So I’ve been doing another passthrough edit of The Night of Fallen Gods, and hit 400 followers in the meantime, so I figure I should probably re-publish the chapters previously posted here in addition to the new chapter. So here’s that! The Prologue and first four chapters all together!

~~~

Prologue 

In the 4,850th year of the Alliance, during an otherwise unremarkable summer, dawn broke on the strangest sight Millet the farmer would witness in his lifetime. 

It had long been his practice to check the fence around his fields after morning chores and gaze out at the horizon as the sun rose. This morning, as the first rays of golden light touched the plains around his farm, instead of a twisting sea of tall grass, all he could see were people. He was not an educated man, but had enough of his numbers to know there were more folk than he had seen in all his years combined.

As he stood staring in a bemused sort of concern, one of his sons rode up on the old draft horse they used to pull the plow in fall. “Da, Ma’s got breakfast ready!”

“Aye, boy, no need to shout,” Still staring out past his fence, Millet turned and spat on the ground. “Might want to take ol’ Bess there and ride into town. Get the Mayor, aye, might just want to get everybody important while you’re at it.”

“Da,” his son’s gaze swept back and forth over the horizon, “ar-are those people out there?”

“Aye boy, that they are,” Millet scratched at yesterday’s growth of beard, “and I think they might be headed this way.”

~~~

First Gate Captain Benac dismounted from the wyvern as gracefully as he could, staring out over the western plains in tightly controlled shock. 

He’d read the reports but refused to believe them. Seeing the scene now, he was forced to admit they had likely been conservative. Men and women milled about between white tents as far as the eye could see. One million of them was no longer a flight of fancy. Two million seemed disastrously plausible. The detail that they’d all been naked on discovery was immaterial. 

He stumbled out of the landing zone and a guardswoman with a Third Ring badge on her chest flagged him down. 

“Gate Captain Benac,” she snapped off a harried little salute. “Been expecting you. Good flight coming in?”

He straightened his own uniform before making a crisper salute back to her. “No flight is a good flight, I like my boots on the ground as the Nine intended. Where are we headed?” 

“Main pavilion sir, follow me.” She turned and descended into the sea of tents. 

They didn’t get very far before reaching an intersection blocked by a group of haggard looking people following a guardsman holding a small pennant over his head. They were wearing ill fitting if serviceable garments that were standard relief issue. 

“Well,” he said to his guide, “they certainly look human enough for government work.” 

“Yes, sir,” the Guardswoman said tightly. As the intersection cleared, she continued onward, Benac a half step behind her. 

How all these people had descended on a few small farming villages and not leveled them had to be a miracle.There was little enough out this far from the Tower City and the strangers had swept over fields like locusts. 

No, locusts would have left stalks behind after eating the wheat. These people had left nothing but bare dirt. 

Thankfully small hamlets like these set their roots down deep, staying put for generation after generation. House Gods were common here, and the villages had a few Local Gods between them. The reports said that these deities had kept their charges safe, if not the crops and a few unoccupied buildings. 

And by the time they had stripped the land bare, help arrived just in time to make things worse. The first wave of aid arrived on wyvern back like the Captain, with a few Dragons in tow to haul supplies and gear. Apparently at the sight of this, the people had all lost what little must have been left of their minds. Most simply fell to the ground wailing, others ran in whatever direction they happened to be facing. Some God or another must have taken pity on them and miraculously kept anyone from dying in a stampede or crush. 

And then came the additional panic over the Elves and Wyldkin, which were apparently as terrifying to these people as Dragons the size of buildings. Rounding them all up had taken weeks and more than a few bruises and broken bones on both sides. 

But eventually everyone was corralled, tents and pavilions set up, and clothes finally put on. Now only Humans were allowed within a mile of the disaster zone out of an abundance of not wanting the screaming to start again. 

Benac followed his guide deeper into the city sized camp. They made a few turns that got him mildly lost before coming to a clear area the the base of what could charitably be called a hill. In the center was a white tent larger than any of the surrounding structures with constant streams of guardsmen coming and going from entrances on every side. 

Inside, more uniformed men and women, mostly from the Third Ring, waited in front of tables piled with supplies or papers for their next assignment. Scribes were absolutely everywhere, writing and sorting pages or looking over supply ledgers. Quartermasters dotted the crowd, directing things here or there and arguing discreetly about some minutia of their nearly impossible task. 

His guide led him through the commotion to a long table at the far end of the tent. Most of one side was taken up by a large crystal suspended in a slowly revolving apparatus being poked and prodded by a man in flowing blue robes. The other side was taken up by a few stacks of paper being sorted through by a mousy young woman in a well cut brown dress. 

Neither looked up as Benac sat down between them. “Alright, what progress do we have? The last report I read was three days ago.”

The scribe on his right handed him a sheaf of papers and his guide spoke from over his shoulder. “We’re still working on a final count, the last of the people who scattered were only brought in last night. As of now we’re at just over two million.”

