Itan shook his head.

  “He was a… counterpoint to your Mirao. Where Mirao taught men were imperfect vessels for the power of the immortals, Solus believed men were – that we are – perfect vessels for such power. He claimed the problem is not that the immortals are gone, but rather that we didn’t go far enough. The world is full of suffering caused by attempts to replicate what the immortals have done.”

  “You’re speaking about the aspects?”

  She tilted her head. “In part. I’m speaking about all men who seek power over others.”

  “And what did Solus propose as the solution to the problem of power?”

  “His solution was simple: do away with it entirely. Vanquish the aspects, cast down the nobles from their castles. So long as power is distributed unevenly, this world is doomed to fall to suffering and strife. Or so the teachings say.” She took a step closer, her face dominating Itan’s vision.

  Itan looked away, banishing the rush of heat he felt at her proximity. “What does this have to do with me?”

  “Why, everything, my dear priest. See, my friends in the Synod sent advance word of your arrival.” Her lips parted in a devilish grin. “It surprises you to hear I have friends in the Synod? Since we are not yet well acquainted, I suppose your ignorance can be forgiven. Suffice to say, the reach of Solus’ legacy is a long one. My friends shared with me the story of your trial, your commitment to deliver this world from suffering.”

  The revelation made Itan take a step back, his mouth filling with bile. “It was nothing more than a vague commitment. Had I known what it was, I might have answered differently.”

  She giggled softly. “Had you answered differently, you would be dead. Besides, you don’t yet know what your commitment entails. Shall I explain?”

  At a hesitant nod from him, she continued. “You can forget about winning over the city’s inhabitants. They have been poisoned against you and your kind for too long for one with your meager skills to heal the rift. I will do what I can to blunt their hostility, and perhaps with time they will come to accept you.

  “In the meantime, you will continue your work here at the temple. Your care of Ponto is a good start. I will spread word amongst the city’s orphans that the mortuary temple offers sanctuary and food for them. They will come in great numbers to take advantage of your charity. Within these walls, you and I will share responsibility for teaching them. And then – when they are ready to take their oaths – they will travel to the Basilica and join your order.”

  Itan’s eyes narrowed. “What will you teach them?”

  “You’ll find out. Nothing that will interfere with your own instruction; that much I can promise.”

  Itan felt his blood run cold. “To allow an outsider to taint their training would be treason of the highest order. I can’t…” He trailed off, unable to complete the sentence.

  Elysa continued, “You complained your earlier commitment had been made without knowledge of the implications. Now you have heard of your place in our plans, I offer you the same choice, with similar consequences. Itan Mirao, will you fulfill your duty to this city as nestor or not?”

  His answer was a long time coming. He struggled for several seconds, attempting to find an option that would allow him to survive without turning traitor. But none appeared before him.

  Better a reluctant traitor than a corpse, he thought. He told himself he would do everything within his power to minimize her time with those he trained. Perhaps if he chose the right students, they would prove immune to whatever influence she intended to exert.

  “Alright,” he said. “I’ll allow you to join in their instruction. But if you try to corrupt them in any way, I’ll put an end to it.”

  “Excellent! It’s for the best. You will see.” Elysa took his face in her hands and kissed him sweetly on the forehead. Her boots sounded against the tile as she left the temple.

  Chapter 11

  Micol

  The first sensation Micol was aware of was a searing pain in his gut. His eyes cracked open to reveal the alley where he’d fallen; it was shrouded in night, broken only by a sliver of light from the street behind him. A form clad in ripped clothes lay only a few feet away, dull eyes staring up at the sky.

  Micol’s stomach rose in a dry heave when he realized the man was dead. He forced himself to look away, eyes closing as he rolled onto his knees. His shoulder protested, as did a lone muscle running along the side of his abdomen. His plaintive groan barely passed dry lips. He counted breaths, telling himself after three exhales he would attempt to regain his feet.

  Ten breaths passed, and he still didn’t feel up to the task. This is ridiculous. I have to get out of here somehow. It’s not like anyone’s going to come rescue me. His teeth ground against each other as he lunged first onto one foot, then the other. Doubled over, he took in the rest of the alley.

  The body in front of him was joined by three others. Micol saw his aggressors’ leader in the same spot he’d been after falling. Despite taking no blows Micol could remember, the man looked the worst of all of them: red-and-black lesions ran from the orbit of one eye all the way to his jaw, and his skin was shriveled like a molting snake’s. When Micol looked at the body he felt the same heat as before; he had to glance away to keep himself from falling into its embrace again.

  “Was it worth it?” Micol asked the darkness. “Four dead, maybe more? All for your greed.” Shaking his head, he turned away from the grisly scene, limping toward the light of the road ahead.

  The road posed a question Micol wasn’t ready to answer: where to next? He knew he should go to the Temple of the Aspects – should honor his commitment to Death – but the thought of admitting his misfortune made him grimace. The only direction that made sense to him was away. Away from the alley, away from the dead. His dragging feet carried him, each step a struggle as he made his way forward.

