On an orison day, residents of Godom can make their way to a temple and any prayer they hand over will supposedly be sent to the Scarlet Order—Caledon’s bearers—who will then personally pass the prayers on to the gods. But of course, the only way to ensure your prayer is answered is to make sure you make a sufficiently generous offering.
It’s a total racket, and yet here everyone is, queuing up to get their moment with the anointers. It doesn’t strike any of them as strange that the gods should need a payout before they pay any attention to the pleas of their devout worshippers.
I duck my head as we reach the front of the line, focusing on the red-robed knees of the cleric in front of me. Anointers don’t get the same training as cleavers, nor are they as powerful as bearers, so it’s unlikely they’ll be able to spot my glamour. Still, better they don’t linger on my face too long.
As a pale hand descends to accept my prayer, I shake my head.
“Anointer, I wish to make an extra request,” I murmur.
The man above me harrumphs, and I clamp down on the temptation to send Barb slithering up under his robes to take a nibble out of him.
“We have many people to receive today, child. You mustn’t waste the gods’ time looking for special treatment.”
Right. Because immortal gods have a shortage of time on their hands.
“Please,” I say, injecting desperation into my voice. “I had a dream. A vision I think was sent by the gods. They told me Bearer Sophos is the one who must hear my prayer.”
Corrin steps forward, kneeling beside me. “It’s true, anointer. My wife is a very devout woman. The gods often speak to her.”
“The gods speak to thosechosento be their messengers,” the anointer says sharply. “Not just anyone.”
I glance at Corrin. It seems we’ve just managed to offend this arrogant fool by suggesting clerics like him aren’t the gods’ favorites.
“Of course, anointer,” I say quickly. “Which is why I would be most grateful if you make sure this prayer reaches Bearer Sophos. Please. My heart tells me it is what’s needed.”
I hand over the parchment, sealed with wax, and in the same movement drop a heavy bag of coin into the anointer’s lap.
“What—” The anointer starts to say something, then realizes what’s in the bag and has the sense to shut up.
“As one of the gods’ messengers, we hope you will accept our blessings, anointer,” I say. I glance up in time to see the anointer slide a look across to his colleague, who’s deep in conversation with another worshipper. He discreetly palms the bag and hides it beneath his robes. Then he looks down at me, his eyes shining.
“Your generosity shall be rewarded, child,” he says. “I’ll make sure your prayer is heard by therightpeople.”
I thank him, and we make a swift exit. We’ve already spent too long speaking with the cleric, and the line behind us is getting restless. I’m sure he bought our story though. We were careful to fill the purse with enough to satisfy the man’s greed without including so much as to make him suspicious. Lafia assured us that the chosen amount would get the job done without raising any red flags.
I doubt the anointer will break the seal to read the scroll, but if he did, he’d find a long, rambling entreaty to the gods to heal our daughter. Sophos, however, would find a coded message that tells him we want to meet and how to get a reply to me in Hallowbane with a time and place. It goes against the grain tolet someone I don’t trust choose our meeting spot, but I can’t imagine Caledon giving his bearers full freedom of movement. Surely, he’s monitored to some degree, which means he’ll have to take the lead on a safe rendezvous point.
If it turns out to be a trap, I’m giving him ample time to set it up for me to walk into. But I’ll fight that battle when I come to it.
We descend the sanctuary steps, but I can’t feel triumphant about our victory. Even that short conversation with the anointer left my skin crawling. The sheerarrogancewith which he claimed to be a messenger of the gods—followed only moments later by the hungry gleam in his eyes as he let me buy his holy favor.
“Hypocrites and fools, the lot of them,” I mutter to Corrin as we reach the courtyard at the base of the sanctuary steps. I throw a dark look around at the crowds of people gathering to make the climb.
“Or maybe they’re canny enough to see the value in appearing pious, whether they truly are or not,” Corrin points out.
He’s right. The closer we got to Godom, the worse it became. Every town and village has been terrified into performing daily cleansing rituals and looking for heretics at every turn. Maybe their faith is real and maybe it isn’t, but their fear of the Temple’s wrath? That’sveryreal.
Some commotion starts up on the opposite side of the courtyard. Someone’s weeping, and the crowd turns with hawkish interest toward the sound. Soon the people part, making way for a pair of cleavers. A man hangs between them. He’s old and bald but for a few straggling gray hairs on either side of his head. There’s a nasty wound on one of his temples, and the blood has drippeddown and congealed into his beard. His head lolls as the cleavers drag him across the paving stones.
“Out of the way, or you’ll be joining this blasphemer,” the maroon-clad cleric barks at a man who blocks their path a second too long.
An old woman trails behind them, her wrinkled face flooded with tears, her wails of despair slicing through me like a knife.
“He didn’t do anything wrong. Please, mercy. Please!”
But she might as well not exist to the cleavers; their lifeless eyes focus only on a post embedded into the far end of the courtyard. Whatever happens when they tie that man to it, I know it will be torturous—whether they burn him alive, or slowly suffocate him, or keep it simple and lash him to death.
“Damia,” Corrin murmurs. “We need to go.”