Integris help them, what were they supposed to do with that many people? “Any progress on communication?”

The mage to his left answered without looking up from the device their hands hovered over. “We have a few devices like this one up and running in command posts throughout the camp. They’re all ancient and we’re only half sure we’re using them right, but it’s getting the job done.”

He flipped through the pages in his hands. “Says here they’ve elected some kind of representative?” At least flying out to the ass end of the Alliance wouldn’t be an entire waste of time. 

“Waiting outside.” Answered the scribe, easing back into her chair and checking her quills and ink. “These folk all react negatively whenever we mess with anything magic around them, so we figured it’d be best to have him come in once everything was in place.”

“Good idea.” He grunted, thumbing through the rest of the report. Most of it was just numbers and maps. “Anything else I need to know?” 

“Not immediately, sir.” Said his guide. “Although, if you’ll allow me, I’d prefer to wait outside.”

He tossed his report back onto the scribes pile and turned around, eyebrow raised. 

The Guardswoman looked away, cheeks coloring. “These people, they don’t listen to the female guardsmen like they should. Make a lot of us uncomfortable. I’d rather not be a distraction, sir.” Her tone was hot and angry. 

Benac grunted neutrally in response, and the guardswoman left. He looked around to see another guardsman standing to the side of a tent flap past the end of the table. He checked on the mage again, got a half hearted thumbs up, and chucked his chin up towards the guardsman to bring their guest in. 

After a moment he returned leading a trio of men. Two flanked the third, and they all looked to be towards the tail end of middle age. The one leading them was nondescript; brown hair gone thin and forming a ring around the top of his head, a close cropped beard hugging his chin, and plain if slightly pudgy features. He walked to the table with authority and took his seat like a Sovereign taking a throne, not an ostensible beggar in a precarious camp chair. His attendants remained standing behind him on either side, eyes downcast and hands clasped before them. 

Benac looked to the mage and his device, and received a nod of confirmation. “My name,” he said, slowly so as to make sure every word was clear, “is First Gate Captain Benac. May I ask yours?”

The crystal lit up and shone a series of patterns across the table in front of the other man. They must have meant something to him because after they disappeared the man looked up and said in a clear baritone voice, “Mihi nomen est Johnathan. Tu hic praees?”

Again the crystal played light across the table, this time letters Benac could read. “My name is Johnathan. You are in charge here?”

He smiled ruefully. “I am a representative of the Sovereign of the Tower City. I am here to convey their welcome and return with any requests you may have. I understand things may be very different for you here, and that the last few weeks have been stressful for you, but rest assured, we wish your people no harm.” 

Johnathan nodded gravely. “Things have been very strange indeed. I can only assume we have come to another plane or world… There are things and creatures here that are out of story books from our home. Is there any way for us to return?”

He’d been dreading this question. “They say through the Gods all things are possible, but while we have records of people from other worlds coming to ours, we have no such records of ever being able to return them. For better or worse, this is your new home now.”

Johnathan turned to his companions and Benac assumed translated what he’d said. The three had a conversation that started hushed but steadily grew more heated. After more back and forth, Johnathan raised his voice above the other two, pounded his fist on the table, the crystal catching the last words, “It is as God wills it!” 

The other two dropped their eyes again, and clasped their hands in front of their chests. Johnathan turned back to face across the table and made a quick gesture from his forehead to his sternum, and then from his left shoulder to his right. “My apologies Captain, as you said, we find ourselves in stressful times.”

Benac spread his hands and smiled with a few more teeth in it this time, praying to the Gods the expression translated. “I understand completely. This is going to be a long process, and today is just the first step. I will answer whatever questions you have, and then we can adjourn for a day or two for you to confer with your people.”

