The other priest turned away from the statue, and for a splinter of a second her gaze locked with Jacen’s. Her face was gaunt, her brown skin sallow, her irises pale circles in yellowedsclerae. She offered him the briefest of nods—like recognizing like. Jacen did not acknowledge her.
And Lev concluded, “—so that we may endure, in prosperity and in peace.”
Jacen fished in his pocket and struggled to pinch the tiny piece of metal between his shaking fingers. It took him too long; conspicuously, humiliatingly long, and he bit back a vicious curse as he almost dropped the chip. He cast it into the chalice. He did not wait to see it fall—whateveritwas, he didn’t want to know, he didn’t care—and returned to Nines’ side to wait for the ceremony to end.
“We pray this sacrifice will suffice,” Lev said, “and that you will ask no more of us this Harvest.”
But they always did. The first of a season’s four offerings tended to be the largest, but this ceremony would be held every ten days until the end of the cycle.
The god Rakalem gave no indication whether he had heard Lev’s plea or whether he even cared. He glided down from the pulpit and left the courtyard, the High Lord and a handful of senior priests trailing behind him. Only after his suffocating presence faded could Jacen breathe again.
Lev droned on for a time, apparently forgetting he’d been asked to deliver a prayer and not a sermon.
Strong telepaths tended to be good speakers. They possessed the helpful ability to sense the collective unconscious of an audience, to adjust to the minute cues and currents that swayed them. Before his life went to shit and he’d had to start forcing everything he preached,
Jacen had loved it. There was nothing else like it—the power of well-chosen words to tap in to a group’s shared hopes and fears, to make the many feel as one.
He missed it. He could not recall the last time he’d been able to summon such conviction.
When Lev finally yielded the pulpit, the crowd began to disperse. “Come on,” Jacen muttered to Nines, who looked as miserable as he felt. “We have to make a few house calls before curfew. If we hurry, we might catch a kirikil cart.”
Predictably, he found himself stuck behind a long line of priests and dignitaries clogging the main exit. He ground his teeth, turned on his heel, and stalked across the courtyard toward the way he’d come in. Nines had to jog to keep up. As they approached the garden, though, she slowed, craning her neck at an argument until Jacen was compelled to stop and look.
A young boy was shouting at a richly dressed old woman—Lady Sloane Ancarath, a prominent member of the Merchants’ Guild. As a novitiate, Jacen had completed his required combat training alongside her granddaughter, Saraida. The stocky, curly-haired Knight Captain stood close by, wearing a mortified expression.
“I heard you!” was all Jacen caught from the boy.
It took Jacen a few seconds to recognize Neri Semira,the High Lord’s youngest grandson, whom he’d met once or twice in passing and had never known to speak above a mumble. Today the boy was distraught, making enough of a scene to draw several eyes.
Neri was small for eleven, walked with a limp from a deformed foot, and squinted from nearsightedness. He sickened easily, the desert dust made him wheeze, and overall he lacked both the confidence and robust physicality typical of the Semira family. Jacen assumed he took after his mother.
Neri seemed painfully aware of his lack of presence. He squared his chest, balling his fists at his sides. “I heard you,” he said again. “I know what you did. Iheard youtell the priest?—”
“Watch your tongue,” said Lady Ancarath. “One more word out of you and I’ll have you whipped like one of my kitchen boys.”
“No!” Neri shouted. “I don’t care. I’ll tell the High Lord.” “Grandmother.” Saraida reached out a hand, only to be rebuffed.
“Enough,” the old woman snapped. “I don’t know what you think you heard.”
But there was more than anger writ across her face, and Saraida’s.Confusion. It gave Jacen pause. There was truth in Lady Ancarath’s words. She did not know what Neri had overheard—or perhaps she had not said anything tobeoverheard. Not out loud.
A knot formed in Jacen’s stomach. Nines put it together at the same time, because they had both made this mistake before. Every telepath had.
“Is he—” she gasped.
“Quiet,” Jacen said under his breath. After she’d watched him mark that little girl, Nines knew well enough what this meant. “I’ll handle this. Wait for me outside.” Better for her that she didn’t get involved.
“But—”
“Go.You’re free to visit any—” He’d been about to sayfriends,but consternation flared across her features. She wanted to be anywhere but inside the Cathedral’s walls, least of all alone. He cleared his throat. “I won’t be long.”
Nines did as she was told, and Jacen braced himself. He had no choice.
“My lady!” He strode up and bowed his head to the merchant. “I apologize for whatever offense has been given. If you’ll allow me, I’ll see to the boy’s discipline.”
Lady Ancarath glared at him. Saraida’s expression was almost pitying. Neri didn’t help matters by exclaiming, “I don’t even know who you are!”
“I’m a friend of your uncle Seth,” Jacen said.Friendmight have been a strong word these days, but Neri seemed to at least consider taking him at his word. Jacen addressed Lady Ancarath again, pointedly wielding Seth’s title. “Lord Semira has charged me with Neri’s religious education.”
