Armored Heart: Dark Seduction. Chapter 3

Mara slept for a long time. A deep, dreamless sleep that left her utterly at peace, oblivious to the whole world except for the comforting warmth and weight of Ithella pressed against her side. Only the faintest hint of awareness occasionally smoldered within her, only to be dampened anew when she felt Ishara’s power reassure her that she needn’t wake up yet.

Though, soon enough, that power faded. It stopped weighing her mind down, and allowed her to rouse. And rouse she did. In the span of a few moments, full awareness returned to her, her eyes snapped open, and her mind began to race.

She… she was different! She could feel it! Ishara had accepted her, had granted her some of her power. Next to her, Ithella started to rouse too, seemingly likewise released from her Lady’s magical sleep. She rolled over to face Mara, and opened her eyes with a smile. “You look happy,” she noted.

Happy didn’t begin to describe how Mara felt. But she did nod, then rose from their little nest of pillows and walked back towards the statue. She now knew it looked nothing like how her Lady actually looked, and that knowledge thrilled her. Vague though it had been, the smoky avatar she’d seen was far kinder looking than this stern statue, with bigger breasts and longer hair.

But the statue would more than suffice for this. She glanced back at Ithella, who gave her an encouraging nod, then knelt on the stones of the shrine. She made the prayer sign, ran her fingers down her chest, then bowed as low as she could, pressing her forehead to he floor as always.

She was piety incarnate, submissive before her goddess. Naked and still covered with the body paint from the ritual, she could imagine her divinity’s approving gaze when she looked up at the statue that represented her. When she said “bonjour, Madame,” to announce herself and begin the prayer, she could feel the power Ishara had given her flare up, making the words resonate in ways she wouldn’t even have been able to imagine just a day prior.

“Ishara, Blessed Lady of Love and Lust, I ask you to walk with me, bless me, guide me to new passions, shield me from heartbreak, and be a balm on my soul.” When she finished the first part of her prayer, she felt the familiar tingle on her spine, accompanied by… more.

She felt herself grow energized. She felt her mind fill with resolve and purpose. Could feel her Lady’s love and attraction touch her mind, and refill Mara’s new reserve of power. It felt like their kiss had, and made her feel complete. It was euphoric. She couldn’t hold in the fit of giggles the feelings provoked in her, and she reveled in the shivers that coursed along her body.

She knew Ithella’s eyes were on her, too. And it made her happy. Mara loved her goddess, and her goddess loved her back, and she was proud to share this moment with her lover. After all, she knew the Darayite high priestess understood how Mara felt right now.

“Thank you,” she said aloud, continuing the prayer while unable to stop herself from gushing with sheer ecstatic gratitude. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, my Lady! Thank you for trusting me, for lending me your strength, for finding me worthy! Thank you for answering my prayers, for being here with us now. I… I swear I will not fail you, my Lady. I will serve you above all else for as long as I live. I will bring your love to others, will stoke the fires of passion wherever I see them. I will not disappoint you.”

When she stopped speaking, she felt a second tingle along her spine, devoid of any power, but still a wondrous feeling in its own right. She also felt a sort of… phantom touch, along her face. Where the day before, she’d felt something like a reassuring pat on the back, this time, she felt something more like a lover’s caress on her cheek, and an unmistakable feeling of pride accompanied it.

She’d hoped Ishara might speak to her again, project her divine voice into Mara’s mind, but there was nothing like that. Only that euphoric reward for her prayer, and the assurance that she was proud of her. And that was more than enough. That feeling of power, of magic now hers to wield, lingered within her, and her own words to the goddess echoed in her mind. She’d just sworn to fan the flames of passion, and she knew exactly who she wanted to begin with.

Only a few meters away, Ithella was kneeling as well, one hand holding her amulet as she whispered to the war god. She was damned beautiful, and Mara’s respect for the elf only grew, now that she truly understood her bond to Daray. It was that respect that stayed her hand, and let her wait until Ithella’s prayer was done to pounce on her.