Johnathan nodded graciously and gave a weary smile of his own. He met Benac’s eyes for the first time, and the Captain couldn’t help not liking something in the other man’s gaze. It was gone before he could place it and Johnathan said, “If you could, please start with whatever basics you think we need to know.”

~~~

Lady Adana, First of her Name, Dragon Chosen, Sovereign Justicier, Lady of the Tower City, stared at her most trusted Gate Captain in disbelief. 

“By hand?” She asked. “They want an entire city, built by hand?”

They sat in the Captain’s office above the Ninth Ring barracks, Benac having just returned from the otherworlder’s camp. “To be fair my lady, “ his tone was dry, “only half of that request is unreasonable. There’s a damn lot of them. And they said they’d do it themselves if necessary, they just need the materials. Apparently where they’re from, they have single buildings to rival the Tower City. Even if that’s an exaggeration, I had one of our engineers speak to some of them and they’ve got people who know construction.”

She very much believed that these otherworlders were exaggerating, if only out of ignorance. Benac had apparently tried to get their spokesperson to return with him to the Tower City, but the man had been apoplectic with the suggestion once he learned they would have to fly on wyvernback. “Knowledgable or not, that will take decades even with the help we give them.” 

Benac heaved a sigh and looked up to the ceiling. “Add a few more for the fact that they won’t let anyone who isn’t human touch the process. The crystal couldn’t exactly make sense of everything he was calling the Elves and Wyldkin he’d seen, but I can’t imagine any of it was very nice. Gods forbid he ever sees a dwarf.”   

“So you’d really have me take this ‘half reasonable’ request to the guilds and tell them it’s a good idea?”

“Yes.” Benac’s tone grew emphatic. “I spent the last few months with these people and if you don’t mind my saying so my lady, they are bat shit crazy. Johnathan seemed normal more often than not, but the rest of them,” he shook his head before rubbing at his temples with both hands, “shock doesn’t explain it. Have you read any books about otherworlders before? Not the street fictions, the ones the historians wrote?”

She nodded. “Both, if I’m honest.” The street fiction novels about harrowing misadventures of rogues and heroes from other worlds had been some of her favorites as a girl, and the true stories that inspired them were equally compelling as an adult. “What about them?”

Benac stood and started pacing. “Well in the fictions the otherworlder speaks our language already, and in the histories they at least learn out of necessity. These people seemed,” his frustrated chuckle sounded more than a little manic around the edges, “allergic to the concept. I can’t explain it properly, but even Johnathan, after months of dealing with me for hours a day, refused to remember a single word I tried to teach him. I’d point to a thing, say ‘this the word for rock’ or ‘tree’ or whatever happened to be nearby and he’d just nod and keep going like I’d never said a word. When I thought I’d picked up a bit of his and tried it, he left the meeting without a word and refused to meet with me again until I swore not to try again.” 

Benac continued his pacing, his voice growing harsh, “It was like that for everything. I could talk to Jonathan or any of his men about Alliance practices or Law until I was blue in the face, and it just sailed in one ear and out the other. Not a single meal went by without some complaint about the food, or a walk of the camp without them lamenting the clothes we’d given them. We started giving them bolts of cloth to make their own clothes, and you should have seen what they turned them into!”

She raised an eyebrow. “Benac you’ve never been a prude, they couldn’t have been that scandalous?”

“The exact opposite!” He threw himself back into his chair. “Men covered from collar to toe, women with only their face showing, no matter the weather.” He ran a hand down his face and blew out his breath. “I thought he was going to burst a blood vessel when I mentioned you were a woman.” 

“Why would my being a woman matter in the slightest?” She asked, half amused, half baffled. 

“Search me.” Benac patted down his coat for effect. “You’d think women were an entirely different species by how Jonathan talked about them. It’s no wonder all the female guards avoided having to do anything front facing with these people.”

“Does it have to do with this new God they worship?” She did not know if that would be better or worse, given what Benac had told her so far. 

“What didn’t have to do with their God?” His chuckle was now fully manic. “‘The Redeemer’ or ‘Savior’, the translators were never consistent, has his hand in every single part of these people’s lives. What to wear, what to eat, when to eat it. A prayer for everything too. But only the one God mind. When I left, Johnathan said ‘God go with you’. When I said back to him ‘May Rove guide your steps’, I swear to you the man was about to hit me.”

Adana shook her head. Benac was one of her most level headed advisors. If he was getting this worked up, she knew he wasn’t telling her the half of it. “So they won’t integrate.” 

“I can’t say for sure all won’t, there are a lot of them, but not a single one I saw or spoke to the entire time I was there, no. They’d sooner keel over dead.”

She drew in a deep breath and took her time letting it back out again. “And where would we put this city, pray tell?” She wasn’t fully convinced, but was headed in that direction.

Benac went over to his desk and returned with a map. “Here.” He said, spreading it out and jabbing his finger into a spot on the southern coast of the Dagger Sea. “We’ve got enough port towns up the northern coast, and it’s not that far from where they all arrived so getting them there on foot won’t be too difficult. The plains are empty for a reason, there’s nothing out there worth having, but the land’s good enough for farming with a bit of effort. We can even magically seed the place and just not tell the bastards. Once the city is mostly built and they can feed themselves, let them. If they learn to play nice over time, fine. But until then, keep them out of sight and out of mind in the backwaters.”

