Episode 4 - Chapter 22

“Do you know why the palm is whiter than the back of the hand?”

The city of Lys Royeaux hummed with the chatter of its citizens, unified in a single breath. From southern laborers to inner-city merchants, a million Suledins knelt in the streets, their heads bowed in prayer. The air grew heavy, tasting of salt and the iron-scent of a million exhaled breaths. Wishes materialized into streams of different colors, rising into the dark sky. Noises disappeared then, only a deep silence resided. Beneath it all, the air smelt of scorched sugar as the warmth light embraced all desire. Even rhys and templars started to kneel. Their hands touched their heads then stretched out, praising the spectacle dusk of the Second Sun.

Above them all, atop the stepped Pyramid of the High Father, the Hierophant, Tietra Saintinas, stood in a halo of light. With an outstretched hand, he performed a grand ritual, a terrifying show of power. His figure shimmered, and from his hands, a golden stream of energy poured into the air. It guided the collective prayers of the faithful, aiding them upward into the heart of the Second Sun. Even unwillingly, Ianc’s thread of desire flew up. Its color was like oil on water, with dust motes danced around it as he reached out to grab it back in vain.

The great orb pulsed, absorbing the energy, then bled its light back down. It was not the cold, sterile glow of a sun, but a warm, living benediction that spread across the southern lands, a blessing on the soil that nurtured the Suledins’ crops. This was a political spectacle. It reaffirmed the Hallow Church’s grasp on the populace, contrasting with the remote and oppressive image of the Magisters. With the Second Sun, true night never came to Lys Royeaux. The Church made its own.

Ianc watched a thousand rhys weave magic to alter the sky itself, shrouding the entire city with an artificial night sky with muted blue and sparkling teal. They mimicked starlight by letting the Second Sun bleed through their magical veil. Each touch brought a warm sensation against the sudden coldness that enshrouded the entire city. He doubted that if the Hierophant wanted snow, there would be snow.

The silence of a million praying Suledins fading into the rhythmic clack-clack of boots on the polished marble of the Magisterium Palace. The poor exploded to their parties below, observed by the templars; the rich began their own dance above, probing each other’s true motive.

Ianc wore the formal attire he’d been provided, but without any house insignia yet. Only the symbol of Sol was threaded in gold above his mark; its lace was rougher, itchy and constantly reminded him of his worry. The velvet was thick and heavy, and the boots were too tight for a comfortable walk. Above all, the tight collar reminded him of how choked up he was when he swallowed at the sight of Abby.

She wore a dress, and he couldn’t describe it properly. It was just simply gorgeous in light pink and white. With red lipstick and black eye liners, she appeared a confused contradiction that he felt so familiar with his life recently. “Lady Abelle.” He offered a hand to her.

“We’re just in costume here, woodman,” she said, half giggled.

He glanced at the Magisters dressed in finery passed by them. Their heads held high, their house insignias were in polished gold, their gesture showed arrogance towards the serfs. “Are these bureaucrats even left the city?” He whispered as they walked.

Rahorh appeared on the side in his usual robe. “Only in the old days. Frontier service was mandatory before you could claim the political ladder.”

“Where’s Cley?” Ianc asked.

“She doesn’t like… lavish expenditure,” Abby said.

Ianc frowned. He had learnt to read between the lines lately and concluded that this event was to pull him into a line. Clementine had to be absent. “I feel like a rare breed. Everybody is eyeing me like I’m up for an auction.”

Rahorh coughed. Abby just shook her head with a smile. With them flanking him, he didn’t feel entirely out of this wasteful elegance place.

Hidden beneath the polite chatter, the great hall was steamed with a cocktail of expensive perfumes, stale wine, sweat suppressed by powders, and the smell of melting candle wax. At the far end an Adrhys was hosting the prom. His constant references to spiritual rituals were met with thinly veiled disdain from the Magisters. “Where do we go? What do I do here?” he asked.

“Nothing, just hang around,” Rahorh said. “People will propose their interest to the Herald.”

“A tool to control, a necessary nuisance to draw attention,” Ianc said. “I wonder what the true power in Lys Royeaux is scheming.”

Abby nudged his arm. “Let’s go to the balcony. Private space invites private talks.”

As they lingered near a gilded archway, he overheard a conversation between a Revered Mother in her flowing white robes and a stern-faced Magister. “One batch, five Ishchoirs, plus delivery.” Her voice was a silky whisper.

The Magister’s face soured. “That’s a vile trade. The deal is cutting three above my margin.” He carried a crossed sword insignia on his robe, which Ianc couldn’t recall the exact name.

“My business is in the South,” the Revered Mother replied with a cool smile. “The vendor will charge you extra.”

The Magister shook his head. “I only represent my house interests, not loss. Please, excuse me.” He turned and walked away; his hands were trembling.

Ianc was confused and looked at Abby. “What was that about?”

