The nighttime world blossomed around them as they left the warehouse district, ladies and gentlemen of pleasure plying their trade on the fringes. The areas populated this late at night wouldn’t attract what could only be called a demon. Those hunted where they stood the least risk of discovery.
“A blessing, Father,” a woman called out, flinging a shawl over her exposed bosom to hide her pale flesh. More than rouge stained her cheeks.
She’d dressed simply, hair hanging straight down her back, clothes clean but unadorned. So many things brought women—and men—to the streets to earn their living. Mostly, desperation. Martin might have resorted to such to keep himself fed when he’d first arrived if not for Petran’s gift and Commander Enys’s timely offer. An air of innocence followed the woman. She plied her trade because of need, not want.
The priest traced runes in the air that she probably saw as mere gestures and not the fading glow the symbols formed. The woman smiled. “Thank you, Father.”
Another woman approached, boldly displaying her body. Jewels hung from her ears, wrists, and neck. She sneered at the first woman in passing. “A blessing, Father!” On her hung the stench of superiority, how she lorded her possessions over the other women of the streets. Already though, her beauty waned, not from age but from her unattractive inner self bleeding to the outside.
The priest ignored the entreaty. “Though my lord does not revel in pleasure as the Lady does, he smiles on the undertakings of honest workers,” he told Martin.
“How about the ones you fail to bless?” In Martin’s eyes, no visible difference existed between those he blessed and those he didn’t, except maybe for a bit of modesty and lack of vanity when faced with a holy man. Not to the eyes, rather. Did the priest sense their guilt, shame, or emotions, like Martin?
“The lord frowns on treachery. The dishonest have no need of my lord’s fortunes to line their pockets. They’re doing well enough on their own and shan’t prosper.” Though a hood hid the priest’s features, Martin still felt a razor-sharp gaze.
“Wait, stop! Who are you?”
The cassocked man swept a stately bow. “Father Dmitri, at your service. Servant of the Father, and as you’ve probably determined, a mage.”
A mage. A living, breathing mage. “I’ve looked for mages a long time. So why haven’t I found any before?”
“We didn’t want to be found before you were ready. Yes, night after night, you roamed the city streets, unwittingly taking on a task we’ve always performed.” Martin heard the smile in Father Dmitri’s voice. “You were never alone. Had you not succeeded in your mission, we would have saved you. But you’re finally prepared to face your destiny.” He bobbed his head toward Martin’s scabbard. “I see you’re making use of our little gift.”
“Gift?” Martin pulled his sword free, brandishing the blade. “My door was locked, and yet I woke one morn to find this.”
“A hunter deserves a hunter’s blade. Imagine trying to hack through scaled skin with a kitchen knife because you wouldn’t be deterred once you set your mind to something. Although I must admit, I’ve never seen anyone fight with a barrel hook before.” The shoulders of the hassock rose and fell in what might have been a shrug. “We felt the need to intervene. At least on a small scale.”
Wait. Martin wasn’t ready? “You’ve been watching me all this time?”
“Of course. You don’t think we’d leave an untrained mage to his own devices, do you? We couldn’t have you bringing attention to the lot of us living under the Lady’s very nose, could we?”
We? Martin had searched for mages all this time, and they’d been under his nose all along? “You keep saying ‘we’. How many of you are there?”
“Twenty. We used to number many more, until the Lady sentenced our kind to death.”
“You don’t look dead to me.” Father Dimitri didn’t much look alive either, more like a pile of brown laundry.
“You might be surprised,” the priest muttered under his breath. “And please, call me Dmitri. Doing so saves time.” Swiveling the opening of his hood toward the few people making their way along the street—giving Martin and Dmitri a wide berth— he said, “Come, let us find a more suitable place to hold this conversation.”
Martin hoped for a tavern. A tankard of ale wouldn’t go amiss. Instead, Fath… Dmitri led Martin to a park, settling himself on a bench.
“We know you, Martin. Or should I say Arkenn? We’ve always known of you. Have marked your progress.” Dmitri dropped his voice. “We also knew your parents before you.”
“You… you knew my parents?” Martin sat beside the priest, though not too close.
“Yes. Good people. They thought to hide you in a rural village, yet they were found out. I do not know how. Your mother passed her only protection to you, and it was lost.”
“The amulet?” He recalled the amulet Petran wore as clear as day, of having seen similar before. He clutched his new one. “You gave this to me?”
“Yes. It conceals your magic. You still have access, but no longer does enough show to call attention to those who’d seek to destroy you.”
“I… I…”
Very softly, Father Dmitri said, “Yes, we know. Although unintentional, you meted righteous judgment on the villagers for standing by and doing nothing for your parents. What they did to your grandmother. What they would have done to you.”
Martin sighed. This man knew, and didn’t judge. A weight lifted from his shoulders. A priest of the father absolved him of his sin. “At night, I relive that moment often. I had no control…”
“The fact that you don’t use your abilities for personal gain says a lot about what kind of man you are. You work hard and earned a promotion at an early age, even without prominent family connections. I don’t mean the small acts that put food in your mouth, like finding lost jewels or a lost pet. A man of your abilities could have a palace, servants, gold, and yet you do not. So tell me, Martin, what do you want?”
