Page 62 of By the Horns (Royal Artifactual Guild #2)

Forty-Five

Gwenna

Hours later, we’ve met up with Sparrow at the archives.

She’s hard at work, surrounded by no less than four cats sprawled across her desk as she pores over a large book with cribbed handwriting, her glasses perched on her nose.

The archives are bustling, with most of the other archivists currently documenting a large haul that one particular Five just brought in for cataloging.

Her husband is busy training his fledglings, and she’s surprised to hear that Raptor’s been pulled for a retrieval mission.

“That’s strange that they’d call a repeater and not a guild master. ”

I shrug. “It came with an official-looking wax seal on it. Maybe they thought Hawk was busy? Either way, we need your help.”

I explain to her the situation—that Rooster refuses to use my mancer abilities, that he’d rather wait until someone else is dead, and that we’re going to take matters into our own hands.

Before I can even finish, she’s nodding her head and grabbing a book off her desk.

“Yes, of course I’ll come with you to brush up on your Prellian glyphs,” she says loudly. “Anything for a friend.”

“That’s not why we’re here—” Arrod begins, frowning.

Kipp pushes against his leg while I elbow him. Seriously, and this guy is going to keep my secret? I’m doomed. But that’s a problem for me to worry about in the future.

“Right, sorry,” Arrod whispers and gives me a conspiratorial wink. “Glyphwork.”

Oh boy. “Are you sure this is a good time, Sparrow? I don’t want to be a bother….”

“Follow me,” Sparrow says, ignoring my words of protest. “I know just the place we can study. It’ll help you think to be outdoors and enjoying the afternoon sunlight. I know I always study best with a delightful breeze on my face.”

It takes everything I have not to snort with amusement at that.

A breeze on her face? Please. Sparrow is very much an indoor sort of woman, and she absolutely hates the wind when she’s trying to read something.

But if someone else notices the strangeness of this declaration, they don’t say anything.

They’re too busy unpacking and talking amongst themselves as we head out of the archives, following Sparrow.

She marches with authority down the street.

I follow her, doing my best to wear an “I’m about to study now” expression on my face.

We head through the central plaza at the heart of the city, past the statue of Sparkanos the Swan, and then head away from the guild buildings entirely.

We pass several nests and the training grounds, and when we get to the outer wall, I eye Sparrow. “Where are we going exactly?”

“You need his body, right? He’s going to be with Romus’s people.”

“Oh, mucking hells,” Arrod moans from behind me.

All five hells indeed. Of course he’s at the god of the dead’s temple.

All the dead go there to have blessings said over them and to be interred in one of the god’s sacred houses so they can be welcomed into one of his five realms. It just didn’t occur to me that when I said I’d be speaking with the dead, I’d be going to their house. My skin prickles with goose bumps.

I rub my arms, shivering despite the warmth of the sunshine. I wish Raptor were here.

A small hand touches my knee. I look down at Kipp, who’s trotting at my side. He glances up at me and gives me a reassuring lizardy nod. Even if my lover—no, my mate —isn’t here, I’ve still got friends at my side. “Thank you, Kipp. I can always count on you.”

He gives a reassuring little huff and nods again.

We approach the temple of Romus, Lord of the Five Hells.

Sparrow takes the lead, and we step inside.

The moment we do, my skin prickles with awareness, as if the dead in the vicinity are suddenly becoming alert to my presence.

I dig my fingernails into my palms and pretend to admire the temple.

All buildings of Romus are created in the same manner—there are rows of benches like church pews, all facing the murals of the five hells.

In front of each mural is an altar, along with the offerings for each realm.

Worshipers give offerings to each realm to push them away, and there are no offerings in front of the Hell of Release, because everyone wants to pass through its gates.

The Hells of Misery, of Despair, of Penitence, and of War are all flooded with offerings of rotten foods and aversion symbols.

Near the doors to the temple stands a nun in front of a stand with a basket of old vegetables. “Rotten turnip for hell?”

I’m tempted to purchase a few myself just out of superstition. It’s tradition, after all.

In her heavy archivist robes, Sparrow flounces up to the nun and gives her a haughty look down her nose. “My friends and I have come to pay our respects to one of the deceased. Where can we sit with him and pray for his Divine Release?”

