In the past, at any stage in the first twenty years of my life, I would have never been able to freely roam the southern bazaar or the trade roads where the merchants set up their carts and tents. Not only can those places be dangerous for younglings, with the cutthroat merchants, the cruel eyes of the flesh-traders all over, and the Bronzes watching out for any civil disobedience and often causing more of it with their simple presence.
More directly, I simply would not have beenallowedon the Floorboards, unless it was for a task: charming coin from the commoners as a young girl, at the behest of the House of the Broken; a once-a-month guided tour from Antones keeping watch over me as a Grimson; the Diplomats sticking to the slums and shit-covered streets of the poorest districts, and going no farther than they had to.
I breathe in a fresh line of dirt and grime and stuffy air, choking and then smiling.This is what freedom feels like, I suppose: grimy, sweaty, and hopeful. Not having to look over my shoulder at all hours because there’s a target on my back.That thought dims my mood when I realize thereisa target on my back, just not here in Nuhav and not during the daylight hours.
I can’t forget who I am. No matter how innocuous this daytime stroll through Nuhav is, my mates have begged me to understand I’m too important to the revolution to just go wandering about on my own and putting myself in reckless jeopardy.
Gulping, I harden the breezy expression on my face and leave the bazaar, heading west toward Kep’s tavern and house where I’ll find the Chained Sisters.I might be free, but they are still chained. The Grimsons still live destitute lives underground. Until all of that is changed, I can’t labor on this whimsical idea that I’m “free” or my job is done.
With a twinge of shame, I pick up my pace and march through the busy streets and loud throngs of people and workers going about their day. I cross a town square, recall a shortcut through alleyways I once feared, and pop out along another street corner, blowing past a huddled audience with their backs turned to me.
Then I hear the voice speaking to that huddled mass, and my stroll slows as dismal memories sink into the pit of my stomach and physically claw at my heart.
“Brothers and Sisters, your alms are not for naught! Let it be known: For every sick, perverted mind roaming these streets, there are two minds to stop him. We cannot find enemies within our citizenry, for it is not the common man you disagree with!”
The words are met with raucous cheering. Clapping. Heartfelt tears from a large group of listeners.
My throat closes up. I’ve stopped walking completely. My eyes fill with a burning sensation and I flare my nostrils, slowly turning my entire body toward the voice and knowing what I’ll find.
There, at the end of the street, standing atop an overturned fruit crate and voicing his heraldry with the brisk afternoon sun bathing him in angelic light, stands Father Cullard.
The man who raised me, the man who ruined me.
His hands gesticulate as he speaks. Despite the griminess of the surroundings and the ever-present cloud of dust, somehow his habit is immaculate—a crisp white robe with blue sashes across either shoulder, and a golden mitre atop his bald, wrinkled pate.
The fresh garb and the holy hat tell me something has changed about Cullard. He has somehow scaled the ranks of the Trueheart sect he treacherously holds so dear, to become something greater than a mere “Father” and almshouse abbot.
Father Cullard has gotten himself a promotion. And now he’s espousing his talk of good deeds and dignity to anyone who will listen.
Unfortunately, there are ashitloadof people who will listen. The entire block is covered shoulder to shoulder with a happy, zealous audience. They look at Cullard as if he’s a deity ratherthan a sinful, deeply flawed man who preyed on his young flock at the House of the Broken when I was a child there.
Cullard’s arm sweeps above and behind him, rolling back the wide cuffs of his sleeves to reveal pasty, skinny arms. Past the roofs of the nearby buildings, he gestures at the spires sitting in the background—the Temple of the True, only just visible from here.
His voice booms to the crowd. “Your salvation, as always, rests within the temple, my sons and daughters. Every donation aids us in bringing the scourge of the wicked flesh-traders to heel, and provides room and board for orphans and needy parishioners. With every offering, we are able to carry out alms to the needy, sick, and infirm. The Temple of the True is your home, as it has always been”—he makes a symbol of his faith across his face—“and that home is needed now more than ever. Do not turn your back on the True! Rioting and bloodthirst fill the streets of Nuhav. Man is pitted against man. The Bronzemen no longer protect but seek to harm their own people, turning against the very people who protectthem! Us!”
That gets a particularly loud response from the crowd, no longer cheering but now angry and thick with vitriol in their voices.
“Down with the traitorous Bronzes!”
“Sack the bloody flesh-traders and their hubs!”
“Burn the vampires!”
There are so many vying missions here, it gives me whiplash as I listen to each voice rising above the crowd. And that, I think, is the point: Fill the audience with enough violent rhetoric, fervor, and fear to carry out the Truehearts’ deeds.
For Father Cullard to utilize his elevated position and thrust it upon the masses . . . it makes my blood boil. My heart squeezes with rage, and if I don’t leave this place soon, I’ll do something idiotic.
My teeth grind so hard I think they’ll crack. Because these people are not listening to an honorable, good-willed man. They are listening to a heretic in white robes and a sinner in a golden hat—a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
If only they knew the truth.
The mantra comes to me and doesn’t go away, repeating again and again.If only they knew, if only they knew, if only they knew.
I leave the block, rushing to shoulder past more people showing up, my head spinning, tears coming to my eyes as I yell, “Excuse me! Pardon me!Move!” to get out of the crowd that’s making me hyperventilate and lose myself.
Father Cullard’s echoing words haunt me down the street, and they make me realize the true purpose of his speech this afternoon. “The Silverknights have taken the Oath of the True among their ranks, thus proving their loyalty to our righteous cause and the true will of the people of Nuhav! Join them, and joinus!”
So,I think sadly,Cullard and Rirth have teamed up forces. With the military wing of the Silverknights combining with the religious fervor of the Truehearts, who is to say what devastation they could bring to my homeland?