Thought this would be a good theme to use to kinda introduce some other characters, forshadow events and do a little worldbuilding. Worldbuilding, actually, happens to be an obsession of mine.
06. Obsession
As the pages of the grand book of time turn, the eye of the story turns elsewhere. The threads of narrative fate drift away from the towering trees of Dannanwood Forest, across the rolling farmlands of south Ori and over the Circle Sea. There, a city stands, tall and proud, a queen among peasants.
It is the City of Light.
It is the City of Magic.
It is the City of Galimond.
A vast, sprawling city-state, Galimond glitters with all the magic of a faraway fairy-tale kingdom. In Galimond, the colors are brighter, the smells are sweeter, and the music never ends. Patrons sipping wine outside the open-air cafés are serenaded by minstrels playing the accordion or the violin. Confectionary masterpieces are displayed in the windows of the patisseries. Baskets of flowers hang from the lampposts, mixing their perfumes with the fragrances from the restaurants and boulangeries. The roofs of the freshly painted buildings are tiled in vivid gold, azure, scarlet and green. The people smile as they stroll down the cobbled streets.
They daren't do otherwise.
Galimond is, indeed a fairy-tale city. And as such, there are Expectations. Innkeepers are stout, pleasant and red-faced. Bakers have bushy moustaches and are always covered in flour. Toymakers whistle and tell stories to the local children. And if anyone forgets how things are supposed to go, well...that's what Godmothers are for.
Galimond has always been a gem of a city, but things changed twenty-five years ago. As the Warlock King built his power, even Galimond lost its glitter. The Patricien had died in a zombie attack, and the city council was doing its best to hold things together.
Then, she came.
Immediately after her arrival, the city began to improve. The streets were swept clean of rubble and debris. The buildings were reconstructed. Bit by bit, day by day, far faster than anyone could have guessed, the city of Galimond was restored to her former glory. And it was all thanks to Lady Oleandra LeBlanc, Fairy Godmother.
But, of course, it would not be enough to simply rebuild the city, no. No, it needed improving. People just didn't know how they were supposed to live, that was the problem. But she could remedy that. She could save everyone. And she will.
Lady Oleandra crossed her plush, elegant room in the tallest tower of the Chateau to stand on her balcony. She gazed out over the city--her city, the city, the city which was truly a queen among peasants. Dusk was falling, and the lampposts of the streets below winked to life. Oleandra's Galimond was the shining, shimmering city of light, the high city which faded into farmland and mountain vineyards.
But there was another Galimond. The low city. A city of shadows. This Galimond did not sparkle, did not shimmer. It was not serenaded by minstrels outside cafes. And it refused to meet Oleandra's Expectations.
As Galimond sloped downward towards the bayous, the paint became less fresh, the colors less bright. And somehow, out of nowhere, one found oneself in the other Galimond. It was unpleasant, untidy, and the only thing stopping Oleandra from scrubbing it from the landscape was that it was necessary. Someone had to work the factories. Someone had to slaughter the animals for the Red-Faced and Thick-Necked Butchers to sell. Someone had to collect the garbage, the night soil.
And more importantly, someone had to serve as an example.
Oleandra made no move to remove the blight of the low city, nor did she make any move to help it. Among other things, that meant it had only the most rudimentary health care. So many died of illnesses and injuries easily dealt with in the high city. One such person was a young mother. She hadn't been of good health--not many in the low city were--but then something settled in her lungs, and it was not long before her son was orphaned.
André Duquesne, like many children of the low city, was forced to look after himself. Like healthcare, child welfare was a neglected service in the low city. He was too small for the docks, or even the garbage workers. He was too afraid of the huge, noisy metal wheels of the factories. But someone found him, curled up and crying from the hunger destroying him. She was pretty. She was kind. She gave him good food, clean clothes and bed all to himself. And she taught him a trade.
It was one he put to good use over a decade later. Most of the bourgeoisie in the high city assumed he was a Cheeky Urchin. Most ignored him, some chased him off with a kick or a swing of their walking stick. It took a long time to realize their purses were missing. He could have kept himself in comfort--by low city standards--but he could never enjoy treating himself while other parentless children had no food or medicine. So, though even the feel of a sack of gold coins in his hand filled him with joy and contentment, he kept only a fraction of his takings for himself.
But André would not be merely surviving for long. The other children would not be just surviving. They woman who saved him, the woman in black, could save Galimond. And, with his help, she will.
