Unlike the rest of the Synod, the aspect had not risen after the call for recess. He leaned against the back of the one-seat bench, rubbing his eyes. Watching him, Itan couldn’t help but think how much he looked like a tired old man. Had he remained a priest, he would have been among the youngest in the Synod, and yet his face was lined by more creases than any of the others.

  Tira approached the aspect, touching his elbow to let him know she was there. Itan averted his eyes so the man wouldn’t catch him staring. He tapped his foot, nervous energy making him shift where he stood.

  Under normal circumstances, he might have exited out to the hall. He might have paced to burn off some of the excess energy. But he felt glued to his spot. Itan knew his every movement would be scrutinized; he couldn’t possibly do anything to jeopardize himself.

  Without thinking about it, he fell to his knees. He spread them slightly, lowering his torso and clasping his hands on the cold floor. His forehead touched his clasped fingers. Mirao, I am but your humble servant. Whatever punishment the aspect sees fit to visit upon me, please let me meet it with grace and honor.

  Unbidden, his mind slipped along an all-too-familiar train of thought. He heard the yelling of his father, the cries of his brother.

  His brother had always been a quiet child. So innocent, so sweet. Itan remembered Nix’s grip on his fingers. He swallowed hard, pushing away the thoughts that wouldn’t leave him alone. Even here, he thought. Even now, I cannot escape the past. It was his own personal torture, dragged back into memories he wished he could forget.

  Scuffling footsteps broke Itan out of his reverie. A man cleared his throat. “Do you believe Mirao listens when you pray?” Itan didn’t bother to look up to see who it was.

  “Perhaps. Sometimes.”

  “Then you are a fool. Mirao is dead. As are the immortals. And the dead care little for our suffering.”

  Itan’s breath caught. What the man was saying was practically heresy. He stayed silent.

  “What is life if not suffering?” the man continued. “The story of mankind is nothing but pain from the moment we are born until we die. Only in the Everlands do we experience any semblance of peace.”

  “I can only hope the Everlands bring me peace,” Itan said. “I certainly haven’t known it in this life.”

  “Yes, Tira told me about how you came to us. She told me you would support our cause. Will you help us end the suffering of the masses?”

  “I will do what I can.”

  “That’s all we ask. Very well. I will speak to Cosimo on your behalf.” The sound of boots scuffling on the floor let Itan know the man had left.

  He opened his eyes, watching as the man — one of the younger group Tira had spoken with earlier — approached the aspect. He placed a hand on Tira’s back, smiling as he joined the conversation.

  Itan couldn’t help feeling like a lot more had taken place than he had initially realized. Tira shifted uncomfortably, glancing back at him; her face betrayed a guilt he didn’t understand.

  When the council was reconvened, Itan allowed himself to rise out of his position; his knees and elbows ached as he stretched them, but he ignored the minor pains. He stood as tall as he could manage, his hands clenched into fists as he prepared for the aspect’s decision.

  “My friends,” the aspect said, gesturing for the men and women to be seated, “I thank you for your counsel on this matter. We have witnessed the strong opinions of many of our most-esteemed members; I am glad to see that all of you care so much about the fate of this acolyte.

  “In my service, I have always tried to balance justice with understanding. A certain amount of grace is required to aid the souls of those we may find unsavory. As a man, I cannot pretend to have any amount of wisdom that may compare to an immortal.”

  He looked at Itan, his gaze softening. “That being said, here is my judgment. The acolyte has shown his instinct for survival is too strong to complete the task which he was previously given. But he may still serve. I propose he be appointed as Nestor for the city of Jaruna in the west, an area which has long been underserved. Will you accept this appointment, Itan?”

  Itan considered for a moment. The role of Nestor was one he didn’t envy; he enjoyed being out in the country, serving the aspect directly. As a nestor he would be tasked with attracting young acolytes and training them.

  “Didn’t the lord of Jaruna threaten to kill the last nestor we stationed in the city?” Fyodor asked.

  “Yes, he did.”

