KRONA
I’d curl up next to Monkeyflower, run my fingers through her spines, and tell her stories. Sometimes ones Papa had read to us. Sometimes ones I’d heard at the market. Sometimes I made up new stories, about people being nice to varger and feeding them flower petals and dewdrops and crowning them in jewels. Monkeyflower was the closest thing I ever had to a pet. Even now, there are times when I miss her.
Two more days passed, bringing no better leads and one more nameless bloom.
The victim had been left—clearly with a morbid sense of mockery—outside a flower shop in the luxuries district. This time the body had been broken and twisted into a chrysanthemum.
The green-man mask detected a wash of the same chemicals found on Hester. “There’s enough of it here to poison, to be the cause of death,” Tray said from behind the visage.
The Regulator team swarmed over the scene, peeking under every leaf and petal.
“And there’s the womb,” Krona said, noting the hunk of flesh nestled in a bucket of blood-splattered tulips. She prodded at it lightly with one glove, gulping back bile. “Definitely evidence of incisions, like the others. It wasn’t simply excised, it was opened.”
This particular organ held some kind of fascination for the killer, that was clear. An attribute that set him apart from Charbon.
Did he despise the victims for their bodies, or their choices? Or was he simply seeking out those he thought vulnerable?
“Do we think this is the Dreg who went to Strange for abortives the other day? The one the Watch lost sight of?” Tabitha asked.
“Likely,” De-Lia said, “though it’s still difficult to say if the murderer is using Strange to track his victims, or simply sending them to her after they’ve been chosen.”
Whoever this victim was, the entire constabulary had failed them.
A flash from across the street alerted Krona to a camera. “Damn it. Royu?”
“On it,” zhe said.
They’d been trying to keep the blooms hush-hush. But they couldn’t hold the journalists at bay forever.
RETURN OF THE BLOOMING BUTCHER? had been the recent headline on several morning papers.
Now they not only had to deal with the realities of multiple, gruesome killings, but a panicked populace as well.
The evening of day seven, Krona was relieved to see Thibaut’s marker at Absolon’s statue, indicating he had information and was ready to meet at a place of her choosing.
Krona selected a repulsive little shanty café and decided they should conference well before the lunch rush the next day, so that they could grab a bite in private while he divulged his ill-gotten information. It was the kind of place that used junkyard scraps for jerry-rigged furniture, old doors for tabletops, and barrels for bar stools.
When she came in, the clattering of dice and a sudden whoop alerted her to an in-progress game of bones behind the kitchen. The raucous noise set her teeth on edge, but didn’t bother her nearly as much as it worried the owner; he took one look at her uniform and blanched.
She hadn’t had time to change for the conference. Hopefully the meeting place was far enough off the beaten path that no one would notice her with Thibaut.
“Two bowls of fried noodles and spicy vegetables, then make yourself scarce,” she said, plopping a handful of time vials on the table as she sat down. “And tell the gamesters to hush themselves. I don’t care a wit about gambling, but the Watchman around the corner might.”
The owner brought over two heaping servings, and Krona pulled off her helm. Steam wafted off the vegetables, leaving a sweet-and-spicy scent in the air. She breathed it in with fervor, and her stomach rumbled. The man paused, waiting for her approval.
She nodded to him and dug in. With her mouth full, she gave a favorable flick of her thumb.
Sweating profusely, looking as though he’d just escaped a hanging, he bowed gratefully and slunk back to his kitchen.
The café door squeaked on its shoddy hinges just as the owner moved out of sight. In sauntered Thibaut, fully dressed and fully pressed. Seemingly back to his usual self. He threw the latch behind him.
“All right, you are going to love this,” he said by way of greeting. With a show of more noble grace than was necessary, Thibaut straddled one of the empty whisky barrels across from Krona. He gave the tight quarters a once-over, confirming the café empty, before continuing. “It is a mark of clergy, but it doesn’t belong to a coterie.”
She raised an eyebrow. She’d already had a few aides at the den scour state files at the Hall of Records looking for a match, but there’d been nothing. She suspected the information had been scrubbed, just like the documents related to Charbon.
