Spirits of Light and Shadow (The Gods of Talmor) (2 page)

Octavia walked along the riverside path, her mind occupied with thoughts of that night’s task. Although the sun had already set, a twilight haze lightened the Western sky, and she couldn’t begin her ritual until full dark. Still, the timing gave her the opportunity to focus.

Tonight’s job was small, in terms of difficulty, but her customer paid well. A Talmoran merchant’s wife lost her marriage ring, claiming the trinket slipped off her finger while working. Octavia suspected the woman removed it while with a secret lover.

In two days, the merchant would return from a purchasing trip to Arcciosca. The ring had to be located before then. The wife gave Octavia fifteen declani to attempt to find it and promised another fifteen if she succeeded. The deposit would pay Octavia’s rent for a month. Of course, if the woman had been Kilovian or her cause just, Octavia never would have taken so much for the trivial task. She and her mentor Rhikar laughed about such jobs, calling their high fees
a tax on Talmoran morality
.

She was only able to command high prices from the Talmorans who dared invoke what they referred to as
foreign witchcraft
because she was successful more often than not. Naturally, much of her success stemmed from her ability to discern the truth of a situation. Often, her assurances alone relaxed her customer enough that they found the solutions themselves. Octavia was given credit most times. People, she discovered, believed what they wanted.

A shuffling in the darkness broke her reverie. Although she felt safe in her own quarter, Talmorans didn’t hold the Sennestelle to be a sacred class as Kilovians did. A prickle of fear made her shiver.

A whisper came from the shadows. “Senne?”

The use of the Kilovian honorific put her at ease. “Yes, child?” She was a young woman, and the man who stepped into the yellowing lamplight was more than twice her age, but he took off his hat and bowed his head to her.

“Someone has been asking about you. A Talmoran.”

“Oh?” At best, a stranger might be a potential customer. Or perhaps the jealous husband of her current customer—or a man like him. The idea didn’t please her. “Do you know what he wanted?”

“He claimed he needed help for a sick wife, Senne, but I’m not sure I believe him. He has your name, though, and said he’ll return tonight.”

She nodded with a frown. “What troubles you about him?”

“He dressed like a merchant, but wrong.”

“Wrong?” she repeated.

The man shuffled his feet. “It was his voice. He sounded high-born.”

She nodded again, trying to relax, to erase any traces of concern from her face, although the root of her worry remained. “Thank you for telling me,” she said. “Long may your fires burn.”

A soft smile broke his craggy face, as though her words carried more power than if a weaver or baker had bestowed the same traditional blessing. “The power of the One forever guide you,” he replied, a phrase often uttered to practitioners. He bowed his head again and they parted ways.

Within a few moments, she was pushing open her front door. She was not in the habit of locking up until she went to bed for the night; her neighbors watched out for her. In return, she performed small tasks for them, gave them medicines and herbs or just a small word of blessing or comfort. Back in Kilovia, she would not have even needed to lock her door while she slept.

Beyond the threshold, a staircase rose immediately and led to the second level. She paid six declani per week to a Talmoran landlord for a modest set of rooms on the upper floor. Kilovians didn’t own property in Vol, for the most part, although a few traders had grown wealthy and influential enough to purchase small shops and market stalls.

She lit the lamp on her workbench, and the flame cast shadows that stretched until the brightness banished them. Where a family might have comfortable seating, Octavia had a long table for cutting and grinding herbs, another for preparing wax and bone. She stored various ingredients necessary for her work in a shrouded high cabinet. Several shelves contained books in her native tongue.

She performed her nightly rituals in this room, invoking the power of the One, channeling her knowledge of the earthly and the divine to aid her community… and to pay her landlord. She removed a pouch from her belt and placed it on the bench. It contained a handwritten note from the owner of the marriage ring, a small cloth with a few drops of the woman’s blood, and a silk ribbon.

Octavia had told the woman she needed an artefact of some importance to the man she loved, with the promise the item would be returned in perfect condition the next day. At first, the woman offered a crest of her husband’s, a token of Ja’al, one of the Talmoran Spirits of Light.