She tackled Ithella to the ground, giggling as she kissed her in the neck, and then on the lips. She’d adored Ithella since the very first time she’d seen her, when Ishara’s wisdom let their paths cross. At first she’d been truly terrified of the warrior priestess. But over the time they spent together, in the company of lady Seeker, that fear had melted away, leaving her only with that respect. And the love they’d cultivated together.

“Glad to see you’re so eager today,” Ithella said with a giggle, as she rolled the pair of them over, so she could be on top.

“It’s what my Lady wants me to be,” Mara said, reveling in the feeling of being handled by the much stronger elf.

“I am so proud of you, Femme d’Arme,” Ithella purred with an amused shake of her head, as she gathered Mara’s wrists together. After looking around for a moment, she hastily bound them together with the red acolyte’s sash she’d outgrown as of today.

Mara giggled at the treatment. “You’re eager, too,” she said as Ithella leaned down and kissed her again, pinning her arms up over her head.

“How could I not be?” Asked Ithella. “Months away from you, crowded in tents with only grumpy grunts and prisoners of war for company?”

Mara grinned up at Ithella. She wouldn’t have minded too much if Ithella had sought to sate her needs elsewhere while they were apart, but having confirmation that she hadn’t was awfully flattering.

“And then, last night, you were so happy to see me that I hardly got a chance to show you just how happy I was to see you.”

Mara giggled, and sarcastically said, “sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Ithella purred. With one hand holding Mara’s wrists to the stones underneath them, the other moved down and started to tease at her sex. “I’ll just show you now, instead. Collez.”

That last word was a spell, and for the very first time in her life, Mara could hear the magic behind it, by her Lady’s grace. The spell meant stick, and sure enough, when Ithella lifted her hand from Mara’s wrists, she found the hasty bindings around them were now stuck to the floor.

She could probably slip out of the knots fairly easily, she knew. But as Ithella moved her kisses south along Mara’s body, and her hands gently spread her legs, she decided that she definitely didn’t want to.

A little while later, after a brief detour into the dressing rooms to wash up using basins Mara was fairly certain hadn’t been there the night before, they put on the rest of their clothes and retrieved their weapons. Mara led Ithella up the stairs out of the shrine, and into the bright, white halls of the monastery.

They were unusually quiet, with nobody walking along this normally busy corridor, and none of the usual distant sounds of conversation to be heard. “What in the hells is going on out here?” she wondered out loud.

“I don’t know,” said Ithella in a very obvious, very loud lie. “I think we should go find some breakfast.”

Mara cocked her head at the elf. “You’re planning something,” she said. She’d been a part of a few surprise celebrations for newly-Touched priests herself. She had an idea what was coming.

“That is entirely untrue,” Ithella said, failing to convince Mara. “So, breakfast?”

Mara shrugged, and mumbled, “lead the way.” She wasn’t sure what would be in store for her at that breakfast, but she expected that whatever it was, people were already waiting for her. She followed as Ithella led the short distance to the monastery’s dining hall, and kept her eyes out for any surprises, pleasant or otherwise.

When they got to the dining hall, she was genuinely surprised to find it empty. Never once in her stay here had she seen the dining hall completely empty, not even for the celebrations she’d been a part of.

One thing stood out to her, though. On the table usually reserved for the abbot and high priests, a very large and conspicuous cake was waiting. She approached it with a cautious smile on her face. When she’d helped with Jordan’s celebration, there’d been a cake, too, and this one looked a lot like it, equally lavishly decorated, and big enough to feed forty people.

There was one very big difference, though. This one had an unlit candle on it, and gold leaf letters spelled out the phrase, Allumez moi.

“Light me,” she whispered, translating the instructions as she did so. She glanced back at Ithella, who was clearly struggling to suppress a grin, then looked around the room. There really wasn’t so much as a trace of anyone, even when she knew wholeheartedly that they were a set trap, ready to spring on her.

When she realized she wasn’t going to be able to poke a hole in their plans, Mara could only smile and give up. She focused on the little candle, and recalled what she’d been taught about invoking magic. She envisioned what she wanted, pictured the little candle lighting—knew it would. She imagined Ishara herself helping her make it so, then whispered, “allumez,” infusing the spell with intent.