Krona swallowed her mouthful, pausing between bites long enough to utter a prompting “Oh?”
“It belongs to a cult. A very old, supposedly very dead cult.” He eyed the chopsticks next to the second bowl with trepidation. Daintily, he picked them up and examined them closely, picking at a questionable stain with his thumbnail.
“Dead as in ancient?”
“Dead as in about a hundred years ago they were wiped out. Every adult and child killed while they worshiped—there were about eighty of them, from what I gather. They were one of those cults that wanted to reveal the true form of the Unknown. The very hush-hush, lock-yourself-away-from-the-rest-of-society kind.”
Krona nodded. Every couple of decades a new Revealer cult wormed its way out of the woodwork, insisting they had a path toward uncovering information about the fifth god and their gifts. Most of these cults were harmless. “So, if the mark of this cult is being used again, is it a resurgence? Has someone resurrected this particular cult’s practices?”
“Or the cult never really went away, and learned to properly keep their activities secret.”
“Do you have specifics of the massacre? Why someone might have targeted those people?”
“Supposedly no one targeted them,” he said, twirling the chopsticks through his noodles. “Supposedly they were killed by varger.”
“You doubt it?”
“I have an inkling they were killed by varger of a similar breed as the one who gave you that.” He gestured casually at her bandaged arm. “In fact, if he was connected to the cult, I’m willing to bet that’s why your thief adopted said disguise. Clever, wicked ways tend to turn round and round on each other.”
“What’s the rumor, then? Who really killed them?”
Thibaut shrugged. “Dayswatch. Nightswatch. Marchonian Guard. Religious rivals. Who knows? Doesn’t matter. What does matter is where their altar ended up, because that might lead you to their current location. It’s in a coterie, out in the open, with that clergy symbol emblazoned nice and shiny right on the front. Of course, the symbol has been altered—the altar has been altered—” He paused to chuckle at his own limp joke. “—some jewels and paint and some such.” His eyes sparkled knowingly. This was why he made such a good rat. He loved spreading rumor and speculation. Loved having information that others needed. “And, there’s more. You’re going to owe me double for this one. I mean something really rare, a clockwork from the palace collection, or from abroad—”
“Just tell me,” she insisted.
“The twin priests of Time and Nature at this coterie have further information regarding the cult, but something’s spooked them. Hot water with the rest of the clergy, or perhaps threats of violence from elsewhere—difficult to be sure. But the priests are willing to say more for the simple price of government protections. Show them your Regulator coin, escort them to a safe location, and I bet you’ll learn all there is to know about that brand and its living associations.”
Finally, Krona sighed to herself, a decent lead. Perhaps they could stop the killings. She’d been in doubt until now. Three blooms already, and every second she dreaded the notification of another. Maybe they could cut the tragedy off at the quick. Her chest swelled in excitement.
“Thibaut, I could kiss you,” she gushed.
“I wish you would.”
It was his normal, off-handed humor, but with a restrained twinge to it. They both looked quickly at their food.
“Here.” He pushed a scrap of paper across the table. “This is the coterie’s address, the cloister where the suspect altar can be found, and the names of the priests.”
She scanned the paper with a frown, crunching down on a water chestnut.
Thibaut finally gave in and took a tentative bite of the noodles-and-greenery. “Hey, not bad.”
“Pretty good,” she agreed.
With a greedy grin, Thibaut picked up the dish and threw his boots on the table, reclining with the bowl in his lap. He dropped his picky pretenses, slurping the noodles as though he hadn’t eaten in a decade.
Krona tried not to let her amusement show, lest he tease her for openly parading her affection for him.
They ate together in pleasant silence. It was strange to sit and simply enjoy each other’s company. The moment was nice—an agreeable break from the reality of stolen masks and bloodied bodies.
In no time the reprieve was over. Their dishes were empty and their bellies full, which meant responsibility once again beckoned.
For Krona, anyway.
She returned to the den and consulted with De-Lia straightaway. “We should go now, shouldn’t we?” Krona prompted.
