Triah
THE GATE TO FAMED TRIAH, the great Circle City, was nowhere near as impressive as Cinzia remembered it. A wave of embarrassment washed over her as she checked her sister’s face. She had told Jane of Triah’s grandeur numerous times, but this gate was no better than the gates they’d grown up with in Navone. Of course, Jane didn’t know that this was just the outer gate, or that there were two grander gates beyond; but, then again, Jane didn’t seem to be paying much attention to the gate, anyway. Instead, her eyes repeatedly looked to the city beyond.
Farmlands and homes sprawled outward from the wall that encircled the greater city, spilling into the valley along the river toward the cliffs to the north. Cinzia felt the excitement stirring within her at the thought of seeing the city: the Trinacrya, the Crystal Pyramid, the trim tower-houses and apartments, and of course God’s Eye overseeing it all.
But Triah was no longer her home, she reminded herself. Just as her family had fled Navone, and would likely never return, her life here—the chapel she had once run in the southwestern corner of the city near the harbor and the Cat District, her apartment at the seminary, her friends in the Denomination and in her congregation—was no longer hers. Her former Goddessguard, Kovac, was dead. Everything had changed when she had returned to Navone and discovered her sister had become a heretic, the Prophetess; and soon she had joined in the heresy, had become a disciple in the new Church of Canta, an Odenite.
Perhaps there was nothing left for her in Triah at all.
And yet Jane had dictated they come. Cinzia obeyed, dutifully, but her own feelings warred within her the closer she got to the Center Circle. Not only her misgivings about returning to the city itself, but her misgivings about Jane.
She looked over at Knot, walking beside her. The three of them—Cinzia, Jane, and Knot—had come to the city alone, leaving the other four Disciples behind, for now. “Do you feel anything, being here?” she asked. “Lathe was from Triah. What about your other sifts?”
Knot grunted. “It’s all familiar to me. That’s Lathe’s doing for the most, but others’re responsible for it, too. The investigator, and one other, I think. The warsquares champion.”
“But do you feel anything?” Cinzia asked.
Knot looked up at the gate before them. He only shook his head in response.
Cinzia sighed. Knot had been quiet lately—ever since their confrontation with the Black Matron, where he had evaded the trap laid for him by the sift Lathe and the Daemon Bazlamit.
The gates opened before them as they approached. Inside was a squad of Khalic soldiers, waiting for them. The men wore full armor and plumed helmets, each carrying a spear, shield, and sword. The captain, his plume red instead of white, asked to see their papers.
Cinzia reached into her satchel for the documents they had been given by the parliamentary representative to secure them entry into the city, and showed them to the captain. He examined Knot, Cinzia, and Jane closely; he must have been given descriptions of their appearance.
“Very well,” he said. “You may enter the city.”
The soldiers parted, allowing Cinzia, Knot, and Jane entry into the city. But before she could enjoy being in her city once more, another group of armed men greeted them just inside the gate.
Sons of Canta.
Cinzia recognized them easily; their red-and-white livery made them stand out even more than the Khalic Legionaries. There were a half-dozen of them, but they parted to make way for a woman and man. She wore the robes of the priesthood, but they were trimmed with gold, and a long gold chain hung from her neck. A high priestess—one of only nine on the Sfaera. Cinzia recognized her—she would recognize any high priestess in person—as Garyne Hilamotha. Her Goddessguard, an older, grizzled man with high cheekbones covered in scruff and a higher hairline, walked beside her.
“Cinzia Oden,” High Priestess Garyne said, frowning as she met Cinzia’s eyes. The woman’s dark hair sat atop her head in a towering bun, and her dark eyes were ready to pierce whatever they locked on to. She was almost a full head taller than Cinzia.
Cinzia and Knot exchanged a glance, then Cinzia stepped forward. “Yes?”
Garyne looked Cinzia up and down, then handed her a large envelope. “This is for you,” she said. She and the Sons turned and walked away.
“Well, that was short and sweet,” Knot said, puzzled. The last time they’d been confronted by Sons of Canta, back in the city of Kirlan, they’d nearly been slaughtered on the spot. Now they didn’t seem interested in the Odenites at all. “We could have done with more of that back in Kirlan.”
“Cinzia, are you all right?” Jane asked.
Cinzia had not taken her eyes off the envelope since Garyne had handed it to her.
“What’s that?” Knot asked. “What’d she give you?”
“These are my papers of excommunication,” Cinzia said softly. She knew they could not be anything else.