“Only you can determine if this is the best representation of the man your heart beats for,” Octavia had said. “Remember, my success depends on the true worth of the item to its owner and the owner’s worth to you.”

After some thought, the woman declared that she had a better idea. She had left Octavia in her formal receiving room and returned a few minutes later with a length of silk ribbon. “This has little value in declani, of course, but when I wear it, my love knows he is in my thoughts.”

“Better,” Octavia said, understanding the woman’s
love
and her
husband
were different people. Although her marriage ring had little to do with the second man, the ribbons would connect Octavia to the woman’s true heart more than an old religious symbol owned by a man she feared more than loved.

Octavia laid out the items and gathered the required materials from her stores. All the while, she wondered about this high-born man who had been asking about her. Experience both in Kilovia and now in Talmor taught her not to trust the noble classes. A man who worked to feed his family could be relied upon. One who had wealth
bestowed
upon him expected the accident of high birth to provide, regardless of the character of his heart or his effort.

She waited, not wanting to begin her ritual lest she be interrupted by this strange Talmoran who sought her by name. Just when she had decided this man would not appear so long after nightfall, a knock sounded. As she descended the stair, she breathed deeply to calm her nerves. Why did she feel suddenly troubled? She scolded herself for assuming the worst. He had most likely gotten her name from one of her Talmoran merchant customers. Though they were sworn to secrecy, they sometimes gave her name. One who was determined and persuasive could find her. If the new customer was high-born, she could charge him more than she would a shopkeeper. Maybe two months’ rent, or even three.

She opened the door no more than a hand’s width. “Yes? Can I assist you?” She enunciated her words the way she’d learned to do when speaking with Talmorans.

“Are you Sennestelle Octavia?” By the lamplight near the door, she saw the man wore the clothing of a merchant, but every piece was new, with not so much as a worn spot on the knee or elbow. He had a small scar that disrupted perfectly trimmed facial hair. He used the Kilovian name for her guild, so he was more educated than most of his countrymen, but he used it incorrectly. The address should have been
Senne Octavia
, and she was a member of the
Sennestelle
. Still, the effort warmed her to him despite the warning in her gut.

“I am called Octavia,” she said, not moving aside. Although practitioners were tolerated in the city, she’d learned to be cautious. Talmorans believed their eight Spirits to be the only true gods and some didn’t take kindly to those who practiced other ways. Kilovians were, at best, regarded as ignorant savages.

“I need to speak with you.” He glanced down the empty street.

“Who are you?” she asked.

After a beat of hesitation, he said, “My name is Dow.” She felt the lie more than heard it. The truth mattered little. She’d discover his identity eventually. It was difficult to hide from a conduit connected to the ancient power of the One. Still, the attempted deception was interesting.

“What is your need,
Dow
?” She emphasized the false name.

“My need is urgent and private. May I come in?” He shifted his weight and the lamp’s glow caught his pale blue eyes. Grey circles ringed the iris, seeming almost to change colors with the angle of light.

“And what do you offer?” she asked. His answer would determine whether she closed the door or opened it further. Most Talmorans flashed gold at this point. Usually, she would accept. In this foreign land, she had to buy food like everyone else.

“Only emptiness,” he replied.

Octavia blinked. How did a high-born Talmoran know the proper response? “Come in,” she said, momentarily at a loss for further words. She held the door open and watched him closely as he passed her in the narrow entryway. He carried a sack, holding it awkwardly, as though afraid of what it contained. She shivered for the second time that night, despite the warmth of her fire.

Chapter 2

Eliam ascended the narrow stair, acutely aware of the Kilovian woman who studied him. He was surprised how difficult it had been to find her. The strange, ancient religion of the One was practiced openly by the immigrants, but when inquired about practitioners, or as they called them,
conduits
, they grew secretive.

He’d started by asking merchants but was told no one would reveal a Sennestelle’s identity to a Dul. Every Kilovian knew at least conduit, but they protected them fiercely. So Eliam covered his face with a hooded cloak, dressed down, and walked the streets disguised as an ordinary merchant. He didn’t trust the task to a servant or page. Oh, a servant might have blended in more easily, but he feared some word of his quest would get out. Neither he nor Duls Tarsten and Graiphen wanted that to happen.