“It’s the strongest trace line we have,” De-Lia agreed. “So we definitively believe the mask’s theft and the murders are religiously motivated?”
“Makes sense. The records might be missing from the Hall, but Patroné hinted as much to me, though he wasn’t one for taking motive into real account. And Charbon said something of the like at his hanging.”
“Charbon denounced the gods when he was hanged,” De-Lia corrected. “I find it odd that a cult would want to ally themselves with the techniques of a man who was a nonbeliever when he died.”
“Denunciation doesn’t equal faithlessness,” Krona noted. “In fact, quite the opposite. He cursed the gods as cruel and useless, not nonexistent.”
“I think we should go in as worshipers,” De-Lia said. “You and I. Tray and Sasha will come in after, in uniform. We’ll see where the two approaches take us—authority and subtlety all in one tidy assault.”
The directions Thibaut had given her were for a coterie smack dab in the middle of the city. No noble connections, no clan connections, not poor, but not especially well-to-do.
Krona and De-Lia changed into their worship clothes before setting out on horseback. Their garmentry consisted of thick brown skirts over long-sleeved blouses with tall, ruched collars. They each topped off the ensemble with scarves over their heads, in order to hide the shells connected to their concealed reverb beads. Krona quite liked the purple-and-gold shawl De-Lia chose as a head covering, with its triangle bordering and small embroidered llamas. She knew she’d seen it before, but was distracted by the promise of the day and couldn’t place where it had come from.
In their boots they both carried hidden daggers—the only armaments they allowed themselves.
High, limed walls formed the outer border of the coterie, and eucalyptus trees flanked the pebbled walkway to the enclosure. Inside, a garden courtyard—wound through with flowering bushes, trees, and fountains—fanned out like a welcome mat. The gods’ individual cloisters lined the rounded outer wall, each a building unto itself, save the Twins’; theirs was connected by a covered wooden walkway. In the very back center stood the Shrine of the Five, where one could pay tribute to the gods as a unified family.
A priest of the Unknown god approached the sisters when they entered. Like Regulators, and like the god, the priests of the Unknown had hidden identities and it was impolite to address such members of clergy by a gendered pronoun.
Their long, eggplant-colored burqa flapped gently in the breeze. “Welcome,” the priest said in a tempered lilt that was neither high nor low, masculine nor feminine. “The ringing of the bell has commenced in the cloister of the Unknown, and the late-afternoon sermons for Emotion and Knowledge both begin in ten minutes.”
“Thank you,” Krona said, fiddling with the ends of her orange scarf. “We’re interested in speaking with the head priest of Nature, if possible. My sister and I recently moved to the area, and we are looking for a renewal blessing from our family’s patron.”
They consulted a silver watch pulled from deep in the folds of their burqa. “I’m sorry, but she is expecting a visitor shortly. You’ll have to come back another time.”
“Will it be a long meeting? We can wait,” De-Lia said quickly.
“I cannot say.” The priest punctuated the sentence with a nervous giggle, then gasped suddenly as Tray and Sasha made their entrance. “If you’ll excuse me,” they said, taking leave of the sisters in favor of the Regulators.
“Do they seem anxious in your eyes?” Krona asked as they watched the priest scurry toward their comrades.
“Most definitely. I’d like to speak with them more—we are looking for cultists in service of the Unknown.”
“Yes, but Thibaut said the altar is in the cloister of Nature.”
De-Lia rubbed at her chin. “You see if you can locate Nature’s head priest before her engagement. I’ll keep an eye on this one. Sasha and Tray will be looking for the cloister’s Primary, so we should be covering a good amount of ground.”
Krona nodded. “All right.”
Though Krona knew Nature’s cloister to be directly to her right, she was compelled to turn left. In Lutador, everyone walked a coterie path clockwise, as an honor for Time. It took her first by the cloister of Knowledge, then Emotion, then by the Shrine of the Five, where she paused.
Man-sized leaves of stained glass fanned out behind the stone altar like a peacock’s tail, held in place by thick lines of lead. Garlands of flowers and nuts were strewn over the small statues of the four known gods, as well as the empty place left for the fifth. A woody scent wafted through the air from two dove-shaped censers dangling on either side of the shrine.