Adana looked at the map, back to Benac, and let out another sigh. “I’ll see what I can do.”

1 – Roderika 

Roderika, First Daughter of the Tower City, was running late. 

Rounding a corner, she nearly bowled over a serving woman and called back a half strangled, “Sorry! Sorry!”over her shoulder while continuing on her mad dash.

As the opulent halls of the Sovereign’s Palace streaked by in a blur of polished stone and ornate tapestries, she kept asking herself why she’d agreed to attend this audience in the first place. There was no place for her in the bureaucracy of The Tower City or the Alliance of the Nine beyond being her father’s daughter, and she had no interest in making one. She knew little enough about the matters at hand, only that it had been decades in the making. But when her father had told her how much her presence would help smooth tensions, it’d been easy to say “yes”.

Now however, if the bell tolling in the courtyard blurring past was any indication, she was about an hour behind the meeting’s start and just in time for her own funeral.

Not helping things was the damned dress she’d also been told was very important she wear. It was overly modest by her tastes: flat, dark, grey with a lack of meaningful embroidery, a high neck tickling at her chin, and a not particularly form fitting cut that she couldn’t help but fill out anyway. And unlike any of the dozen already crowding her closets, the blasted skirt was barely cut for walking in much less running. She had it hiked up in both hands and was praying to some forgotten God of Laundresses that the wrinkles wouldn’t be too obvious.

She finally came to the last stretch of hallway before her goal and slowed down. Smoothing out the dress seemed futile, but she tried as best she could while focusing on breathing slowly. Jaming herself between a group of serving men and women streaming into the room, praying desperately not to be noticed. 

The reception hall was one of the more grandiose in the Sovereign’s Palace. A small curtained passage opened up just behind a pair of tall backed thrones atop a cascading flight of stairs. The floor, walls, and high vaulted ceiling were all white-viened black marble, with white marble columns running the length of the room. Silver banners and drapery hung everywhere, the largest pieces embroidered with silhouettes of a dragon in flight, wings outstretched. 

“You’re late.” Her father’s voice rang out as soon as she crossed the threshold. There was no heat in his words, just a rueful amusement. “But, as our guests have yet to arrive, that seems to be in fashion at the moment.”

She walked around to the other side of her father’s chair, desperately fighting against the embarrassed heat rising in her cheeks. “Apologies Father. Practice ran late and when I realized the time, it was either be late and smell like a muster yard, or bathe and be later.”

Rodgier, Second of His Name, Dragon’s Chosen, Sovereign Justicier, Lord of the Tower City, did not look like the kind of man to hold so many lofty titles. He looked more like someone you’d find pulling a pint behind a bar. Tall, lean, and broad shouldered, he had wavy auburn hair down to just above his shoulders and a thick beard speckled with grey around his square jaw. His eyes were deep emerald green with the seeds of laughter hidden behind flecks of gold. He sat with his elbow on the arm of his chair, having rested his cheek on his fist if the red streaks peeking up over his beard were anything to go by. 

“And instead you split the difference, bathing and then tearing through the halls to only be slightly more on time.” Her father half chuckled out as he stood and opened his arms towards her. “But, results are results. I forgive you.”

Roderika laughed and rushed over to her father’s embrace. Most women with twenty summers behind them might be reluctant to be hugged like a child by their father, but she welcomed it. 

After a moment they separated and her father looked her up and down. “The dress looks lovely, but aren’t you missing something?”

She rode out a wave of self consciousness by running a hand through her hair and looking away. “I couldn’t get it on without some of my hair sticking out. I thought it would be better to come without it than to have it on wrong.” 

“More like you went looking for an excuse not to wear it and found one.” Rodgier held out a hand and a serving woman stepped forward with a length of white silk and a brush on a tray. 

She allowed herself to be steered by the shoulders over to a mirror hung out of sight of the rest of the hall. It wasn’t worth admitting aloud how right he was, or how much she hated these confining clothes. The dress she could at least pretend was one of the flowing gowns she preferred for functions such as these, but wrapping her entire head in cloth was too much for her to stand. 

Rodgier ran the brush a few times through her wavy, shoulder length hair several shades brighter orange than his, gathering it at the back of her neck to hold. “Unfortunately for you, I am not giving the Faithful’s envoy a single reason to take issue with this meeting.”

The Redeemer’s Faithful had appeared almost two centuries ago in a field on the western edge of the Alliance. Some two million souls dumped in the middle of nowhere. The oldest, most fragmented histories suggested that was how all of the members of the Alliance had come to the world, but something of that scale hadn’t happened in millennia. They were human like Roderika and her father, but the Faithful lived half as long, only seventy or eighty years to the one hundred and fifty or more she could expect. 

She reached back grudgingly to take her hair from his hand. Once she did, Rodgier took the white cloth from the serving woman’s tray, resting it lengthwise over her head so that one edge was below her hairline. He then draped the remainder over her shoulders and tucked the back under where she held her hair. 

