“When does the show begin?” I ask.
“Soon,” Ovren says softly. “And please remember to keep your voice low, Your Highness.”
Last night, while watching me talk my way into fucking Rosomon, the men learned that the royal finery I wore wasn’t stolen. They both assume I’m here in Catha for the promised royal wedding, not knowing I’m the one who’s supposed to get married. They seem to think it’s my father who’ll be wed.
Below us on the altar, ahead of the effigy, a group of workers sets up not one but three of the contraptions that Rosomon wasbound to last night. Four additional wooden structures appear. Shaped like large X’s, they’re obviously flogging racks. We had similar structures for punishment in Khotor, and I assume they’re meant for the shifters.
“What part comes first?” I ask Ham. “The tribunal, or the Wives of Othrix wedding thing?” I must be down on the altar for that. I hope to end this charade before things reach that point, but if not, there’s no chance I’ll let even one of those klericks touch my love. For that matter, I won’t let them whip or fuck even one woman they drag onto the altar.
“You weren’t given an itinerary?” Ovren eyes me.
“I’ve been busy.” I shrug, as if it’s nothing. Then wink.
“The royal wedding will likely come first,” Ham says. “Afore the altar is stained in blood.”
A chill traces through me.
“Speaking of that, shouldn’t you be with the wedding party?” Ovren asks. “Standing as a witness?”
“I’d prefer to watch from here.”
If I turn up on that altar, I’ll have to overtly refuse to marry Glorya, causing her shame. Better for her if I simply don’t show up. Who am I kidding? No matter what I do, today won’t go well for Glorya. No matter how I reject her, she’ll be the one blamed—likely punished.
Horns sound, and Ovren pushes past me. “Climb down or stay out of the way—Your Highness.” He adds my title as an afterthought. “If you’re not careful, we might push you off the platform while executing our cues.”
On all sides and behind the display, workers in the wings jump into action. Fires light in front of reflective glass, smoke fills the stage, and the effigy of Othrix starts to move.
The curtain falls down and into the stage. It appears to vanish into thin air, just as Ovren described, and a collective gasp, then a hush, falls over the crowd. Many rush to the very edge of the raised platform. It will be a miracle if no one is crushed.
Ovren and Ham, along with all the men positioned in my eyesight, tug on ropes in a carefully choreographed order to make the effigy move.
“Gather all who dare come before Othrix!” A large voice booms, but I can’t see its source.
A long row of klericks, dressed in red robes, walk onto the altar. Facing the huge image of Othrix, they stop and lift their arms in unison. Then they bow and move in a choreographed pattern, some kind of planned worship of this metal creature.
From where they are, can they tell it’s not real? It’s hard to be certain.
The klericks part, and the Prime Klerick rises at their center, arriving as if from nowhere. The crowd’s awe rises in a loud roar. From their perspective, the Prime Klerick magically appeared before this effigy of Othrix, but before we climbed the scaffolding, Ovren showed me the cranks and pulleys used to raise his platform from below the altar.
On the other hand, the Prime Klerick is un-humanly tall. Taller than even Zogar or Xendus, with wide shoulders under a shimmering golden cloak that covers him head to toe, including his face. He holds out his arms, and balls of light shoot away from him.
The crowd goes wild. Saxon says that most klericks have some access to Darkness. The Prime Klerick must be a mage.
“See?” Ham says. “I told you it’s not all trickery. The Prime Klerick channels the power of Othrix.”
“What’s the trick with his size?” I ask Ovren and Ham.
Their eyes are wide as they shake their heads. “That’s no trick.”
It has to be. No one is that tall. And even if some creature is that tall, there’s been a Prime Klerick in place since the Great Separation. So, even if this current Prime Klerick happens to be tall, a man can’t instantly grow when he’s appointed to a position. Can he?
I get how easily people are fooled by this, but the illusions I saw in Lymbo help me understand that not everything I’m seeing is real.
Three women, all dressed in hooded robes made from what looks like very coarse fabric, are ushered onto the altar and made to kneel in front of the Prime Klerick.
Is Rosomon amongst them? It’s impossible to tell, given the clothing that covers every part of their bodies, except perhaps their faces, which are pointed toward the floor, so I can’t see them from this angle.
“Today is an auspicious day,” the loud voice booms. “Today, these three young heretics will be granted mercy and the honor of dedicating their lives to the service of Othrix.”
