“Yes, well,” Maeve said dryly, “even priests aren’t perfect.”
That elicited another hearty laugh from the man, but he sobered quickly. “Forgive me, but in my joy at seeing the two of you I find that I have neglected, most grossly, your reason for coming. The vision you spoke of—when will it occur?”
They were both looking at him now, expecting him to have all the answers and wasn’t that the most damning thing? All they had to do was glance at him and the purple trousers he was wearing to see that he wasn’t a man with any answers at all, just a lot of questions, the answer to most of which, he suspected, was “and he died terribly, terribly alone, and terribly fat.”
He sighed. “It’s not as if someone just sent me a message with all the details, is it? They didn’t bother marking it on a calendar, you know.”
“Ah, but someone did send you a message, Challadius,” Priest disagreed. “I believe, in fact, that we may have had this discussion before. Your gift—your wonderful gift—is quite clearly a blessing from the gods themselves.”
“Great, this again,” Chall muttered. “Honestly, Priest, if the gods were handing out gifts, do you think I’d be at the top of the list? Or anywhere on the damn thing for that matter? Why, you’ve said yourself that I’m nothing but a philandering, womanizing wastrel with a heart of coal and ale instead of blood pumping in my veins.”
“I…do not recall ever having said that,” Priest said slowly.
Chall grunted. “Well. You probably thought it. Anyway, that’s not the point! The point is that if the gods were handing out powers, they certainly wouldn’t be handing them out to me. I mean, look at me for gods’ sake,” he said, spreading his hands. “Do I look like some champion of the gods?”
The Priest hesitated at that, opening his mouth several times only to close it again. Finally, he spoke. “The gods see far more clearly than mortal eyes, Challadius. And with that greater sight, they have seen something within you, something buried deep—”
“Very deep,” Maeve interrupted in a voice that sounded on the verge of laughter.
“Inside of you,” Priest went on, “a goodness, perhaps even a greatness of which even you yourself are not aware.”
“Then the gods are fools,” Chall said. Something—anger perhaps, or when it was in a priest’s gaze was it called something else? Divine retribution, maybe—flashed in the man’s eyes then, and Chall thought he had finally found the man’s limit and that he would soon be decorating the alley cobbles along with the three would-be criminals who were still snoring away in blessed unconsciousness.
“Enough,” Maeve said, drawing both of their attention—including the priest’s dangerous stare for which Chall could only be thankful—“we don’t have time for this. What Chall is trying—and, as usual, failing miserably—to say is that he does not know the exact time, only that it will be soon.”
Priest nodded, rubbing at his chin thoughtfully, and Chall watched, surprised by how anxious he was to hear what the man would say, whether he would agree to come or not. On the one hand, the man was an absolute, pompous busy-body who, if he had his way, would have likely chosen to perch on Chall’s shoulder and spend his days remarking on all the many ways in which he failed. On the other, Chall knew that despite a promise he’d made to himself fifteen years ago when he’d left their band—or been forced to leave…fleeing might have been more accurate—a promise to never once again allow himself to be embroiled in conflicts that had nothing to do with him and risk his head over it, it looked as if that was exactly what was happening.
Soon now, likely depressingly soon, he would be putting himself in danger, sticking his neck out for a man who had become famous—or infamous, more like—for chopping heads off. And if that was the case, there was no denying that he would like to have a man like Priest at his side. After all, whatever else the man was, he was a great fighter, a great scout, and perhaps the greatest archer of his generation, if not all generations. Sure, he was a pain in the ass, but he’d also managed to save Chall’s on far too many occasions for him to count, so if there was going to be blood—and he was not so optimistic to believe that there was anyway out of this without it—then Chall would want the man at his side.
Priest did not ask any more questions, did not argue that it was not his concern. He only nodded, glancing between them. “When do we leave?”
Chall let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding as a mixture of relief and annoyance rolled through him. He glanced at Maeve who shook her head at him, turning back to the older man. “You’re coming?”
“Of course,” the man answered as if were obvious that he should risk his life, that they should all risk their lives, for a man they had not seen in fifteen years and could have only loosely called friend. But then, judging by the fact that the three of them were standing there, perhaps it was.
Maeve grunted in clear surprise. “I am glad. Then, I suppose, we will leave just as soon as you gather your things.”
Priest nodded thoughtfully, then looked around the street, walking over and bending down to pick up a small, dull copper chain that had apparently been ripped off his neck when the youths had accosted him. He closed his eyes for a moment, as if saying a silent prayer, then gently tucked the chain into his pocket before turning back to them. “I’m ready.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
They came in the darkness, the mist rising up around them as if it was theirs to command.
We did not know what they were
