“Father Dmitri, hmmm?” Cere perched on Martin’s bed, threw an arm against his forehead, and huffed out a dramatic, “If you must.”
A dull blade of regret serrated Martin’s heart. He’d miss the young scamp if Cere suddenly disappeared into further service to the evil creature lurking under the temple.
What if he turned into the one thing Martin dreaded the most? Someone who hunted down and killed mages. Would they ever find themselves on opposite sides of a chasm?
“Go on. We don’t have much time.” Cere bounced on the bed. “Oh! Soft! I’ll bet you’ve gotten into all kinds of mischief in here.” He lifted a sheet and sniffed.
“Cere!”
The vision of an angel with the mind of an imp sighed. “Just you. No fun at all.”
Yes, Martin would miss Cere. He set his mind to dressing. Each piece fit perfectly. At last, he stood fully clothed in a tunic, trousers, arm wraps, high collared vest likely designed to protect the neck in fights. Rather than plain, on closer inspection, he noticed the intricately tooled patterns. Runes?
“Oh, it makes your ass delectable!” Cere smacked his hand across the seat of Martin’s trousers. Martin barely felt the blow, and ignored the suggestive waggling of Cere’s eyebrows. He turned right and left, admiring the outfit in the mirror. Some senior officers wore similar attire, minus the runes, but he’d never dreamed of spending so much coin, though the leather added protection.
“You’re not seriously considering wearing that, are you?” Cere wrinkled his nose.
“Why not? It’s a gift from the Father’s priest, so a gift from the Father himself.” Or so most of the followers in the lower city might believe.
“Look, my friend, we novices run naked down halls at night and throw mass orgies during breakfast. But you arriving in that,” Cere waved a hand to indicate the priest-gifted outfit—”not showing the first bit of skin?” He shivered. “Scandalous, I tell you!”
Martin ran his hand over the dark, supple leather. “So, I’ll forever be remembered as defying the social mores of a society with no social mores?”
Cere nodded. “Exactly.”
If only Martin didn’t squeak when he walked.
Cere stood suddenly, throwing his arms around Martin and taking him by surprise with a punishing kiss. He stepped back, a sad smile on his face, turned, and left Martin’s rooms without another word.
Martin ran his fingers over his bruised lips long after Cere departed.
While Martin knew the gardens and the offices of the temple quite well, he’d never before entered the great sanctuary, only seen it through windows. Gleaming marble steps led to an entrance wide enough to admit four abreast. For a moment he recalled the beautiful countess, how she aged, and finally, how she died. She’d traveled this route.
Martin shook off the thoughts. She was beyond help now. The Chosen were no better than the demons, were they?
Once more, he longed to save Cere, but Dmitri swore Cere had his own path to walk. Someone jostling Martin from behind urged him forward into the main chamber.
He gritted his teeth but didn’t burst into flames or meet a contingent of bloodthirsty priests upon entry.
White and pink marble everywhere in the octagonally shaped room, with an arch in each wall and eight alabaster columns. A quick perusal showed the downward-leading stairs at the arch opposite the entrance.
There were no chairs, forcing the two hundred or so guests to stand. White floors, pink walls, white ceiling, pink columns. A circular, raised dais sat in the center of the room, bearing an alabaster statue meant to represent the Lady herself.
Martin did, indeed, stand out. Would the creature awake and fell him with a lightning bolt for not presenting himself in traditional worship clothes?
Well, this was him. What he worked for. A hunter. A guardian. Smirks and murmurs met him when he shouldered his way farther into the hall. Even the youngest initiates wore finery, strings of pearls adorning their hair as they flittered about the room, checking to see which notables attended the event.
One glare sent them in other directions.
Boughs of flowers festooned the marble archways of the sanctuary, adding touches of pink, green, blue, yellow, and red—and the occasional fallen petal—to the otherwise too-pristine room. Dozens of perfumes competed for dominance—the winner likely burning out Martin’s sense of smell forever.
Men and women posed around the walls, showing off flowing gowns and jewels to the greatest advantage. Several wore the same worn-out pallor of the countess before her death. Worshippers being slowly drained, most likely.
The priests couldn’t kill a highborn mage-born outright, now could they? No one with political power cared about the lower classes, but the nobility might take exception to one of their own publicly accused of magery—plus the stigma of having a mage-born family member, based on the carriage driver’s outrage at the mere suggestion.
Martin worked his way toward a few guards dressed similarly to himself at the back of the room so as not to stick out too badly, though they wore brown leather instead of black, of much lesser quality. A few he knew from his time in their ranks before his promotion to captain, some as subordinates. They murmured welcome as he took his place among them.
“You’ve come voluntarily, Captain?” one asked, a look of surprise on his face. “I drew the short straw.”
