Our future will be bright indeed, my queen.
I love Zogar’s confidence and how it fuels my own.
Try to rest while I fly, my love. I am confident, but don’t know what we’ll face when we arrive.
CHAPTER 60
Rosomon
We land next to a grove of grape vines and quickly change into clothing in the style worn by acolytes here. We stopped near a small town just inside the Cathian border, and Tynan secured clothing for us he says will blend in with the locals.
The air is much warmer in Catha than it was in Achotia, and Saxon fashions a scarf for me to wear over part of my face. That, and the hood of the cloak, should shelter my pale skin from the strong sun.
After her experiences in Khotor, Surath has chosen to disguise herself as a male, something I didn’t think possible given her shape.
I tried to give her some pointers, but she refused to bind her chest and instead padded her belly. It’s surprisingly effective in transforming her shape into a man carrying excess girth. She also covered her striking blood-red hair, binding it with a long piece of cloth under the cloak of her hood. She and I both have our hoods up, despite the heat.
We walk toward Ayr, the city that’s the seat of the Temple of Othrix as well as the Cathian King—former King. We pass through more vineyards, as well as several citrus orchards, where the air is perfumed by bright fresh fruits ripening under the warm sun.
Tynan refuses to release my hand, which is not making Zogar or Saxon happy, but we’ve been parted so long, and we barely took time for a quick kiss after he explained his actions, and I recounted some of what happened in the Darkness. The moment Tynan tried to initiate more intimacy, Zogar and Saxon stomped through the woods toward us, insisting it was time to leave for Catha.
I hope that this unseating of Othrix goes as easily as everyone expects, because I don’t think I could bear it, if I’m parted from Tynan again, without even a proper kiss shared between us.
While we’re in Catha, I don’t plan to let even one of the men I love out of my sight. I don’t want to let them out of my sight for the rest of my life.
As the streets become more populated with Cathians, I reluctantly pull my hand from Tynan’s, not wanting to draw attention.
All the men and Surath are dressed as acolytes, and I’m dressed as a courtesan. We’ve now entered the outskirts of Ayr—a town far larger than anything in Achotia—and so far, none of the townspeople have questioned us.
Tynan wanted to wear his clothes that identify him as royal, thinking it would gain us advantage, but he was overruled. I understood his argument, but I have a feeling that Zogar, inparticular, will be arguing againstanythingTynan suggests, for a very long time.
Along the streets of Ayr, we see several notices, announcing the public audience at the Feast of Othrix tomorrow. Some also mention a royal wedding. And something about Wives of Othrix. Saxon says we can get inside, but he’s been secretive about his plan.
The already narrow and winding streets of Ayr become even more so, and I’m glad that Saxon knows where he’s going—or at least believes that he does. He hasn’t been in this city since he was a very young boy, but he’s studied the maps of Ayr.
Tynan’s fingers brush mine, and I turn toward him and smile. Saxon warned us against speaking, lest our accents be detected, and I’m finding it difficult to stay quiet as I take in the bright colors of the fruit in the markets, and the pungent scents of the large barrels of spices that catch in my nose.
When we finally reach the Temple of Othrix, I’m hot and dusty, but my discomfort is forgotten as I look up in awe. The structure is formed from what looks like white marble. The main building is circular and domed, and impressive stairs lead up to a massive portico supported by many large columns.
The doors leading into the building are similarly impressive, made from timber planks at least eight or nine spans high and ornately carved to depict groups of men kneeling before Othrix, seeking blessings or mercy, it’s hard to know which. The images of Othrix are gilded.
A row of guards stretches across the portico, blocking the doors and deterring anyone from climbing the stairs toward them.
“Stay down here,” Saxon tells all of us. “Trust me. I know what I’m doing.” Saxon strides up the marble stairs toward the guards, and it’s difficult to hear what he’s saying.
The guards force Saxon to his knees, four of them holding him down. My throat closes, and I glance toward the others, but everyone’s attention is focused on Saxon. Does everyone know what’s going on except me?
A guard opens the doors a crack and calls into the building. More guards appear from smaller doors at the sides of the portico, all with swords at the ready.
The main doors fully open, and a group of seven klericks, all dressed in red satin robes and tall head dresses like the one our Head Klerick wore on the holiest days.
“I confess to blasphemy,” Saxon shouts from his knees. “As a heretic, I demand a public tribunal in the presence of the Prime Klerick and Othrix.”
My heart stops. “What is he doing?”
Zogar shakes his head.
“You have no right to make such demands,” says the klerick who’s in the center of the group. “There are procedures, chains of command.”
