Page 22 of Prisoner of Darkness and Dreams (Fated to the Sun and Stars #3)
Sophos
I t’s a rare, cloudy day in Qimorna when the Grand Bearer summons me. I’ve been waiting for this, though I confess it’s taken longer than I expected. Someone has postponed delivering the message, likely fearing the consequences.
When I step into the high temple’s forum, I see they were right to be afraid.
His Grace is standing with his back to me, gazing upon a bust of Ethira.
As I round the edge of the reflecting pool, I see more of the crumpled figure at his feet.
A cleric lies half on the cold marble, half slumped in the water.
Her head bobs slightly, hair drifting like seaweed in the ripples.
A trail of blood turns the pool pink around her.
I continue walking forward, not allowing myself to pause or even react.
It’s what I’ve trained myself to do—though admittedly it was easier back when I believed wholeheartedly in the Grand Bearer’s righteousness.
At one time, I would have assumed draining the life from this cleric was a necessary task—one that cleansed her soul and kept the Temple pure of those less dedicated than I.
Now, I’m not so certain. That doubt eats at me like maggots at a corpse, diminishing me piece by piece even as I stay outwardly calm and focused.
“Did something happen, Your Grace?” I ask quietly as I come to stand before him .
“Yes, something happened ,” he says. “Morgana Angevire is gone. Taken by those disgusting fae creatures. Stolen from my city.” His voice stays soft, calm, but when he rounds on me, his eyes are burning and teeth exposed in a snarl.
He’s as angry as I’ve ever seen him, and while he’s still keeping most of it tamped down, that he would show even this much has me rattled.
I’ve never seen anything get to him like this.
“I want to know how those animals slipped into the city unnoticed, how they bypassed the guards. Someone has to pay.”
I glance down at the dead cleric. Clearly, she did pay, but I suspect His Grace took her life before she had a chance to give him the answers he wanted. I pray to the gods he never knows the truth of some of them.
“I’m afraid I don’t know how this could have happened, Your Grace.” I bow my head, willing him to accept my contrition. “In fact, I wasn’t even in the city when the fae struck. These past few days, I’ve been traveling, attending to the matters we discussed a week ago.”
I risk the lie, knowing what it would cost me if he discovered it. But everyone who saw me in the building that day—the hidden prison where Morgana Angevire was kept—is either dead now or loyal to me.
For all his wisdom, His Grace has blind spots.
It’s been my job to compensate for them—to be his eyes where he struggles to see.
And one of the things he’s never quite grasped was the hierarchy of loyalty within the Temple.
Everyone is loyal to him, of course. That goes without saying.
But that loyalty is not always at the very top of the list.
Most people, at their core, are loyal first to themselves—and their own self-preservation.
Before I visited Morgana Angevire in her cell, I collected information on every cleric serving on duty.
Secrets of theirs that if revealed would cause them to be instantly cleansed by the Temple.
I knew I could trust their silence after that—His Grace’s intolerance for disobedience is absolute, and even if they exposed me, they likely wouldn’t earn a pardon for themselves.
We’d both end up on the executioner’s block. Speaking up isn’t worth the risk.
His Grace is still flushed with frustration, but he eyes the package in my hand with interest .
“And were you successful on your travels?” he asks.
“The clerics in the royal territories have been briefed, Your Grace. They’re ready for the regent’s coronation. And as for this…”
I hold up the object, bound in cloth, and offer it to him.
Some of the rage drains from his face, an eagerness entering his eyes.
“You’ve done well, Sophos,” he says, taking it from me and unwrapping the thick cloth coverings. They fall away, and he lifts free the heavy, curved scythe I’ve had transported from the most northern reaches of Trova.
“It was buried beneath the ice,” I say as the Grand Bearer marvels at it, admiring the blue binding around the handle and the red rubies set into the hilt. “It took five aquari to get it loose.”
The blade catches light, and the refraction illuminates His Grace’s eyes. Something in them, so dark and hungry, makes me look away.
I don’t, of course, mention the other task I completed on my travels.
The time had come for my nephew Olin and my sister Ettia to leave Xatus.
I couldn’t trust they’d be safe there. Instead, I moved them to a small village in the northeast, one the Temple is unlikely to visit.
I hope they will be better hidden there, though every day I wake in fear, worrying about their fate.
His Grace cradles the scythe, soothed by its presence. Its power would be obvious to anyone, fizzing like static in the air. My fear is stoked higher still, seeing it in the Grand Bearer’s hands.
I have seen Olin conjure celestial magic as easily as breathing, and I have seen the Grand Bearer revitalized and strengthened when he lays hands on a solari.
What do those two things mean when put together?
I dare not say, but I know I want Olin to live, and a world where His Grace extends his reach won’t allow for that.
I don’t know if I did the right thing hinting at his plans to Morgana Angevire or opening the door for the fae prince to rescue her. Only time and the gods will tell—and they must reward or punish me as they see fit.
His Grace at last looks up from the scythe, his face once more a picture of calm authority .
“The loss of the Angevire girl is unfortunate,” he says. “But we will find a way, Sophos. Whether she is our prisoner or not, the gods will give us what we need.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” I say as another piece of me fades away.