Slowly, she broke the seal of the High Camarilla—the familiar circle-and-triangle of the Trinacrya embedded on a blazing sun. The excommunication of someone who held the priesthood had to go through the highest bodies of the Denomination. Cinzia unfolded the note, and began to read.
A tear dropped from Cinzia’s face onto the paper, and she quickly brushed it away, wiping her eyes with one sleeve. A plain, brown linen sleeve. No crimson and ivory; no robes of priesthood. She’d thought she had come to terms with the idea of never being a part of the Denomination again. It was corrupt, after all. Flawed.
And yet, for years, it had been her home. The Denomination had taught her so much—in addition to Cantic doctrine, she had learned history, sciences, and medicine at the seminary. She had made friends in the Denomination—Goddess rising, she had met Kovac there. The thought of him, of everything they had been through and everything she had been through since he died, racked her body with pain and regret. She could not feel her fingers, she realized. She could see them, gripping the letter in both hands, white-knuckled, but only the slightest tingling sensation made her aware that they were attached to her body.
“Silly of me to get worked up about this,” she said, her throat dry. “I have not been part of the Denomination since we left Navone; no reason to let it affect me now.”
She felt Knot’s hand on her shoulder. “Grieving ain’t something we can control,” he said. “Comes at us in different ways. Usually when we least expect it. Sometimes we think we’re over a thing, but turns out that’s far from the truth.” Knot glanced at Jane, then back to Cinzia. “Nothin’ wrong with being sad about losing a part of your life, something you thought would be with you for a long time. Doesn’t do us any good to wallow in it, either, but ain’t nothing wrong with acknowledging the grief is there.”
Cinzia met Knot’s eyes. Whether the words were his own, or dug up from one of the buried sifts that made up his soul, or from somewhere else entirely—she loved him for saying them. The embarrassment heating her face faded, just a fraction of it.
“Of course,” Jane said quickly. “Knot is right. You are part of something new, now, something greater than you’ve ever been a part of before, but… it’s all right to acknowledge that you miss the past.”
You’re better than this, Cinzi.
Cinzia almost jumped at the sound of the voice echoing within her mind. Only she heard it; it came from Luceraf, the Daemon of Pride, who now festered inside Cinzia, seeing and hearing just about everything Cinzia did. Every time Luceraf spoke, Cinzia felt a jolt of horrible realization at what she had done.
She had made a deal with a Daemon. It had been to help those she loved, but the Denomination had been right to excommunicate her. Even if all the other charges weren’t true, or if she could explain them away, there was one she could not.
She consorted with Daemons.
You’re better than this, and you know it. You’re better than the Denomination—you were too bright a star for the likes of them. But you’re too bright for your sister’s little charade, too.
Luceraf didn’t know what she was talking about.
If you don’t see it now, you’ll see it soon, Luceraf hissed at her. Trust me, Cinzi. I know what I see.
* * *
They parted company from Knot in the city—both he and Cinzia had old contacts to find, in very different worlds. Cinzia and Jane spent the day in search of people and organizations that might support their cause, but didn’t make much progress. Now that she had been officially excommunicated, Cinzia was cautious in who she approached. Not everyone would be willing to even speak with her, let alone help or offer support. She certainly could not contact anyone else in the Denomination.
She also regretted bringing Jane. People had heard of the Prophetess of the new Church of Canta, and even if they were interested in such a thing, they were extremely cautious about showing it. The Denomination had all but threatened excommunication, at best, to any who sided with Jane and the Church of Canta.
Walking about the city had been a small comfort at first, but then it had become just as painful as reading the papers High Priestess Garyne had delivered to her that morning. She saw the seminary, and her apartments where she had lived—where she would surely have no place anymore. She wondered what happened to the meager belongings she had left at the seminary, but was too frightened to ask after them, or to even approach anyone in the Denomination. It made her think of the friends she still had there, and thinking that she had given all of that up hurt. Even seeing Canta’s Fane from a distance was painful.
The memories were too strong, the pain too fresh. With time, she hoped, like anything, it would heal. But she was glad to leave the city as the sun set.
“Well, today could have gone better, I suppose,” Jane said as they passed through the outer gate alongside homebound merchants and farmers, and turned off the road to find the Odenite camp.
“Yes,” Cinzia said quietly. “I suppose it could have.”
“Will you translate with me tonight?”
The two had not translated anything from the Codex of Elwene since they had left the city of Kirlan. Since before Cinzia had made her bargain with Luceraf.