  “Very well.” Fyodor nodded, apparently satisfied.

  Itan flexed his hands. “I will accept the appointment. Thank you, Aspect.”

  Chapter 8

  Micol

  Micol tossed in his bed, hovering somewhere outside of sleep and wakefulness. If I’d only had more than a knife, he thought. Or if I was a better fighter.

  Sweat clung to his legs as he flipped over again. Barke could have helped too. It’s not all my fault. No, not all my fault. There was a whole army between me and him. I’d only have gotten myself captured too.

  The splashing sound replayed in his mind; the distinct thup, psh as he’d jumped in. The tug of the current that had taken him away. I’m not a coward. I’m not. I…

  “Up, coward.” A rough kick shook Micol’s bedframe, interrupting his thoughts. The man who’d spoken didn’t hang around to see if he’d woken up.

  Micol had barely opened his eyes before the next blow came. Each of the men in the barracks gave his frame a swift kick on their way out the door, a morning ritual that had evolved over his two weeks with them.

  The last man – a scrawny, balding man named Pilar – was the only one who didn’t join in. He paused at the foot of Micol’s bed, looking at him with a pensive expression. “Sleep well, Deserter?” the words weren’t gentle, but there was no malice in his tone.

  “No. Not at all. I was having a nightmare about Rederos.”

  Pilar nodded knowingly. “Ah, regrets from falling too far into a bottle of liquor? I don’t blame you; their tavern has the best brandy.”

  “Had,” Micol corrected. “The Ma’isans burned the whole village to the ground just after I passed through.” The memory of screams clawed at him – screams and the hiss of flames and a woman’s hand reaching out to him for help.

  He swallowed hard past the lump in his throat. Nothing I could do, he thought. The words were a poor poultice to his wounded mind, but they were all he had. He climbed to his feet, donning the uniform of a dock worker: sweat-stained breeches, a ripped tunic, and gloves so large they slipped off at least four times a day.

  “Do you think anyone survived?” Pilar asked as he dressed. “There was a woman in Rederos I used to court. Nothing came of it, but… I dunno, I’d hoped if the Ma’isans went that way she’d be able to escape.”

  Micol shook his head. “I’ll say this, and no more: anyone who was still in that village when the Ma’isans came through is dead. If your woman was smart enough to get out before they arrived, she might still be alive.”

  “Guess that’s the most I could hope for at this point.” Pilar’s breath escaped through his teeth as a hiss. “Well, let’s go, Deserter. There’s ships to unload; gotta keep Rivas happy or we’ll wind up on the street.”

  The pair left the barracks, joining the line of their fellow workers awaiting breakfast. Micol was last to reach the pot of what he assumed had been a potato stew; all he got were the dregs, a couple ladles worth of stock that tasted like onion and fish. He sat alone on the steps leading down to the docks as he downed the meal. Pilar was the only other member of the F crew who treated him like a person, but that kindness – if it could be called kindness – didn’t extend far.

  The F crew was one of a dozen similar crews of dock workers; the twenty-nine members of the crew were responsible for loading and unloading ships at anywhere between one to a half dozen docks, depending on the frequency of ships coming in. In exchange, they were generously provided with meals and a bed inside the barracks for slightly less than their daily wages. The rest could, in theory, be saved, but more likely it would go to purchasing and maintaining clothes.

  Micol stared out at the wide mouth of the docks. The gray pall of clouds overhead reflected off the water, painting it in melancholy tones. The largest dockyard in all of Accalia, his mother had told him. On any given day, there’s at least one ship here from each corner of the kingdom. Walk up to the right captain and there’s no telling where they’ll take you.

  With a sigh, he drained what was left in his bowl and found Rivas for his first dock assignment of the day.

  The first ship was a large galley laden with wine barrels that were too heavy to lift; instead, they lifted the pallet out of the hold with a crane. Once the pallet was on the docks, they were able to roll each barrel separately. Micol managed to make four trips to the warehouse Rivas had pointed out before the work was finished; he breathed a sigh of relief on returning to find the pallet clean.