She twisted a lock around her finger while he worked. “The Faithful find issue with everything we do. They’ll probably find some insult in you having me here no matter what I wear.”

Her father’s silence told her she was probably right. The Faithful were notoriously hostile to anything from outside their culture. They spoke a language no one else could and vehemently kept anyone from learning. In most cases they also refused to learn the local tongue. Their fear of the other races of the Alliance remained steadfast to this day. Magic of any kind was anathema, their people making and building everything by their own hands or not at all. 

The last would not have been a problem for anyone except the Faithful, had they not demanded an entire city be built not far from where they had arrived in the world. A construction that should have taken a handful of months had instead taken over half a century, at which point they had sealed its gates. Since then only enough people to staff the handful of Churches built along the Pilgrim’s Road were allowed to leave. 

“Regardless,” Rodgier said, twisting the cloth over her shoulder into a loose spiral while nodding at her to do the other side. “We don’t want to lose what progress we’ve made with them.”

Her father, all of the Nine bless him, had gotten it in his head that it was about time the Faithful began participating in society. After ascending to his office, he began inviting them to participate in the City’s many festivals, and was denied at every turn. He asked to attend services in solidarity with them, and was told that as a representative of the Nine and the leader of their city he was haereticos, whatever that meant, and could not receive the Redeemer’s word without leaving his post. When he had shown up anyway with a Wyldkin attendant in tow, the Head Priest at the time instructed his congregants to throw stones over the wall to get Rodgier’s party to leave. Every few months he tried something new, to no avail. 

“Progress you’ve made with Jonah you mean.” She handed the spiral of silk to her father and he crossed it with the one in his hand, looping them around her neck and under her chin before tying them together in the back. 

Father Jonah was the Faithful’s leader in the city for the last seven years and had proven the most receptive to Rodgier’s overtures. A few months after his arrival, he’d agreed to a private sermon which Roderika also attended. It was still delivered in the Faithful’s tongue, so neither of them had understood a word, but her father had been beside himself with success. The next year, Jonah opened the church’s gates for a festival of his faith. Only human citizens were allowed to attend, but it was still progress. 

Year over year things improved until finally Jonah came to the Sovereign’s Palace to announce that the next year’s pilgrimage would be the seventh of Rodgier’s reign, seven being a significant number to the Redeemer. To commemorate his efforts to be more welcoming of the Faith, Jonah had arranged a special envoy to participate in this year’s All Gods Festival. Her father had nearly jumped for joy. 

Rodgier reached over to the tray again, this time for a silver circlet he rested across her brow to hold the headwrap in place. Unlike when she’d tried to do the same on her own, there wasn’t a single red hair out of place. 

Looking in the mirror, she compared herself to her father. Her brighter hair, heart shaped face, pointed chin, and full lips had definitely been passed down by her mother, but their eyes were the same. The same bright gemstone green, the same kind look, and same sparkle of joy behind them. 

“There,” Rodgier looked back from over her shoulder, “that wasn’t so hard, was it?” 

She stuck her tongue out at his reflection, causing him to laugh as they both returned to their seats. 

“I know this all probably seems ridiculous to you,” her father’s mirth grew somber around the edges, “but today is the result of the last fifty years of my reign. We have to bring the Faithful closer to us.”

The conviction in his tone surprised her. Maybe this wasn’t the pet project it appeared to be. She said nothing, but straightened her back and settled in to wait for the results of her father’s hard work to walk through the tall metal doors at the other end of the hall. 

Just when she was beginning to grow bored there was a commotion on the outside that swiftly resolved into a page stepping into the room and announcing, “Father Jonah, Shepard to the Faithful of the Tower City, and The Bishop Dominic of the Redeemer’s Faithful, envoy of The Holy See.”

2 – Rodgier

Rodgier tried to effect a regal boredom as the doors to the reception hall swung open despite his mounting nerves. 

He immediately recognized Father Jonah, walking just aside the other men who entered. The priest was of average height and thin, his sandy hair streaked through with grey and tied in a loose tail. His close fitting black robe covered him from its white trimmed collar to the ankles of his soft black boots and from wrist to wrist. The only splash of color about him was the wide crimson sash tied across his waist. He would have been handsome with his strong nose and high cheekbones, if it weren’t for the unsettling, vacant look to his eyes.

Rodgier’s gaze next wandered over the four men bringing up the rear of their party. Something about them made him uncomfortable. 

To help keep her busy, he’d found Roderika a tutor in the fighting arts as a child. It’d been pleasantly surprising when she not only enjoyed the lessons but excelled. Over the years that training had given her grace and confidence beyond her years. 

The four men trailing behind the Bishop carried themselves in much the same way, but also all together different. Their bearing turned the qualities that made his daughter refined and beautiful into something predatory. 