You fear translating, Luceraf hissed in Cinzia’s ear.
But it had been long enough since she had translated. They needed to get back to work.
“Absolutely,” Cinzia said, filled with resolve.
Jane smiled. “Wonderful. Let’s get set up.”
The Odenite camp was almost a town in itself; they had brought hundreds of followers on this journey, and many more had joined them on the way. Their tent was located toward the center of the bustling camp, alongside the tents belonging to the rest of the Oden family. It was larger than most, made of waxed canvas that did a fair job at keeping out the weather. The two women nodded at Alidar, the Prelate guard assigned to guard their tent. The translated pages of the Codex of Elwene were kept in their tent, and the two had agreed it was best not to risk losing them. A Prelate guard was posted at their tent at all hours of the day. Alidar’s long face, patchy beard, and bright eyes were familiar, and Cinzia smiled at him as she ducked into the tent.
The inside was cozy, and barely high enough for them both to stand without stooping. Two cots lined two of the walls, while a small traveling desk stood opposite the entrance. Jane approached the desk quickly. Stacks of paper covered the ground around the desk as well as its surface, and Jane began to go through them.
Cinzia went around lighting candles. It was still light outside, but nightfall was imminent. And she wanted to do anything possible to avoid even touching the Nine Scriptures.
You’re afraid because you think I’ll learn something I shouldn’t, Luceraf said, a hint of realization hanging in her voice.
Again, Cinzia refused to answer, but again, Luceraf was right.
Finally, after primping her pillows—she usually sat on one of the cots during translation—and changing into a more comfortable dress, Cinzia had nothing else to do to avoid what came next. Jane sat at the desk expectantly. With a sigh, Cinzia reached for the bag beneath her cot that housed the Nine Scriptures. The Codex was not light, but considering the pages themselves were made of metal, it was not as heavy as it should have been.
Cinzia heaved it onto her cot. She sat cross-legged, and ran her hand over the leather cover of the book before opening the Codex of Elwene on her lap. She marveled, as she always did, at the strange, dark metal pages as they shimmered in the candlelight, a wave of crimson often appearing to ripple across them.
“Very well,” Jane said, a broad smile on her face. She was clearly excited to be back in the process again. “We were in the Book of Elwene, were we not?”
The Codex of Elwene, also called the Nine Scriptures, was a collection of scripture written by Canta’s original Nine Disciples shortly after her Reification. The writings had been compiled and abridged by a woman named Elwene, and her words served as a coda for the collection. Despite her fear, Cinzia was curious to see Elwene’s commentary.
“We were,” Cinzia said, scanning the pages. Odd. She had gotten used to opening the book directly to the spot where they had most recently left off, but right now she was having trouble finding her place.
“Cinzia?”
“I…”
Cinzia did not know exactly how her ability to translate worked; the Codex was written in Old Khalic, a dead language that no one understood anymore. The characters and words appeared as strange symbols and patterns etched into the metal. Cinzia did not speak or understand Old Khalic, but over the past year, she had been able to discern what the symbols meant. If she simply read through the Codex, she could read uninterrupted, as if the book were written in Rodenese. But if she examined any word or character too closely, it blurred back into Old Khalic dizzyingly.
But now, as she looked at the words on the pages of the Nine Scriptures, Cinzia had absolutely no idea what they said. She could not read them at all.
“Jane,” Cinzia said, a lump forming in her throat. As she turned the pages, she realized she was shaking.
She had been unable to translate once before; it was the first night she had spent in Izet. The night Azael had possessed Kovac, and Cinzia had been forced to kill her own Goddessguard. Her old friend.
She feared, now, that at any moment something similar would happen. A Daemon might possess Jane, or Alidar, still standing guard outside. For all she knew, Azael might descend from the heavens himself.
Luceraf’s laughter echoed inside Cinzia’s skull.
“Something is wrong,” Cinzia whispered.
“What is it? Can’t you translate?”
Cinzia shook her head. “No,” she said softly. “I do not think I can.”
It’s because of me, Luceraf sneered. You’ve figured that out by now, haven’t you? Took you long enough.
“I am sorry, Jane,” Cinzia said. Sorrow pierced her. She did not belong with the Denomination. She could no longer translate; her place in the Church of Canta was lost now, too.
If she did not have either of those things, what was left for her?
Without another word, Cinzia rose and swept out of the tent, not sure where she would go.