Ashwalk Pilgrim (11 page)

“None have passed. We have kept careful watch like you commanded. The, ah, the trash know to keep far away from Upper Sollan tonight.”

“Yet I feel as if that little fact is not known to all who prowl the streets this evening. Keep an eye out, and if I catch you leaving your post again, my serpent will be spitting out the remnants of your manhood by morning. Then you can join the trash. I hear the Floatwaif has use for men like that.”

Ialane whipped around, finally facing the soldiers. Somehow the men both managed to stand even more rigid than before. Mara watched the priestess march back into Upper Sollan. Her serpent’s eyes gleamed like Olessa’s polished rubies, their cold stare sweeping one last time across the lane.

The priestess disappeared beyond the archway. Mara squatted in her hiding spot. Her babe weighed on her already tired arms. She adjusted him against her shoulder and watched the men, hoping they might return to their wine now that Sister Ialane left them in peace.

Mara waited. A cricket picked up its chirping. The soldiers didn’t move. They didn’t speak. She might not have known they were more than statues had she not just witnessed the encounter with the priestess.
 

If she could just find a way to distract them, she might slip through unnoticed. Frustration tied a knot in her chest. She knew no other way through and feared wandering around to find another gate would lead her away from her goal.
 

I needed you, Tag
, she thought bitterly. No longer did she smile thinking of him licking butter from his thumb.
I needed you and you left me to this.

After a few moments thinking in the shadows, she noticed the cricket no longer chirped its song. A gaze weighed on Mara’s back. Her heartbeat quickened. She tightened her grip on her son and slowly turned.

Instead of a small, empty alley, a silent son stood tall and imposing. His black robe blended perfectly with the darkness and framed his pale, expressionless mask.

Mara lurched to her feet. The ball of her foot planted on a jagged rock. She yelped, yanking her foot from the stone. It clattered into the lane. Mara’s eyes widened. She twisted around and watched the stone come to rest on the wine-stained stones in the middle of the road.

She grimaced and leaned back, her hood slowly slipping to her shoulders. She peeked into the lane.
 

Both soldiers glared from their posts. Their knuckles whitened on the hilts of their swords.
 

“You there,” one said, “why are you skulking in the shadows like some thief? Come out where we can see you.”

“She wears a burlap hood,” the other man said, his voice trembling. “You know what this means, sir? An ashwalk pilgrim! Just like they said would be crawling about tonight.”

Mara twisted into her hiding place. The silent son’s hand lanced from the black and wrapped around Mara’s wrist. The guards’ footsteps pounded on the stones, their scabbards clattering against their breastplates.
 

She hoisted her son against her neck and frantically searched the priest’s eyes hiding behind his mask. “What do we do? There’s nowhere to go!”

The silent son did not answer. His hand tightened on her wrist. He spun around, and the pale wedge of his other hand swept in a great arc before the wall. A hole opened in the stones, and the priest pulled them through it.
 

Mara stumbled after the man as the opening shrunk around her. She leapt through the hole and landed on the other side. Turning, she spotted the men barrel around the corner she had occupied seconds before.

“Halt!” one shouted, clumsily yanking the sword from his scabbard.
 

The second soldier bolted for the hole. Mara watched, frozen in horror as the man’s brawny frame swelled within the shrinking gap. He ripped his sword from the scabbard and screamed, thrusting the blade into the opening.

The gap sealed around the sword with a hiss. Its razor tip wriggled like an angry snake inches from Mara’s face, the stone wall keeping the steel from burying between her eyes. From the other side of the wall, guards screamed for reinforcements.
 

Long, pale fingers rested gently over Mara’s shoulder. She turned to the masked priest, and he motioned to follow.

“I’ve never seen magic before today,” she said. “And that’s twice now a silent son’s used it to save me. I thought your power faded from Urum?”

He brushed his knuckles over her cheek and shook his head side to side. She started to speak again, but he turned his back and floated like a phantom over another wide lane.
 

Mara followed the silent son in and out of narrow alleys, across lanes, and between spaces so small she feared she might crush the child in her arms. Alarm bells rang out. The rhythmic march of guards on the move echoed all around her.