Each wore plain black wool pants and shirts with a white tabard over top and calf high riding boots. The first was the tallest and walked with a commanding set to his shoulders ahead of the rest. He had a harsh face like an axe blade, dark hair kept close to the top of his head with the sides shaved down, and hard piercing dark eyes that drank in every detail of the room around him. The man behind and to his right lacked the same height but was wider in the chest and shoulders, with flowing golden hair spilling over his shoulders. His eyes were a deep sapphire blue and seemed to be weighing everything he saw against some tally in his head. Opposite the second, the third man was gaunt enough to appear emaciated, with lank, uneven hair and wet, bloodshot eyes. The last, nearly lost in the shadow of the first, was the shortest and most unassuming of the four. His face, eyes, and hair were all simply average, like thousands of men you might pass walking the city streets outside. The other three unnerved Rodgier, but the fourth he could not help but be afraid of. 

In contrast to the rest of his entourage, Bishop Dominic was a portly older man. A ram before the pack of wolves at his back, but walking with the grace of a shepherd guiding his flock to pasture. Adorned in fine black vestments trimmed in a dark wine red, he appeared half again Father Jonah’s age. Rodgier could not tell if his head was shaved or if he had gone bald, but he wore the look with a dignity few men could. His expression was equal parts bemused and bored, taking in the details of the meeting hall with an apathetic, wandering gaze. 

Rodgier had to keep from clenching his teeth when his gaze lingered several moments longer than was appropriate on Roderika. 

The six men came to a stop at the foot of the stairs leading to his and his daughter’s seats. “Lord Rodgier, Princess Roderika,” Father Jonah announced, “it is my pleasure to introduce you to Bishop Dominic, the highest member of my order to have left the holy city, and my successor as leader of the faithful in the Tower City.” He then bowed at the waist, hands over his thighs. 

Rodgier waited for Bishop Dominic to bow, or show any other sign of respect. The silence between them stretched, the priest simply staring up at him with sharp blue eyes from the base of the dias. He had to fight to put a smile on his face as he spoke, “Please Bishop, be welcome to the Tower City. I hope you are well after so long on the road.”

“Oh yes.” Dominic had a rich, almost lilting voice with the barest hint of an accent. “Yes, only a small mishap this morning. A broken axle on my carriage. I appreciate your taking the time to wait for my arrival, Justiciar Rogier.”

He had to cover his blink of surprise by standing. “Grand Justiciar” was one of his titles, but not one anyone ever called him by. “Sovereign” was customary, and Father Jonah addressed him as such readily enough. That Bishop Dominic would know his titles well enough to choose what he had was strange. 

He motioned to the servants standing just out of sight. “I had refreshments prepared for your arrival. Please, sit with us.”

Members of Palace staff appeared from behind the drapes between the columns of the reception hall, bearing a round table and chairs. Roderika stood and followed him down the steps, making a curtsy to Jonah and Dominic as they came to the bottom. 

After four chairs were set down Dominic halted the men and women bringing more with a look. “Oh that’s quite alright, quite alright.” He gestured dismissively over to a nearby wall and said without looking over his shoulder, “Gentlemen, go loom someplace else, yes?” 

The four men behind him snapped their heels together, turned as one, and walked away. They came to the wall and turned back around, only the one with the flowing gold hair looking back towards the table. Glancing at Roderika, with a look that made Rodgier’s skin crawl and hand itch for something sharp to put in his eye. 

The Bishop must have noticed Rodgier’s glance at his men as they took their seats and huffed an apologetic chuckle. “Can’t be too safe on foreign roads,” The Bishop said as he settled in his seat, “but to be honest now that I am here, I feel a bit silly. The roads and your city have been very safe, yes, even despite some of your, ahem, other citizens.”

No matter how Rodgier steeled himself against it, he hated how the Faithful talked about the other Alliance members. All insults masked in innuendo. Father Jonah had spoken the same way when they’d met, but grown better at moderating himself in front of Rodgier and his court. But “foreign roads?”. All roads were common in the Alliance, and the land the Bishop’s city stood on was the same common land as every other. A city Rodgier’s predecessors had built for him and his Faithful.

Between the unexpected attendants, the casual disdain for his citizens, and the obvious entitlement of this man, this meeting was veering further and further from his plan. 

“Thank you, Bishop Dominic.” Rodgier said in his most diplomatic tone. “I hope you continue to find your stay in the Tower City as surprising.”

“Ah yes! Yes, I do hope so.” Agreed Dominic. “I have something of a surprise myself, though maybe this is the wrong word.” He reached into his robe and withdrew a rolled up piece of parchment and handed it to Rodgier. “With your blessing, it is our hope that the church here be refurnished into a cathedral, and that a Bishop be stationed there from my tenure moving forward.”

He thumbed open the seal and rolled out the parchment. Inside were sketches of the current church, a humble building down in the First Ring, with another larger and grander building alongside it. “These are certainly… ambitious plans. I will need to discuss this with my city planners and guilds.”

“Naturally, naturally.” Dominic nodded sagely. 

Refreshments were being brought by Rodgier’s staff. Tea, coffee, and wine to drink with bread, cheese, and sliced meat to eat. They each were served their preference, Dominic taking wine for himself while the rest took tea. Hot towels were provided for the Bishop and his men to clean their hands and faces.

