Strife & Valor: Book II of The Rorke Burningsoul Saga by Regina Watts (red queen ebook .TXT) 📕

“Servants of Weltyr, these travelers?”

“No,” I admitted to her, bending and lowering my voice all the more. “Heathen worshipers of Roserpine, and one of Anroa—but I believe Weltyr desires I should work with them, so work with them, I do.”

Though Elishta-bet appeared somewhat scandalized, it was only in the way of those who delighted in scandal. ““Roserpine!” I’ve never heard of that one.”

“She’s a goddess of darkness, among other things. So far as I can tell, all durrow in the Nightlands are taught to praise her above the Bright God…but one can’t rightly blame them, given they cannot see the sun and therefore don’t have any means or incentive by which to contemplate its mysteries.”

“How sad!”

“Perhaps, yes, perhaps it is…but I have no doubt that, should Weltyr wish to present himself and the knowledge of his salvation to the durrow, he would find a way. It’s their slave trade that keeps them from his favor, I would think, but such speculations aren’t my place.”

“Nor any man’s,” agreed Elishta, mounting the stairs that curled through the heights of the Temple. “As you said…when the time has come for them, surely their priests will be made ready for the knowledge.”

“Priestesses, actually.” She glanced over, and I explained, “They have only priestesses, Roserpine’s people—the durrow are an exclusively female race.”

How Elishta’s eyes widened! She put together one or two things a mite more quickly than I would have liked. Her face redder by the second, my old friend stuttered, “O—oh! Oh! Goodness! All of them?”

“Yes,” I said, lifting my eyebrows, unable to help the glint in my eye, “every last one.”

“Oh,” repeated Elishta. Scrutinizing me more closely now, she said, “So that means your companions—”

“Are women, yes.”

“I—I see. I see.”

Laughing, I jostled my old friend by the shoulders. “Come now! Surely you aren’t jealous, Elishta.”

“Of course not,” Elishta hastened to answer, her gaze averted, her blushing face nonetheless gravely sad.

All at once Elishta gave me pause in a way she never truly had before. Was I reading into my oldest friend’s concern for me? Making some embarrassing misinterpretation of her tone?

Or was there something more than a yearning for friendship behind those downcast eyes?

“Elishta—”

A delighted bellow from the landing above interrupted us.

“Rorke Burningsoul!”

My gaze was drawn to Father Fortisto, a ragged and moth-eaten but kindly old man who for the last four or so years had adopted a way of quivering when excited by some activity or bit of news. Looking between myself and his feet, he waved a trembling hand and eventually rested it upon the rail of the spiraling metal staircase. “Weltyr’s eye, how blessed I am to see you again!”

“Not near so blessed as I am,” I said, adding, “wait there, please,” as I turned to Elishta. “My task here is urgent, and I may not be able to linger long once Fortisto has divined for me. Is there a way, perhaps, that you could meet me at the inn where we stay? Ah—but the neighborhood forbids it, so perhaps—”

“Which one?”

Her eyes were dangerously bright. Not wishing to give her an inroad into getting herself hurt, I neglected the name of the place and instead simply told her, “Let me speak to Fortisto and take care of a few things while I’m in town. If it all goes well, we’ll spend at least an afternoon catching up and celebrating before I have to hurry on again.”

“All right, Rorke.” With a faint smile, pained but not wholly joyless, she pushed her hair from her face and stepped back from me. “Will you promise?”

“I promise.”

Then, though it pained me to leave Elishta behind, I strode quickly up the stairs to embrace Father Fortisto.

“Ah!” The little man laughed and patted me a few fond times, observing on his release that, “You’ve got new armor! Fancy stuff.” He rapped a knuckle against the breastplate I’d not even thought of taking off for as quickly as I’d been moving from Point A to Point B. “The Order Magistrate will complain that it’s not to regulation, but we can get you a new, official set before our induction ceremony…did you bring the Scepter, my boy?”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, Father. Could we sit in your office for a few moments?”

His merry features rearranging to concern, Fortisto ran a hand over his patchy gray beard and said with a wave toward the hall, “Of course, of course. Let’s sit down and have a talk…but, about what?”

“About thieves,” I told him, my voice lowered as we made our way to his office. Each floor of the Temple was a little different than the last; and each, in my opinion, provided jarring contrast to the strange black metal of the hallways and exterior. The level commonly called “the rectory hall” was expansive and elegant, floored not in metal but wood and plush red carpet. Paintings adorned the damask walls, and, somewhere unseen, a fountain bubbled on the other side of someone’s open office door.

Fortisto had left his own empty office open. He ushered me inside, sealing us together. The walls were cramped but the high ceiling permitted some impressive bookshelves, all of which the disorganized priest had filled to the brim. As a consequence, his desk overflowed with poorly sorted stacks of books and paperwork. Among this difficult to interpret collection of objects I counted no fewer than three pairs of reading glasses. Knowing Fortisto, I suspect that he was only really aware of two. I repressed my fond smile as the eccentric priest sat across his desk from me.

“Now,” said Fortisto grimly, hands folded, “what is this about thieves?”

My warm feelings to be home faded into the pressing matter that had brought me here to begin with. Posture mirroring his, I rested my forearms upon the edge of his desk and told him as quickly as I could the story of how I came to be stranded in the Nightlands.