Fortune’s Priestess
The morning was chill, frost having turned the grass brittle beneath the stomping feet of the ten young men scurrying back and forth across the field. Each of them carried in his hands a large rock, except for those who carried a pile of smaller rocks.
At their head, wearing riding trousers and a vest that left his arms bare, was Allystaire, one large rock perched on each shoulder. His strides were long, his breathing even, and his arms and chest coated with a light sheen of sweat. He reached one end of the field, and turned around, returning the way he had come.
This forced several of the men to scatter out of the way, and one to drop his rock. There was muttering and cursing as it came near to smashing into feet and tripping unobservant runners. Allystaire left it behind, reached the other end of the field, where a pile of coats lay, having been tossed aside at the start of the morning’s exercise.
He dug his fingers into the rocks he carried and flung them forward. They tumbled across the frost-tinged grass, and he turned back to the crowd. Instinctively, his eyes sought out Gideon. Though the youngest and smallest of the crowd by far, the boy was in the middle of the pack, the fourth to arrive after Allystaire and carefully set his rock down.
“All right,” Allystaire called, his voice echoing across the autumn morning. “To Ivar at the Eastern Gate. Run.”
They formed a fairly ragged line and moved off at a trot. Allystaire blew out a long breath and dug his fingertips into his bare shoulders, wincing at the ache. Not young enough for this anymore, he thought. Who the Cold else is going to do it? He had no answer for that.
He sighed, bent to gather up his belt, hammer, and cloak, and started back towards the Temple. In the Temple Field, two solid, square campaign tents had been erected, and Torvul’s wagon was parked close by. The small round windows of the boxy home-on-wheels showed a light inside.
Allystaire tugged open the flap to his tent and ducked inside. The camp tables, chair, stool, and cot that furnished it had been given to him by the Ravens, like the tent itself. Much of it was a little too well made for a small, itinerant warband, even a successful one, and he suspected Audreyn’s hand in it. One table held the jumble of steel and leather that was his armor, both the plate and the hodgepodge of leather and steel that was lighter and less obtrusive, and his sword, with his shield leaning against one of the legs. The other held a small stack of parchment, quills, ink, sand, and a quill knife. The tent itself was spacious enough that he didn’t have to duck his head, and small conferences could be held with all five of the Ordained, at need.
He threw off his cloak and vest, found a shirt amidst a pile of clothing in a basket at the foot of his cot, and pulled it on gratefully, the warmth of exercise having fled his limbs in the walk. From outside the tent came a gruff Dwarfish murmur.
“You decent in there? Haven’t snuck a girl in or anything?”
“No one in here but me, and I am clothed, Torvul,” Allystaire wearily replied.
A long-fingered hand pulled the flap back and Torvul strolled in. “It wouldn’t hurt you to sneak a girl in once or twice. Unless you’re saving yourself for marriage, chivalry being what it is…”
Allystaire sighed heavily, and the dwarf trailed off, peering closely at the paladin’s face. “Touched a nerve, eh?”
“Leave it, Torvul. Let us discuss business.”
“You’re pining over someone. Not Idgen Marte—”
“I said leave it,” Allystaire insisted. Thoughts competed for space in his head. Auburn hair, highland winds, wildflowers. The Goddess, Her overwhelming presence, Her burning lips.
“Well, what’s that about then,” Torvul said, instantly honing in on a sudden flush in Allystaire’s cheeks.
“Not Idgen Marte, who is like a sister to me, and all that implies.”
“Well, you’ve hardly slept since we got back, much less had time for courting, so I can’t imagine…” Torvul’s eyes suddenly went wide and he glared at Allystaire. “Surely not…I mean, you’re not pining over…Her.”
Allystaire cut him off with a sharp chop of one hand in the air. “Stop. I cannot explain. I have not the words.”
Torvul chuckled under his breath. “Well, I guess I can’t fault your ambition.” He ambled over to the stool and sat down, tapped a finger thoughtfully on his chin. “Did you ever marry? I’m assuming you didn’t leave a wife behind. Doesn’t seem like you.”
“No.”
The dwarf harrumphed. “Married to war, to glory in battle, n’that?”
“In short, and so you will let it alone—the only woman I would have married I was forbidden to. By the Old Baron, by my father and hers. I followed their commands. When they suggested other candidates, I ignored them.”
“Aren’t your father and the Old Baron dead many years?”
“So is she,” Allystaire replied, clipped and cold. “Now I assume you did not come to see me to gossip?”
Torvul grimaced. “I’m sorry, Allystaire. For bringing it up. I’ll let that alone from now on, till some night we’re both good and drunk. Fair?”
Allystaire nodded. “Fair. Now, what have you come about?”
The dwarf pulled a heavy, full-looking pouch free from his belt, and upended it on the table. What emerged was Allystaire’s gauntlet, the left-handed one, that Torvul had borrowed. “Finally finished what I set out to do with this. Nothing that’ll sink a tunnel through bedrock or shunt lava— that’s what dwarves mean when we say miracle in Dwarfish, by the way—but I think you’ll find it useful.”