A little pink and golden spark manifested on the candle, and a tiny flame flickered to life. Mara grinned, then looked around, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

It did so, thunderously.

Around her, the world warped and hummed with the sound and feeling of magic, as invisibility spells were lifted, and lamps were lit. Flames of pink and gold flickered to life, banners unfurled, decorations appeared, and people manifested in the seats that had looked empty mere moments ago. All of them cheered and applauded for her, looking truly happy about her success.

Mere feet away, across the table, Abbot Du Bois’ kindly old face was smiling at her, and he happily said, “congratulations, Mara De La Cerene, Daughter of Passion.”

“T-Thank you,” Mara said, stunned from the intensity of it all. Before she could say anything else, before she could talk to the priests that were now her peers, before she could even take a breath, the abbot placed a little black box on the table, and slid it towards her. She picked it up with a good sense of what it might be, but still hesitated a moment to appreciate it.

She felt how heavy it was in her hand, felt the texture of the stained wood on her fingers. When she did open it, she did it with a beaming smile on her face. In a little compartment, lined with soft, purple silk, rested an amulet of Ishara, immaculately rendered in rose gold. It was as tall as her hand was wide, and she found it weighed far more than she’d expected when she picked it up.

“Shall I?” asked Ithella in a purr, not waiting for an answer before she gently took it and hung it on Mara’s chest, clasping the chain shut behind her neck.

A second round of applause overtook the first. It was just as genuine, just as enthusiastic, and soon after, individuals started to emerge from the crowd.

Her roommate, Geordi, came first. The young human acolyte grinned at her, his green eyes genuinely proud, and ever so slightly flirty. He pulled her into a hug and pressed a kiss to her cheek, then said “if you want to celebrate in private, I’d be thrilled to take that red acolyte’s sash off of your hands. Maybe a few more of your clothes, too.”

Mara giggled at the brazen proposition, and winked at him. She wasn’t planning on taking him up on his offer, but she sure enjoyed hearing it. Next came Wilsham, followed by the other two priestesses that had joined Ithella’s militia, Sarah and Vicky. Both attractive humans, these two had taken it a step farther than Wilsham himself had, though, and had followed Ithella when she left on the campaign against Adampor.

Mara had always felt a kinship with that trio of Touched, and that had only grown since the last time she’d seen them. They now both wore thin, faintly-curved Cereni swords on their hips, and sported a few handsome scars to match. “Well done, sergeant,” the shorter of the two, Sarah, said.

Mara answered the praise and informal title with a little mock salute, a holdover from when she’d taught them to use spears all those years ago. They both met it with surprisingly more genuine salutes of their own, before they left to find their own table. “You really put them through their paces when I wasn’t looking, huh?” Mara asked Ithella.

“Oh, yes,” Ithella eagerly answered. “They’ve been warriors as fine as any Darayite priest. They were just as happy as I was to return to Cerene, though.”

Mara turned, and grinned at the priestess. “And you didn’t even tell me you were coming back,” she said. “Keeping that secret must have taken some doing.”

“You have Wilsham to thank for that,” Ithella said, with a tilt of her head to indicate the tattooed man. “I wasn’t here for it, obviously, but I hear all of this was his idea.”

“Oh, really?” Mara asked, turning on the man.

He scratched his mop of brown hair, and gave her a boyish grin. “It wasn’t easy,” he confessed. “Especially the keeping it secret part.”

Mara smiled at him, and gave him a hug of his own, before she continued down the line of well-wishing peers and acquaintances for another twenty minutes.

A few hours into the celebration, it was starting to die down. The junior priests had services and rites to perform, and the acolytes had chores and studies to attend to. Only the senior clergy—Abbot Du Bois and the two high priests—as well as the more militant visiting Touched lingered until noon.

The focus had long since shifted off of Mara, and instead onto the occasion itself. Du Bois and high priestess Greyhaze—a cousin of the current magistrate—both wanted to hear how Sarah and Vicky had fared, fighting by Ithella’s side like that.