Half a dozen worshipers knelt or stood nearby, mumbling prayers and occasionally blowing kisses through their cupped hands—a gesture representing Arkensyre Valley and all its gifts.
Krona kissed her knuckles and pressed them to her forehead before making the Valley sign and walking on.
And here she came to the cloisters of the Twins, Nature first and then Time. The double doors of each were embossed with symbols of the god within. Nature’s doors were carved with the expected flowers and animals, but also magical symbols of the five most important metals, lest the people forget that things like gold were of the earth as much as birds and bees.
Krona recognized the symbols, of course. Every needle forged for firing through a quintbarrel was etched with its corresponding sign.
Cloister doors were never shut unless they meant to bar entry. The priests of Nature did not want to be disturbed, but they would have to forgive Krona her persistence.
Pushing inside, she surveyed the area quickly, assuring she hadn’t barged in on some private rite. But no; the pews were empty. Light streamed through the green stained-glass ceiling, bathing the limed walls in shifting, emerald hues.
It was strange to find no one—not even a lesser member of clergy—barring her path.
The suspect altar sat in the usual place, at the base of the rear monument. The monument was a larger-than-life representation of Nature carved in black stone, his four arms outstretched, each hand clutched around an arrow, with his three sets of hawklike wings partially unfurled behind him.
With another kiss to her knuckles as an apology to the god, Krona hurried to the dais to see if the carving on its front matched the clergy mark on the man’s thumb. It did look old. Well weathered. It was not unusual for altars to be carved, but it was strange that this one, not belonging to Emotion, should be inlaid with gemstones. A large sapphire sat in the center, over the crossed lines of the carving, and many small, clear stones dotted the rest like stars, obscuring the pattern.
She reached out to trace the carving, while simultaneously retrieving the photograph of the brand from her pocket for comparison. As her fingers skimmed over the sapphire she was hit with a wave of satisfaction, as though all were right with the world.
Nothing amiss here, her emotions whispered to her. All is well.
She turned to walk away, suddenly completely satisfied, forgetting even that she wanted to speak with Nature’s head priest.
It took her four steps before her suspicions came flooding back. She froze mid-stride.
Not only was the altar inlaid with gems, they were enchanted.
Rushing back, she looked but did not touch. Sapphires could be made into contentmentstones. But she’d felt it so thoroughly, so suddenly, that the painful prick of false emotion entering her body hadn’t even registered. The sapphire was nowhere near large enough to create that kind of illusion, which meant the clear gems had to be diamonds—enhancer stones, carrying no emotions of their own but augmenting others.
Keeping her distance, she compared the photograph and the etching. Yes, she was positive: they matched.
Whoever had set the stones in the altar meant for them to protect its secrets, to send the curious on their way.
Krona glanced around the room once more, looking for the door that would lead her to the head priest’s offices. She found it concealed behind Nature’s monument.
As twins, Time and Nature were bonded in many ways. They were two sides of a coin, mirroring each other in their complements: each with two legs to stride boldly, four hands to grasp tightly at each other, and six wings to carry them swiftly across the world—his hawks’ and hers ravens’.
It was appropriate, then, that the head priests of Time and Nature were always themselves twins of some stripe. They need not be a brother-sister pairing, so long as they were multiborn.
Twins were a blessing to any family, but especially the exceptionally poor. Only noble twins could vie for sovereignty over the city-state, but twins of any station were holy.
The door behind the statue led Krona into a thin hall that immediately turned a sharp corner to the right. The office was connected to both the cloister of Time and that of Nature, allowing the head priests to share the space with their sibling. An identical hall must have jutted out from behind Time’s monument.
Upon reaching another door, Krona paused, listening for voices. All lay quiet within.
Tentatively, she knocked.
“Enter,” said a female voice. Krona obeyed.
A large desk occupied the center of the bookshelf-lined room. Both priests sat at it, side by side, each looking over different documents. They looked to be broaching their fifties, identical to each other in nearly every way, save the crop of their short gray hair. The sisters huddled close together—so close, Krona would have thought it uncomfortable. They appeared to have their hands intertwined below the desk.