“What did you do?” Allystaire began pulling it onto his hand and immediately felt the difference. The palm had been cut away and the rest adjusted so that it fixed firmly around the tips of his fingers. He tested the fit, flexing his hand.
“Thought it might be of use to be able to heal in the midst of a fracas without pausing to strip that off,” the dwarf said. “Figure the exposed skin is probably worth the trade, no?”
Allystaire nodded, continuing to flex his hand, curl it into a fist. “Aye, it should be.” He nodded a thanks and said, “Well done, Torvul. Fits better than ever.”
“That’s dwarfish craftsmanship you feel,” Torvul replied. “I’m no great smith, not among my folk, but I know my way around a common forge—they’re nothing like the old Great Forges in the Homes, mind you, or so I hear, anyway. Still, I did what I could.” He paused, then added, “Made the girl a sickle, too.”
Allystaire frowned, stripped off the gauntlet, then set it down on the table with the rest of his armor. “Is that truly necessary?”
“You saw the same vision I did. She carried one there. She’ll carry one here.”
Allystaire put his palms down on the table and leaned over it, dropping his head and closing his eyes. “I do not like arming an eleven year old child, Torvul.”
“Be willing to bet you armed enough eleven year old boys in your old life. Don’t see why it’s different except that she’s a girl, and we both know she’s a great deal more than a child anyway. But it’s not just about arming her. It’s about becoming more than we are. It’s a little bit like playin’ a part, I suppose, though we’re not trying to deceive anyone. She showed us what we could be, Allystaire—what we need to become. If we don’t take our own steps towards that, what are we doin’?”
Allystaire stood up, wincing at the audible snaps his back made. “You are right. I never said you were not. I just said that I do not like it.”
“Likin’ it isn’t the point, and you know it. That being said,” Torvul added, and pointed at Allystaire’s armor, “I need to borrow that. The plate. The best that you’ve got.”
“Why? More adjustments?”
The dwarf shrugged, his eyes shifting evasively. “Something like that. I’d rather not say just yet, till I know if I can do it.”
Allystaire sighed. “In for a copper half, in for a gold chain, I suppose. Do as you must. Please do not damage it; I have no idea how I would replace it. The armorer at Wind’s Jaw worked weeks at it, made it to my fit.”
“That plain suit was your best?”
“Best in the way that mattered. I had fancier plate. My arms engraved on it, stones set in places. I think it would not have stopped a sling-stone, and I would not have bothered to bring it with me if I had left with a wagon train.”
“Your priorities never cease t’disappoint me,” Torvul replied, before nodding to the armor. “I’ll send someone around to gather it up later. I’ve got a few points of the formulae to work out.”
“Just do not—”
“Damage it? Anything I did to human ironmongery could only improve it.” The dwarf headed for the flap, but even as he opened it, Mol was standing outside reaching for it. Her hood was down, and the morning light behind her made the sky blue of her robe nearly white.
Torvul held the flap open for her. “M’lady,” he playfully murmured. The girl laughed, and in the moment was young again. When she turned to Allystaire, her face was once more a nearly ageless anomaly.
It is like the face of the Mother joining with the face of the girl I pulled from the cold well, Allystaire thought.
“We’re going to have visitors today,” she announced. “Coming on the westerly track. The first will arrive soon. We’ll need to greet them.”
“Do you know any more than that?”
The girl paused for a moment. “Dress well.”
* * *
Allystaire had chosen to interpret Mol’s words as dress in such armor as you have not loaned to Torvul to experiment on, so less than half a turn later, he was wearing iron bracers, his iron-studded leather gloves, and thick leathers. His sword rode on his back and his shield was slung off of Ardent’s pommel, with the hammer tucked securely against his right hip.
The destrier was happy for the exercise and tossed his head against the reins, stamping his feet and resisting Allystaire’s gentle suggestions to relax. The horse wanted to run, so Allystaire let the reins go slack for only a moment. The huge grey gathered himself and practically leapt forward, thundering over the track that led through the village green.
Allystaire felt his own heart leap as the destrier did, wishing, if only for a moment, to give the big grey his head and let him run as far and fast as he would. All too quickly, though, he saw a cluster of other mounts on the road beyond the green, and had to rein him in, a decision that Ardent fought for a few moments. Mostly, Allystaire thought, for the look of the thing.
Mol sat atop a pony and Idgen Marte on her courser. He saw the warrior staring into the distance, her eyes narrowed.
“What are we waiting for, exactly?”
“She tells me we’ll know it when we see it,” Idgen Marte murmured from one corner of her mouth.
“I do not want to color your reactions with prior knowledge,” Mol replied, calmly. “Shan’t be long, anyway.”
Ardent gave up on running and was soon nipping at the frost-rimmed grass. Mol’s word was true, and in a few moments the early morning sun showed them a glint of metal that resolved itself into a party of three riders and a small crowd of men on foot.