  He made it past one building, then another. The shuttered fronts and painted signs seemed to belong to stores, but he didn’t have the energy to satisfy his curiosity. Finally, he collapsed, curling up under the flickering light of a posted torch.

  The morning passed in a fever dream; occasionally, passersby would kick him or attempt to hand him coppers. As tired as he was, Micol didn’t react to any of them. At one point rough arms grabbed him, forcibly relocating him to a new street corner. He curled up in his new location, pressing his back against the nearest wall to avoid attention from strangers on the busier street.

  “You look like you’ve fallen on hard times,” a voice said. She had the soft timbre of a young woman; when Micol’s eyes peeked open he was surprised to see her covered in the robes of a priest of Mirao.

  “Do you know who I am?” the girl asked. “Or more precisely, what I am?”

  Micol nodded slowly.

  “Very good. My brothers and sisters and I arrived in the city a short time ago. You may not believe it, but we’ve been sent here to find folks like you. Folks who’ve fallen on hard times. We can offer you food and shelter for as long as you need it, and once you’re back on your feet – if you’d like – you can leave our care. Does that sound good?”

  Micol considered the offer. He knew as the pain passed hunger would quickly replace it. In his current condition, options for finding work – and therefore food – seemed limited. “Will you take me to Death?” he asked, his voice coming out as a breathy wheeze.

  “You can request an audience if you’d like,” the girl answered.

  “He asked me to come see him, after…” Micol trailed off, his mind faltering in its attempt to find the words to explain what had happened.

  The girl cocked her head, eyes narrowing dubiously. “You met Death in person? And he asked you to come see him? No, it must have just been a hallucination.” She sighed. “Regardless, my offer stands. Our lodging is little more than a quarter-league away. Can you make it under your own power, or do you need help?”

  “I don’t think I have the strength to make it on my own.”

  “Very well. I’ll come back with one of my brothers. Just wait here.”

  She returned a short time later, trailed by a man in matching robes who stood a head taller than Micol. The man lifted him to his feet with a grunt. Micol tottered for several moments, but before he could fall over the priest sighed and hoisted him over a broad shoulder.

  And so he entered the house of Death, folded like a baby over the priest’s back. The trip took less time than Micol expected; he knew they’d arrived when they passed through a set of double doors and the color of the light shifted, passing from the hot white sun outside to a shaded orange. Moments later, he was set on a cot that lay beside dozens of others. Only a small portion were occupied, especially out of those close by.

  The nearest occupied cot belonged to an older woman with a single streak of black hair amongst the grays. She was curled up into a ball, eyes squeezed shut like she was having a bad dream. Micol felt a twinge of sympathy for her, even without knowing her story. Then again, I doubt I look much better.

  The girl from before returned, bearing a wooden bowl she held out to Micol. “As I said, we’ve been sent to find folks like you. You may not think they’re much to look at now…” she glanced at the woman Micol had been staring at, then turned back to him, “but there’s always more beneath the surface.”

  “Why?” Micol asked. He accepted the bowl, spooning a hot bite of potato stew into his mouth.

  “Why what?” The girl raised an eyebrow, as if she was asking solely to make him give voice to the full question.

  “Why are you doing this? What’s in it for you?”

  Her lips quirked up in an almost-smile. “A common question. I admit, it’s a rare thing in this world to encounter someone treating others well for the sake of the deed. And so’s the case with us, in a manner of speaking. Once you are better, we would seek to recruit you to join our order.”

  Micol paused, thinking there had to be more to it than that. “Why do you need more recruits? What made Death take this trip personally?” he asked.

  The girl laughed brightly. “My, you’re a curious one, aren’t you?”

  “You didn’t answer my questions.”

  “Nor shall I. Death’s reasons are his own. Perhaps if you’re lucky, you will get the chance to ask him yourself.”

  “Alright, then,” Micol said. “Why here? Why now?” He could already feel the effect of the stew on him, giving him strength and banishing the lassitude that had seeped into his mind. “I lived in this city for fifteen years before joining the Tevulun army. In all that time, I have seen plenty of beggars wasting away on the streets. Where were you back then? Why hasn’t anyone seen this kind of generosity from the priests of Mirao before?”

  The girl closed her eyes for a full second, her patience with Micol clearly wearing thin. “Do you question all charity so… thoroughly? We’re offering you a safe bed and three hot meals a day. Shouldn’t that be enough?”

  “Perhaps for the others. But I’m new to this whole begging thing. Someone is paying for this bed and those meals, and I’d like to know why.” Micol winced at his own words. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. I appreciate what you’re doing, really.”

  She nodded, her posture relaxing as he relented. “That will be enough for now, I think. Do you want me to bring you more stew?”

  “Yes, please.”

  After three days of steady meals and rest, Micol felt better than he had in years. The girl – whose name, he learned, was Visala – met with him each morning to discuss how he was feeling and sell the benefits of joining the priesthood. She extolled the virtues of saving dead souls, ushering them on their journey to the Everlands. When that didn’t seem to work, she explained other aspects of priesthood; there were those who ran charitable efforts like her, those who managed logistics such as the acquisition and preparation of food, and those who served as Death’s personal stewards. She spoke of the last group in a hushed whisper, as if their existence was a sort of secret.