“Greetings, mademoiselle,” said the twin on the left. “What can we do for you? I’m afraid we have to bade you swiftness, for we are expecting someone.”
“Are you the head priests of Time and Nature here? Donna and Illana Sandhu?”
“We are.”
Krona touched her Regulator coin in her skirt pocket. “I have questions regarding a symbol on the redressed altar in Nature’s cloister—specifically how it relates to a mark of clergy.”
They looked away from her quickly, back at the papers in front of them. “That is an old custom no longer acceptable to the gods,” said the twin on the left.
“Why?” asked the twin on the right. “Have you come to plead?”
“If I say yes?” Krona asked.
“Then we’d have to turn you over to the constabulary,” the right twin continued. “I think you’ve come to test our faith. The Founding Coterie in Asgar-Skan has sent many like you before. We will not be chased away so easily.”
The Founding Coterie was the first, established by Absolon himself. It was where the Prime Priests resided—those who the gods spoke to, once in a blue moon. All except for the Unknown, of course. They oversaw all of the other coteries in all of Arkensyre, keeping services consistent, making sure no “revelations” were spread without examination.
The Prime Priests were to these two as the Martinets were to Krona.
By now, the photograph of the brand had been unfolded and refolded so many times it bore hefty creases down the middle, but the symbol was still stark white against the gray of the man’s thumb. Krona slid it across the desk to them, then laid her Regulator coin on top. “I’m not from the Founding. Have you seen this before?”
The woman on the right picked up the coin immediately, eyes wide.
“I’ve come to offer you clemency and protection, in exchange for all you know about the people currently using this brand.”
The twins stood, but still did not let go of each other’s hands. It was then that Krona realized they couldn’t let go—they were conjoined at the chest, near the shoulder, and holding hands appeared to be the easiest way to rest their arms nearest each other. “Thank the gods,” the sister on the left said. “We were only trying to keep to the service. We had no idea they’d—”
“Illana,” her sister snapped.
“I’m sorry, Donna, but I can’t stand—”
“Just because she has a coin and says she’s a Regulator doesn’t mean she is. She could be with the Founding, or with them. The Prophet could be testing us.”
Krona perked. “I have colleagues outside, in full uniform. They will escort you to a secure location, guarded by the Watch.”
“Now?” Donna asked, a bit incredulous.
“Sooner is preferable.”
“We can’t leave now, not until—”
The priest was interrupted by a knock at the door. “Sisters?”
“That’s Jaxon,” Illana breathed. She looked to her sister. “What if he’s seen the other Regulators? What if he gets suspicious?”
“Of what?” Donna said. “Regulators can go where they like, he has no cause to think it has anything to do with us.”
Krona scooped up her coin and the photo and shoved them both in her pocket as the door squeaked open.
“Sisters, are you in—Oh, hello.”
The man was dressed in all black, with thick boots. Nothing about his clothes was flashy—simply tight and utilitarian. The V of his tunic wasn’t especially deep, but he was a broad man and the garment appeared two sizes too small. He had a hard, boxy jaw, but the thing that struck Krona the hardest about him was the overwhelmingly cloying smell of cologne.
“We had an appointment,” he said sternly to the priests.
Donna and Illana’s postures had become tight, their breathing unsteady. Whoever this Jaxon was, he meant trouble.
“I’m sorry,” Krona gasped out, addressing the priests. She grabbed each of their hands in turn, kissing them. “And thank you. Forgive me for barging in. I know now what my path is, why Nature has vexed me so. Thank you, thank you for quelling my doubts.”
They caught on quickly. “You’re welcome, child,” Illana said. Together, she and Donna made the sign of the Valley, and Krona returned it.
“Wait for me to come finish your blessing,” Donna said. “Kiss the effigy’s feet twenty times every ten minutes. I will be there shortly.”
Krona understood—they did not want her to go just yet. “I shall. Thank you. Thank you.”
She gave Jaxon a dazed, rapture-filled smile as she passed him, and he scowled in return. But he seemed to have bought it.