  He was about to leave and seek out Rivas when the captain waved him over. The man looked young to be commanding his own ship; his embroidered silks marked him as a member of the nobility, which Micol suspected was the reason for his advanced position.

  “Boy,” the captain said, “This is my first time sailing to Vicrum in more than a month. What’s the latest news?”

  Micol frowned as he considered the question. “Ma’isans attacking from the south. They’ve been carving their way up through the countryside for the last month. There are rumors they’ll be arriving any day now.”

  “Really? Are they planning on besieging the city?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “You’d have to think, with the walls…” the captain trailed off. “Hard to know what their plan is, I suppose. What other news? Anyone interesting come through recently?”

  “There’s a ship due from the Synod today. That’s the most interesting one I’ve heard of.”

  The captain cocked his head. “The priests of Mirao? What’s so interesting about that?”

  “We haven’t seen a priest of Mirao in this city for years, sir. When I was in…” Micol barely stopped himself from saying ‘when I was in the army’ to avoid follow-up questions. “Some folks I used to work with said the priests had withdrawn from Accalia entirely. One of them swore they hadn’t left their basilica in the better part of a decade.”

  “Hogwash!” the captain said. “I’ve seen plenty of priests of Mirao in my travels, boy. You shouldn’t put so much stock in the rumors of those who haven’t seen anything of the world beyond these city walls.”

  “Regardless, sir, that’s the rumor. And all the news I’ve heard. You want anything else, you should talk to Rivas.” Micol shrugged, turning to leave.

  “Take this. For your time.” The captain tossed Micol a copper; Micol accepted it gratefully, pocketing the coin quickly and hoping no one in F Crew had seen. He moved on to look for Rivas.

  The longboat containing the priests of Mirao arrived just after mid-day. It slipped into a berth without much ceremony, but the two dozen robed figures who disembarked made the dock fall silent all the same. Micol paused mid-way through lifting a sack of grain, his eyes following the attention of the others as the men in dark crimson robes walked down the gangplank. The lead figure – a man with black hair and a full beard – paused in front of him, eyes half-narrowed. For a moment Micol thought the priest was going to speak to him, but then the man continued on.

  For some reason he couldn’t explain, Micol felt pulled to the man as well; his eyes followed the red-cloaked figure to the end of the dock. The man stopped to speak with Rivas for a minute, but Micol was too far away to catch any words of the conversation.

  “We saw that noble’s son toss you a copper,” a voice said from behind Micol. When he turned, he saw four of the largest men in the crew standing nearby. The one who’d spoken was built like an ox; he was a hand shorter than Micol, with neck muscles so thick it was hard to tell where his neck ended and his head began.

  The man held out a hand. When Micol didn’t move, he sighed with frustration. “Don’t be thick. Here’s how it’s gonna be: you give us the copper, or we’ll take it from you.”

  “It’s just a copper,” Micol said. “Hardly worth the trouble.”

  “For you, maybe. Hand it over.”

  Micol fished for the coin in his pocket. He dropped it in the man’s hand. Easy come, easy go. He figured it was worth the loss of the coin to avoid catching a beating. Rivas didn’t seem like the type to take care of him if he wasn’t able to work.

  To take his mind off of the shakedown, Micol returned to his work. He lifted the sack of grain at his feet, hoisting it over a shoulder. The route to the warehouse took him past the priest and Rivas, who were still talking.

  “You,” the priest said, gesturing Micol over. When he approached, the man continued, “You seem strong enough. Why did you let those men take that from you?”

  Micol shrugged. “It’s only a copper.”

  “It starts with a copper,” the priest said. “The same way a giant oak starts as a sapling. If you let their power over you grow, you will wake up one day and find you have no more power of your own. You must show them strength if you ever want to be anything more than you are.”

  “Who said I want to be something more?” Micol asked. “I’m okay with being a dock worker if that’s my lot in life.”