Two of the riders carried banners or standards of some kind, and when Allystaire saw them, his stomach tightened. One of the standards was simply a wheel, left loose and spinning, mounted atop a pole. The other was a long rectangle of gold-edged white cloth, its length taut against the pole. It showed a female figure, nude, but the glinting he’d seen was from the precious stones sewn into the fabric at her fingers and throat and hair.
“Gemmary on a flag,” Idgen Marte said. “Oh, Freeze me…”
“It would not do for the Goddess Fortune to go without Her Adornment, even on a standard,” Allystaire said. “From what I remember of my lessons, this must be a ranking priest.”
Mol was silent, watching the party approach with unreadable poise.
Besides the three riders, there were three pack mules and six armed men on foot. The riders to either flank held the standards. The woman carrying the banner wore a cloak lined with fox fur over a dress of a deep red hue. Her saddle was a leather Allystaire couldn’t identify on sight, and all her mount’s tack was tooled with silver.
Meanwhile, the man carrying the wheel practically wore rags by comparison. Young and hardy, if thin, his clothing was carefully dirtied and rumpled, though hardly threadbare. Allystaire felt something in himself snarling at the intimation of poverty and hardship. His face has not got the look of a man going hungry, he thought. And there’s many a peasant this country over wearing worse things into the fields today.
What really drew the eye, though, what demanded attention, was the Priestess riding between them. Where the standard-bearer’s saddle was set with silver, hers bore gold. She, too, wore fox-fur, only it was a rich and rare silver, and her dress, in slashes of white and gold, was richer silk. Her feet were slippered, rather than booted, and she rode side-saddle on a white palfrey that Allystaire estimated some men would pay as much for as they would for Ardent.
Her face was covered by a golden mask with translucent topaz inset over her eyes. The mask was exquisitely detailed, showing the aristocratic, indifferent face of the Goddess Fortune, and was bound carefully with ribbons of silk.
“I have come as a representative of She who bestows, withholds, and spreads the wealth of the world among men. I seek the man Alysander.” Her voice was muffled by the mask, but resonant nonetheless, with the unmistakably rich and smooth tone of the educated. Her intonation was theatrical, and even behind the mask Allystaire could feel her eyes sizing him up. A hand, elegantly gloved in soft white lambskin, pointed a beringed finger at Allystaire. “You are he. I can sense a power within you.”
Allystaire snorted. “I am the man you seek, though my name is Allystaire. Tell me plainly what has brought you here.”
“My Mistress Fortune wishes to satisfy Her curiosity about the rise of a new power in this world. As Her servants, it is our duty to understand the currents and eddies of power, and at the moment, power is swirling around your name. Even if the passing of that name from mouth to ear has rather garbled it. I apologize for having it incorrectly.” Her voice was honey, and her imperiously pointing hand lay demurely against her saddle.
Allystaire merely shrugged, which had the unintended but not unwelcome effect of rattling the scabbarded sword hung across his back. He eyed the retinue, and the cynical, detached part of him that evaluated such things went to work. They look indifferent. Casual. Yet hard-eyed. They know their business. Weapons are well maintained, hilts are worn. None of them are trying for style. Though they wore light brown cloaks with hints of gilt running through them, and rounded, spiked helmets that looked as likely to stop a hammer blow as wet wool would, the cloaks were all kept carefully away from sword and dagger hilts.
Two of them had wandered, nonchalantly, to the sides of the road, watching intently while trying not to appear as though they were watching intently.
“We have no intent to ambush you, gentlemen,” Allystaire suddenly said to them. “Yet I commend your watchfulness.” His eyes flitted back to the masked face of the priestess. “I am not offended that you had misheard my name. I do admit to curiosity about where you heard it—and about your own name.”
The two guardsmen Allystaire had addressed turned to him, but slowly. I do not like this at all, he thought, then was suddenly startled by Mol’s voice in his head.
This may be turned to our gain. Be nice.
“I am Cerisia, Archioness of the Goddess Fortune’s Church in Baronies Delondeur, Telmawr, and Innadan.”
“Well met then, Archioness,” Allystaire said, scrambling in his mind for protocol he’d long since forgotten on greeting Fortune’s clergy. Her title sounds important. Why didn’t I pay more attention to lessons? “I am Allystaire, Arm of the Mother, Her Servant and Prophet, Revelator and Paladin. Welcome to Thornhurst.”
She nodded graciously, the standard and wheel bearers bowed in their saddles, then all three began to edge their horses forward.
Ardent laid his ears back and bared his teeth, lowered his neck and tugged at the reins. Allystaire kept his own face free from similar signs of aggression, even if he felt them. He did not scold Ardent, though he subtly tightened his fist around the reins in case he needed to pull the horse in. He did not, however, give any ground.
“I am still unclear on your purpose, exactly,” Allystaire said.
