Helena shrugged and Mischa looked at the floor before answering, “Ithink.Tintarians are wildly religious but not Rodwin religious. They worship nature and the elements and their temples are sacred to them. Complete pagans. So, we might be alright.”
The doors flung open a second time and the four of us jumped. Five figures stood in the opening for a moment and this second time, the doors’ opening allowed in the specific sounds of war.
For a beat, I believe we four saw five Tintarians and began to panic, but it was only five other women, one of whom, bolted the doors closed behind them.
“Sanctuary?” asked Helena.
A bent woman with white hair nodded as she walked closer to us, the others following her. “We are too damn far from my house to make it. This is my daughter, Eefa,” she said, pulling a thin straw-haired girl towards her. She put her hand on her chest. “I’m Bronwyn. We own a hatchery. We were on our way back from our delivery route. There’s no way we could make it in time before those bastards cut us down.”
I noticed the large woven baskets on their arms.
“Mother,” said Eefa, momentarily embarrassed by her gregarious parent, which struck me as equally ridiculous as my pangs of hunger.
A beauty only a few winters older than Maureen, introduced herself as Catrin. Her hair was the color of fall leaves, a color I had always envied and wished my chestnut brown was more like. Again, I felt silly for noticing this whilst actual battle happened outside the white walls of Agnes. My mind was delayed. It was like hearing something shouted from across a large room.
The two remaining women seemed to be much more intelligent than I was being and one of them, tall and reedy with a bit of a heavy jaw, said, “With what can we barricade the doors?”
“Nothing,” said Mischa. “All the pews are stone and the podium is a part of the tile it sits on. They’re carved from the same rock.”
“Get the chair from the priest’s office!” I said, absurdly gleeful I had finally said something useful.
The tall woman walked past me in a whirl of serge skirts, her companion on her heels. They dragged the simple wooden chair out from the small office and propped it against the inside of the two doors, under the rickety bolt.
All nine of us looked at our pathetic champion of a defense.
“Oh, we’re dead,” wailed Eefa, the girl with the straw-colored hair.
“No!” said Mischa and she explained the sanctuary doctrine of Tintar.
“She is right!” exclaimed the tall woman’s companion, a friendly-faced woman with a long nose, small mouth and wide-set eyes. “I am a tutor of history! And cultures! I help boys study for their university entrance exams! Mostly Ecclestonian history, but I know some other countries’ and she’s right! Tintarians only kill in the streets when they invade.” She blinked in her excitement and looked like she was ready to tell secrets and buy the next pitcher of ale, not explain foreign cultures.
“I’m Quinn,” said the tall woman. “This is River. We’re sisters. We both work as private tutors and she is, as is your friend, correct. Tintarians only invade government holdings. Not private ones. And not temples.”
I looked from the square-jawed Quinn to River’s dainty, almost feline features. I did not believe they were sisters.
“Why are we saying our names?” erupted Eefa. “We’re about to be kill—”
“Hold on,” I said, raising my hands. I then remembered I was the head scribe of a university scriptorium and had been for some time. I had managed the distribution of tasks, the petty squabbles and jealousies amongst staff, often some of the duties of the master scribe, all while smiling. Nineteen women had answered to me. The position should have gone to someone with more experience. I was merely passable as a translator and my illumination skills, while adequate, were nothing compared to Helena and Maureen. I was best at fine penmanship and organization. But I excelled at navigating personalities and smoothing over emotional wrinkles. And that is why the university had asked me to be head. “Hold on,” I repeated. “We must remain calm. We are safe. Let’s stay quiet and not alert them to our presence. Agnes chapels are small. The doorway is smaller than most on this street. They may pass us by.”
Outside the screaming had escalated.
“I agree,” said the beautiful Catrin, nodding. “I purposely ran to an Agnes chapel. I’m also too far from my home. I’m—” her breath caught in her throat and she swallowed. “I don’t even live in Eccleston. My family is… My uncle is Raymond Tigon.”
“You’re a Tigon?” asked Bronwyn.
Catrin’s mouth wobbled. “I’m here to have my wedding gown made.”
There was a moment of muted sympathy. I truly felt for her, the child of a wealthy mining bloodline, away from their estate, in town for a precious reason, only to coincide with black-armored Tintarians.
“So, it is agreed,” Helena said, my staunch supporter, so used to seconding my decisions as head scribe. “We will remain quiet and wait out the invasion.”
A moment of agreement among us passed before the pitiful wooden doors, their bolt and the office door shuddered with a sound reminiscent of a thunderclap.
“The gods have damned us,” whispered Mischa.
A second booming hit the doors. They had found us and they were using some kind of a battering ram.
Eefa started to cry, Bronwyn clutching her daughter in her arms.