The silent son and Mara slipped into an alley that turned sharply toward a familiar wall encircling Upper Sollan. The barrier towered over her, its long, cool shadow snuffing out the light like wet fingers pinching the dying flame of a candle.

“There’s nowhere to go,” she hissed as the silent son picked up speed.

“Please,” she begged, “slow down. You’re too fast. I can’t—I can’t keep up!”

The silent son disappeared within the darkness. Mara slowed in the deepest depths of the shadows and searched the black with her free hand. The wall rose not inches from her face, and yet, she found no solid surface.

Mara leaned into the darkness. “Silent son? Are you there? Will you take my hand and lead me through?”

No one answered.
 

Mara licked her lips. She glanced behind her. Guards’ harried voices grew ever louder. She faced the black and stepped into it.

Mara stumbled from the shadows. She wheeled around and searched the darkness. Instead of an opening in the wall to Lower Sollan, now only thick, solid stone remained.
 

She spun back around, her rough burlap cloak itching her legs. If the silent son who opened the wall for her came through, he had either long since left or cloaked himself in invisibility. Mara had no idea if the man really could do that, but then again, before that night she’d never seen someone move a wall like a velvet curtain.
 

Tall apartments dotted with graceful balconies lined Upper Sollan’s wide avenues. Thin curtains fluttered from wide windows thrown open in the cool night air. Murmuring fountains quietly poured pure water from the mouths of lesser gods and creatures of the First and Second Suns. Tall pillars supported angled roofs tiled richly red, a stark contrast to the smooth marble of the homes and luxurious shops of the neighborhood.

None of the intricate fountains, graceful pillars, or thin veils billowing from the windows captured Mara’s heart more than the flowers. Lavender grew in great bushels on every corner. Poppies spread their brilliant petals beneath nearly every window. Wax flowers bobbed on their rigid stems, their tiny violet petals casting shadows over their spindly leaves.

 
“It is not a different neighborhood,” she said, looking to her son. “This is a different world.”

Mara closed her eyes and smiled as she lifted her chin. “And it smells wonderful!”
 

Tall poles set at even spaces lined the road. Bulbous lanterns grew from the poles like fungus. The lights cast a calm glow on the serene district and filled the air with a sense of tranquil security.

Mara stepped into the lane. Her smile quickly faded beneath the lanterns’ light. Despite the beauty, despite the tranquility, she did not belong. She was a splinter in a foot. She was a beggar at a ball. She was an other, and the people in that place would quickly mark her for it.

With her free hand, she clasped the hood that had fallen to her shoulders. She drew it over her head until its shadows locked her in their safety.

A light breeze played with her burlap and toyed with the dark locks protruding from her hood. She hoisted her babe against her collar and stalked forward, eyes casting about for any sign of soldier, or Six forbid, the frightening priestess with the foreign-sounding name and scowling mask.
 

“Silent son?” she whispered. “Where did you go?”
 

She waited in the quiet. A moth fluttered by. It rose to one of the lampposts and flapped around a lantern, desperately trying to find a way to the light it could never reach.
 

Mara cradled her child’s head. She pressed her lips together and took a deep breath through her nose. She darted into the lane, passing a tall fountain of a woman pouring water from a vase.
 

“Where is everyone?” she wondered. Not a soul milled in the avenues, and not a single resident lingered outside their home. The music of Lower Sollan drifted from beyond the wall, but the tall barrier muted the merry tunes as they passed through hewn rock.
 

The road wound like a serpent through the city. Tall apartments with their overhanging roofs blocked most of her view, but she could tell she headed in the right direction. The homes grew taller, their columns crowned by more intricate vines of ivory. The gardens grew richer. The fountains became monuments to an artisan’s skill.
 

“Citizens,” a voice called from beyond a bend in the road. “Calling all citizens of the upper lanes. Your good king summons you. The good king calls!”

“Well at least I know there are actually people in Upper Sollan,” she said.
 