“To confer with you as the leader of this new faith, of course,” Cerisia said, the bright warmth of her voice doing little to defuse the situation. “There is certainly no reason that Fortune and the Mother cannot come to a good footing with one another through their mortal representatives.” There was an almost imperceptible hitch, the tiniest pause, before the priestess said “Mother.” With what Allystaire could only assume was an imperturbable smile beneath her mask, she said, “Are you going to introduce me to your servants?”
“I have no servants,” Allystaire replied, rather more sharply than he intended. “However,” he extended his free hand towards Mol, “This is Mol, the Voice of the Mother, Her first Servant, Priestess, and Seer.”
The girl’s poise very nearly matched that of the Archioness. Though Mol had only a homespun robe and shaggy spotted pony, she held her own against Cerisia’s golden mask and fine, snow-white palfrey. The older woman—though how old, Allystaire had no idea—had the accoutrements, the training, and the years of experience. But Mol had spoken, often and directly, to the Goddess Herself, and that had to count for something.
Indeed, it must have, for it was Cerisia who spoke first. “Well met, Mol, Voice of the Mother. I look forward to speaking with you as one godly woman to another.” She turned then, distinctly back to Allystaire, and indicated Idgen Marte with one hand. “And she is?”
That was too damn clever by half, Allystaire suddenly thought, even as he found himself clearing his throat and answering. “Idgen Marte, Shadow of the Mother.”
“My, my. Such titles we give ourselves,” the Archioness tittered. “Arm, Shadow, Voice. And, of course, Paladin? That is a bold title for anyone to claim, even if it is on lips from here to Londray, and beyond.”
“I have not claimed it. It was given to me, as the others were given to those who bear them,” Allystaire replied. “Now, as to your business…”
“Certainly we shall not bar entry to those of other faiths,” Mol suddenly put in, turning to Allystaire, then back to Cerisia. “I suppose that protocol would have me ask you to produce your charter or warrant, but I think we can let that go, as breakfast-time approaches, and no doubt you are dry and hungry from the road.”
Allystaire cleared his throat and spoke up again. “I mean no offense, Archioness, but I will not have armed men I do not know or trust remain armed in a village that is under my protection. I will have their arms, to return upon your exit.”
Cerisia turned to the guard standing nearest her horse, who gave a tiny shake of his head. There was no mark of rank to set the man apart, but his face was older, more heavily lined. Captain, Allystaire thought. There were heavy bags under his eyes, and Allystaire marked his face.
“This is dangerous country, and we approach the season of deserters and banditry, do we not?” Cerisia’s voice was entirely reasonable, her head tilted to the side, though some of the effect was doubtless lost by the mask hiding her features. “You have my word that they will remain peaceful unless provoked and would aid in the defense of your village and people at need. They will also remain sober.”
Mol spoke up. “We mean to cast no aspersions on you or your retinue, Archioness. We could accept your promise of good conduct.”
“You will also accept the brunt of any consequences deriving from their actions,” Allystaire put in, and then thought, to Mol, On this, I will not budge. I mislike the look of these men; they are not lazy merchant’s sons playing at being guards.
“They will be good. I do promise,” the priestess said, and Allystaire didn’t like at all the tone of faint mockery in her words.
“Very well. One of us will go ahead to see that a proper reception is prepared,” Mol said. “I am afraid that space is cramped and we may have no roof for you.”
“We brought our pavilions in case of need,” Cerisia replied, “though we may ask for fuel to keep them warm. It is growing chill.”
Allystaire turned his horse, happy to leave the priestess behind, less happy to have her men where he couldn’t see them. Idgen Marte had already turned her courser and, he could see, was about to give it her heel. Find Torvul, Renard, and Ivar. I do not give a frozen damn if there is hot drink or bread for them, but there will be armed men about. And get Gideon out of sight.
If they don’t see him, they can’t ask you about him? Devious of you. Her voice echoed with approval in his mind. The boy isn’t going to stay hidden, though.
Try.
Allystaire set a slow pace for the rest of them, putting out of his mind the inane small talk ensuing between Mol and Cerisia, though a part of him was briefly amazed, and not for the first time, at how frighteningly fast the girl had grown up. Still, most of his thoughts were circling around the six dangerous armed men he was leading straight into Thornhurst.
* * *
Allystaire burst into his tent to find Torvul, Gideon, Ivar, and Renard all waiting for him. The sounds of men at work drifted in, as Cerisia’s guards and servants were erecting their pavilions.
“Mislike them being this close to Her Temple,” Torvul said, through sourly twisted lips.
“No other space for them. Besides, this way we can keep an eye on them.”
“Why’d we even let ‘em in?” Torvul lifted a hand to gesture angrily and ineffectually at the air. “No good can come of this.”
“Mol thinks it might,” Allystaire replied. “We can argue later.” His eyes flicked to Gideon, and he said, “I thought Idgen Marte told you to get out of sight.”
“She did,” he said. “I came here.”