They had plenty to say, and talked about how they’d saved hundreds from injury, death, or capture, by conjuring barriers and healing wounds. They shared stories of how they’d used the Ishara’s blessings and their bodies to soothe homesick soldiers, and inspired even the boldest of warriors to push themselves a little harder.

Mara smiled. She was far from surprised that two Daughters of Passion embedded in a company of soldiers had done wonders for their morale. She imagined them both being women had reduced their efficacy at least a little, though—not everyone swung that way.

“What do you think, Mara?” asked Sarah. “Now that our Lady has elevated you to her Touched, will you join us?”

Mara’s eyes widened. “Me? A frontline soldier?”

Sarah nodded. “Uh-huh! I can hardly think of a better chaplain than you, Mara, carrying that glaive around like it’s a religious artifact.”

Mara considered that. Despite her insistence on keeping her glaive on her person, and even having her armor stashed in a trunk in her and Geordi’s room, she’d not really planned on doing much fighting. Oh, she loved it, loved training, and loved fighting beasts. But fighting people? In a war? That seemed harder.

“I… honestly don’t know,” Mara admitted. “Her Grace, Seeker, inspired me to join the seminary, but… even she does not fight wars. I will take up arms to protect others, of course, but… frontline soldiers aren’t guards.”

“Indeed we are not,” Ithella said. “And you shouldn’t rush into battle unless you believe you have the blessings of the gods to do so.”

“Fair enough,” said Sarah with a shrug. “I enjoyed it, though, once I discounted all of the pain and suffering. You get to see new places, get to see romances bloom between your comrades, get to really help people.”

“Maybe I’ll give it a shot one day,” Mara conceded. “But… I think I need a lot of practice with my magic before then.” She gestured at the remains of the cake, almost completely gone by now. “You saw how much effort it took to light that candle.”

Vicky beamed a smile at her. “Oh, that was nothing. You’ll master your powers in just a few months. A lot faster, if you were to practice instead of talking to us about it.”

Vicky was tall and slender, with typical, brown Cereni skin, and hair in a messy braid. Mara grinned at the woman. “Are you suggesting I leave my own party to go play with magic?”

“Nonsense,” said Vicky. “I’m just dropping some hints so you’ll notice how much high priestess Val Gyr’s eyes lit when you mentioned practicing.”

Immediately, Mara’s eyes snapped over to Ithella, and sure enough, she did look more than a little eager to get out of there and do something more practical. “You should go, Mara,” Du Bois urged, as well. “Revel in the privilege of our Lady’s gifts, indulge in your hardwon powers.”

Mara grinned at Ithella. “Shall we?”

A few minutes later, after briefly pausing to let the city guards they passed ogle at her newly-awarded amulet and promising she’d show them a few basic spells to impress them later, Mara and Ithella arrived at the Darayite temple, only a few streets away from the monastery.

Despite having been finished for a little over a year, it was still the new temple in Mara’s mind. The blood-red light at the top of its lone, dark, stone belltower was drowned out by the noonday sun, and the interior was cool compared to the summer’s heat outside, with windows at the top of the arched ceiling allowing a pleasant breeze.

It was calm inside, as always. Only ten-odd people spread across the five rows of pews that faced the altar, each of them silently contemplating something. Mara smiled at the sight, ever happy to see people seek comfort in the gods.

She didn’t get to loiter on the view for very long, though. Ithella took her hand and led her down the narrow aisle down the center of the temple. Then through the vestry and into the small practice yard out behind the temple.

It really was small, with stone buildings two or three stories tall built all around it, the windows and doorways that had once led out from them into this space masoned shut for safety. It was, in fact, the bare minimum that didn’t inflame Ithella’s claustrophobia, Mara knew—just as she knew the Darayite high priestess didn’t much enjoy coming back here despite that.

“It seems Sajan has already practiced, today,” Ithella said, with a gesture to the rack of dulled practice weapons. They were a far more diverse arsenal than was popular in Cerene. There was everything from the bastard swords popular with mercenaries, to rapiers like Mara had only seen in Adampor, and of course the single-edged weapons of superior Cereni steel that were the local favorites.

“Have you told him you’re back?”