Shutting the door with a snap, Krona strode away, counting carefully, waiting until she was sure Jaxon would think her gone. Then she tiptoed back and pressed her ear to the jamb.
“—have the map?”
“Of course,” Donna said. “It’s over there.”
An expectant pause followed. Krona gritted her teeth.
“Well?”
A shuffling of feet, a jostling of a chair or two. Something heavy thumped, as though on a desk. Pages crinkled and fluttered. The boots came nearer the door for a moment, and Krona had to breathe through her mouth, his scent was so strong.
“You’re sure this is the one he was looking for?” Jaxon asked.
“His request was vague. This is our best guess.”
“Fine.” Heavy footfalls aimed at the door.
“Is that all?” Illana asked, her tone hesitant.
“Why, should there be more?”
“The next meeting—when, where?”
“I can’t tell you now. There are Regulators out front, and if they come asking questions…”
Krona’s heartbeat ramped up by several ticks a minute. She did her best to keep still.
“We’ll keep our cloisters closed,” Donna said.
“Don’t do anything suspicious. If they ask questions, you answer. When I return tomorrow afternoon, I expect a full report. We need to know what they’re after, if it has anything to do with us.”
“Yes,” Illana said, “of course.”
“May the Unknown bless you, sisters,” he said.
Krona lifted the hem of her skirts and ran down the passageway, hoping her footsteps were as soft as they were fleet. Nature’s broad wings and muscled back greeted her on the other side of the hall, and she swooped around to kneel at the statue’s feet. The stone nail on its left big toe had been left smooth, its edges barely visible, from decades of practitioners doing just as she did now. As she kissed the statue’s feet, it was only half for show. She hoped the god did not mind being used in mild deception.
Jaxon’s stench preceded him, and he didn’t so much as look Krona’s way as he left, a sallow-looking roll of parchment under one arm.
Krona maintained her ruse until the priests made their way to her a few minutes later, small satchels in hand. They locked the cloister’s double doors as Krona rose and patted dust from her knees.
“Who was that?” Krona asked. “Is he the prophet you spoke of, by chance?”
“No,” Illana said. “But he follows the Prophet. Just as we did, until…” She let out a harried sigh. “We fell too far. We never should have opened ourselves up to his blasphemies. But, we didn’t know what to do. We’re in danger of losing our station,” she continued. “Here, in our coterie. Our ordainment has come into question by those in the upper echelons. They claim we are not multiborn.”
Internally, Krona frowned. How could that be? Did they think the sisters were faking? There were many stories from the darker days in Lutador, of parents who tied their children of differing ages together and paraded them about as conjoined twins. It was easier to get food that way—sympathies ran high for such families, especially in hard times.
But no one would have reason to run such a difficult scam these days. Besides, even if Donna and Illana weren’t conjoined, their duality was evident on their identical faces.
Illana clarified. “The Founding says that because we never separated, because we emerged from our mother together, that we are single-born, and thus incapable of serving Time and Nature.”
Krona let her internal frown spread outward. “But those conjoined have been respected for centuries.”
Illana shrugged. “Times change.”
“But Time does not,” Donna scoffed. “We have devoted ourselves to our coterie for thirty-five years. If the Twins were unhappy with us as servants, they would have shown their displeasure long ago.”
“The priesthood is broken,” Illana said. “We were searching for a way to rebuild it, to make it right again. We’re tired of the order putting demands on penance and quotas on time vials. We only want to serve the gods, wholly, fitly, without bureaucracy and corruption. So when we heard of a new prophet, we sought him out. A prophet of the Unknown. I know, there have been many who claim prophet-hood. We were skeptical as well. But he showed us things, enchantments that shouldn’t exist.”
“What kinds of enchantments?” Krona tried not to show her eagerness. Finally, yes—this could be the key. To the murders, to the mist, to everything.
“He owned a blood pen—a real blood pen. And he … knew things.”
