? But my chest is a funny color.”
“That mark will disappear over time. It got better because you hung on. You’re a good girl, Shenira.” Father and daughter walked down the hallway. Left behind, Mora quietly sobbed as Torleau watched over her.
Torleau left some medicine with Mora and then departed All Heavens Temple. Mora tried to make her stay, but Ganna stopped her. Even if the Saint of Medicine remained with them, she still wouldn’t be able to help, and she had a responsibility to save all those who suffered from illness around the world.
After that, Mora left her duties as Temple Elder to her husband and shut herself in her room. Shenira was anxious, worried that now her mother was the one who was ill. But three days later, Mora received a letter from Torleau, even though she was supposed to have been long gone. Written on the front of the envelope was the word Urgent, along with a note that indicated the contents inside were not to be seen by anyone but Mora.
Alone in her private room, she read the letter. Her expression turned fearful, then angry.
“What the hell is this about, Mora?”
Five days had passed since receiving the letter from Torleau. Late at night, another Saint stood before her. The two of them were not in the parlor at All Heavens Temple but at an old fortress about two days’ hurried travel by coach. There was no sign of other people inside the old fortress or its surroundings. Even the coachman had been sent away. The bastion was cold and utterly silent.
“Agh, this is such a chore. I want a drink. If you’ve got something to say, get it over with already,” said the Saint, brushing back her dyed-red hair. Her decadent makeup did not befit a Saint, and her dress was lavish. The boozy smell of her hangover wafted all the way to Mora’s nose. This was a beauty with the air of sloth. Her name was Marmanna Keynes, and she was the Saint of Words.
“I’m sorry for summoning you out here on such short notice. I apologize for my rudeness.” Mora bowed her head.
“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you for a while now,” said Marmanna. “If you don’t mind.”
“What is it?”
“Why do you never age? How do you stay so young?”
“I eat my vegetables and don’t stay up late.”
“…That’s not very useful to me.”
I don’t care, thought Mora.
Marmanna had received the power of the Spirit of Words. Among all the seventy-eight Saints, hers was the one that could be called heretical. She had no offensive capabilities, but her abilities were extremely useful. The power of the Saint of Words could prohibit lies and coerce people into keeping their oaths. Breaking any vow made to Marmanna was never forgiven—if you did break one, you would find yourself paying the appropriate, unavoidable price. This would continue to hold even after Marmanna’s death. No Saint or fiend could nullify her abilities. The previous Saints of Words had used their power to act as witness to transactions between kings, nobles, and powerful merchants.
“Well, if this summons is for business, it can’t be anything good,” said Marmanna. “You want me to witness some backroom deal? Or make sure some paramour of yours keeps quiet?”
“I suppose it is a backroom deal. I want to ask you to help me guarantee that a certain deal will be honored. It would cause difficulties for me were the other party to renege on their word later.”
Marmanna giggled. “Oh my, a hushed exchange behind closed doors. And from the irreproachably moral Lady Mora! I’m dying to know what kind of arrangement this is.”
“My daughter has been taken hostage. I’m about to negotiate with her abductor.” The letter to Mora under Torleau’s name had in fact been from the one who had implanted the parasite within Shenira’s body. The culprit had designated a date and time for Mora to come to this old fortress. If Mora refused, her daughter would die.
“Oh my, Shenira’s been kidnapped? Ah-ha-ha!” Marmanna laughed cruelly. Mora glared at her, but the Saint of Words was not perturbed. The Elder beckoned, and they walked deeper into the old fortress. Within was the party she would be negotiating with.
“Kids just aren’t worth it,” said Marmanna. “What’s so great about them?”
“You’ll understand if you have one. If you don’t, you never will.”
“Plenty of parents never understand even when they do have kids, though.”
Mora didn’t reply to that. “I summoned Willone as well,” she said instead, “but she couldn’t make it in time.”
“Willone? What did you call that idiot for?”
Willone, the Saint of Salt, had been one of Mora’s students about a month earlier. She was skilled in close-quarters combat, wielding a purifying power that could drive out poison and evil presences.
“I can trust her skills in battle, and I can trust her as a person, too.”
“Hey…are you dealing with someone dangerous, here?” Marmanna’s expression tensed.
The pair approached the location of Mora’s appointment. Marmanna couldn’t feel anything, but Mora sensed a presence ahead—that of a strong foe.
They reached the deepest part of the fortress, a place that looked like the king’s quarters. A curious sound echoed from within. The sound of chewing. Not human chewing—the kind of sound that a beast or something even more fearsome would