Gold loosened lips, but only when he reassured the Kilovians he questioned that he had no desire to cause trouble. He’d even made up a story of how the Talmoran Spirits had abandoned him and swore that he desperately needed help. Somehow, as the day stretched on, a dying wife had been invented.

This Senne Octavia had been identified as the best practitioner in the city, worth every declani he’d pay her. If she couldn’t heal his wife, they told him, the lady was destined for the afterlife.

“What troubles you, Dow?” she asked when he reached the top of the stairs, her tone betraying both wariness and fatigue.

Eliam hesitated. He’d spent so much energy trying to find her, he’d not put as much thought into what he’d say afterward. Now, faced with this fierce woman who appeared to see through his careful disguise, he felt uncertain. “I’m here for a friend,” he said.

Her expression flickered with recognition. “What is your
friend’s
trouble?” she asked, amusement quirking at the corner of her mouth. “Difficulty satisfying his woman? Will his staff not stay straight?” She walked to her workbench and opened a few small doors in its top structure, fetching fragrant herbs. “It’s a common problem.”

“No,” he said, stammering with embarrassment. “Not at all.” How strange that he, an accomplished man, was reduced to babbling by someone he’d never met.

“No? I know already you’re not here about a dying wife.”

Eliam flushed. He should have expected those he questioned would report his words. “It’s complicated,” he said. “I’m sorry, but the lie was necessary. I must protect my friend’s identity. He’s an important man.”

Octavia put down the herbs. With a weary sigh, she rubbed her temple. “All men think they’re important.”

“We believe he’s been cursed.”

Her expression darkened. “What makes you say that?”

He held out the sack, which he’d kept with him all day. He’d not wanted to leave it lying around in case the magic might affect his home or servants. Not that he believed in such things. Still, if there was any risk, he’d prefer to take it himself, rather than anyone in his household.

She raised a finely arched eyebrow and accepted the sack.

“I was warned not to touch the items.”

She opened it and peered inside, then froze before muttering a string of words he didn’t understand. Putting down the bag, she went to her workbench to retrieve a thin pair of black gloves and a piece of black cloth. She slipped on the gloves and knelt on the floor, spreading out the dark canvas. Gingerly reaching into the sack, she removed the gruesome items one by one and laid them out on the cloth.

In the flickering light, he recognized that the wax pieces were molded to look like faces. Octavia’s expression contorted with disgust as she sorted through them, arranging them in some kind of order he couldn’t distinguish. Among the pieces were segments of wire, some bound so tightly over the small wax heads that no features could be discerned. Only filthy tufts of hair attached to the wax bits told him those shapes represented a person. Other figures had long, thin needles shoved through.

He let her work in silence, watching each twist of her mouth and knot in her furrowed brow. A sinking feeling of despair settled over him. He’d expected her to tell him the items were nothing, a silly joke, an attempt to frighten. This small, stern woman had not a jot of humor about her.

She glanced up and spoke to him in the Kilovian tongue. After a moment, she shook her head, then repeated herself in her heavily accented Talmoran dialect. “These are items of darkness, created by a worthy Kilovian conduit. Your friend is in grave danger. He is still alive, yes?”

“These things could kill him?” he asked, anxiety twisting his gut.

She stared down at the array of strange objects in front of her. “These are designed to torture more than kill, but few men could withstand the pain.”

“Can you break the curse?”

“Bring your friend to me at first light. I will take what I need from him and begin work immediately. We must not delay.”

“Impossible.” There was no way Tarsten would have Dul Graiphen brought here, if his condition would even allow the move. “I can possibly arrange for you to be brought to him.”

“This is no trivial matter. I need to make preparations, to take samples from him with tools I have here. I won’t be certain how to proceed until I meet him. Do you intend to move my entire workshop to this man’s house? Are you so desperate to avoid him being seen in the immigrant slum you’d risk his life?” She shook her head.