Rodgier managed to stop himself from reaching for food before Jonah spoke, “Your Excellence, would you lead us in prayer?”

“Of course my son, of course, should it please our hosts as well?” Dominic turned his gaze to Rodgier and his daughter 

He nodded his ascent, while Roderika slowly moved her hand back from the plate she had been reaching towards. Not for the first time, he kicked himself for not involving his daughter in this work more and sharing with her what he had learned about the Faithful. Or, more importantly, why he’d bothered to learn it. 

Dominic reached out his hand to Jonah and half heartedly to Rodgier, the expectation clear he would not take it. He surprised them both by doing so, and his daughter shocked everyone by taking his other hand and Jonah’s. The two priests paused for several long seconds before bowing their heads and Dominic intoned: 

“Benedic, Domine, nos et dona tua, 

quae de largitate tua sumus sumpturi, 

et concede, ut illis salubriter nutriti 

tibi debitum obsequium praestare valeamus, 

per Christum Dominum nostrum.”

The priests remained with their heads down for a moment after the prayer, during which Rodgier risked a glance at his daughter. She smiled at him and winked. Before he could return her look, she leapt up and began asking Dominic and Jonah their preferences, and serving food onto their plates. 

The meal was light and pleasant. Bishop Dominic complemented the food and the wine, while Father Jonah and Roderika regaled him with suggestions of delicacies to try and places to visit. After the plates were cleared away and Dominic had moved to his second glass, Rodgier tapped the rolled up plans where he’d set them on the table. “With these plans, does the Church intend to bring more faithful into the City?”

“Yes, yes,” Bishop Dominic gestured towards Father Jonah, “under young Jonah’s tenure we anticipate this year’s pilgrimage to be the largest we’ve ever had! And your efforts to be more, mmm, welcoming to the Faithful have not gone unnoticed. I have, in fact, been sent with an additional request from the Holy See.”

He steeled himself, having long anticipated what request that might be. “What would that be, your,” the word caught in his throat, “Excellence?” What a ridiculous title. 

Dominic smiled appreciably, though Rodgier thought he saw the ghost of victory there too. 

“In return for sending myself, and as a symbol of greater cooperation between our cities and faiths, I have been asked to request an envoy be sent to the Holy Bastion to attend our own autumn… I believe you call it a festival, but they are more familiar to me as Mass. The Holy Father holds such a Mass to welcome back our pilgrims on their return, which will fall on the same day as your city’s celebration I am to attend. Fitting then that your representative should be there and show our increased solidarity.” 

Jonah had openly hinted in the lead up to this meeting that such an exchange would be proposed, alluding to practices from the Faithful’s original world. It had also been framed as if The Faithful and Alliance were somehow two distinct powers rather than the former part of the latter, which still chaffed, but this was the first opportunity for a Sovereign to get eyes inside the Faithful’s holy city since its completion. 

Rodgier nodded, smiling. “Nothing would please me more. I have in fact taken the liberty of compiling a list of viable candidates from my advisors for you to interview if you wish.” He gestured for a serving man in the corner.

“Oh! Oh! Quite industrious of you, and appreciated, but entirely unnecessary. We have the perfect candidate here with us now!” Dominic waved a hand across from himself to Roderika. 

Rodgier froze, and his smile turned stiff and cracked. 

Damn it. Why in the names of the Nine would he want Roderika to go? She wasn’t a diplomat, and while no one had outright said as much, Rodgier had long suspected that women held a much lower station than men among the faithful.

“Aha!” Exclaimed Jonah, clapping his hands together like he did in prayer. It was the most emotion he’d ever seen from the man. “A fine idea, your Excellence. Lord Rodgier, I mean no insult to your other advisors, but they have hardly so much as attended a service. Unintelligible as I am sure it was for you, you have both received readings of the Word from myself. And the Princess’ station is,” he looked askance at Bishop Dominic, seeming unsure if what he was going to say next was appropriate, “is comparable to His Excellency’s,” 

At this, Dominic nodded sagely. 

Bastard. Either he was the perfect toady or Jonah and Dominic had planned this. Rodgier hated calling his daughter “Princess”, as Jonah had explained that in their original world it meant Roderika would inherit his station and wealth upon the end of his term. What wealth he had was his station’s, not his, and while it wasn’t impossible that the Dragon God Solonathrax would choose Roderika to succeed him, such a thing hadn’t happened in centuries. 

But Rodgier had miscalculated. More than the norms of their religion, the Redeemer’s Faithful were bound by the norms of their old world. No amount of explanation would convince them that the status they projected onto him and his daughter did not work the way they thought it did. And any further attempt at dissuading them from this path would be seen as insulting their ways. 

Letting his smile die in full and taking on what he hoped was an air of contemplation he said, “That is not something even I can order. You call her Princess, and I thank you for that respect, but Roderika has no responsibility to me or my station beyond being my daughter.” That was as little push back as he could allow himself. He turned to Roderika, finding her schooling her features much as he had his own. “It is up to her whether she wishes to undertake such a task.”

The two priests turned to his daughter as well, saying nothing, and Rodgier cursed himself for having brought her here in the first place.  

3 – Roderika

“Wait, they want you to go?” 