Allystaire sighed. “We will manage.” Renard and Ivar lingered a few paces away, and he waved them closer. “The priestess brought guards, six of them, and two servants, or demi-priests or something. I mislike the look of the guards. Not the fat fools one usually finds in temples.” He focused on Ivar, catching the woman’s weary, indifferent-seeming brown eyes, which Allystaire well knew to be a ruse. “I want the guards watched, all of them. If one of them wanders off, I want to know where he goes, what he does. I want to know what they talk about, who loses what at dice, how much they drink, what they eat. From where do they hail, why do they think they are here. Everything. Did I miss anything?”
Ivar grinned rather gruesomely. “Be wantin’ to know when one takes a shit, m’lord?”
“If it seems relevant,” Allystaire replied. “Do not worry about letting them see you. Or at least one of you. I do not want them to think they have a free hand.”
“Got it. How many men d’ya want me t’put on it?”
Allystaire clenched a fist and shut his eyes, doing quick calculations. “Can you spare three?”
“I can. It’ll slow down the earthworks and cuttin’ timber.”
“I will find a few more men from the village. Good farmer stock here; we all know how to dig,” Renard put in.
“We do not have enough men no matter how many hands we round up,” Allystaire said. “Yet we must look at the threat within, now, as well as that without.” He looked to Renard then. “Any word from Keegan and his band? I lost track of them since we returned.”
“Camping out in the wooded hills to the north and east,” Renard said. “Asked for some supplies, clothes, a few simple tools we could spare—hand axes and simple knives, no real weapons. Said he’d come in and talk to you when he felt ready.”
“If you know where he is and can get a man out there, I would love to speak to him,” Allystaire replied. Then, he suddenly rapped his fist against the table. “Belay that. Tell Idgen Marte where he is. She can get there faster, and with no one the wiser.”
Renard nodded and stood up straight, barely, Allystaire noted, refraining from clicking his heels. “Aye.”
Allystaire nodded. “Off you go, then.” He paused for a moment, and added, “Thank you.”
Both Ivar and Renard strode out into the bright autumn sun, tent flaps swinging in their wake.
“Mol is going to be talking with the priestess. There may be a tour of the Temple. I still do not know why they are here,” Allystaire said, turning to Torvul. “I want you to do as much of the talking in my place as possible.”
“Hardly a bad decision, but not how you often think,” Torvul noted. “Why?”
“She knew to ask me questions. Not Idgen Marte, and not Mol. She knew,” Allystaire said, “or strongly suspected. I do not like what that implies.”
“What does it imply?” Gideon’s face turned between the pair of them.
“That she knows that I cannot or will not lie to her. Where she would have heard that, or from whom, I do not know, and the things we do not know about a potential enemy are the most dangerous.”
“Why must she be a potential enemy? Why must two faiths be at odds?”
Allystaire sighed. “Gideon, do not mistake me. I do not want to be her enemy, or her Goddess’s. Yet there were moments, signs, in my short meeting with her that tell me I probably will be. I dislike the fact, but I have learned to listen to my instincts.”
“If you treat everyone like an enemy, everyone will become an enemy,” Gideon stubbornly insisted, frowning.
“If they came in peace, they will leave unharmed and with my good wishes. Yet I ask you to think on whether it is seemly for a priestess to wear a mask made of more gold than all of the people of this village will see in all their lifetimes put together. When I come back—and it may be some turns, so I will have Idgen Marte try to bring you food, or anything else you might like—I want you to tell me whether you think that wealth has come to her clean, or if blood stuck to it somewhere in its provenance.”
Gideon nodded, the distant look on his face telling Allystaire that he was already thinking on the issue. He settled into one of the camp chairs and rested his elbows on his thighs, hands steepling in front of his face. Allystaire nodded at Torvul and then at the tent flap, and the two of them exited into the daylight.
The priestess’s guards set up a camp that Allystaire found entirely too professional for his taste, with clear lines of sight, and their own shelters circled around her much larger tent. They’d even erected a picket line for their mounts, and two of them were brushing down the animals, two unpacked the saddles and baggage, and the remaining two stood watchfully to the side.
“That stretches the definition of tent, I’d say,” Torvul said, jerking his chin towards the rather ostentatious pavilion that had already been pulled into place and staked down. It alternated panels of white and gold, and stitched upon it were the symbols of Fortune—the Ever-Turning Wheel, and the Goddess in various poses, from reclining amidst a fold of cloth to judging two men, each standing in one upraised palm.
“Needs everyone to know that she is here, and that gold and silver drip from her fingers,” Allystaire said.
“What’ve you got against Fortune, anyway?”
“If She is meant to spread the wealth of the world among men, why does most of it stay with the ruthless and murderous?”
“Maybe they pray to her the most,” Torvul suggested. “Your northern faiths don’t make a lot of sense t’me and I’ve had fourscore years t’get used t’them.”