North of the Circle Sea, north of Galimond, north of Ori, north of everything, lay one of the world's most powerful nations. The Borix Empire literally stood on top of the world. Compared to many other lands, it is a young nation, and yet it was once poised to rule the entire Iron Continent. Before the Dragon War, it did not even exist.
Many of the northern lands had been ravaged when the Wyrmqueen declared war on humanity. Yodelhägen was an alpine nation of merchants and artisans. Urdgard's religious orders had severely restricted its magical strength. Fridvalla was far behind in technology, lacking even rudimentary alchemy. The vampire nobles of Blüdwald had kept themselves safe, mostly by using their human subjects/snacks as shields and emergency rations.
The nation of Oshka, though, was mostly intact. The Kezars of Oshka had encouraged technological innovation. They had regulated magic use, but not restricted it. They drilled their forces in strategy and tactics. And the harsh, icy terrain kept the cold-blooded dragons sluggish. The Kezar made an offer to his neighbors: sign their nations over, and enjoy the aid and protection Oshka had to offer. They all accepted, some more readily than others.
The Kezar was not a complete tyrant, though. He allowed each nation to exist mostly as they had before, with the rulers acting as territorial governors. But ultimate fealty was to the Kezar. And thus, the Borix Empire was born. Of course, the Dwarfs dwelling below Fridvalla had barely acknowledged the previous human king, and that didn't change when the surface of Fridvalla was subsumed into the Empire. Nor did the vampires of Blüdwald change their behavior much. They paid their taxes to the Empire and bowed to the Kezar--usually. No one really bothered to correct them.
But there was another force at work in the Empire. At the northernmost point of the continent--and, indeed, the world--another ruler held power and would bow to no emperor, king or Kezar: Mavonie, the Winter Queen.
While the other Fae rulers and aristocrats hid their little courts and kingdoms away on the edge of reality, Mavonie stayed very present in the human world. After all, humans were far too much fun. She even kept her doors open to those who braved the blistering, absolute cold of her kingdom to see her.
In fact, one such man was dragging himself across the ice fields, pushing himself through the howling winds laced with razor-sharp ice crystals. But he had too. Even though he had long-since lost communication with his extremities, he had to keep going. He had to see her, one more time.
He'd been a child the first time. His father had thrown him a birthday party. It was also Midwinter's Eve. That night, people would gather for the Midwinter's Eve party, but the day was for him. He was seven. The Warlock King had been vanquished, and the Empire was relaxing, learning how to be happy again. Games were played, songs were sung, people were happy.
He couldn't quite understand why the adults looked so nervous when the woman arrived. She was beautiful. Almost her entire being was a frosty white. Her white gown sparkled like snow, even throwing off faint rainbows in the light. Her lips were the color of frozen berries and her eyes were like amethysts. And she seemed fun, too. She strode right into the ballroom and flashed a dazzling smile.
"Hello, darlings" she'd said to the room. "I can't stay long. Tomorrow is a big day for me, after all." She laughed, a clear, bell-like sound that sent a shiver down his spine. "I just wanted to stop by and wish the prince a happy birthday."
She waltzed up to him and leaned over, showing a décolletage he wouldn't appreciate for a few years. "Hello, Oskar," she'd said. "My name's Mavonnie."
Little Prince Oskar bowed like he'd been taught and said, "Good day, Lady Mavonnie. Thank you for coming to my party."
She smiled and chuckled. "As if they could keep me away, sweetheart. Now, hold out your hand, darling, and Mavonnie will give you your present."
Oskar did, and she placed her hands over his. They were cold, but he didn't mind. When she drew her hands away, there was a small crystal bird in his palm. It was cold, like ice, but it showed no sign of melting in his warm hand.
"Keep this with you, and you'll never get lost," Mavonnie said. She leaned forward and brushed her frosty lips against his forehead. "You'll be wonderful, Oskar. I know it."
She stood and surveyed the room. "Well, I'm sorry, darlings, but I have to go. Things to do, you know." She spun on her heel, snowflakes whirling in the wake of her gown. She blew a kiss over her shoulder as she exited the ballroom before vanishing with laugh and swirl of snow.
Oskar had kept the bird with him ever since. He'd also kept the memory of that day, the memory of Mavonnie. Since then, he'd learned who and what she was, and it had not deterred him one bit. He had to see her again. Nothing would stop him; not the cold, not the monsters of the ice fields--not even Captain Olanka Volkov, the Lioness of the North herself. He had no doubt the highly decorated officer would be among those dispatched to retrieve him. But he didn't care. He had to see Mavonnie.
