“Why is he doing this?” Seth asked, polishing his breastplate.
“The prince or the Hierarch?” Lathan asked, rubbing his bracer with a cloth to buff it.
Seth blinked. He hadn’t expected the other knight to answer.
“The prince.”
“He knows Hyperion despises deception,” Lathan said. “Throwing a masked ball is just one more insult. And inviting us, even more so. The Hierarch can’t refuse without seeming ungrateful, without looking like he’s set himself too far apart from the people, and the nobles’ gifts to the temple pay for many of its works.”
Seth nodded. He did not want to speak and risk Lathan being angry with him again, but he did not think Lathan was completely right. The Bishop had encouraged Seth to think, to challenge his elders. He hoped this was what she’d meant.
If Hyperion despised deception, then why had they brought the box into the city by night? Why had they worn cloaks over their armor? Why were the Inquisitors trained to lie?
“Basically, it’s a pissing match,” Lathan continued. “The prince is flaunting his power. What he has of it. Now the Hierarch will do the same. Expect him to condemn the ball, the excess, the waste of food and light.”
Seth turned the breastplate side to side, looking for spots. It hadn’t been made for him. Like his sword and shield, the monks had dredged it up from the depths of the monastery’s vaults. It would never be perfect, just like he’d never be perfect, but it was his and he cherished it.
He’d been surprised that the Bishop had chosen him to join them at the palace. The Hierarch had left the choice of escort to her, and she’d ordered them to bathe and make themselves gleam. Seth felt there had to be more to this outing. He did not know why she’d included him, but he forced himself to not question her motivations.
In Teshur the monks had conserved every drop of water. He’d scrubbed himself with sand and oil, scraping it off with a strigil before using what little rainfall he’d been allowed.
He’d marveled at the baths in Ilium, how the knights used them regularly, wasting what the monks would have considered an endless bounty. When Seth had first arrived there, he’d been told he’d have an audience with the Hierarch, to make himself presentable. He’d marveled at the soap and steam.
They’d met before, once, when he’d been a boy. He’d hoped to be better prepared the second time. He’d been too worried to feel embarrassed as he washed himself, naked and exposed among the other knights.
In the end Seth hadn’t even approached the Hierarch’s throne, only seen his Holiness at a distance, conferring with cardinals and bishops.
Intermediaries had given Seth his mission, taken him to the docks, and brought him to the box. They’d spent the entire time warning him of the mission’s importance, speaking of the honor he’d been given, that he’d been chosen by the Hierarch himself, and most of all, to not fail.
Yet he hadn’t been punished for losing the man in the box.
Seth lived when Sophia and Zale did not.
Worse, ever since he’d approached Lathan, he wanted something, to feel something beyond fire, devotion, and pain.
He felt tempted to pack it away, to cram it down into his gut and feed it to the fire. That might have been what Father Geldar had meant by trying to do more, to be more, but Seth did not think so. He felt lost in a wholly new way that had nothing to do with his impurity or Hyperion, and he had no one to ask, no one to seek advice from.
Did everyone go through this, or did their parents guide them? Seth could not say, and for once, being an orphan felt like a true disadvantage.
He’d bathed quickly when the Bishop ordered him to, made certain to avoid noticing anyone around him. He especially did not look in Lathan’s direction and kept his eyes forward.
Now they worked to make their armor shine, to oil any exposed leather.
The Hierarch wanted them to impress, to intimidate, and to embody Hyperion’s light.
They’d wear their helms, which would hide most of their faces. In a manner, they’d be joining the masquerade, and Seth smiled at the thought.
It was nearly sunset. They would pray, assemble in the temple, and depart for the palace.
The Hierarch had spent the entire day among the people. Surely he had blessed them all, but a number of parishioners remained. Some prayed in the chapels, kneeling quietly. They turned when Seth and Lathan entered, hoping for a sign of his Holiness.
But the Hierarch wasn’t there.
Seth shuffled closer to the Bishop.
She’d cared for her armor too, but the dents and scratches caught the light, as if the blows she’d taken in Hyperion’s service were jewels she wore with pride.
“Straighten your posture,” she told him.
Seth squared his shoulders.
“Please,” a voice said from his left. “Please bless me.”
Seth looked to the woman. She knelt before the Bishop, a straggler as the priests shooed others from the temple.
“I cannot bless you, sister,” the Bishop said.
“Not you.” The woman lifted a crooked finger toward Seth. “Him.”
“Me?” Seth held up his hands. “I’m . . . I am no priest, sister.”
“But his fire burns within you.” The woman staggered to her feet, swayed there, fixing Seth with sharp, slightly glazed eyes. “Burn away my darkness, my lord. Please. You must.”
“I am no lord, and I am not worthy of such a request,” Seth said.
The Bishop looked from Seth to the derelict and took her gently by the arm, escorting her to the temple doors, praying with her in a calm, soothing tone. She looked back at Seth with a question. He shrugged. He did not understand the woman’s intensity, and he squirmed that she would focus her faith upon him.
He was no god, no priest, and unworthy of forgiving anyone for anything. He felt like he’d trespassed just to hear it suggested.
“Father, forgive her,” he prayed aloud. “Forgive me. I know such is not my place.”
Seth did not look to see if Lathan had overheard. He did not want to see the other knight’s reaction, did not want more shame.
The Bishop returned to him.
“I didn’t . . . I don’t understand,” he said, trying not to stammer.
“It is all right, Seth,” the Bishop said. “The woman must offer her darkness to Hyperion, as must you, and I. The night comes for us all.”
But it didn’t, not anymore. They would die, but go nowhere. Eventually their shades would join the Grief. Phoebe no longer rowed her boat to the Ebon Sea. The Moon’s Door no longer opened to admit the dead.