  The morning of his fourth day in the care of the priests, Micol awoke and cleaned around his cot. At first he worked on hands and knees, but before long one of the priests brought over a broom. The man handed it to Micol wordlessly, disappearing moments later.

  With the broom, Micol was able to make short work of clearing the detritus around his space. At first, he was proud of having accomplished the task, even if it was small. When he straightened, he couldn’t help thinking all he’d done was foist his own dirt on his neighbors. Almost all the cots near his had become occupied, and most of the inhabitants were too weak to do much more than eat and sleep.

  So he set about sweeping the rest of his section of the large room, shepherding a growing pile of dirt toward the door he’d been carried through a few days earlier. He swept it out into the street, too focused on his task to pay attention to where he was.

  The sun shined in his eyes, making him look away. His vision moved along the flat wall of the building he’d left, recognizing it from his time with Rivas’ crew: a warehouse, one of the farthest from the docks.

  One of the priests caught him staring and quirked an eyebrow in amusement. “This is one of three similar warehouses we’ve rented,” he said with pride. “Visala figures that should be enough to house all the beggars in the city. For now, at least.”

  “For now?” Micol asked.

  “With the city under siege and a blockade forming at the edge of the bay, food is going to be scarce. All three warehouses will be fit to burst in a matter of weeks. Trust me.”

  “Hopefully the siege won’t last that long.” With a shake of his head, Micol returned to his work. He waited a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness before heading to a new section of the warehouse.

  A wrinkled hand snapped forward, gripping his forearm tightly. He was surprised to see the old woman he’d noticed on arriving; her eyes were closed and she was curled up in a ball as she had been the whole time, but her grip was surprisingly strong.

  “Don’t let them take me!” she hissed. “Please, I have to get out of here! Don’t let them take me!”

  She must be confused, Micol thought. He leaned down to address her. “Where do you think we are, ma’am?”

  Her eyes shot open, pupils as wide as saucers. “We’re in the bowels of Death, boy! No one escapes alive!” Her horrid cackle filled the room, making Micol shrink back. He pried her hand off of his arm, stumbling away from the old woman’s cot.

  He’d barely taken three steps before running into Visala. The girl grasped both of his shoulders, steadying him. She glanced past him, to the cot where the old woman looked to have resumed her sleep.

  “Sorry about that,” Visala said. “She was the first we encountered. Every so often she has… visions.” She sighed, her brow drawing down with concern. “We knew there would be some who would never be healthy enough to leave our care. It’s unfortunate, but there’s not much we can do.”

  “What’s going to happen to her now?” Micol asked, fearing the answer.

  Visala cocked her head. “Are you worried we’ll throw her back onto the street because she cannot serve? No, we would never do such a thing. I meant what I told you before: we will offer food and shelter for as long as those we take into our care need it.”

  “So she will stay here?”

  “Yes. Perhaps with time and care her condition will improve.” She paused with a momentary frown. “But I did not approach to talk about her. I wanted to talk about you. Oro grabbed me when he noticed your act of kindness.”

  Micol’s brow wrinkled with confusion.

  “Sweeping a quarter of the warehouse,” Visala said. “That’s quite the task to assign yourself. It must have taken hours.”

  “It was nothing. I was bored.” Micol felt his face flush as he avoided her gaze.

  “All the same. It shows a lot about your character, even if you may not realize it.” She paused. “I mentioned something of your tale to Death.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes. And he’s agreed to meet with you. Do you still wish to see him?”

  He nodded. “Yes, please.”

  “Very well. Follow me.” Visala turned, leading the way toward the warehouse exit. “Unfortunately, Death is a little far from here. He wanted to be closer, but his followers and supplicants will expect to find him in the Temple of the Aspects. So that’s where he must be.”

  “Understood.” The Temple of the Aspects was one of two buildings located atop the plateau in the center of the city – the other being Vicrum Castle, home to the king of Accalia. Micol had never made the trip, but his mother had told him the plateau had been raised by the immortals, along with the temple. The aspects had claimed the thrones of their forbears, but they lacked the power to complete such great works.

  Visala led the way through a section of the city that belonged to the tradesmen and thugs. It seemed like each corner held at least a few men who glared at Micol as he passed, although they stayed well away from Visala. The conditions worsened the closer they got to the base of the plateau and the mid-day shadow engulfed them; the closest buildings to the base were little more than shacks, cobbled together from scraps of wood and cloth and whale bones. Micol stared at a long, thin bone climbing from the top of one of the structures. Time and weather had worn its end into a spearpoint, a weapon fit for a giant.

  “When we first arrived,” Visala said, “I was struck by the fact anyone seeking to ascend the steps for an audience with the aspects must pass through such squalor first. Where I’m from, the poor are hidden, frequently forgotten. In Vicrum, it’s almost as if they want you to see them.”

  “The poor find room where they can,” Micol said. “It’s mid-day, but still dark as dusk here. I think people avoided this place for so long the poor took up the room simply because there was no one to compete with them.”