Allystaire merely grunted. Mol appeared to be leading Cerisia up the steps of the Temple, and he and Torvul quickened their step in order to join them.
“My, this is impressive,” Cerisia was saying to the girl as Mol pulled open the heavy doors on smoothly oiled hinges. “To have built a temple so quickly, and with so much glass. Certainly Fortune has been smiling upon your village.”
“Fortune has had nothing to do with it,” Allystaire was saying, and rather sharply, before he even realized the words were leaving his lips.
He felt as much as saw Mol turn to him, her eyes wide and half-warning, half-imploring him to be quiet.
“Well,” the priestess said, “I don’t mean to stir up any theological debates. Not unless we’ve scribes present to record our words for posterity. We can deal with that later.”
“Before we enter,” Mol said, “I should note that no man or woman comes into this Temple masked or shadowed, obscured or disguised,” sliding, as she spoke, to stand in the very doorway of the Temple, managing to promote a kind of presence that seemed to block the entry as well as Allystaire could have. “The Mother will see your face as you approach Her altar. And so will I.”
“This is part of my formal regalia, and as I am here as an official emissary of my Church.”
“I am afraid on this point I will not budge,” Mol said, her voice clamping down like iron. “If you wish to enter this Temple, which is under my care and guidance as the Voice of the Mother, you will do us all this courtesy. Otherwise this Temple is closed to you.” Torvul smoothly stepped around her to stand, almost nonchalantly, next to Mol.
Allystaire resisted the urge to mount the next step or two so that he stood right behind the Archioness, looming behind her and sandwiching her between potential foes; instead he remained a respectful few paces behind.
Cerisia delicately pushed back her foxfur hood with her lambskin gloved hands. The mass of dark hair upon her head was intricately pinned up with a Baron’s ransom of gem-studded pins and combs. Deftly, she untied strong silk bands that held her mask in place, cradling it in her hands. She nodded, almost imperceptibly, to Mol and Torvul, then turned to face Allystaire.
She was, he realized, roughly of an age with him, though she wore her years considerably better. If there were lines of age or care around her eyes or mouth he would’ve had to look close and long to find them, and he wouldn’t have minded. She was handsome, he briefly thought, rather than beautiful, but something about her drew the eye, and full red lips curving in a faint smile saw him rethinking the label he’d assigned. Her eyes were a pale green, almost a match for the translucent topaz that were fitted into her mask. Her smile and her eyes lingered just a shade too long on him, and he felt his cheeks tightening in sudden and inexplicable anger at her brief scrutiny.
“There,” she said, turning back to Mol. “I have acceded to your request. May we proceed now?”
The girl nodded rather solemnly, then guided, for the first time, a priestess of another faith into the Mother’s Temple. Torvul stumped along beside her, and Allystaire slowly brought up the rear.
“How was so much accomplished so quickly? If I understand properly, this building was raised in a matter of months, and the glass—”
“Was donated by a glazier,” Mol replied. “And many hands took to the building of this place. We had a steady stream of visitors through late summer and early autumn, and all took the opportunity to work.”
“Donated? Why, even the Temple of Fortune in Londray acquired its glass at considerable cost. Surely something was exchanged.”
“Aye,” Allystaire spoke up. “The man was knifed in some foolish tavern brawl he was no part of, up in Birchvale. I was there and I cured him of a wound that might have meant his life.”
“How?” The Archioness turned to him and fixed him with the look that suggested that his answer to her question could possibly be the most riveting thing she would hear today, her eyes wide, but not too wide, leaning almost imperceptibly forward.
“A Gift from the Mother,” Allystaire replied.
Her lips parted lightly, her eyes widened. Allystaire knew he was meant to read surprise and curiosity. “I shall have to see it.”
Before he could reply she turned and approached the oval of the altar, gasping faintly. “Such fine stonework.” She came closer to it, brushing past Torvul and Mol, reaching out as if to touch it, though stopping short.
“Surely this must be dwarfish craftsmanship,” she said.
The dwarf chuckled. “No. Even my kin could not work stone as cunningly as She who built this.”
“She?”
“Yes,” Mol replied in Torvul’s stead. “The altar was raised by the Mother acting through Her mortal agents, of which we are three.”
Cerisia smiled, fetchingly, but her tone grated. “It is important for these founding myths to be established early, yes?”
Allystaire felt a surge of anger, but Mol’s large brown eyes swung instantly to him, and he heard her voice. Keep still, Arm. She is trying to provoke us. Do not give her this.
“If you will,” Mol said out loud, solicitous deference briefly coloring her words and face. “The stages of the altar’s raising were witnessed by many of the folk of Thornhurst.”
“Of course,” the priestess replied, taking a moment to swipe an imaginary blot off her mask with the edge of her fox-fur.
“You might inspect it for the seams where stones were polished to look as one, or for the tell-tale marks of tools,” Torvul replied, “if you were inclined. But you won’t find them.”