Abby leaned in, her voice low. “It’s a Southern trade-tongue.” She glanced around to make sure no one was listening. “A secret meeting for a secret deal camouflages as an unpleasant encounter.”

Ianc looked back at the Magister, now surrounded by a new group of people. The man’s face was a mask, but Ianc saw the tension in his jaw. The city was a web of deceit, and he was only just beginning to see the threads.

Lost in thought, he felt a bump. A nervous-looking Magister with a tight smile had stumbled into him, yet hadn’t spilled his wine. He grabbed Ianc’s hand tightly, his eyes suddenly became clear and intense even when he’s lurching. The man spilled in a hurried whisper. “The bear sleeps in his lair. Behind me. Left, right, left.” With that, he melted back into the crowd.

His silk sleeve brushing Ianc’s hand like a cold wing, leaving behind only the scent of stale wine and terror. If he’d meant ill, Ianc would have been dead. The dread drove his eye toward where the man had disappeared, only to find a void. “Is there a secret assassination clan in this city?” he asked.

Abby shrugged. “That’s an invitation. The bear is Aleksander deMolay.” She pointed the way with her chin. “That’s why you need a wolf pack to survive here.”

He followed Abby’s directions and found the drunk Magister again. He nodded and smiled at Ianc, then he tilted his head to the left. Having no choice, Ianc followed instructions. He pushed through the crowd, the silk of passing gowns whispering against his trousers like dry leaves; some Magisters spent a single glance at him before returning to their conversation.

Aleksander deMolay stood alone in a quiet alcove near a window, a glass of dark liquid in his hand. “Don’t mind the secrecy. Church spies are everywhere.” He gestured for Ianc to stand beside him; his voice was a low rumble. “You’ve made quite an impression. Not just on the Magisters. On me. You have a fire not of this world. Not of the Church.”

How similar his speech pattern was to Clementine. “I’m a Myr. I’ll not pledge for any house.”

Aleksander smiled, revealing his perfect white teeth beneath the braided bread. He sipped his drink, but his eyes never left Ianc’s face.

“What’s in it for me?” Ianc continued.

“You saved my daughter.” Aleksander adjusted his white bear cloak. “And you survived her temper.”

“Clementine doesn’t like me,” Ianc countered. He knew he should keep his distance from those he cared for here.

Aleksander laughed, a deep boom that turned heads. “Her opinions are irrelevant. But her loyalty is absolute. Gerald, however…” He lowered his voice to a predatory rasp. “Has turned to Tietra in my absence. He’s the Church’s hound now. If Tietra has his way, you’ll be another one to perfect his three headed beast.”

“You still haven’t answered my question,” Ianc insisted. “What’s in it for me?”

Aleksander’s gaze hardened. “Protection from Gerald. Protection from the Church. Protection until you’re strong enough to challenge Gerald yourself.” He took a long, slow sip of his drink. “You’re a convenient herald of a new age. But without allies, you’re just lamb to the slaughter.”

Ianc looked out over the crowded hall, the laughter and music a distant, alien sound. He thought of Gerald Duranthier, about the cold glint in his eye, and about the Confiteor Sword. “I will consider your offer, Magus Aleksander.” The words were a quiet promise. “But I will be no one’s puppet.”

A hint of genuine approval touched Aleksander’s eyes. “A wolf-boy and an old lion. The alliance has a good ring, don’t you think?”

Ianc didn’t answer. He bowed slightly and retreated into the light. The Magus of house deMolay turned his head towards the window. His gaze seemed aimless, but Ianc knew visions of schemes were forming behind those starlit eyes.

Lost in thought yet again, Ianc wandered to the balcony. He leaned against the stone railing, the artificial night air smelling of damp stone and the faint, ozone-crackle of the rhys’s veil. His mind drifted to the Silent Dirge. He wished he knew the way, just a narrow path like the hunter’s aim instead of a million crossroads. In this room of silk and gold, he was the only one who knew what downtrodden actually smelt like. Don’t play their games, Mirari had warned him. But she wasn’t Mirari, she was… he couldn’t even think of the word ‘puppet’. A narrow path. His gaze drifted to the hidden Second Sun. My aim.

A woman approached him from behind. She moved as if gliding—graceful, practiced, deliberate. She was a vision of refined elegance, wearing a gown of woven moonlight and sparkling jewelries. “Lady Trinkets,” she introduced herself with a bright, disarming smile. “Would you grant me a dance, my Herald?”

Ianc awkwardly nodded. He moved stiffly, his mind still replaying Aleksander’s words. As he danced, he heard the clink of the metal against his shins beneath her flowing dress— a solid, rigid feel of supportive devices like the Ironshod brothers. It wasn’t the natural grace he was seeing, it was a false peace dressed in a fancy gallery. Lady Trinkets didn’t seem to be bothered by his disdain. She kept that polite smile and with an expert subtlety, she danced him away from the main hall and into a secluded, private room.

