Chapter 87 – Hiding

The Cult of Zomalator was a small bunch, but what they lacked in size they made up for in eccentricities. They spoke in both the ritualistic language of the Order and the unceremonious slang of the Cairnmouth streets. With Priestess Arenthia dead, the tacit assumption was that Lecne would lead them. Lecne seemed to still be in denial that he was the most senior priest of the sect, and corrected anyone’s attempt to give him a new title.

She met Pelnu when she helped out in the kitchens. The Cult had a small alms operation. They made sure the locals stayed fed and healthy, and in turn, the locals made sure everyone understood that no one mentioned the Cult to any authorities. Two of the local gangs did routine patrols around the neighborhood. Pelnu, apparently, had once been a part of the first, and regaled Mirian with various heists and adventures he’d been on with them before joining the Cult.

When she mentioned to Lecne she was surprised that such a man would become a priest, he said, “That’s who Zomalator is for. He’s the Redeemer. The one who shows us that our past sins don’t dictate our future. Who is greater: the man born good, or the man born evil who becomes good by his own dedication?”

That was her first lesson in the heretical God they worshiped.

There were others, too, apparently with similar backgrounds to Pelnu. Tlati had committed some horrible crime that she never mentioned, while Sethra had apparently walked the streets for a number of years before joining. Maruce had been a soldier serving in one of the garrisons down in Persama, but made it clear it was not something he wished to discuss. To each, prayers came as easy as curses, but when they held their sermons for their God, she could feel their dedication in the air, like a prickling electricity. Lecne’s proclamation that she was a prophet meant more to them than anything they said to her in words. When they did pray, she knew she was in safe hands.

As long as she stayed hidden, at least. She got restless not being able to leave the temple, but knew it was the best tactic. After examining the wards they had, she gave the specifications of what spells she’d need to Pelnu, who apparently had done some unsanctioned casting as another way to make money. He came back with Mirian’s own spellbook and ink set. “Not an easy thing to fence,” he said. “Seems they didn’t realize how strict the magic shops are with checking arcanist credentials, and the Syndicates don’t need this sort of basic shit. Got it for a steal.”

“Good!” Mirian laughed. “That’s how they got it.”

When he watched Mirian scribe several dozen spells purely from memory, he got quiet. “Damn,” he said when she was done. “I know how hard that is to do, and damn. It’s one thing to know, and another to believe.”

Mirian spent a full day reinforcing the existing wards, then another day adding to them. The third day, she worked on inscribed stones that would further disrupt divination in an area, then gave them to Pelnu so he could scatter them all over the city so that the other time traveler’s proxies couldn’t locate her by process of elimination. He even left one on a train to Palendurio. No doubt legitimate diviners would be annoyed by the widespread disruptions, but her efforts were necessary.

“Your portraits, madam,” Lecne announced coming back from the market one day, and slapped down a mass-printed poster. It read, ‘Wanted: Mirian Castrella – Warning – Dangerous necromancer – Murderer – Armed with magic – Capable of illusions – If sighted, report immediately – 250 gold doubloon reward if information leads to her capture.’

“They got my hairline all wrong,” Mirian said, grimacing at the picture. “And the nose—ugh. That is not what my nose looks like.”

“A neat trick,” Lecne said. “Money is absolutely worthless if the timeline just resets, so offer as much as you want.”

“Not completely worthless. But yes. I generally like to take out the biggest loans I can. As long as they come due after the 5th of Duala.”

Lecne snapped his fingers. “We’ll do it!” he said. “Pelnu will have all the ingredients he’s ever asked for. That’ll make a lot of people happy. I think that counts for something.”

“If only for a little while,” she agreed.

“In the long term, we all end up dead. Even the Gods, on a long enough time horizon. What matters is the path we take. Every path is temporary; here it’s just a matter of scale.” He sighed. “It is… but it is hard to understand that this me won’t… persist. The grand chain of memories, the path of history—will avoid this me. But it is good to know that some me will see Arenthia again.”

There were duties Lecne had to attend to, and religious rituals, but when he wasn’t busy, Mirian spent as much time as she could learning from him.

“All celestial magic requires a focus,” he said at their first lesson.

“A Tlaxhuacan man told me it’s made from an ‘elder reliquary,’” Mirian said. “Do you know why he’d use that term? He was quite adamant it was the correct translation.”

They were in the ritual room, so Lecne’s eyes went to the grand painting as he thought. “Interesting,” he said. “Not sure. Maybe the higher secrets of the Order have some clues about that. Anyways, all celestial magic requires soul energy to power it. This doesn’t mean you have to kill anything, by the way, but you can see why it’s easy to accuse people of necromancy if you don’t like them. For our purposes, we’re going to define necromancy as the subset of celestial magic that involves death magic, disfiguring souls—that’s a curse, you know about those—or animating nonliving material with soul energy, which is definitely necromancy. However, if the Order comes knocking, they’re not going to give a shit about technical definitions. Their classification of what ‘necromancy’ is comes down to ‘people we don’t like using soul magic,’ and the Order is ruthless about this. Comes from needing to suppress the pagan religions during Unification War and consolidate power, but I doubt you care about the history.”

Mirian had warmed on history slightly, though some parts still seemed boring. “We’ll skip that part of the lesson for now,” she said. She couldn’t see how events that far back could be relevant to her present situation.

Lecne reached back and unclasped an amulet he was wearing beneath his shirt, then brought it out and placed it on the table. It looked like stone, but it also looked like flesh. Something about the texture of the minerals looked like skin under a microscope, though the color was similar to the sarcophagus that was in the center of the room: white, with veins of pale and dark red minerals ran through it. Like Xipuatl’s focus, it was imbued with subtly glowing runes, though the material had been kept in its rough, natural form, not carved and polished.

When she touched it, it had the strange unreal feel, but the mood it emanated—she didn’t know what else to call it—felt more like the necromancer’s wand than the jade bird.

“Runes can only be carved on organic materials. Wood. Bone. Leather. Or paper.”

Mirian turned the focus over in her hands. It looked for all the world like a rock. A strange rock, sure, but definitely a rock. “Except for focuses.”

Lecne said, “Well, that’s the question, isn’t it? As I said, the Order might know more about that, but it would be in the higher circles of secrecy, and I never learned those. And I’m not a theoretician. I like celestial magic because it helps people. Very practical.”

“So when a cleric heals someone, do they take from their own soul? Or the soul of the person they’re healing?”

“For tiny wounds? A bit of both. Practically unnoticeable. But if it’s a bigger wound, they’re probably using a repository. Well, that’s the official term. It’s a soul battery. Sounds a bit crass, but that’s what they are.”

“A soul battery?”

“You use specific runes to bind the soul energy in a container, like a skull or wooden statue. You know how the Order usually has someone blessing animals that are slaughtered for food?”

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

Mirian’s face must have betrayed her shock. “Wait, really? Gods above—so when we’re having baduka boar for dinner—?”