“But then came the criminals,” Donna said sadly. “Those he bound to him with that mark of clergy, one he learned of from the history in these very cloisters. And then, the mask.” Donna shuddered. “His constant desire for it, the things he claimed he could do with it…”
Illana took her sister’s other hand, so that they clung to each other. “The stories were terrifying, but now we’ve seen the mask. It’s awful. The face of a demon, with mismatched horns and a terrible, gaping mouth.”
“Yes,” Krona said quickly. “That is the mask I’m after. It’s a murderer’s mask, and he’s already killed with it.”
Illana gasped, and they both shook their heads, as though to shake the truth of her words from their minds. “The Prophet says he can use it to turn us all into magic users. Not just practitioners, you understand. He thinks he can make us magic.”
“How?”
Donna shook her head. “We don’t know.”
“What did you give Jaxon?”
“A blasphemous map of signs,” Donna said. “For interpretation and prognostication, that sort of thing.”
“Why did he want it?”
“The Prophet has need of it. He wanted to know about…” She took a deep breath. “… about divine messages in blood.”
This was getting better and better. Krona pinched the bridge of her nose. “Lovely. What is the Prophet’s name? Do you know it?”
Donna shook her head.
“What does he look like?”
The sisters shared a glance before Illana said, “He’s always in the shadows, under many layers. A hood, a shawl, a wrap. We’ve never seen his face, and most recently he’s come wearing the mask.”
Krona rolled her tongue, trying to keep her patience. “Is he tall, short? Young? Old? Does he speak with an accent, or use a strange vernacular?”
“He’s short-ish,” Donna provided. “With a deep timbre when he speaks. But that’s … that’s all I know.”
“I overheard Jaxon say something about a meeting—”
“The Prophet is gathering people to him,” Donna said. “All kinds. Priests, bakers, farmers, healers. He’s making promises of power. We only wanted to serve the gods, you must understand. This didn’t start out ugly, it didn’t—”
“Did you mean what you said about protection?” Illana asked. “Can you take us someplace safe?”
“Of course.”
“Then take us now, before he returns.”
“What about varger? Bottle-barkers?”
“Yes, yes—he said the gods brought them to him.”
Sure they did, Krona thought darkly. “Do you have any names? Descriptions of anyone else you’ve met at the meetings?”
“No names. We’re sure Jaxon cannot be found by that name. At the meetings we’re all encouraged to come with veils or scarves, like the Prophet. To keep hidden like the priests of the Unknown.”
Not as tributes to the god’s veiled nature, but to guard against defection such as this, Krona was sure.
“Can you at least tell me where meetings have taken place before?”
“Yes,” Illana said, voice shaking. “We can make a list, yes. Just take us away from here, please.”
“Then gather your things, anything you can’t bear to be without. I’ll send someone for you in ten minutes’ time. He’ll be in uniform.” Tray should be able to get them away safely.
“… A Regulator?”
“Yes. Are you prepared to leave your coterie for good?”
“If they don’t want us anymore, we’ve no reason to stay,” Donna said, spite dripping from her tongue.
“Hurry, then,” Krona said.
She peeked out of the cloister’s double doors before exiting, doing her best to scan the grounds for the man she’d encountered. Jaxon’s scent still hung heavy among the pews, reminding her to take caution.
When he came back looking for the sisters tomorrow, she would follow him. There was a mask back at the den, Mastrex Pat-Soon’s—Magnitude Seven, Tier Seven—zhe had an incredible capacity for stealth. One of the greatest Marchonian Guards of all time, zhe had stopped many an assassination, and, most importantly, had kept the then-teenaged Grand Marquises from sneaking out into the city in the middle of the night. They’d always had schemes, and zhe had always thwarted them.
Krona was looking to do some thwarting of her own.
It took her longer than she expected to spot Tray, as he was lingering near the Altar of the Five. He darted to her when she crooked a finger.
They hid in a tight cluster of smooth-trunked trees in the center of the coterie, hoping no one would note their brief exchange.
Krona told him of the sisters’ intent to leave, and of Jaxon.
“Sasha and I will see to them,” Tray assured her.
“Do not leave the sisters alone. With anyone.”
“Yes, of course,” Tray said.