“The Summoning of a god, be it Elsar or Naaduir, isn’t a simply religious phenomenon but a violent one. To bring a being of dimensions our minds can never fathom into our three-dimensional world is to warp it. A Summoner tears through time and physical space, and a god emerges from that rift. But the departure of the god does not heal the tear. For centuries, Master Clerics and Inquisitors have secretly documented the odd goings-on that plague the sites of Summonings. Frightening, beautiful, unearthly things extending in a wide circle around the epicenter of the tear. But the allure of the godly persists, and the Elsarian Order remain too eager for a miracle as belief wanes and Summonings fail.
I have little doubt that this knowledge will be lost someday, and that many will attempt Summonings, unknowing of the sliver they make in the fabric of our world and the being they invite to part that veil. And it may well be the case that someone will succeed in Ur Dinyé and so scar a city, a forest, or a mountain with their desperate act.
Ah, but if history could save the future and not merely predict it!”
—excerpt fromA Treatise on All Things Godlyby Magus Hadamann
Sal Flumen wasn’t any Urd’s first thought of a port town.
It saw too much sleet in midwinter, sported ice-glazed cobblestones that had sent many an unwary tourist skidding toward a broken limb, and the air seemed to eternally taste of salt. Yet, more ships docked here than at the populous southern ports that faced the Meridies Ocean.
Perhaps it was the languorous quiet that permeated the town, chatter kept at a little above a faint hum and peace never more tangible. But she couldn’t help thinking that it was Sal Flumen itself—streets paved with hexagonal cobblestones and bordered by stalwart brick and stone homes that the residents refused to call “domii” out of pure hatred for the south’s much vaunted, ancient tongue. All achingly preserved remnants of a monarchical past that the town had outlasted and proof that it would continue to thrive here, at the uppermost mouth of Ur Dinyé, whether the world wanted it to or not.
Sarai propped her elbows on the railing of her room’s balcony—mercifully only on the second story of the inn—and took in the town’s awakening. Wagons trundled along snowy streets toward the docks where they were promptly laden with crates of cold-cured trout, chests of pickling spices—a rarity in Urd cuisine—and clay pots of honey. All from the land of Usten, if she was seeing the flag right.
Beyond the town lay the endless expanse of ice floe–flecked water that formed the Occidens Sea. The air had frothed into a rolling fog that cloaked the divide between sea and land, turning the world into an endless gray shroud. She almost smiled at the brittle wind’s caress. Edessa never truly slept, midnight bazaars and taverns allowing for carousing at any hour. But Sal Flumen took its respite seriously, especially these days, as the innkeeper had nervously whispered when she’d requested a room.
“I wouldn’t be saying it if you weren’t the Magus Supreme’s Petitor, but most of us have been driven indoors after work. The town’s been in hiding what with so many dying.” He had passed her the key to her room with a sigh. “Who’d have thought that Death would hover so closely? Never known of such violence, except in the capital during that last Tetrarch’s killings.”
She had stopped short. “There’s a serial killer here?”
“Elsar’s teeth, if only! No, we’ve aslewof murderers. Folk gone utterly mad!” He’d lowered his voice and beamed at a prospective customer—a tall, blond magus from Usten, who promptly walked right out of the inn. The innkeeper slumped. “It’s hurting business. Visitors used to dock and stay the night, but they won’t hear of it now.”
The man had been exceedingly hopeful that she was here to restore some semblance of normalcy to the town. She wished she shared his optimism. Arsamea’s wanton cruelty had burned a hole through the little hope she’d had left.
What was normalcy in a land this divided? Should she even be striving for it? Silvus’s insistent question the day she had departed Edessa felt prescient now.
Who are you saving?
Her throat thickened.I don’t know.
A knock sounded on her bedroom door, followed by Méherre’s voice. “A moment, Petitor Sarai?”
Sarai bolted the doors leading to the balcony and left her room. She guessed who the man accompanying Méherre was even before he inclined his head graciously.
“Petitor Sarai.” Brown-eyed and swathed in furs, Praetor Florus of Sal Flumen had a white shock of curls that he’d bundled into a knot at his neck and a smile so wide that she couldn’t help returning it. “It’s an honor to have you here.”
She managed a few pleasantries, tamping down the urge to slump and bury her face in her hands at the expectant look in his eyes. She had little doubt that he was here to talk about the “slew of murderers” in town.
I don’t know if I can help you!The words were broken glass in her mouth.I couldn’t even aid any of the innocents in Arsamea.
“Breakfast?” Florus suggested.
A smile snapped into place on her face, a reflex borne of long years of feigning normalcy. “Thank you, that would be lovely.”
Ignoring the sustained scream in her head, she followed Florus downstairs to a barren table in the inn’s dining area. Her vigiles silently trailed her and sat themselves within earshot.
“Word spreads quickly,” she remarked. “I’ve only been here a night.”
Florus drew her chair out for her in a surprisingly old-world gesture. “It isn’t every day that we meet a Summoner of Lord Death.”
Death-Summoner.The fragment of memory that kept trying to resurface twitched in her skull. She managed a weak smile and sat down, surreptitiously sliding a hand into her sleeve for her armilla. Pricking her finger, she felt fortasum, the rune for the Fourth Threshold, thenzosta’s familiar grooves, and pressed blood into both. Small town or not, a politician was a politician.
Gray-tinged sunlight lent a spectral wash to the inn and traced silvery fingers over the hourglass etched on a thick ring on Florus’s right hand. She had seen similar rings before. On Clerics.
Catching her gaze, he lifted his hand to give her a better look. “An old life,” he admitted. “I was—and remain—a devotee of Lord Time, but I serve him in other ways now.” He steepled his fingers. “You must have no affection for the Elsarian Order these days, but I give you my word that I am not among your detractors.”
True. “But this is no casual visit,” she said with a sigh as the innkeeper set down two bowls of oats before them with a hopeful smile.No need to ask who informed Florus that I was here.“I hear Sal Flumen’s been suffering from a rash of murders.”