He didn’t feel like it could be all right. Pride. Hubris. These were not for him. He prayed for forgiveness, repeating it like a mantra as the light from the oculus faded away.
Seth prayed until the Hierarch entered the candlelit temple, his body shielded by armor, a suit of golden rings. Geldar would have looked absurd in armor, but the Hierarch wore it well.
Even the Bishop straightened at his approach. The man’s presence commanded attention. Here was Hyperion’s voice in the world. This was who the woman should have approached.
Seeing the Hierarch now, Seth remembered that the first of them had been generals. They’d led the faithful in battle against the demons when the gods had warred to make this world theirs.
While the knights had their helms, the Hierarch had chosen to wear a mask. It covered his brow and eyes. Rays fanned from it, crowning him in gold.
The costume represented Hyperion, girded for war and armed for battle. Seth needed no guile to read the message.
It had been a long while since the knights had truly gone to war. Even the crusade against Phoebe’s priests had not been much of a conflict. The Hierarch had orchestrated careful attacks against the goddess, destroying all her towers and temples at the same time, on the same day.
Almost none had been spared.
“Knights,” the Hierarch said. There were eight of them, including Seth, Lathan, and the Bishop. “We will show our strength, his strength, to this city and its prince. He will tempt you. We will retrieve what was stolen. Remember whom you serve.”
With that, he led them from the temple.
He was Hyperion’s voice in the world, and they were his escort.
They crossed the plaza and descended into the city, but not very far.
These weren’t the alleys where Seth had lost his way. They weren’t the sodden, trash-littered canals. The houses of the Palace Quarter were as ornate as temples. Polished braziers stood at their gates, chasing back the Grief. They looked like cakes, with marble flourishes and statues. Everything and everyone, even the servants and personal guards, was polished and clean.
It was another Versinae, a secret district of light and wealth laid atop the true city.
Sitting behind a tall fence of iron, the palace was the largest house of all. A heavy, florid structure of the same dark granite as the towers, its domes were verdigris. Its spires rose almost high enough to challenge the temple, but wisely stopped short.
Light was everywhere. Lanterns hung in rows from chains strung across the street, highlighting statues, pillars, stone scrollwork, and a fountain larger than any Seth had seen.
Phoebe’s towers had been black and white spires. Hyperion’s houses leaned toward gold and gilt, but this was ostentation for its own sake. Everything in the god’s house spoke to who Hyperion was. This was man’s ego inflated and nakedly displayed.
Seth liked none of it, even as the lively music drifted from the many open windows.
People lined up outside, departing from carriages, surrounded by waiting, anxious servants.
The nobility. The wealthy. Their clothes were layered and rich, the men in silk and velvet coats, the women in full gowns. Most wore large hats, and all wore masks of every shape, beaded or decorated with gems or pearls. The colors were a riot of blues and greens, wine reds, and the brightest of yellows. Seth thought them akin to birds, and they preened as such.
The crowd parted. Even here, bloodlines and money still bowed to Hyperion and his knights.
“So many windows,” Seth gasped. “So much light.”
The sheets of glass let the lamps inside shine like beacons into the dark.
“It is a waste,” the Bishop said. “All of that oil could protect so many. Its value could feed so many.”
“Still,” Lathan said, his tone begrudging. “The shades will not intrude here tonight.”
Both statements were true. Glancing back toward Hyperion’s golden dome, Seth had to admit that the same could be said of it, that the statues and gilt could feed the hungry, could change or save many lives.
He pushed the thought down. He had to. He’d feed his doubts to the fire, pray harder during his next penance, but he could not deny that he was floundering. He’d always been told it was not his place to question. Now the Bishop had encouraged it, and it had opened a box of doubts Seth did not know how to address.
The more questions he asked, the wider and deeper the gulf between him and his peace of mind.
They marched inside, flanking the Hierarch in a narrow V. It reminded Seth of a sword’s point. The crowd of nobles, for their part, whispered behind their fans or dipped their heads to hide their expressions with their extravagant hats.
Here was Versinae’s corruption, the greed at its core, those who wore pearls while those who dove for them starved. The fire stirred in Seth’s belly and he let out a breath to soothe it.
Marble and glass were everywhere, but the sweeping space was set for comfort, not piety or contemplation. Seth found it a relief. He did not know if he could have tamped the fire down if it had felt like the prince had set himself at the same height as the gods.
The floor was dark wood, not stone. Laid in a swirling pattern of waves and islands, it shone with a glossy polish that reflected the forms of the people mingling atop it.
There were dancers. Seth knew he gaped but could not stop himself.
They turned and pranced in coordinated steps that reminded Seth of his lessons with the Bishop and Lathan, but they had such grace, something he did not think he could ever possess.
Seth swallowed and forced his gaze away. This place, this world—it wasn’t for him. Maybe if he were another person, had grown up in a house like this—then he could be more.
Seth averted his eyes lest he crave a life he could never have and spied a figure moving through the crowd.
He wore a long open coat over a velvet vest. Both were black and worked with silver braiding.
Like Lathan, he was slender, though not as tall as either Lathan or Seth. He had a round, brimmed hat with a flat top and a white mask that covered most of his face. Seth warmed with curiosity. He wanted to see more of what the mask concealed.
He turned to see what Lathan was doing, if the others had noticed his distraction, but they’d gathered away from him, talking among themselves, leaving him to drift into the party as if he wasn’t one of them. Because he was not. He did not belong.
Cadre or no cadre, he’d always be alone.
Seth let out a breath. For the moment, he had no orders, no immediate directive, so he would do what Geldar had suggested. He would try to dream a little bigger. With a nod to screw up his courage, Seth set off in pursuit of the masked man.