Ithella picked up one of the Cereni swords, and gave it a few practice swings as she said, “oh, yes.”

Mara thought about that for a moment, and it quickly struck her that she’d not let Ithella out of her sight since the elf had returned home. “Wait. So that jerk let me sit and pray for your wellbeing while he knew you were already in the city?”

Ithella cocked her head at Mara. “I… suppose?”

Mara smiled. “He has a better poker face than I thought, then,” she said, which Ithella answered with a smile of her own.

“Putting that aside, have you been studying the spells I told you about?”

Mara nodded. Before Ithella had left on her campaign several months ago, she’d left Mara with a page of invocations in the divine language that were decidedly not part of the standard curriculum for an Isharan priestess. She’d memorized them by rote, and when she recalled them now, she found the power within her already gave her a deeper understanding than all of that studying put together had accomplished.

“Then, show me one,” Ithella said.

Mara blinked. “Ithella, I barely got the candle on the cake to light.”

Ithella smiled, and shook her head as she put the sword back on its rack. “No, you didn’t.”

“What?”

“You didn’t barely get the candle to light as you put it,” Ithella explained. “Your ragira barely conveyed your request to Ishara to light it for you. But you did convey it to her.”

“Right,” Mara agreed. “I barely even managed that. There’s no way on Eitheris I’ll persuade her to power these war spells right now.”

“Don’t be so sure about that,” Ithella cautioned, before hastily adding, “wait here.”

Mara did so, looking up at the bright sky, surrounded by buildings on all sides like a beautifully bland painting in a triangular frame. A few moments later, Ithella emerged with two sitting mats and her martial staff. She laid the mats out on the training yard’s dusty ground, then urged Mara to sit on one, as she took to one of the others.

They sat down with their legs crossed, facing each other, and Ithella laid the staff across her lap as she said, “cast a spell, please.”

Mara nodded. She held up two fingers as if beginning a prayer or oath, but rather than make a gesture with it, she only whispered “éclair,” lacing the word with willpower and intent as she pictured a flash of light.

And indeed, that was what happened. Energy with a pink and golden hue arced between the tips of her fingers, tickling as it briefly grew as bright as a dab of flash-powder being ignited, then faded away. And in the calm of the training yard, devoid of the expectation that people would leap out at her, she could feel the tiny spell take a piece of her newly-gained reserve of ragira with it as it faded. There was also a pleasant tingle along her spine, much like the ones she felt while praying.

Mara grinned at it, charmed by the very real manifestation of her goddess’ influence on the world, and Ithella smiled, too. “Tell me, Femme d’Arme, what did you just do?”

“I cast a spell,” Mara answered, fully aware that it was some kind of verbal trap, but figuring it was easier to spring it than to try to disarm it.

“Ah, but how?” asked Ithella. “Did you do as a mage does, and pour the ragira your own soul manifests out into the world?”

Mara shook her head. “I asked Lady Ishara for assistance.”

“Exactly,” said Ithella as she raised a single finger. “You asked your Lady for assistance. Tell me, Mara, how much did Du Bois and Greyhaze teach you about how you should do that?”

“I think we went over everything, but it was a while ago, and they both seemed to think it wasn’t very useful to go into too much detail before I actually was Touched.”

Ithella smiled. “That’s very wise of them,” she said, then paused for a second before she said, “cast another spell, please, and take my staff from me.”

Mara quirked an eyebrow, and cocked her head at that. “You want my third spell ever to be telekinesis?”

“I do. It’s vital to the lesson I’m trying to teach you.”

“I’d kind of hoped the lessons would be over after yesterday,” Mara sulked, insincerely.

“Your hope was woefully in vain, I’m afraid,” Ithella said with a gentle smile. “Now take the staff, with Lady Ishara’s aid.”

Mara closed her eyes, and reached out towards the staff. She said the spell, “venez,” appealing to her goddess to move the item for her. She felt another pleasant tingle up her spine as the object lurched into motion, and this time, a far larger drain on that reserve of power. Imparting that motion fatigued her very soul, made her drowsy by the time the staff landed in her hand.