Far to the south of the frozen Empire, in Ori's eastern province, lies another sprawling city. Wydsdon was noisy, soot-stained and crowded. Even the wealthier neighborhoods were boisterous and sooty. It was a city of opportunities, where the only thing separating the rich and poor was lots and lots of money.
Somtimes, that money was spent at the Wydsdon Opera House. It was a grand and elegant building--at least from the front. Like most performance venues, the building was constructed first, then the architecture stuck onto its face later on. Despite the Diopian columns and friezes adorning the front of the building, the rear wasn't all that different from the stage doors and loading docks found behind the dockside music halls.
Reginald Twyrp, manager, and chairman of the Opera House's board of trustees, drummed his fingers as he reread the totals in the ledgers. He did not like the number at the bottom. It should have been bigger--much bigger.
Twyrp stood, stretching the kinks from his back. He decided to take a stroll around the Opera House. The air inside the building would no doubt be fresher than the that on the fog-choked streets outside. As he walked, he nodded to the Opera House staff: Mrs. Twiggins, carefully polishing the steps; Mr. Hoops, repairing a light fixture; and toting a large crate, no doubt for the Props Mistress, was Jet.
Jet was a new hire. He rarely spoke, and when he did, his very broken Orian and thick Xinlin accent made it tricky understanding what he said. He was tall and quite sturdily built, but kept his head bowed, purple hair hanging in his red eyes, always giving off a sense of smallness. It all sort of went together to create impression of intellectual simplicity. Of course, Jet was a good worker. He didn't seem to have any particular trades or skills, but he took orders well and worked hard at whatever task was appointed to him. Usually, he was put to work as a general laborer, carrying things, helping with cleaning, or being an extra set of hands for Mr. Hoops. In fact, with all the work he did all over the place, he probably knew the Opera House better than Twyrp.
Most people knew about the stage and the seats and the lobby. They knew about the backstage, in a nebulous sort of way. The average person even assumed there were a few offices tucked away. But the Opera House was like an anthill or a beehive. There were countless chambers hidden away where people did the work necessary for an opera to happen. Props, Scenery and Wardrobe each had their own workshops. There was the studio where the dancers were put through their paces by the vinegar-faced choreographer. The practice rooms for the singers. The kitchens. The dormitories. The sprawling catacombs of storage.
And that was just what Twyrp knew of.
The reason people said, "The show must go on," was because there was so much effort and energy and determination poured into a single production, that if the show didn't go on, there was likely to be a catastrophic reaction reducing the Opera House and the surrounding area to a smoking crater.
And aside from the myriad hallways, all these rooms were connected by a complex network of passageways and crawlspaces. Twyrp had only ever seen a handful of them, and the staff were strangely reluctant about telling him where the others were. Perhaps he could task Jet with mapping them out for him...
It wasn't just about curiosity, of course. There were safety concerns. If a fire started in one of them, it could spread through the building before anyone knew about it. A thief or intruder could hide away in one of them. Of course, anything that happened would only get blamed on the Spirit.
Ah, yes, the Spirit.
Like the secret network of the passageways, or the countless bizarre theatrical superstitions, the Spirit was something the staff was a trifle tightlipped about. They way Twyrp heard it from the other trustees, stories of the Spirit were almost as old as the Opera House itself. The Spirit was the ghost of a man murdered by a jealous soprano. The Spirit was a director who loved his work so much he was entombed in the Opera House. The Spirit was the remnant of a minor god whose shrine the Opera House was built over.
What Twyrp knew for sure was that sometimes gifts would arrive for the performers from "The Spirit," and a private box was always left unsold for the Spirit. Among all the ridiculous traditions of the Opera House, that one rankled Twyrp the most. After all, a seat unsold was money unearned.
Twyrp had eventually ended up in the auditorium. He looked out over the seats, imagining them full of gaudily dressed patrons, eager to appear cultured and refined as they sat through a performance they barely understood, broken up by an intermission, during which they would overpay for mediocre champagne. It was a favorite daydream of his. On the stage, the principles of their current production--Roscoe's La Drivelata--were rehearsing. The soprano playing Almondine was a new addition to the cast. Twyrp saw how the voice master, Signor Libiamo, winced when she hit a particularly sharp note. There had been talk of adjusting the part to fit her limited range, or even having someone sing her part for her as she mouthed the words. Libiamo couldn't understand why Twyrp had hired her in the first place, but then the old voice master believed it was a person's talent and skill that mattered, not their appearance. True, the young lady--Tristina, her name was--might only be able to carry a tune if it had wheels and a handle, but she was stunning, and would look amazing on the advertisements.
