“You should not be hard on the girl,” said Refractor Charlis. He governed the churches in Kash. “Friendship is a treasured thing. Elohm shines on such close bonds. And if the child has finished her chores, then what is the harm?”
The eldest sighed. “As you wish, Refractor. I won’t assign her any penance.”
The man shook his head. “Will you ever stop being uptight, Anglia?”
“I am calcified, I’m afraid.” She gave him a nod. “Thank you for your visit. Elohm’s Colours polish bright the world before you.”
“And yours.” He patted her arm with a friendly smile. “Master Dashvin, I had heard you returned from your expedition to the Heart of the Woods. I see you didn’t come back stained ruby.”
Dualayn chuckled, his belly pressing at the front of his waistcoat. “No, no, though I found something remarkable.”
“How blessed.” Charlis clasped both his hands around Dualayn’s and shook. “Now, I must be off. The high refractor is struggling to calm the furor of the mob over our king’s latest inspiration.”
“And Parliament’s passage of it,” muttered the eldest.
“Only in two of the three houses.” Charlis straightened. “The House of the Clergy opposed it. I still cannot believe the House of the Serfs voted in favor of more taxes. The House of Peerage, of course, I expected. Bribes, I fear, and lavish parties on King Anglon’s new pleasure barge have swayed lesser men from their duty to their counties.”
Avena didn’t hide her disgust.
Charlis winked at her.
“Good day to you, Dualayn. May Elohm aid your healer’s touch.” With that, the refractor strode off at an ambling gait, his hands folded behind his back.
The eldest shook her head. Hardness returned to the woman’s eyes. Something like disgust flickered in her expression. “Daughter Deffona, if you insist on ‘greeting’ our guests, you may be their escort. I have to see which patients are best for Master Dualayn to take with him.”
“Yes, Eldest,” Deffona answered, her voice a tight squeak.
The eldest whirled and marched with an imperious stride into the hospital.
“I see she still finds fault in everything you do,” Avena muttered.
Deffona winced. “She’s not that terrible. I mean . . . it builds character. Elohm never allows a stain too thick to hide his Colours.” She glanced at Avena then whispered, “How did Miguil react to your return? Did he shower you in kisses?”
Avena’s cheeks tinged as she leaned in, “He is properly chaste, as you well know. He’s not like some men.”
“Ōbhin?”
The memory of their near kiss simmered in her mind. “He’s one of the bandits who attacked us.”
“No,” Deffona gasped, grasping her arm. “Is it love that caused him to change sides? Did your beauty inspire him?”
Avena’s eyes narrowed. “Have you been sneaking romance novels into your cell?”
Deffona answered with an innocent smile.
“Why take a vow of chastity if you are so interested in that?”
“Who isn’t interested in what they can’t have?” Deffona asked with a straight face. “Didn’t you almost join the Daughters of Compassion?”
“It wasn’t for me,” Avena said. “Too much silence.” Too much time alone . . .
“Avena, child, let us begin,” Dualayn called. “You have your healer with you.”
“Yes, Father,” Avena answered. She hurried after Dualayn as he was almost to the entrance. Deffona rushed at her side. From her skirt’s pocket, she produced the valuable topaz wrapped in gold.
Inside the hospital, the beds stretched out to the right and left, each surrounded by their own curtain held up by a frame of cheap wooden dowels. The scent of sickness, sour sweat, coppery blood, and moldy cheese filled the air.
“Who has the worst infection?” asked Avena. The healers worked well on those.
*
Twice, the Rainbow Belfry had chimed the hour—a deep, sonorous reverberation that echoed through the streets—as Ōbhin appeared to lounge before the entrance to the loading yard. He, instead, watched the slow traffic moving up the street. Most were craftsmen who looked askance at him. One, a squat-faced Lothonian with a red rash across his pale cheek, paused, a blackroot cigar clenched between his teeth. Then he grunted and strode on, muttering, “Damn mudskins.”
Ōbhin ignored the slur. He was often mistaken for a degenerate Tethyrian. A people given to lounging in the warm, fertile plains of their lands. They hardly had to work to grow their crops, sparing hectares of land to cultivating their various drugs, especially the brown soothe that the locals here in Kash called Tethyrian weed. In Qoth, a man could be condemned to go gloveless even in the coldest day of winter and a woman stripped of her mask like she held no virtue for using Tethyrian vices.
Still, he knew the subtler narcotics, like white dream or feathered ash, from Tethyr had been traded beneath the noses of the guards in the royal palace, indulged by indolent noblemen and women who’d forgotten the hardships their ancestors had suffered eking out a life in the Vobreth Mountains.
Did Foonauri ever indulge? he wondered. When last he’d seen her, she’d been seated on an Onderian merchant’s lap, plying him with wine and brown soothe. She’d found someone who gave her the wealth and comforts she craved.
His mood soured. A scowl formed. Behind him, he heard Fingers and Miguil loading the first of the patients in the window as darkness settled on him. He glanced down at his black-gloved fingers. He’d killed for that woman.
You died for her, Taim, he thought. Does your soul resonate with rage instead of merging with the Great Harmony?
Bleak thoughts blanched his mind. The roar of the distant crowd at St. Jettay’s Square became a background buzz as his thoughts flicked up and down the street from the woman strolling along in her dark dress, a padded bustle adorned with a large bow enhancing the curve of her figure. His