“Difficult?” asked Ithella.

“Very,” agreed Mara, as she opened her eyes, and struggled to refocus them enough to look at the staff. With one word, she’d burned through what felt like a whole day’s worth of energy, and she found herself wanting to take a nap. “Her Grace made that look trivial,” she mumbled, recalling the angel Seeker, and her fondness for that spell in their travels together.

“Her Grace has had centuries to practice how to use Ishara’s power, and you are a mere novice,” Ithella reminded her. “Tell me, Mara. What did you ask of Ishara with that spell?”

“I asked her to give me the staff,” Mara answered.

“Did you?” Ithella asked. “Because all I heard was a single word.”

“Most spells are just a single word,” Mara said, though it took a moment to put the sentence together. Couldn’t they do this later?

“They are,” conceded Ithella with a shrug. “However, they are not only a single word. When you cast a spell, Ishara takes notice. She tugs on the power that connects your souls, and attempts to help you. If you can make it clearer to her what you need, it takes less energy out of you to let her help you.”

“Clearer?” Asked Mara. “How?”

“There are many things you can do,” Ithella counseled. “You can clearly visualize your desired goal, you can mentally justify your goal, you can cast a more specific spell…” Ithella trailed off, and made a fist, then pulled it towards herself. “Or, for something with an obvious physical impact on the world, you can introduce semantic components.”

“Gestures?” Mara translated. This was all very familiar, and her teachers in the seminary had said things like this, but… gods, did she want that nap.

“Perhaps I chose too difficult of a spell,” Ithella mused, before she leaned forward and put two fingers on Mara’s forehead. “Rajeunez,” she intoned, and Mara felt the fog of fatigue partially lift. She gave the priestess a grateful smile as Ithella continued. “But it’s an excellent way to demonstrate what I meant. Semantic components like gestures or touch are, when possible to invoke, almost always the most important parts after the spell and intent behind it. Do you have any ragira left?”

Mara considered it for a moment. She’d used a lot of the power Ishara had given her with that one stupid spell, but she did still have some of it, and she knew from just about every lesson that had hinted at the theories of magic that it would be restored at her next morning prayer. “Yes,” she said. “But I couldn’t do telekinesis again.”

“Perfect,” said Ithella, as she took the staff back, and stood up. She moved several paces away, then used it to gesture that Mara should stand as well. “Take the staff again, but heed my words this time. Don’t merely ask her to make it come to you, but offer her a plan she can carry out. Picture her prying my fingers loose first or make a gesture of pulling it towards yourself. Anything that you can think of that might make it clearer to Ishara what you need will likely be of use.”

Mara nodded. She made the prayer sign with her left hand, and, without closing her eyes, envisioned the staff coming to her. She pictured Ithella’s fingers being pried loose. She imagined the entire thing twisting in the elf’s hands to weaken her grip, and reached out with her right hand. Only when she thought she had made it as clear as she could did she intone “venez,” charging the words with her intent and appeal to the goddess, as she closed her hand into a tight fist, and pulled it towards herself.

The staff flew from Ithella’s grip in an instant, and the elf staggered two steps closer in her efforts to hold it. Mara quickly reached out to catch it, and felt utterly triumphant when she succeeded. The power expended was only a fraction of the first attempt’s, and the tingle along Mara’s spine was stronger than it had been with her previous spells, a pulse of approval to reaffirm to her this was the right way to do this.

“I’m guessing by the fact that you didn’t pass out then and there that that was easier?”

Mara smiled as she nodded. That had felt… That had felt good! On some level, she’d known she belonged in Lady Ishara’s service since she had her very first taste of the pleasure she brought mortals, but to have this… this proof that it was so, in the magic she was now learning to use? It was every dream she’d ever had, come true.

“Have I told you how proud I am of you?” Ithella asked.

Mara nodded. “You have, but I wouldn’t mind hearing it ag—”

She cut off as a sudden gust of wind washed down into the training yard, and shadow fell over them. She and Ithella both looked up just in time to see two massive wings silhouetted against the bright sky. Wings that were unspeakably powerful, and could only belong to-

“Pegasus,” whispered Ithella. “I haven’t seen one of those in years.”

