Meanwhile, the sisters have moved back into the manor base for now. Melanne says she’s still undecided about staying or leaving, but Ronan’s seen the wanderlust in Coira’s eyes. As soon as Melanne has fully recovered, they’ll leave—for Praia, or anywhere else in the world.
He hasn’t seen Evain in a week, but he knows he’s still in Ostaris, and gods only know what he’s up to. He hasn’t been arrested, so that’s good.
Leth appears to be avoiding his family problems by helping out at the Bright Cathedral. Ronan can’t really blame him—if he was kin with the ka Tariels, he’d want to avoid them too right now. Along with the rest of the Charaini military.
The Locksmiths’ purpose is over, and they’re all scattering for the next chapters of their lives. Except for Karis, who wants to stay at the Bright Cathedral a while longer. And Ronan, who wants to stay with Karis.
He always thought he’d retreat to Praia afterwards, like Dansa. Resume his life of mercenary jobs and the occasional high-stakes theft. He never thought that after upending the entire socio-religious fabric of Charain, he’d stick around to witness the consequences. The prospect is a lot more interesting than it used to be.
And a lot luckier. Since the unbinding, every die he’s rolled has landed high. He’s been the prize-winning random customer of the year in three different Ostaris taverns, and he keeps finding abandoned purses of gold coins. He doesn’t know how long the spate of good luck will last, but the Trickster’s approval is clear.
Ronan’s path takes him once again to the Bright Cathedral. Strolling through the main archway still feels strange. He knows the precise height of the walls, and the best route for scaling them, taking advantage of the long eaves of the bookshop to the right. But he doesn’t need luck to get in anymore.
He recognizes one of the paladins on guard beneath the archway. Bernard narrows his eyes, and his chest puffs up with a slew of restrained accusations, no doubt. But restrain them he does. The Radiant Order is under strict orders not to hinder Ronan Vizia. It’s awkward for everyone involved.
Ronan salutes lazily and walks by without engaging. He wonders if Bernard is one of the paladins who lost his contract with Vara, or one who kept it.
A stream of people flows across the courtyard towards the main doors of the cathedral itself. Young and old, from as near as Ostaris and as far away as Lanwatch, dressed in finery and rags. The pilgrims began arriving after word spread that the Voice of Vara had woken up after the unbinding, and they haven’t stopped since.
Ronan detours around the crowd, reaching the main entrance to find Tanner directing pilgrims and paladins around. “Come back tomorrow,” she’s announcing, her voice projecting out across the courtyard. “The Radiant Voice has stopped seeing visitors for today.” Once she’s satisfied her men and women are handling the crowd, she turns to Ronan. “Not you. He’s waiting on you.”
“Is he?” Ronan says, raising an eyebrow. “Light guide you, Captain.”
“Fuck off,” she says cheerfully.
A strange thread of respect hangs between them. She spent a year hunting him down, and he spent a year running from her. A weird sort of bonding experience, but it’s easier than Ronan expected to be on the same side of things now. He knows what she believes in, and now, thanks to Vara’s divine explanation, she knows what he was working towards too. Radiant Vara chose to preserve her contract, while rejecting most of her superiors, and she took over the situation in the immediate aftermath of the unbinding.
Ronan slips through the main doors of the cathedral just as the last of the pilgrims leave. All the traces of violence have been cleaned up. The marble floor is pristinely white, and sunlight streams golden from the myriad windows. Past all the pews, the brightest sunbeams converge at the head of the chamber, where the pulpit stands beneath the white marble altar.
At the pulpit lounges a young man with auburn hair and a wicked smile.
Priests in white robes and paladins in sun-emblazoned tunics flank him. But by the time Ronan finishes his long walk down the aisle, they’ve all dispersed into other rooms and corridors. Doors close quietly, one by one. Ronan stands beneath the dais and looks up.
He and Karis are the only two in the cathedral.
Well. Except for one other presence.
“Tanner said you were expecting me.” Ronan crosses his arms. “Was that just a lucky guess?”
Karis leans both elbows on the pulpit with a small, satisfied smile. “No, I asked Vara to spy on you,” he confesses shamelessly. “I had to make sure you weren’t running off to Praia with Dansa.”
“What would you do if I had?”
“Send Captain Tanner to hunt you down again, of course.” His eyes sparkle.
“Very nostalgic.” Ronan uncrosses his arms and steps up on the dais. Presses both hands to the surface of the pulpit, and bends over it. Karis leans up to meet him, and they share a deep, unhurried kiss.
Karis looks good like this. Dressed in soft white tunic and shirt and trousers, only hints of gold embroidery at the cuffs of his sleeves. Ronan saw the cloth of gold monstrosity that the remaining members of the Exalted Circle tried forcing him into at first, before Karis complained that he looked like a counterfeit golden idol. The plain white cedes all the focus to Karis’s own charm, the perfect point of his chin, the flush of pink beneath his freckles when Ronan pulls away from the kiss.
There might be something sacreligious about the way Ronan feels, staring at the young prophet’s kiss-reddened lips. Ronan’s blood rushes downwards, and though he’d like to get on his knees and worship, it wouldn’t be an act of prayer.
Ronan swallows hard. “How much longer do you want to play prophet here, anyway? Being a Voice doesn’t mean you have to stay tied to the church forever.”
Karis twists Ronan’s shirtlace around his finger. “A few months at least. Maybe a year? I want to make sure things settle the right way here. Politically, and everything. Plus I never actually finished my training, so there’s some practical magecraft I need help with. But we’re not stuck here, we can come and go as we please.” He tugs Ronan’s shirtlace more sharply. “Why, do you want to run off to Praia after all?”
“No.” Ronan grabs his hand. Karis shivers when Ronan’s thumb traces the lines of his palm. “It’s just getting too difficult to resist bending you over that altar.”
A grin spreads across Karis’s face. His eyes flash luminous gold, and one by one, the doors around the cathedral shimmer with Radiant barriers. Karis lets go of Ronan’s shirt and steps away from the pulpit.
