A ponderous old man with a weakness for card games, High Priest Gurney and his assistant had been summoned from St. Raoul’s cathedral in Seattle to negotiate a crisis in the Elvish Protectorate. Theodore Solbourne, barely a year into his sovereignty at the time, had created a political firestorm by demanding changes to how Healing Houses — under the purview of and partially funded by the Temple — were run.
Gurney, a well-liked man known for his ability to negotiate with prickly leaders, had been dispatched to reason with the young sovereign. Too bad his assistant had come down with a terrible case of food poisoning the night before their departure. It was a bad omen, surely.
Luckily Petra, a priestess who had previously never shown much interest in politics but fell just below his assistant in the hierarchy, was there to fill the gap.
It was even luckier that she happened to be there, ready to step into the old man’s shoes, when he came down with the same bout of illness and couldn’t meet the sovereign when he’d come by unexpectedly, demanding a wedding to Margot Goode.
She’d been all too happy to accommodate him — on the condition that he recommend to the High Gloriae, the secretive ruling body of the Temple, that she replace Maximilian Dooraker as San Francisco’s highest ranking acolyte.
It was a shock, to be sure, when the name of a completely unknown priestess was announced. Gurney had been the popular choice, but the position was a powerful one, so the debate over who would take the seat had been raging for months. The news that she would take it hadn’t been well-received.
At first.
For reasons she couldn’t quite understand, the people of San Francisco warmed up to her almost immediately, and that political pull quieted most of her detractors. Some of it was certainly due to her appearance, but she hoped they also saw a bit of Max in her. A pale shadow of the warmth he’d brought to his services, the genuine compassion he’d felt for the suffering, perhaps, butsomethingof him.
She couldn’t say the same for the Temple, let alone the Gloriae. They, like most in Glory’s service, were a tangled mass of vipers.
They weren’t all bad. Few groups of people were, in her experience, but she’d been in institutions almost all her life and that meant she’d seen exactly what power structures did to even the best of people. There’d been a moment of hope, when Max had finally tracked her down and pulled her from the children’s home, that life among Glory’s acolytes would be different, but that hope was extinguished within a week.
The truth of the matter was that, for all the violence, deprivation, and abuse she’d suffered on the streets and then in the children’s home, Glory’s Temple was far more dangerous.
The prospect of real power made snakes out of even the sweetest souls eventually. And if it didn’t, then they hadn’t lasted long enough for the transformation to take place.
That was why she had trouble understanding how Robert had survived as long as he had.
Her assistant found her, as he usually did at this hour, standing at the balcony railing of the columbarium to eat her lunch. She could hear him huffing and puffing his way up the spiral staircase long before she caught a glimpse of his balding head or flapping robes.
Petra let out a quiet sigh. The columbarium, a two-story, octagonal tower where ashes were interred, was not often visited by staff or worshippers. Situated at the front of the main building, the balcony overlooked the full stretch of the cathedral below. It was also the only part of the entire cathedral complex where she could find a little peace.
Fitting,she thought, swallowing a bite of her turkey sandwich without tasting it,that the only comfort I can find these days is amongst the dead.
“Your grace,” Robert huffed behind her, as was his habit.
“Call me Petra, Rob,” she replied, as was hers.
“The contractors are done with the guest suite’s bathroom and the chef has finished with the menu. It just needs your approval.” He lumbered up to the balcony, where he turned to face her, sweaty hands tucking away into the depths of his red sleeves. His long gold necklace, similar to her own, hung so far from his neck, Glory’s symbol bounced against his belly whenever he moved.
Petra stared out across the yawning expanse of the cathedral, eyeing the exposed ribs of the arched ceiling and the play oflight through the massive stained glass windows. Curls of sweet smoke rose from the statue of Glory’s eye sockets, drifting over the head of a praying worshipper in the first pew.
Even from so far away, she swore she could feel those empty eyes fixed on her.
“None of us walk alone,”Max once told her.“Even when it might feel like we’re in the dark, Glory’s eyes are watching. Remember that, Pet. She expects great things from you.”
Petra bit back a snort.Great things?So fargreat thingsappeared to be paranoia, poking at predators, making deals with demons, and seeing that the nicest suite in the complex was evennicerfor their esteemed guest and his entourage.
Antonin had complained, in his benevolent way, about the guest suite during his last stay. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t given the staff any notice before he showed up at their door, nor that he hadn’t stayed a full twenty-four hours. She’d gotten the message.
He would be coming back for her, and he expected her to be ready.
“Your grace?”
Petra turned her attention back to her flushed assistant. A tightness settled in around her ribs. ShelikedRobert, but that was a dangerous thing in their world. Even if she could afford to bestow favor on people, she couldn’t protect everyone. Petra didn’t have the reach, the resources, or the ruthlessness required of a real High Priestess.
She was an angry little girl playing dress-up and trying to catch a murderer.
“I’ll look over the menu tonight,” she assured him. “And thank you for handling the suite. Did the new furniture come in?”
“It did.” Robert pursed his lips, as he liked to do whenever he had something to say but wasn’t sure he should.
