“Elysa says you killed the lord’s son. He was only six.”

  Itan frowned. If he couldn’t even convince an urchin, what chance did he have of saving the city? “I don’t know anything about that, to tell you the truth. I was only given this assignment a few weeks ago. Do you believe I had something to do with the death of this boy?”

  “Maybe not you, but men like you. They wore red too. Elysa said she saw with her own eyes.”

  “I don’t believe my brothers or sisters would do such a thing, child. We are a peaceful group. We don’t even carry weapons.”

  “That’s stupid. Elysa knows. She saw a man in red running from the lord’s mansion, with a dagger covered in blood as black as night. She saw. I trust her.”

  Itan groaned inwardly. “Why do you trust this Elysa?”

  “She’s good. She brings food. Doesn’t ask for anything in return.”

  “You are hungry, aren’t you?”

  The boy’s eyes narrowed as if he expected a trick. “Yes, sometimes.”

  “And it must be hard to sleep on the ground each night?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Then why refuse my offer? I promise, I won’t ask for anything in return.” A piece of Itan’s mind shied away from the partial lie; he wasn’t planning on forcing the boy into anything he didn’t want to do, but he also hoped he would be able to turn the boy into a convert with time. Even failing that, providing food and shelter for street urchins could help redeem the priesthood in the eyes of the common people.

  The boy wetted his lips, fixing Itan with an appraising look. “You’re a bad man. I can tell.”

  “I’m not a bad man. I want to help this city. Have you had any family members who passed recently?” Itan waited for an answer; after a moment, the boy nodded cautiously. “I’m sorry to hear that. My fellow priests sent me here to see that your family — and all the dead in the city — will not suffer any longer.”

  “You think they’re suffering?”

  “Yes, unfortunately. Dead souls have no place in this world, child. And the world is not kind to those who have no place.”

  The boy nodded; judging by the spark in his eyes, Itan felt he had finally reached him.

  Itan straightened to his full height. “I am a servant of the Aspect of Death, child. The king’s laws afford me a right to the mortuary temple, in whatever condition it has been left. If you would like shelter for the night, the doors will be open to you. And there will be a place at the table as well, if you wish.”

  With the parting words, he started in the vague direction the boy had indicated. He felt as if he had accomplished something; something small, no doubt, but still worth celebrating. A small smile graced his lips, even as others on the street saw him and turned away.

  The dirt road rose ahead, allowing him to see the mortuary temple… and the gathering crowd awaiting him. The moment they caught sight of him their expressions turned dark. He was too distant to hear what they said, but he was sure it was some sort of curse.

  His thoughts turned to Nix and his father. He flexed his hand, glancing at the scar where he’d caught his father’s belt. Never forget, he told himself. You deserve any suffering you experience.

  The words gave him strength as he drew close enough to hear what the crowd was shouting. It was smaller than he’d first assumed; only a dozen men, but they each wore snarls of hatred and their words were dripping with venom.

  “Killer!” some shouted. “Murderer!” Others simply cursed to the immortals.

  One man with a bald head and a scar running from eyebrow to temple hefted a small rock. Itan winced as it struck his arm, but he continued forward. The thickest portion of the crowd was blocking a doorway that clearly belonged to the mortuary temple — the door he needed to reach.

  As he reached the first of the crowd, hands shoved him from the side. Itan stumbled, managing to keep his feet as he took another step forward.

  Spittle landed on him as a face filled his vision. “You’re not welcome here! Think we don’t know what you are, boy? We won’t let you kill our children!”

  Itan couldn’t stop himself from wrinkling his nose with disgust; the man’s breath smelled of onion and rot. The expression only incensed the other man, who shoved at him with both hands.

  Itan stumbled as another man kicked him in the back. The crowd parted to avoid his flailing arms as he fell. He stood up as quickly as possible, afraid staying down would invite the others to fall on him.

  He continued with a forced calm. The kick — and subsequent stumble — had allowed him to pass by most of the men, leaving only a few between him and the door. He took another step, ignoring the shouts of those surrounding him. They were only words, and he had suffered much worse. The insults weren’t even particularly inventive.

  His hand touched the wood door. He closed his eyes. Slipping inside the temple was the easy path. If he was going to gain the understanding of the city, he had to do more.

  Turning to face the crowd, Itan gestured for quiet. To his surprise, the men stopped talking; they eyed him angrily, like leopards ready to pounce once they’d heard what he had to say.

  “My brothers,” he said, looking at them with a soft expression. “I understand you do not like me. I understand you have been told horrible things about the priests who served you in the past. I cannot speak to the veracity of these claims, but I can tell you this: you deserve a better class of priests to serve you and your loved ones. You deserve to have the souls of your family seen to by others whom you know. Those you trust.”

  “You think we trust you?” a man to Itan’s left said. He spat at Itan’s feet to show what he thought of that idea.

  Itan took a breath to gather his words. “I know you don’t trust me. I am a foreigner, and until today I had never entered this city. But you will notice I carry no urn. I have not been sent here to gather souls of the dead or to plot murder, but to teach you how to care for your own dead. If any of you would like to learn how to usher the souls of those who had passed into the Everlands, you have but to ask.”