It was a world away from the bustling gallery. Dark, richly stained oak panelled the walls, reaching up to a ceiling lost in shadow. The only light came from a great marble fireplace, where logs crackled in a subdued, steady burn; and from a single, heavy bronze lamp on a vast desk.

The air held the dense, comforting scent of beeswax, ageing paper, and a faint, earthy note of peat from the fire. A single, sombre portrait of a severe-looking man in priesthood robes gazed down, his eyes seeming to follow Ianc’s stiff, reluctant entrance.

It wasn’t just a painting. The Hierophant, Tietra Saintinas, emerged from the canvas. He sat on the high-backed leather armchairs next to the mahogany table and beckoned Ianc to come closer.

He offered no preamble, only a small, knowing smile. “Do you know why the palm is whiter than the back of the hand?” The air around him felt too clean, like the smell of a forest after a rain. It was as if the Hierophant’s halo had purified the air itself.

Ianc’s mind raced. “Please excuse my… lack of refinement. I don’t understand.” The loss of four Aegions just by resisting this man still haunted his mind. It took every control he had to command his shaking legs not to run away.

Tietra’s smile held. “Because it is hidden from the sun.” The words hung in the air, an ominous riddle. “The Magisterium had fooled me with the Umbrite Inquisition,” he continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. “They wanted to cover up their rebellious device. A spell that challenged the Church’s regime over the Second Sun and the distribution of the divine Spark.”

Ianc remained silent, his gut churning with a terrible realization. He had been a pawn in a game he didn’t even know he was playing. The Hierophant knew everything.

“I know about Rahorh’s Sanguine Libertas,” Tietra said, his gaze fixed on Ianc. “A fascinating piece of forbidden spellwork. Even the Worldly Sphere couldn’t track the shadow who stole it.” He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. “But you, Herald, you are a different matter. A catalyst that completed the magic.”

Ianc’s heart pounded against his ribs. He realized what Tietra was doing. He was baiting the archlich, using Ianc as the bait.

“Join the Inquisitor rank,” Tietra offered, the words a chilling proposition. “And I will offer you my protection. I will spare your sister. I will even rebuild the Myr house.”

Ianc’s voice was a low growl. “What about the Inquisition against Myrathus? I want my revenge.”

“The Reverend Mother proved the Myr were building a similar spell long before Rahorh. Their ambition dated back to the First Crusade when Lyra gave everything for a shadow on my eyes,” Tietra calmly explained. “Having seen what lies beyond the Sear, they believed arming everyone with Solfire would change things. It would not. The Hallow Church cannot be challenged.”

“But what if they were right?” Ianc asked defiantly.

“And who would forge the Ishchoir?” Tietra waved a dismissive hand. “I alone can erase towns in seconds. What would a million new recruits do against a lich but swell its horde? We must protect them from themselves.”

“You deny people the right to choose,” Ianc accused stubbornly, but deep down his belief started to falter. Tietra was right.

“It is the burden of steering a race’s future for five hundred years,” Tietra replied with quiet intensity. “Progression disarms caution. Look at that sun, Ianc. It is a miracle held together by a thousand leashes. But one wrong pull on a thread, the Sear will vanish. We cannot afford to draw Makaiel’s attention again. We are ants, my child. If we breed wings and fly, the gods will notice.” He inhaled deeply as if considering his next word. “They will eat us.”

“But the shadow of Aeithora is already crawling at us,” Ianc sighed. His body softened in defeat. The Hierophant’s logic was tight.

Tietra’s smile returned, cold and confident. “As long as I reside here, the archlich couldn’t challenge my light.” His gaze lingered. “You are more of a Myr than your sister.”

Confusion and anger whirled in Ianc’s mind. He asked the burning question. “Why tell me this?”

Tietra’s eyes, old and wise, held true to Ianc’s fear. “Your Spark is too bright to be contained. I desire that power. Your mark.” He tapped Ianc’s chest. “Is neither a gift nor curse. It is the key to the Sanguine Libertas. I wonder why the Archlich let you have it.”

Stunned by Tietra’s perception, Ianc crouched low ready to fight despite knowing it would be of little resistance. The world spun and he was on his butts. His left face was sizzling with an intense heat. Black tendrils of smoke raised as his skin burned.

“If I wanted to kill you, you can’t even blink,” Tietra said. “Think it through.” His command was final, weary yet authoritative. He snapped his finger and the flame on Ianc’s face retreated inside his sleeve.

Ianc touched his face, but instead of a burnt mark, he only found wet. The pain was real but the wound was healed instantly. He swallowed hard at another terrifying display of the Hierophant’s power. Then Ianc saw blood on his fingers; his blind eye was bleeding. He wiped it off and bowed. “Thank you for your mercy, Your Holiness.”

Tietra said nothing, but the lamp light dimmed out. Ianc only caught one flash of sparkle in the Hierophant’s deep black eyes before he disappeared. He knew that sparkle, he had lived with it all his life. It was when a desire met an object.

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