Page 8 of Reap & Sow

He followed her. “I don’t believe that, and neither should you. You can’t dismiss everyone so coldly.”

Why? she wanted to retort. Look around you, brother. What good is left in this saints-damned city?

Eda dreamed of escaping the darkness that bound her, while the self-serving ingrates of this city crawled into it willingly. She hated them. Needed them. They followed Ben and Lawrie to the mirror, like supplicants at prayer, hoping to see their most desperate wishes fulfilled. Was it pitiful or merely ironic, that a demon might answer their pleas when the Lordfather did not?

Eda knew Mr. Night’s power. Saw it in his quicksilver eyes, felt it dance upon her skin whenever he came near. He was indisputably real. Yet she’d never sensed the Lordfather as others claimed to. Had never known His touch, the few times she dared to pray.

He’d once gone by a different name.

In the beginning, He ruled with six others, and together they shaped earth, sea, and sky, the Holy Codex taught. But when His fellow gods fell to earthly vice, He forged a golden blade to split the veil between worlds and cast them out. Under His rule, mankind found industry and order. They pledged to follow His teachings, or else be damned to the Otherworld where those false gods await in blackest corruption.

Eda found it hard to believe that the first demons were corrupted Weslic gods. Sinners being condemned to the Otherworld in death seemed even more unlikely, for Mr. Night surely didn’t spend his days dodging tortured mortal spirits like flies. But if a benevolent god truly did watch over the people of Wesland, one thing was certain: He had spurned the Shaws. To think they were so reviled by one who was supposed to love them unconditionally…

Eda glanced back at her father’s grave.

It hurt less not to believe at all.

“As for last night,” Lawrie continued, “you need to understand where Ben is coming from. He was only—”

“Look!” She cut him off.

Slowing to a halt before the templehouse gate came a procession of horses. They surrounded a fine carriage, all bedecked in the red-and-silver livery of the Order of the Blade. Each rider bore a silver-alloy sword, glinting in the white morning light. Only alchemists sanctioned by the Faithhood could meld silver with steel like that and make a useful weapon. In the hands of an ordinary blacksmith, it was far too soft.

“What are the Blades doing here?” Lawrie hissed.

Her heart cantered behind her ribs. “Be calm. We’re just two people paying our respects to lost relatives.”

“We’re also keeping an extremely illicit demonic artifact in our cellar! What if they’re here for us? What if someone reported us?”

Keep it together. Eda grabbed his hand. It was cold and clammy. Beyond the gate, the four riders remained mounted. They watched dispassionately as people stopped to look. A child tugged on his mother’s sleeve, bouncing in excitement.

“I don’t think so. They’re escorting that carriage.” No sooner had she said it than the doors swung open. From within, a man of middling height stepped onto the street and pulled down his rich purple hood.

A cleric.

“Looks like a priest,” Lawrie said. “Or a bishop, maybe. Do you think he’s here to take over the templehouse, with Bishop Emery gone?”

Gone was a very polite way of saying died of infection after dallying with too many whores, but Eda supposed the point was moot. “Must be.”

Lawrie deflated with relief.

As they approached the gate, she observed this new cleric with mute surprise. Young. Handsome. In Eda’s limited experience, they were all old and warty, with gray hair and rheumy eyes. She rarely spent time outside of Crowgate’s parish, but she did know that it took years of dedicated service to ascend from priesthood to a bishop’s mantle. Yet this man couldn’t be much out of his late twenties. He was pale and freckled, with striking red hair combed neatly to the side. His face was pinched, but if the perpetual waft of the canals—damp and vaguely moldy—offended his nose, he hid it well. He wore a cream-white cassock with amethyst paneling and golden trim. A matching riding cloak hung clasped about his neck. The broach’s design was that of an open palm bisecting a sun: the symbol of the Faith.

He seemed very clean and bright among the drab grays and browns of the street.

Before Eda could open the gate, his gaze found hers. “Allow me, madam.”

It felt distinctly wrong for such an esteemed cleric to wait on her. Eda made herself smile in thanks as they slipped by. He doesn’t know us. There’s nothing to fear.

Lawrie flushed. “Thank you, sir—er, Father. Many thanks.”

She resisted the urge to elbow him.

“Are you both local to Crowgate?” The bishop’s eyes were a fetching blue.

“Yes,” Eda jumped in, anticipating Lawrie blabbering himself into a conniption. “We live just east of here, farther down the Waterway. I’m Eda. This is my brother, Lawrie.”

“Lawrence.”