  The man whose breath smelled of onion stepped forward. His expression was hard and unreadable as he passed through the crowd, who all held their breath to see what he would do. Itan took in each detail of the man as he approached: his slightly off-balance gait, his unkempt silver-and-brown beard. The man pulled something from his belt before he reached Itan.

  Too late, Itan realized it was a knife. The man pressed him against the door with one hand while the other held the knife in front of his eyes.

  “If you’re still here come nightfall,” the man growled, “There’ll be another body to clean up in the morning.” He sunk the knife into the door, making it hum with the force. A moment later, he turned to leave.

  Itan sighed; he felt the color slowly coming back to his face. The others in front of him were all slinking away, dispersing now they were satisfied the message had been received. He grabbed the knife, working it back-and-forth until it could be pulled free from the door.

  It took some work to lift the latch, but after a few moments he was able to get it free. The door creaked open, revealing what had once been the main hall. One of the old tables was overturned, and the other looked like it had been split down the middle by a great axe. A layer of filth covered the floor, tracks of brown and white leading from the kitchen.

  A putrid smell made Itan wretch. He gritted his teeth and stepped inside the temple. At least I won’t be idle while I wait for them to make good on their threat, he thought. He set to work clearing out the refuse, gathering the worst bits in a flour sack from the kitchen that had been ripped half-open.

  Cleaning the temple to the point where he would be able to sleep stole the rest of the daylight. Itan lit a candle on the second floor — which had once housed the dormitories for the priests of the city — to provide enough light for him to continue working. Looters had stolen the mattress and bed intended for the nestor, which he had expected. They’d stolen most of the pallets too, leaving only a single broken wood frame and a ripped blanket that would barely be large enough to cover half of his body.

  With resigned determination, he brought the frame and blanket into the largest room. The frame was missing two legs; it was easy enough to kick off the others, leaving him barely an inch above the ground. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

  A knock on the door made Itan jump. He glanced out the window, but there was no telltale flickering of torchlight that he could make out. Schooling a trembling hand, he made his way down as another knock came.

  He pulled the door open. The boy he had met earlier stared up at him. “You said you had a place to sleep,” he said with a shrug.

  “I do. Please, come in.”

  The next morning found Itan bone-tired, his vigil having been interrupted by less than an hour of sleep. He’d given the bed frame and blanket to the orphan boy, leaving few options for himself. He’d found a bust of Mirao in a side-room, and had spent most of the night prostrated in front of it.

  Itan’s mind and body were worn threadbare. His back revolted as he attempted to rise, sending him back to the floor. After several attempts, he managed to regain his feet.

  He spent the first day cleaning the temple, organizing what little remained of the food stores: a bag of moldy rice, a rat-infested bag of flour, and pulpy masses of rot he guessed were the remains of what had once been tomatoes. He tossed the rice into the street and salvaged what flour he could, transplanting it into the now-empty rice bag.

  It took Itan several minutes to decide what to do with the tomatoes. He cleared a small patch of dirt in front of the temple where the sun was shining most heavily, planting the rotten tomatoes into holes he made with his hands.

  With the little remaining food organized, Itan set about cleaning the floors and walls. He tore the remains of the sack of flour into burlap strips, wetting them at the first well he could find. Although he knew it wouldn’t help the rumors, Itan clung to the shadows until there were only two others waiting there: an old woman who hadn’t moved since he’d been watching and a young girl dressed in rags. He wetted the burlap and hurried back to the temple doors, avoiding both of their gazes.

  By the time the boy returned, Itan had barely finished cleaning the kitchen. He felt eyes on him as he grabbed his last clean rag; with a sigh, he set it back down and turned around to face his minder.

  The boy watched him in silence, seemingly content to let the seconds pass until Itan spoke.

  “I did promise you food,” Itan said, “Didn’t I?”

  The boy nodded.

  Itan reached into the pouch at his belt, retrieving a silver. “I apologize for not introducing myself earlier. My name is Itan. What’s yours?”

  “Ponto.” The boy’s eyes lit up with a deep hunger, the kind of hunger that could drive a person to do terrible things.

  A child should never have to experience something so brutal as life on the street, Itan thought. “Nice to meet you, Ponto. You’re a trustworthy boy, aren’t you?”

  Ponto nodded eagerly. “Yes, sir.”

  “As it so happens, I could use some dinner myself. If I give you this coin, do you think you’d be able to find a good dinner for us both?”

  “Yes, sir. There’s a vendor four streets over, sells a pheasant stew that smells… well, it smells really good.” He reached out for the coin.

  Itan withdrew his hand, keeping the coin out of reach. “Before you go, there’s something important. You must promise – no matter what – you will return to me, and bring any change the vendor gives to you. Can you do that?”

  “That’s all?” Ponto asked, his brows knitting as if trying to discern a trick hidden in Itan’s words. “You just want me to promise you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fine, I promise.” He held his hand out, palm up.

  Itan handed the coin over. The boy moved so quickly he almost seemed to vanish. Or maybe that’s my own lack of sleep.