Twyrp's attention drifted up to the boxes, and for a split-second, he could've sworn he saw a dim figure in the box normally reserved for the Spirit. He wasn't sure what he saw, but he had the vague impression of a black cape and white mask. Twyrp frowned and hurried out of the auditorium and up the stairs as fast as his desk-bound legs would let him.
When he got to the upper levels, he adjusted his tie and tried to keep his panting under control. He looked into the box where he'd seen the...whatever, but saw no sign of anyone. Frowning, he went back out into the hallway and stroked his goatee in thought. He saw Jet walking down the hallway, carrying a roll of canvas.
"I say, Jet!" he called, before the brawny young man disappeared.
Jet paused and turned to not-quite look at Twyrp. "Yes, Mistah Twyrp, sir?" he said, ducking his head in a quick bow.
"Jet, was there anyone else up here?" Twyrp asked. "In the boxes, or maybe just in the halls."
Jet shook his head, purple hair waving. "No, sir, Mistah Twyrp. Do not see any person. Only I, sir."
"Very well," Twyrp replied, trying not to let his disappointment show--no sense upsetting the poor lad, after all. "Thank you, Jet. Carry on with your work. You're doing very well."
Jet ducked his head again. "Thank you, Mistah Twyrp, sir." With that, the brawny young man turned and hurried on his errand.
Twyrp frowned, watching Jet go. Vague, unspecified suspicions simmered in the recesses of his mind. They weren't really suspicious of anything or anyone, but they were suspicious thoughts all the same. Something funny was going on here, and he was determined to find out what.
Beyond the Opera House, past the foggy, sooty streets of Wydsdon and the noise of the docks, and far across the Wolf Sea was the small, emerald green kingdom of Mideran.
Mideran was not known as a powerful nation. In fact, it was largely ignored. The hazards of the Wolf Sea meant ships had to take an indirect route to and from the island. Mideran never declared war on anyone, never tried to conquer anybody, and there were no neighboring countries with which to squabble over borders. Any nations seeking to take over the island were quickly turned away by the witches and druids. Aside from whiskey, its main exports were more ephemeral: beautiful poetry, stirring music, and energetic dancing.
There wasn't much dancing tonight, though. The wind off the sea cut through the air and made the trees seethe like uneasy spirits. Mists still glued themselves to the boggy hillsides, churned by the winds, but going nowhere. Up on a rocky cliff, mostly sheltered by a thicket of oak and ash and thorn trees, a little fire burned. The faint silhouette of three figures could be discerned by someone daring enough to look. Above the rustling of the trees, a voice like a rusty gate called out, "When shall we three meet again?"
There was a brief pause while the other two consulted their planners.
"I'm free on Sunday," one said.
"No good," said the other. "Dierdre O'Sullivan's twins are due Sunday. It's her first pregnancy, so she's a bit upset."
"I can't do the day afore," the first voice said. "I'll have grandkids to look after."
The second one sighed. "I've O'Banyon's sheep to tend to the day after.
The third voice asked, "Day after that?"
The other two checked. "Aye," said the first voice.
"Works for me," said the second.
"Good," said the third voice. "It's settled. I'll bring cakes."
The other two smiled at that.
If one had the nerve to approach the eldritch gathering and get a closer look, one would see a trio of women gathered around the small fire. The tall, pointy hats they wore created long, jagged shadows. All three had silver-white hair, scarlet eyes and fair skin. There the similarities ended.
The first speaker was a small, slightly shrunken, elderly woman. A blue-grey shawl was wrapped around her bony shoulders, over her long, black dress. A pair of spectacles hung on a beaded chain around her neck, and her hands deftly worked at her knitting, despite the swollen knuckles. A stout pair of hobnail boots peeked out from under her skirts, idly kicking back and forth as she perched atop her camp chair.
The third voice belonged to a somewhat younger woman. Tall and apple-cheeked, her hair was pulled into a neat bun at the nape of her neck. She sat straight up, as if her spine was made of iron, hands primly holding the cup of tea in her lap. She wore a green cloak buttoned over her brown dress, and her shoes, peeking out from under her skirts, were neatly polished in defiance of the marshy terrain.
The second speaker had been younger still, barely an adult. Her silvery tresses fell free from underneath her pointy hat. The sleeves of her purple gown were separate from the rest of the garment, baring her shoulders. Her neckline plunged surprisingly low. A long slit ran up her purple gown, showing the rose-colored petticoats beneath. The heels of her boots were sharp and high, and a few inches of black stocking showed between the hem of her skirts and the top of her boots. Overall, it was a look that made the second woman frown in disapproval and the first woman smile in fond reminiscence of youth.