Mara looked at Ithella as the noble creature disappeared from view, the Darayite priestess’ big elven eyes wide with awe and concern. “Is that… bad?” Mara guessed.

Ithella nodded. “A pegasus flying towards the monastery from the south?” she asked. “Either that pink-haired priestess of Shala is back to kidnap another prisoner, or there’s some damned important news waiting for us at the monastery.”

Mara and Ithella skidded to a stop at the monastery’s gates not three minutes later. Already a crowd was forming, guards and passers-by gawking at the quasi-mythical beast as its rider—a slight-framed young human with blond hair—took off his heavy, fur-lined overcoat and cap, and started to dig through the beast’s saddlebags.

The pegasus was breathing heavily as it settled down, its golden coat stained with sweat, and its white mane blowing in a breeze it seemed desperately in need of. Once the rider had retrieved his parcel—a letter, from the looks of it,—he took the beast by its reins and led it towards, then through the crowd of bystanders.

Mara wondered what he was doing for just a moment, until he stopped at a small water pump at a corner. He carefully lined up the bucket underneath it, then started to pump the handle up and down. Water quickly started to stream from the spigot, and into the waiting bucket, from which the pegasus drank faster than he could pump.

As he pumped, a pendant worked its way out of his loose tunic, depicting Lady Ishara’s sigil every bit as immaculately as Mara’s own. From the monastery, Mara could hear the front doors opening, and when she looked, well over half of the monastery’s inhabitants had already streamed into the courtyard, headed by Du Bois himself.

The rider priest didn’t seem to care, though. He kept pumping, occasionally whispering comforting words into the palomino pegasus’ ears, and only when the beast stopped gulping down water did his attention deviate from it.

He looked around for a moment, his eyes searching the crowd until he saw Mara and Ithella. He seemed to start to say something to Mara, then noticed the copper ring around Ithella’s Darayite amulet, and gave her a respectful nod before he spoke to both of them. “I’ve got a missive of the greatest urgency for his eminence, Abbot Jean Du Bois. Where is he?”

“I am he,” came Du Bois’ voice from the monastery’s courtyard. The rider priest nodded, then led his pegasus back towards him, bucket of water and reins in one hand, the letter in the other. He placed the bucket down in the shadow of one of the cherry trees, smirking when the pegasus decided it—or rather he, as was quite obvious to Mara when the beast was being led away from her—wanted a few more gulps after all.

“I’ve a missive for you,” he said again, holding the envelope up, as Mara and Ithella both joined them in the courtyard.

“From whom?” asked Du Bois, notably not taking the letter.

“It’s from her eminence—”

“Oh, no,” whispered Du Bois, before the rider could finish.

“—Terriarch Savana Du Désert,” the man continued, regardless, then proffered the letter to him, again.

“I’m too old for this,” Du Bois said, as he mournfully accepted the letter, and squinted to read it. “I’m seventy, man! I can’t afford to spend three months on such a journey.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to, your eminence,” said the messenger priest with a solemn bow. “The terriarch has requested your presence at the Convocation.”

“What are they talking about?” whispered Mara.

“Church politics,” Ithella whispered back. “A letter from the terriarch means the pontifex isn’t able to write one. That ranges from a grave inconvenience to an unspeakable tragedy. And if he’s being recalled, that means…”

“Means what?” asked Mara.

“You’ll see,” whispered Ithella.

Du Bois stood there for a few moments, first reading the letter in detail, then lowering it to his side as he seemed to lose himself in thought.

“Congratulations, by the way,” said the rider priest with a brief glance at Mara.

Mara blinked at him. “How in all the hells do you—” He smiled, then pointed at the red sash around Mara’s waist and touched his own cheek bone. Mara instinctively reached up, and after wiping the same spot on her own face, realized it came away with a smudge of the body paint from the ritual stuck to it. “Yeah, that would clue you in, wouldn’t it?” she mumbled, then shot Ithella a look. “You didn’t think to tell me I was still covered in paint?”

