The ferryman lifts a brow, eyeing me from beneath the hood of his gray robe. “You Blythe?”
I nod.
He offers me a slimy half smile that makes me want to scrub my skin with a pinecone. “Lucky man.”
He wouldn’t be saying that if he saw the state I left Blythe in.
The ferryman pockets my token and jerks his chin at an empty seat directly in front of him. He unties the boat and maneuvers us away from the pier, the sail filling with a blow of wind that shoves us forward, cutting against the current’s flow.
We sail toward the opposite riverbank—the small chunk of Parith on the other side of the Norse still embraced by the wall.
The wind buffers me with the sour stench of the ferryman’s body odor while he whistles a droning tune I could certainly do without. We move toward a huge gray temple made up of spire-like shapes—tall as the city wall, its ominous facade as abhorrent to me as the mountainous presence at my back.
I shudder.
We nudge the pier, the rope secured by a gray-robed male who scans us over.
The two haunts at the front continue to fidget.
“Wait here,” the ferryman grumbles, then steps onto the pier, making the boat bounce around so much I’m surprised it doesn’t flip. Speaking in hushed tones, he converses with the other Shulák, tokens clinking when he hands them over.
He points at me.
Leaning forward, I plant my forearms on my knees and hone my attention on my clasped hands, feigning disinterest, still feeling the residue of last night’s bender despite the ripening hour.
Waking to a splat of gull shit on my face, wrapped around a streetlamp, steeped in what Ihopewas my own puddle of vomit was a new low. If Rhordyn had seen me, he’d have been so bitterly disappointed.
But he’s not here because the bastard made his own mistakes.
Weallmade mistakes.
I shackle the thought somewhere deep and dark as the other robed male steps forward, sweeping his hands wide. “Welcome. I’m Brother Beryll. Please disembark the vessel and step upon our holy shore, into the arms of our great Gods where you will be nourished by their bountiful bosom.”
What a load of krah shit.
We’re ushered across the courtyard, the stone beneath our feet inscribed with a sea of scripture.
Maars’s prophecies.
Despite the dense heat, my skin sprouts goosebumps.
Dwarfed by the temple’s mountainous size, I keep my gaze ahead as we move up a rise of stairs, through a mammoth set of doors, into a lofty interior lit by beams of daylight shafting down from above. A sight that makes my gut flip. Makes my fingers itch for the flask tucked within the discreet pocket lining my robe.
A couple of stoic-faced Gray Guards boasting their signature chainmail and simple breastplate whisk the other two men through a high archway—more bounce in their step than they had half an hour ago.
I frown. “Where are they going?”
“To be cleansed. This way.”
Brother Beryll leads me along a maze of quiet corridors, and I take note of every twist and turn, stashing the information in the back of my mind. A shaft of light illuminates the slow-dancing, powdery particles wafting through the air in a smorgasbord of muted colors.
Candescence.
My knees threaten to buckle, gums throbbing as my canines punch down beneath my mask, my instincts flaring to fierce, feral life.
Clenching my teeth so hard I fear they might shatter, I force my feet forward.
Force my features to remain smooth.