  Either way, he knew the next few hours would tell him much about Ponto. A silver was enough money to survive on the street for at least a couple weeks. Ponto could easily take the money and go, and Itan wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.

  On the other hand, if he returned it would be a sign of his trustworthiness. Tira had told Itan before leaving that the role of nestor required a healthy supply of optimism. ‘Take chances on others,’ she’d told him. ‘Usually it won’t yield the results you’re hoping for. But sometimes it will.’

  As the sun set, Itan forced himself to focus on finishing up his cleaning of the temple kitchen. He scrubbed at a stained tile for what felt like the better part of an hour, until his fingers were raw and his eyes fell as heavy as leaden weights. Sleep overcame him an instant later, pulling him down to the floor with its insistent call.

  He awoke with the sun, eyes opening to find someone – he assumed Ponto – had set a chicken kebab wrapped in dirt-stained linen a half-stride away from his eyes. Next to the kebab sat a pile of bronze coins. Itan grabbed the skewer, brushing off a trio of flies before he tore into it. Even cold, the meat tasted as good as any he’d had in the basilica. There’s no spice that can rival that of a fast, he thought.

  After some consideration, he decided to spend the day fixing up the temple’s reception room. It was the largest room, the first thing petitioners to Mirao would see when they entered. The broken furniture dominating the scene was an unfitting greeting for those in grief. His joints cracked and moaned as he left the kitchen, but he felt better than he had the day before.

  Itan righted the nearest table, placing it under a window at the side of the room. Dirt and mud and white streaks covered its top, but it seemed sturdy despite the grime.

  The same could not be said of the other table. The strike that had split it apart had gone right through the middle, leaving no options for repair. In the end, he wound up kicking the legs off, disassembling its planks and setting them in front of the black-and-gray marble mantle of the fireplace.

  The deconstruction had barely finished when Ponto came running down the narrow staircase. He paused when he noticed Itan, staring at his feet. “The stew vendor didn’t want to sell to me,” the boy said. “He told me I must have stolen the coin from someone.”

  “That’s alright. The kebab was good. Thank you.” Itan paused, sensing Ponto wasn’t quite satisfied with his response. He fumbled for some words of wisdom to share. “In the Tayra Sermon, the Prophet Mirao preached men who would find friends need simply extend an open hand. If their neighbor did the same, there would blossom friendship. But sometimes when you extend that hand, it’s met with cruelty instead.”

  The boy’s eyes glazed over as Itan spoke. After a moment, he shook his head and continued to the temple door. “Elysa!” he exclaimed upon opening it, falling into a half-bow.

  Itan heard a bright laugh. “No need to bow, child.” The unblemished skin of her hand came into view as she raised Ponto’s chin. “I heard you speaking with the death priest. Don’t worry, I’m not mad. I just wanted to address your concerns in case my words can ease the sting of what occurred. That street vendor saw an urchin coming to him with more coin than he expected an urchin to have, and he made his judgment based entirely upon that. He didn’t see you. Do you understand, child? He didn’t judge you. He stared only at his own shortcomings, and this is why he did not treat you with kindness. I will speak to him today; the next time you meet him he will be more respectful.”

  A smile spread over Ponto’s face, expanding to a wide grin. “Thank you, Elysa! I would like to try that pheasant stew. The next time I can afford it, I mean.”

  “And so you shall, child. Now, run along. I have business with the death priest, and I am sure you have many important things to do as well.”

  “Absolutely!” Ponto said. “Thanks again!” He sprinted through the door and out of Itan’s sight.

  Itan sighed, taking a few steps until he could see the doorway – and Elysa – fully. The morning sun offset her thin frame and cast her long, dark eyelashes in dramatic shadows. Itan felt himself drawn to her brown eyes; for more than a few seconds the pair simply stared at each other.

  Elysa was first to break the silence. “So,” she said. “You’re to be the new nestor?”

  “Yes.”

  “An auspicious position, as you are no doubt aware.” She stepped inside the temple, closing the door behind her. “It was quite the task to talk the fathers of this city out of murder the first night you arrived.”

  Surprise registered on Itan’s face before he could think to hide it. “I wondered why they hadn’t returned yet. Should I expect them back anytime soon?”

  Elysa swept into the room, her hands trailing along the grain of the table Itan had set in front of the window. When the light caught the sleeves of her black dress, it revealed a hint of magenta undertones. “That depends,” she said, after what felt like an eternity.

  “On what?”

  “On you.” Her nose wrinkled at the condition of the table; she continued her journey around the room, turning a corner at the kitchen entrance to head toward Itan. “How much do you know about me, Itan Mirao?”

  “Only what the boy told me. Tales of murder and lies about the role priests of Mirao play.”

  A half-smile formed on Elysa’s face. “Yes, that would be the way a loyal death priest would see it. Perhaps I should reframe my question. Have your fellow priests ever mentioned me?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  “Pity.” Elysa’s tour around the room was bringing her closer to Itan; she settled less than an arm’s length away, filling the air between them with perfume that smelled of berries. “Are you familiar with the name of Solus?”