Ithella smirked. “It looked good on you, Femme d’Arme.”

After a while, Du Bois cleared his throat, then idly handed the letter to High Priestess Greyhaze as everyone’s eyes turned to him. “I… I’m afraid Pontifex De La Cornon is dead,” he told the crowd in a manner Mara found rather blunt. A few of the assembled priests and acolytes gasped and seemed distraught, though most of them didn’t seem all that bothered by it, Mara among them. “I’d ask you all to say a prayer to our Lady and Lord Tenebor for his sake.”

The crowd all murmured vague assent to that, and Mara did so, as well. The pontifices were, to her, a distant body of old priests-turned-politicians, and not people she particularly cared about. Oh, she wished them well, of course. It was because of them that the denominations of faithful in Remere and beyond got along and even worked together, rather than trying to kill each other. But she wished them well in the same way she wished King Ashlom and the ruling nobility of New Gyr well—as people she knew of, not people she knew herself. She would mourn him, but not grieve.

“Mara, Wilsham, Sarah, Vicky, follow me,” ordered Du Bois, which snapped Mara’s attention back to him. “And High Priestess Val Gyr, I’d rather like you to come too, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course,” said Ithella with a slight bow, and Du Bois made his way into the monastery with the five priests in tow, paying no mind to the young rider priest, who Mara glanced back at just in time to watch him lead his Pegasus back out of the courtyard so some of the local children could pet the creature.

Du Bois immediately turned left past the front doors, down the hallway that led to the stairs, and eventually to his office and apartment. Despite his protesting to the rider that he was too old, he spryly made it up those stairs, and into the corridor that led to his apartment, the mosaic floors here depicting the sigils of Ishara’s Heartwardens in a single meandering line.

“One thing I elected not to tell the others is that the letter specified what happened to his late holiness,” Du Bois began as he opened the door to his office, then gracelessly threw himself into the chair behind his desk, and padded the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief.

“Which was?” asked Ithella. Neither Mara nor the other three priests would have dared to ask that so bluntly, but her rank and different denomination let her get away with a lot without causing offense.

“He was assassinated,” said Du Bois. “Had his throat cut, only a day’s ride outside of Cornon.”

Mara and Wilsham both gasped at that. “Someone assassinated the pontifex?” Mara asked. It was a lot harder to be apathetic to a murder than natural causes!

Du Bois nodded, grimly, as he reached into one of his desk’s drawers. He produced a pipe which he packed with what Mara assumed was a mix of dazeweed and Aldressan pipe weed, then lit it with a spell, and puffed on it. “Which is why I’ve asked you five here,” he began, blowing out the smoke. “I’m to travel to the Convocation in Cornon, to confirm the next pontifex. And I’d like you all to join me.”

“Cornon’s not exactly close,” mused Vicky. “You said three months? For the return trip?”

“Give or take,” said Du Bois with a slight nod. “Three months that would be far easier to bear with the five of you joining me.”

“Why us?” asked Wilsham.

“Isn’t it obvious?” asked Du Bois, as he leaned forward, then gestured from Ithella, to Mara, to Wilsham, to Vicky and Sara, pointing at each of them with his pipe as he said, “sword, glaive, sword in your room, sword, sword.”

“You want guards,” Sarah concluded.

“Of course I do,” said Du Bois. “You four are the only true warriors I know of in Lady Ishara’s church, and High Priestess Val Gyr, you have been nothing but a friend to us since you and Her Grace arrived here in our lovely city, all those years ago. If I’m to attend a gathering of every abbot and half of the high priests in the wake of an assassination, I think it’s only wise to bring people I know to be competent guardians.”

They all considered that in silence for a few moments. Du Bois was more than within his rights to ask—and even demand—that Mara and the other three militant Isharan priests accompany him, of course. But Mara suspected that he would leave the matter alone if any of them put up any real resistance to the idea.

None of them seemed inclined to, however. Least of all Mara herself. Her months traveling to and from Amourot had been some of the most fun she’d ever had, and she was more than willing to go just as far in the opposite direction. So, she was the first to speak up, and did so by simply saying, “I’ll go pack.”