Their appearance, along with the three broomsticks propped up against each other, should be enough to identify the trio as witches. Anyone hoping to see a coven of wanton women, dancing nude in the moonlight would be sorely disappointed--though old Gramma Quiddley was game for anything if her rheumatism wasn't acting up. This same sorry onlooker might also be disappointed to see they weren't stirring a seething cauldron, chanting as they tipped in ingredients like eye of newt and powdered bat. Of course, Dearie Finnegan did have a cow tongue and potatoes slow-roasting at home, but to each their own.
Siobhan O'Carolan, the youngest witch of the coven, sometimes questioned the point of these little sabbats. They didn't really perform any arcane rituals. Gramma Quiddley had told her, though, that meeting like this was a ritual in itself. It was important for witches to get together. It wasn't easy being a healer, counselor, midwife, mortician, adjudicator and supernatural guardian all in one. But that was the role of a witch.
Siobhan stretched and stood. "Are we callin' it a night, then?"
"I think we'd better," Dearie Finnegan said, dousing the fire.
Gramma tucked her knitting away, folded up her camp chair and gathered her things. "Toodle-pip," she said to the other two, grabbing her broom.
"Blessed be," Dearie replied.
Gramma rolled her eyes, fixed on a pair of goggles and swung her leg over the broom. She ran a few feet before kicking off and taking to the air. The other two watched for a moment to make sure she had a clear takeoff before collecting their own brooms. Dearie perched sidesaddle on her broom, gave Siobhan's outfit one more disapproving glance, and bid the girl farewell. Siobhan shook her head and chuckled as Dearie drifted away. She made sure the fire was dead and her things were secure before taking flight herself.
Siobhan wasn't in a hurry, enjoying the feel of the wind streaming through her silvery tresses. She was quite comfortable, despite the cool of the evening. Perhaps her magic ran a little hotter than that of Gramma or Dearie. In fact, she was so comfortable, she wasn't really paying attention. As she passed over the castle, the wind gusted sharply, startling her out of her reverie and knocking her off-course. Siobhan over-corrected, dodged a castle turret, and skidded to a halt before crashing into a stone wall.
She paused for a moment, catching her breath and making sure everything was in one piece. She was about to prepare for another takeoff, when a voice shouted, "You, there!"
Siobhan paused and turned to see who had spoken. Nobody addressed even a junior witch as "You, there." Not twice, anyway. Lily pads tended to feature heavily in the futures of those who tried it.
The voice belonged to a woman. Her dress was elegant and grand, full of ruches and bustles all manner of sartorial architecture. Her hair was wound in a complicated pile atop her head and her thickly applied makeup made her look like a dyspeptic clown. "Would that be me ye're addressin', madam?"
"Obviously," the woman replied, gazing down her nose at Siobhan. "What are you doing in my castle? You don't look like a cleaner."
Siobhan realized this must be the queen. She knew there was a king, though she had no idea what his name was. Witches tended not to take notice of who ruled the country, so long as they weren't tyrants. After all, kings just ruled--it was the witches who ran things. The family trees of royalty also tended not to branch much, which could explain why the woman couldn't tell a which when she stood in front of her with a broom and pointy hat.
"Right ye are, ye'r majesty," Siobhan replied. "Just a passin' witch."
The apparently-the-queen's eyes widened slightly. "A witch?"
"That's right, ye'r majesty," she said. As an afterthought, she added, "Blessin's be upon this...castle."
The must-be-the-queen scrutinized her a bit more. "Why aren't you all green and warty and wrinkled?"
Crikey. Did wearing a crown compress the brain? "Plenty o' leafy vegetables and fresh milk, ye'r majesty. Drinkin' water instead o' wine. Keeps the skin young."
The queen's lips compressed slightly. "Tell me--can you see the future?"
Siobhan shrugged. "Enough of it."
The queen walked towards her, her gown rustling like a bag of dead leaves. "I need to know. You see my husband as king of Mideran?"
Siobhan blinked. "Well, yes, o' course I do."
"Will it be a long reign?"
Siobhan waved a hand. "Well, as long as humanly possible," she replied. "No one lives forever, ye know."
The queen raised an eyebrow. "Is someone going to kill him?"