Allystaire felt himself counting and recounting the men and resources he had on hand, picking at the problems festering in his mind, at the puzzle of these servants of Fortune. He didn’t notice Cerisia speaking to him till she repeated a question.
He shook away the occupying thoughts and turned his eyes on her. “My deepest apologies, Archioness,” he said, reaching for his best manners. “I am afraid I was preoccupied. Please do pardon my rude inattention.”
She smiled, winningly. She seemed to do everything winningly, so far as Allystaire could tell. “You do have manners after all. Tell me, Allystaire, Arm of the Mother, how you learned them? Your accent is not…” She waved a patronizing glove at the small stone-and-glass temple, “local.”
Allystaire cleared his throat, buying time to think of a true answer. “I learned my manners from my father, Archioness.” He tried to smile. “Surely that was not the question that I missed?”
“No,” she said, her smile’s brightness dimming. “If there are five of you—I see five pillars on this altar, after all—where are the other two?”
“Working, no doubt,” Allystaire replied. “There is much to do and few enough hands.” Before she could open her mouth to ask further questions, he seized the initiative. “I am sure that Mol, as the Mother’s Voice, could do more to answer your questions than I could.”
Her smile fully bloomed again, bright and welcoming as a roaring fire on a winter night. She almost spoke, but whatever the words were, she tamped them down and turned back to Mol.
The dwarf’s voice rolled and rumbled in Allystaire’s thoughts. Make your excuses and get out, before she comes up with more questions.
“If you will all pardon me,” Allystaire said, “there is work being done that I must oversee.” He turned for the door, till Cerisia’s voice brought him up short.
“Please do say that you will dine with me this evening.” She paused. “All of you, of course. I do look forward to meeting all five of the Mother’s servants.”
Mol replied for him. “Some of us may, yes, though all of us have duties that will require our attention. These days, our evening meals tend to be taken standing up.”
Allystaire ducked out through the Temple door and shut it behind him. Idgen Marte was lurking by the steps.
“How d’ya feel,” she murmured.
“Outmaneuvered. My left flank is crumbling and I have no reserves.”
“We may have some reserves. I’m off to make contact with Keegan. What do you want me to tell him?”
Allystaire took a deep breath. “The truth. We could use his help.”
“What do I have t’ bargain with?”
“Your womanly wiles?” Allystaire’s suggestion was immediately followed up with a hiss of pain, as Idgen Marte’s hand, too fast to follow as usual, thudded into his shoulder. “Remind him, if you could, of what obligations he may already have to us.”
“No matter how it may soothe the conscience, a man can’t spend fulfilled obligations, and Deserter’s Brotherhood aren’t known for acting kindly to people needing help,” she pointed out.
“Well, I am not known for acting kindly towards deserters. In his case, I have. My mind could yet change,” Allystaire said.
“I think hard weight is more likely to get us somewhere.”
“Oh? What of the saving of their lives? What of the food and supplies and tools they have already been given? We have treated them as guests, and asked nothing in return, left them to their own, as they wished—”
She raised a hand. “Fine. Point taken. Don’t blame me if they tell us all to go freeze and go for banditry before winter sets in.”
“I will not have bandits base themselves under our nose. I will fit them for ropes if they take so much as a bent copper half at knifepoint.”
“I’ll leave that part out,” she said, and turned to leave, then paused. “And Allystaire, that priestess is here for you. In more ways than one.”
He snorted, lip curling in disdain. “Then she will leave disappointed.”
Idgen Marte nodded, satisfied, and soon slipped out of his sight.
* * *
Allystaire passed the next few turns by walking from one end of the village to the other, inspecting the progress, or the lack of progress, being made on the village’s defenses. He offered rather futile words of encouragement and briefly took up a shovel before restlessness drove him back towards the Temple and his tent. He found Idgen Marte and Torvul waiting within, along with Gideon, who was reclining on Allystaire’s cot, reading.
“Well?” Allystaire asked.
“Archioness Cerisia has retired to her pavilion for a midday respite,” Torvul said, mockingly pompous, drawing himself up with the air of a herald or a declaiming bard. “Apparently being so close to the soil is cause for exhaustion.”
“Good. Gives us time to react. Where is Mol?”
“Praying,” the dwarf answered him. “Asking Her Ladyship for guidance.”
“We should probably all do so, if we can find the time,” Idgen Marte offered.
“Aye, we should. Remind me this evening.” Allystaire paused. “Before sunset. Now—did you find Keegan?”
“Aye. And he’s eager to speak with you. None too eager to come near the village in daylight, though. Said he’ll come to you tonight. There was something about making a call like a nightjar to let you know it was him, and how, since nightjars are flown south by now there’d be no mistaking it, but…”
Allystaire snorted. “As if I would know a nightjar from a barn owl.”
“I thought as much. Even so, listen for some screeching.”
“I will.” He took a deep breath, looked around, as if seeking a task, his hands opening and closing once. “What do we do about this?”
