Wrongness seemed to pulse from the Chosen, and Martin avoided getting close enough to feel their thoughts and emotions. Once a street child entered the Lady’s service, Martin never saw them again, not even on temple grounds. Maybe they avoided the streets and had a better life. Perhaps a fate far more sinister befell them.
Time spent hunting wolves before his life went downhill had built Martin’s instincts for tracking prey, finely honing his skills at determining the danger of a situation.
Most temple dwellers were city-born, from elite families, cherished and raised in luxury. Perhaps bags of gold accompanied a novice’s arrival at the temple.
The streets outside Martin’s rooms held little interest for the Lady’s followers. However, he reveled in the life thrumming through the neighborhoods, drank in the vitality. Reminders of village life before he came here.
The good parts, not the bad.
The mud walls of his family’s house grew damp in summer rains and cold in winter when his mother stuffed the house’s few windows with scrap cloth to keep out the weather. She could easily have stopped the cold sneaking through the cracks with power the neighbors didn’t possess. Instead, the terror of discovery meant she’d rather endure the cold.
How awful to live in constant fear, not for yourself but your family.
More awful still to have no family to fear for.
Martin’s living quarters were part of a large, once-elegant house, divided now into multiple lodgings. His walls were smooth gray stone, hung with worn tapestries. Instead of frigid water from a well, maids filled his basin with warm water. Steaming baths waited at the back of the dwelling, used by the dozen tenants housed here. He rarely met another soul while bathing. Of course, he customarily bathed long after the rest of the house retired and seldom took meals in the common dining room, preferring to fend for himself.
He wasn’t considered rich but supported himself quite comfortably, and his living arrangements were grand by some people’s standards.
Most of Petran’s coins lay hidden under a stone paver beneath Martin’s bed, along with money earned from finding lost people, pets, and possessions. Enough to buy a fine house or travel to another land where others might consider him wealthy. Neither option held appeal.
No, Martin waited. For what, he didn’t know.
The worn patchwork quilt of his youth paled in comparison with the brilliant starburst pattern of the much-mended satin spread out on a bed wide enough to hold him much more comfortably than his humble pallet back home.
Though he lacked for nothing, thoughts of home brought an ache to his heart. The early snows would soon fall in the mountains, though the city’s weather remained milder and would do so throughout the winter.
No. Not home. A place he’d never see again.
Because it ceased to exist with the loss of his parents. No longer was snow a mysterious delight, nor the spring rains a blessing. Life took on a hard, real edge, wiping away the wide-eyed wonder of childhood.
Martin opened his shutters, gazing upward to study the stars for portents. Though not skilled enough to read signs in the flurry of a hunt, pieces of the future revealed themselves when he paused to consider.
The books he’d read left much to be desired. Would Father Dmitri contact him again? Could Martin ask for knowledge? Surely the priest wouldn’t reveal himself only to disappear again. Anyone who’d watched Martin for so long before giving such truth must have plans.
To avoid another unintentional massacre, Martin needed to learn the extent of his powers, and how to use them. How to control them.
The glittering lights in the heavens whispered no secrets this night. The Guardian held watch over the city, a constellation visible as the warmer season faded. The Guardian, a figure entirely hidden by a hooded robe.
Martin applied the finishing touches to his garb: a knife strapped to his forearm, hidden under a billowy sleeve, another in his boot. The temple stood in the best part of the city, where unnecessary guards roamed the nighttime streets in pairs.
His destination lay in a less wealthy area, though still a far cry above the city at its very worst. No one stopped him on his way through nearly empty streets. Voices carried from houses he passed. A whiff brought the scents of roasting meats or perhaps an herb-laden stew.
His stomach growled, urging him to quicken his pace.
Songs. Laughter. Snippets of conversation. Nothing of importance.
The night bird’s call to seek its mate brought a smile to his lips. Happy hunting, indeed.
Sputters from the gaslights overhead blended with his footsteps over cobblestones. He stepped out of the way of a horse-drawn carriage, curtained windows hiding the occupants from view.
He’d not been designed for city living. Give him plains, mountains, rivers. Yet, every time he seriously considered leaving, something held him back. He strolled up the paved hill, casting a brief glance at the silent, dark building across the street before standing in front of the Lady’s temple. One day. One day soon, the Lady would pay for the murder of his parents and so many more.
Martin gazed at the squat unassuming structure housing the Father’s temple. Father Dmitri likely wasn’t given to social calls. How did he spend his eve, working the coiled tension of hunting from his system? Prayer? Meditation?
Still, the creature’s comment weighed on Martin’s mind.He wants you.
Tomorrow. If he had to storm the Father’s temple or appear in the capacity of a city guard, Martin would track Father Dmitri down tomorrow and ask. Then again, demons were treacherous. Martin’s recent kill likely only said the words to plant seeds of fear.