Oh, dear. Of course, Siobhan knew this sort of thing happened to royalty. But clearly the woman was worried about her husband. "No man born shall end ye'r husband's life, ye're majesty. And don't worry. He'll be on the throne till the forest comes to tea," she said, recalling an old expression her grandfather used to use. "Now, ye just get ye'rself a good night's rest, an' don't ye worry about a thing, allright?"
The queen regarded herself for a moment, then nodded before swishing off towards the stairs. She paused before descending, and turned back towards Siobhan. "Any other words of wisdom."
Siobhan thought for a moment. "It's always a good idea to wash ye'r hands," she said. "Good night, ye'r majesty." Before the evening could get any stranger, she kicked off and took to the skies. She really had no idea why the queen was so upset, but the soothsaying seemed to make her feel better. And who knew? Maybe some of it would come true.
The woman watched the witch vanish into the night. Witches had the power of prophecy, everybody knew. And she'd kept addressing her as "your majesty." That meant all her plans would come to fruition. This knowledge lighting a flame in her soul, she hurried through the castle corridors as quick as she was able, until she reached her husband's bedchamber.
"Aidan," she said. "Is everything ready?"
The man nodded, expression grim.
"Tonight, we do it," she said, eyes glittering. "We shall not fail. Tonight, we kill the king, and the throne will at last be ours."
And now the eye of fate drifts south, away from the moors of Mideran, away from the ice fields of the Borix Empire, away from the verdant hills of Ori, past the Circle Sea, past even the island of Elala and the Grand Library. It settles on the other side of the ocean, onto the Crystal Continent.
Like an island amid the sea of sand and stone which makes up much of the Crystal Continent, stands the kingdom of Alana. Rain being more precious than gems in Alana, the cities and villages of this nation follow the rivers and oases. No town is built to the square, the way they are in verdant Ori. The streets of even the Theopolis, the grand temple city, meander and divide and reconverge at odd angles.
If Baad hadn’t been a native of the Theopolis, it would have been quite difficult to follow the girl.
Baad didn’t know why Torus wanted the Amoran Priestess followed, and he certainly wasn’t going to ask. Those who asked too many questions of the High Priest found themselves given very strict lessons on faith.
The Priestess didn’t go anywhere all that interesting, but Baad took notes anyway. When it looked like she was finished with her outing, Baad hurried to the Theopolis to meet with Torus.
Baad found the High Priest performing the Full Dark Prayer. There were nearly a dozen daily prayers the High Priest went through, every day. His entire existence revolved around the careful orchestration of rituals, ensuring nothing deviated from the schedule. Baad waited until Torus stood from the altar, and coughed politely.
Torus regarded him with stone-grey eyes and inclined his head. Baad approached with a bowed head and knelt before the High Priest. “I have done as you have asked, Exalted One.”
“Tell me what you observed,” Torus replied, his voice deep and resonant as a funeral bell.
“The Priestess seemed to be on a stroll of the city, walking more for enjoyment than for a purpose,” Baad said. “She visited the market place, but only bought a few spools of colored threads. She ate a small meal of fruit and water near the Olive Grove, watching the musicians performing there. She gave them a few argit and wandered further into the city proper, out of the Theopolis.”
“She left the Theopolis?” Torus asked.
Baad nodded. “Yes, Exalted One. Not far, though. She just seemed to watch the ships at the harbor for a while. Then she returned towards the Theopolis and the Temple of Amora.”
“And nothing else happened?”
Baad thought. “Ah! Yes! She did actually venture near the docks. A sailor had injured himself and she rushed to his aid, using her magic. If she had not intervened, the man may have actually lost an arm.”
“Thank the heavens, then, that the Priestess was there to help one of our brave sailors.”
“Oh, no, the sailor was from Xinlin,” Baad said.
Torus was silent, and Baad thought he had displeased the High Priest. He swallowed hard, bracing himself for punishment, when Torus said, “thank you. You may go.”
Baad blinked up at him, and hurried away, thankful for the reprieve.
In the sanctuary, alone with the icons of his gods, Torus leaned on the altar and blew a slow breath from his nose. This Priestess was getting to be troublesome. She already had eschewed the full-body robes and shrouds priestesses had worn for centuries, and walked about in normal clothing. She went into the hospitals, using her healing powers on whomever needed it the most, no matter if they were foreigners or had performed the ritual of cleanliness or not. She sang and danced with the street musicians, who played all sorts of modern or foreign rubbish. These were just the beginnings of her deviatons from tradition.
Well, soon it would be no more.
As soon as that mad Zemphisian architect was finished, nothing would deviate from the proper and true traditions again.