Mara slowed and twisted to the side of an apartment. She pressed her back against the wall and leaned toward the edge. Beyond, the lane spilled like the mouth of a river into a wide plaza. A crier stood upon a platform raised in its heart, a great lamppost dotted with lights towering over him.

The people missing from her walk through Upper Sollan had gathered there. They formed a crowd packed shoulder to shoulder, a multitude of heads and and faces robed in fine silks and gold-hemmed dresses.

A large apartment in the plaza’s corner thrust a short flight of stairs not far from the crowd. Mara waited for the right moment and sprinted for it. She padded up the stairs and crouched behind a column, just close enough to hear the crier’s voice ring out Good King Sol’s proclamation.

“Dear citizens of Upper Sollan. Good King Sol regrets interrupting your revelry. He knows his compassionate hand and bountiful wisdom has blessed the people of the Kingdom Eloia with yet another harvest that will feed all bellies for another year.”

“He calls himself Good King Sol?” Mara rolled her eyes. “You are no good king.”

The crier looked up and waited. The crowd clapped. A few halfheartedly cheered. The crier forced a smile and locked his gaze on the parchment unfurled in his hands.

“The Serpent Sun has seen calamity on the horizon. This night of celebration hides a grave danger to our peaceful kingdom. There is a threat among us, an evil so dark, it imperils the souls of every man, woman, and child of Sollan…of Eloia…of even Urum!”

His words finally animated the quiet crowd. Whispers erupted. Husbands and wives exchanged worried glances. A few slipped their hands into one another’s grasps.

“The king has summoned the mightiest soldiers Eloia has to offer to protect the innocent in our city from this threat. He wishes nothing but safety and celebration for this night. So the normal guard shall be doubled until sunrise. No villainy shall disturb your merriment, of this Good King Sol swears upon the Serpent Sun!”

Many more than before clapped. Heads nodded in agreement. Mara seemed to be the only one wearing any kind of frown.

The crier cleared his throat and continued his message. “Thanks to the dedication of the one true religion and the ancient serpent who grants their wisdom, their power, and our bountiful harvest, the king has thrown away the shadows hiding this threat. He has uncovered the vile plot. He knows the faces of those who seek to bring you violence.
 

“They worship the Six. They
are
the Six. Their power wanes, and their bitterness has poisoned their hearts. They are angered the Serpent Sun rises. They hate the king for recognizing this truth. Good King Sol does not know how many in their ranks plot this vile treachery, but he believes the corruption may reach even the highest of priests and priestesses.”

The crowd gasped collectively. Priests of the Six were not necessarily pacifists. In fact, many old stories Gia whispered to Mara involved a warrior priest laying waste to armies or moving mountains to topple monsters or changing the flow of rivers to save towns. Gia never whispered of priestly plots to kill kings. Priests did not rule. They served. First they served the Six, and then they served their kingdom.

“Therefore,” the crier shouted, “all priests and acolytes of the Six are confined within their temples. None shall walk the roads of Sollan tonight, pestering its good and faithful folk. Keep an eye open for them, especially the silent sons of the supposedly Loyal Father and the men of the Slippery Sinner. They toy with shadows and cloak themselves in darkness. Their hands make doors from solid stone that could lead straight into your child’s chambers.”
 

Mara glanced at her son and clenched her jaw. “How dare they. No silent son would hurt an innocent. I do not need to see the eyes behind their masks to know that truth.”
 

She looked back to the crowd. Soldiers lingered at its edges like vultures might linger above a dying hare. They eyed the people within the mass, searching for someone. Most likely that someone just happened to wear burlap stained by ash and carried a dead child in her arms.

“But why?” she asked herself.
 

“If you should see a priest or priestess, raise the alarm at once,” the crier commanded. “Your king will greatly reward all who are loyal in this request. To those who may harbor the Six’s servants…” the man pursed his lips, his gaze sweeping over the crowd. “…You will see a good king sour.”

The crowd took a step back from the crier’s platform. He smirked and pushed his shoulders back, gleefully soaking in his own obnoxious self-worth. “Now to the threat itself. A woman walks among us…”