“Little we can do,” Torvul said. “This was bound t’happen. You’ve already made contact with Braech’s Temple, and Urdaran’s. Was only a matter of time till Fortune came calling. It’s a sign they’re taking us seriously.”
“Or see us as a threat that needs stamping out,” Allystaire countered.
“We are a threat.” Gideon didn’t take his eyes off his book as he spoke. “We are preaching a faith that threatens most everything Fortune, Urdaran, and Braech stand for. However,” he suddenly sat up, sticking a finger in his book to mark his place, “we have a chance at making common cause with Fortune’s clergy.”
“How do you figure that?” Torvul asked. “I don’t see our esteemed guests making common cause with anyone that can’t pay them well.”
“Perhaps,” Gideon said. “As I have not met or spoken to them I can’t really guess at her specific intentions.”
“I can guess at some of her intentions,” Idgen Marte suggested, smiling wryly at Allystaire.
He felt his cheeks grow warm. “You are not going to see them, Gideon, not if I can help it.”
“Why? I am one of the Ordained. I have a duty to represent Her.”
“I know, Gideon.” Allystaire closed his eyes in frustration. “You do have a duty. Yet I have a duty as well, laid upon me by the Goddess Herself, to protect you. You are safer if they do not know you. Not yet.”
“It is better if they don’t see you unless they have to,” Idgen Marte said. “It’s simple strategy. You don’t show an enemy everything you have.”
“Who’s to say they are enemies?” Gideon carefully set his book down on the cot as he stood up. “Have they made any threats, or come in force?”
“You said yourself that we threaten their faith,” Allystaire pointed out.
“Aye. Yet Fortune’s dogma speaks of the distribution of goods and wealth, the shifting balances of power. Perhaps diplomacy could convince them that this is such a shift, simply on a massive scale.”
“How does diplomacy do that, boy?” Torvul found a stool and sat on it. “It’s a bit naive to think they’ll treat with us like equals.”
“No more than it is paranoid to automatically treat them as enemies. Nor is it honest to call them our guests and spy upon them and plot against them.”
“The Goddess didn’t ordain a Shadow for no reason, Gideon,” Idgen Marte reminded him gently. “Sometimes what we do must be done out of sight.”
“There is a difference between Shadow and darkness. The former requires light; the latter often begins with lies.”
“Gideon!” Allystaire didn’t raise his voice so much as pitch it to demand attention. “We are not lying to them. We are not lulling them so that we may fall upon them in the night. If the Archioness wants to know what I think of her and her kind she will merely ask me. There is not much I can do to prevent it. We are in the weaker position; we may hope for the best, but we must prepare for the worst.”
“So we must think the worst of everyone we meet?” Gideon’s cheeks flushed at the scolding, but he bore up well, kept his eyes locked on Allystaire’s.
“It is not that simple,” Allystaire said. “Surely you can see that.”
“It is complex, but we do ourselves no favors by making it moreso with our own actions,” Gideon said. “Ask them what they want. Tell them whether they may have it.”
“Gideon,” Torvul began, “what you say is not without ore among the silt. We can’t treat everyone like an enemy, but there’s an old Dwarfish saying—now bear in mind I have to amend it a little and your tongue does a poor job of handling complexities. In short, though, it says that when you sink a new shaft, hope to find ore, but be prepared to find clay. D’ya understand?”
“Hope for a good outcome, but prepare for a poor one,” Gideon said.
“Aye,” the dwarf replied. “We can hope that she’s here to be our ally, but we have to be ready if she’s not.”
Allystaire crossed his arms and spared a glance for Idgen Marte, whose frown nearly matched his.
“Any sense of optimism is misplaced, I think,” he said sourly. “I have known priests and priestesses of Fortune, and gold sticks to their fingers the way ice sticks to the top of a mountain. Her arrival portends nothing good for us. Interpret it how you will, any of you.” He waved a hand at them all. “But the defense of this place and its people is my charge. I will go about it as I think best. Each of you will always be free to speak your mind to me and offer whatever counsel you have. I will listen to it, and consider it—but I will, in the end, make these decisions. Her people will be watched. We will remain on our guard.”
He went to the edge of his tent and reached for the flap. “We will offer them no offense, and strike no first blow. We all have work. Go to it.”
Idgen Marte and Torvul both nodded sharply, and Allystaire could read her approval in the set of her shoulders, her stride. Torvul he found harder to read, but the alchemist patted Allystaire’s arm as he passed.
With the tent now empty but for him and Gideon, Allystaire said, “Continue thinking on the problems I have set you, lad. We will talk about all of them and more. And I want to make sure you understand—you may always speak your mind to me, on any subject, no matter how much you think I will disagree.”
Gideon sat back down upon the cot and picked up the book he’d been reading, but he didn’t open it. “Will I always know your mind? With no dissembling?”
Allystaire nodded. “Always.”
The boy thought a moment, then nodded and opened his book. Allystaire watched him for a moment, then exited into the noonday autumn light.