The nun points to the back of the temple. “You’ll want the head priestess. She’s in charge of purifying the bodies.”

“My thanks.” Sparrow nods at her and then flicks a hand at us, indicating we should follow close behind.

A shiver moves up my spine as the faint nonsense babble of the dead begins to whisper in my ears.

I don’t recognize the voices, but then again, the dead never sound familiar.

We follow behind Sparrow, bowing to the nun as we pass by her.

“She’s a little scary like this,” Arrod comments.

“Mistress Sparrow. I thought she was an archivist.”

“She’s got holder blood,” I tell him.

“Ahhhh. That explains it.”

It really does. Even though she’s working as an archivist now, Sparrow can put on the invisible mantle of a holder as easily as breathing.

She takes on an air of unquestionable authority, as if it’s her gods-given right to go wherever she pleases.

And it works, more often than not. I’m grateful that she’s helping us, because I probably would have flailed the moment I got through the doorway and felt the presence of the spirits inside.

Then again, maybe not. Because I’m determined to see this through.

Hemmen deserves for his Five to come through for him.

Those who have died deserve justice, too.

If I can help them, I will. I’ve sat quietly for too long in my life, and I promised myself I wouldn’t let anyone get in the way of my becoming a guild artificer.

Sparrow heads past the murals of the five hells, pushing aside a curtain in the back.

There, another nun comes out to greet us, this one in the tall sunburst-shaped headdress of the god of the dead.

She’s an older woman, but her expression is kind.

When Sparrow explains what we’d like to do, she simply nods and leads us down the hall.

“The dead are given a natron massage and then rest in the god’s arms for ten days before we send them on,” she says.

“You can sit and pray for him, and you will not be disturbed. I must warn you as I warn everyone, however, that he will not look the same as he did in life. His mortal flesh has been rubbed with sacred oils, and even now, there might be some bloating and a faint smell. This is all part of the god’s natural way of reclaiming his children, so do not be alarmed.

” Her sweet smile never falters. “But perhaps do not touch anything.”

“Of course not,” I say brightly, even though I’m intending to do just that.

We’re led into the inner chamber. The god’s arms, as the priestess called it.

The dead are brought here for the ten days between the moment of death and the god taking them into his arms and leading them to one of the five hells.

The double wooden doors open and then an intense smell of incense and rot wafts through the air.

The feeling of death overwhelms me, and I dig my nails into my palm so hard that hot pain shoots through my hand.

Kipp makes a choked sound that he tries to muffle, and it takes everything I have not to cover my mouth from the smell.

“As I said,” the priestess continues, “this is all very natural, but it is not easy for the living. You can sit on one of the benches here.” She gestures at a series of hard marble benches lining the walls of the room.

The interior of the chamber would be lovely if not for the stink.

I’m familiar with the rites of the dead, but back at Honori Hold, I rarely attended them.

There was never an official ceremony for any servant who died, and the servants were never invited to the death rites of anyone important.

Even though I’ve known about Romus and the temple rites all my life, this is my first time experiencing them.

Add in that the dead are throbbing in the air around me, and I feel like I’m choking as we’re led into the waiting chamber.

It’d probably be a very pretty, serene place to visit if not for, well, all the death.

The ceiling is nothing but fragile painted glass, full of colors and light.

It streams in from above, sending down a kaleidoscope of colors onto the gray marble floor.

Wreaths of dried flowers cover everything, along with boughs of heavily scented leaves.

There are three marble biers in the center of the room, and to my surprise, there’s more than one dead man. There are three.

Of course. It stands to reason that there’d be more than one person paying for a god-blessed funeral in the entire city. This…just wasn’t part of my plan. But there’s nothing to be done for it.

Each marble bier is spaced apart from the others, the dead person covered with thick, heavy sheets.

The fabric of the sheet is adorned with Romus’s blessing symbols, and as we step deeper inside, I can’t help but notice that each of the marble biers that the bodies rest upon are tilted, and a bowl for catching liquid is set at the foot of each bier.

I don’t want to know what the muck that is for.