  The priest turned back to Rivas. “See what I mean about the young men of this generation? No ambition, no fire.”

  Rivas snorted. “Aye, and doubly true for this one. My men tell me he’s a deserter from the Tevulun army. Ran away from the Ma’isans at the first sight of combat.” Micol’s cheeks reddened at the insult, but there was little he could offer in the way of retort.

  “Is this true?” the priest asked, his eyes on Micol.

  “Yes, sir. I’ve made no effort to hide my past. The only defense I can offer is this: every other man in my company is dead. I behaved like a coward, but there’s no doubt it saved my life.”

  “Why not turn him in?” the priest asked, raising an eyebrow at Rivas.

  “The boy does good work. He doesn’t complain. And most of all, he gives the rest of my men someone they can hate. So long as they’re united in their distaste for him, they don’t have the energy to mistreat each other.”

  “Ah, but such a thing can only unify a group for so long. After enough time, they will grow used to him and go back to their old ways.”

  Rivas nodded slowly, as if he had given the point some consideration already. “You’re right, priest. Soon enough, his usefulness to me will be at an end. And then I will have to cut him loose.” His eyes landed on Micol. “Oh yes, boy. I am not weak like you. When the day comes that you no longer bring enough value to justify my keeping you on, I will kick you off the crew without a second thought.”

  Micol noticed the priest’s eyes on him, watching for a reaction. He swallowed the surge of anger that swelled inside of him, turning away from the pair of older men to continue delivering the sack of grain. The warehouse they were bringing it to was one of the closer ones; Micol joined a line of three others waiting to deliver cargo to the area designated for the ship that the grain had come from. He dropped it off and left through the open gates, making his way back to the dock.

  The priest met him less than halfway there. He held up a hand to stop Micol. “I would steal a few more moments of your time, if you would let me.”

  Micol glanced around, anxious to be seen talking to the priest. It wouldn’t do for Rivas to decide he was lazy.

  As if sensing the reason for his hesitation, the priest reached into his robes and withdrew a golden coin. Micol’s eyes widened; he’d never seen its like before. “If I were to give you this coin, what would you do with it?” the priest asked.

  “I don’t know. Quit the docks, maybe. Leave Vicrum.”

  “Leave Vicrum and go… where? To what lands would you sail, Micol?”

  Micol’s brow knitted. He realized with a sense of sadness that no one had ever asked him that question before. He hadn’t even thought to ask it of himself. “I would go away somewhere. Anywhere. As long as it’s not here.”

  “Yes, but what would you do? Who would you be?”

  “I don’t know,” Micol said. “I’d just… be.”

  The priest sighed. “It’s a shame when youth lacks ambition. You’re far too young to wander through life without a dream to sustain you.” The priest extended his arm, offering the gold coin to Micol. “This is yours, as long as you promise me one thing: when it runs out, find me at the Temple of the Aspects. I would hear the story of how you spend it. I certainly hope it will be an interesting tale.”

  He started to leave, but Micol grabbed him by one of the flowing arms of his robe. “Who are you? Why are you being so generous? If nothing else, I’ll need to know who to ask for when I reach the Temple of the Aspects.”

  A small smile graced the priest’s face. “All men know me, Micol. As I know all men, eventually. If you would find me, all you have to do is seek out my followers and whisper the name of Death.”

  Micol released the man’s sleeve, his mouth falling open. “You’re an aspect?” he asked incredulously.

  Death gave him a single nod before turning to leave the docks. Micol’s fingers wrapped around the coin, the ridges digging into his palm. He glanced around at the other workers; a few had taken notice of his conversation with Death, but either they hadn’t been close enough to see the glint of gold or they didn’t want to draw attention by moving too quickly. Regardless of the reason, no one tried to intercept Micol as he backed away from the dock. He took three steps before turning to run.

  He ran all the way to Sybil’s Square before realizing he didn’t have a destination in mind. The usually busy square was empty save a few dozen men and women shopping at the handful of stalls that were still manned.