Arkenn lay dead.
Like his parents.
Captain Enys failed to mention “errand boy” when he described Martin’s job with the city guard. Still, Martin had eaten a good meal, the men at his table only chided him mildly, and no backbreaking work.
Knocking out the bully who thought “little” meant “pushover” won him some respect.
He could do worse. The bed he’d been assigned, while not comfortable, might allow him a good night’s sleep.
He’d miss the gentle rocking of the waves, the press of Petran’s lips to the back of his neck. All part of his past. Now, to make a future. A future in which he hoped to see Petran again.
But… the temple. Though he’d joined the guards, Martin hadn’t been given leather like the captain. No, he’d been given gray trousers, a gray shirt, had his hair shorn, and the scant whiskers on his face shaved. At least the sturdy boots fit his feet. He dressed the part of a messenger boy. His first assignment? Deliver papers from the magistrate to the temple priestess.
In town for a few hours only, bound to come face-to-face with the enemy. The captain’s directions sent him uphill to the temple, through opulent gardens, and to the back door. Apparently, even messengers were forced to endure the temple’s excesses.
The temple killed mages, like Martin’s parents.
Now he’d nothing to fear. He wasn’t mage-born, just a country lad, now a guard member. Martin. His name was Martin. Arkenn died over a sevenday ago, trying to reach a mountain.
He couldn’t afford to be afraid. If anyone saw his fear, they might wonder at the cause. Better to remain calm.Martin, I am Martin, a new recruit of the city guard.
Swallowing down his attack of nerves, he raced up the hill, heart pumping. With each step, houses grew more beautiful and elaborate, shaming any in the lower city. The people he passed wore clothes more elegant than he’d ever seen. Some houses stood four stories tall, with intricate scrollwork and immaculately kept yards.
“Our kind aren’t welcome there,”Petran had said.
Petran. Where was he? Had he left aboard theSeabirdyet? Did he miss Martin as much as Martin missed him?
He quietly chanted,Please don’t see me, please don’t see me. Carriages passed, or the occasional man or woman on a horse. Clusters of well-dressed people strolled along the edges of the road. None paid him more than a passing glance.
Good. He blended. At the garrison, he’d seen men and women with many skin and hair colors, speaking many dialects. A man in uniform, even a non-local recruit, wasn’t cause for staring.
Closer, Martin went to his doom. He passed a low, nondescript building, too in awe of the temple to notice much else. The central tower rose high into the sky, gleaming white in the sunlight. Head-high walls separated the gardens from the street, though the grounds leading to the front door were open for all to see.
A carriage slowed to a stop, brass fittings gleaming in the sunlight, pulled by a matching pair of white horses. What might have been a family crest embellished the door. The liveried driver hopped down, opened the door, and took a gloved hand in his. A woman stepped from the carriage, possibly ten summers older than Martin. Her full skirts swirled around her as the servant assisted her from the carriage. She’d dressed all in lavender: hat, dress, gloves. A double strand of pearls graced her neck. The image of dark-haired, dark-eyed perfection.
The price of her outfit could probably feed an entire village. Once more, Martin’s heart squeezed, thoughts turning to his former village—a place he would never see again. Nothing waited there for him anyway.
Head high, the fashionably dressed woman traipsed down a mosaic pathway—the tiles arranged to mimic a river—to the main temple entryway, an elegant marble arch festooned with flowering vines. The carriage driver snorted, shaking his head, disgust clear on his face. At the woman? Or the temple?
Through the gate, Martin glimpsed grass and shrubs and caught the sweet scent of roses. Quietly he approached. Steeling his nerves, he pushed open the gate.
No one about. Good. Maybe he wouldn’t get found out.
“Greetings.”
Martin whirled, nearly tripping over a bench. Instead of a priest hurling a stone, a young man, perhaps Martin’s age, finely dressed in flowing silks, gazed up at him. His tunic hugged his lean form, swathes of silk crisscrossing his chest, exposing fitted blue trousers. Embroidered flowers in multicolored hues decorated the tunic. Satin slippers covered his feet.
“I’m Cere. Are you a new novice? You’re pretty enough to be one. Where are you from? I don’t see many people with hair naturally the color of yours.” The most beautiful being Martin had ever seen stood before him, with pale skin, blue eyes, and fiery copper hair cascading in waves over slender shoulders.
No. Not the most beautiful. But close.
“N… no. I’m not a novice. I’m here with a message for the high priestess.” Martin held up the package.
“Aww… I was hoping you were here like me.” Cere stuck his lower lip out in a likely practiced pout. Confident in his beauty, this one.
“No, I’m afraid not.” Every second Martin remained on temple grounds gave those with a little more experience time to find him. “Um… can you direct me to the clerk?”
“Sure! This way.” The perfect specimen of upper-class breeding crooked a finger, winked, and said, “Follow me.” The silk of Cere’s trousers clung to his shapely buttocks. In mountain villages, men didn’t openly flirt with other men.