After what seemed like an eternity of dickering over increasingly minute details, Roderika emerged from the meeting hall and had immediately run into her two best friends, Tala and Arlo. 

Tala was her Handmaiden, a title only she seemed to take seriously, and the daughter of one of his father’s Wyldkin advisors. They were the same age and had grown up together  from their first memories of childhood. She was shorter than Roderika despite the best effort of the cat’s ears poking up from the top of her head, bursts of white fluff contrasting the midnight black of the rest of her hair. Her twitching tail, its long and silky black fur slightly puffed in surprise, and her gold vertically slitted eyes were the only other signs she was anything but human. Her refined features were twisted in concern and indignation.

Roderika covered her own unease by freeing herself from the white headdress, keeping the circuit on and looping the cloth over her shoulders. ”I don’t think Melic himself could have changed their minds. Who knows, maybe it will be fun?” She tried to sound more confident than she felt. 

“I doubt it.” Tala shot back. “Besides you missing the Festival, and the Faithful are,” her mouth twisted in disgust “the Faithful. You’re certain there’s no getting out of this?” 

She sighed. Just telling Tala she was going was not even going to be the hard part of this conversation. “Yeah.”

“Reka,” Tala resorted to Roderika’s childhood nickname her friends still called her by and stepped in front of her to stop her marching forward, “You don’t even seem like you want to go. Arlo, back me up here!” The last was delivered over Roderika’s shoulder. 

Arlo had been hobbling himself to stay behind them, just quietly listening. He was the better part of a foot taller than Roderika and had legs to match, so outpacing her and Tala would have been trivial. He was a year younger than them both, having met them when Roderika began training under her swordmaster. 

Like the men the Bishop had brought Arlo was a man built for combat. His height and broad shoulders supported ropes of corded muscle, every part of him honed to either hold a weapon or be one. But his demeanor was the exact opposite. Arlo moved with a careful deliberation that gave him an air of refined gentleness. His dark ochre skin, ready smile, and booming laugh were hallmarks of his warmth. “Tala, it’s Reka’s business. She knows what she’s doing I’m sure.” His voice was low, warm, and soothing.

Before Tala could interject again, Roderika spoke up. “Not just my business, yours too.” She turned to him. “You’re coming with me.”

Arlo rocked back on his heels, his calm shaken and voice now uncertain. “I am?” 

“You are.” She confirmed. “Father Jonah and Bishop Dominic insisted I be accompanied and guarded, and the longer they went on about it the more father agreed. Congratulations, you’re the new Captain of the Princess’s Honor Guard.”

“What from Stave’s bench is a Princess..?” Arlo asked the air in front of him, staring down the hallway with a distant expression. 

Tala huffed in exasperation, but then sighed. “Fine. I guess I’ll be packing for three then. Four if Henet insists on accompanying this madness, which I’m sure they will.”

Roderika had hoped to be in private by the time they’d gotten to this part. Her home in the rear gardens wasn’t that much farther. She turned back and met Tala’s burnished eyes with her own. “Actually,,” the words burned on their way past her lips, “you won’t be coming with us.” 

Silence. 

She didn’t have to look to know Arlo’s eyes would have gone wide enough to rest a teacup on. She could only hold her gaze to Tala’s, watching confusion wash through them to be replaced by hurt.

“I uh… I think I’ll go.” Arlo was backing away from the sound of his voice. “Probably have dad shortlist that guard of yours. Yeah.” his footsteps retreated faster and he was gone. 

Silence ruled the hall again. Roderika swore she could hear the muscles twitching Tala’s right ear. She slowly reached down for her hand and laced their fingers together. She started walking again, dragging Tala with her. They traveled down a few more corridors, out into the rear gardens where the house she shared with her father stood. 

Normally they would have stopped to admire the manicured beds, or the white bark and silver flowers of the tree centered in the courtyard in front of the house, but today they slinked past them. Through the door and past the living area where they spent their afternoons drinking tea alone or with their other friends or parents. Up the stairs and to the right into her room. 

She closed the door behind them, pressed her forehead against it for a second before she turned back to look at Tala. Her ears were pinned back, her tail curled around her legs. She wouldn’t meet Roderika’s eyes. 

“So, I’m not going?” Tala’s face was a neutral mask. “Who decided that?”

Roderika took a deep breath to steel herself. “The priests.” She let some heat creep past the exasperation in her tone. “They’re adamant the Faithful aren’t ready to see other Alliance members in their city. There are people there who’ve only ever heard of Wyldkin or Elves or Dwarves, and not in a positive way. They use them as stories to scare their children into behaving. It’s stupid and wrong, but it’s what they do.”

Tala looked at the ceiling. “I suppose I should have known that.” She said, voice hollow and defeated. 

Roderika wasn’t sure how to tell her the next part. When they’d been fifteen, they had realized that both had feelings for each other. After growing up together, spending more time with each other than anyone else, somewhere along the line they’d fallen in love. Everyone had seen it long before they had. Arlo had laughed in wonder at it taking them so long. Since, they’d cooked up Tala’s Handmaiden position as half joke and half excuse for them to be each other’s constant company.  “And, they wouldn’t even be letting me go if they knew about us.”

That got a jump out of Tala, her gaze snapping back to Roderika. Her ears flared out to the sides and her tail tripled in size. “About us? What does it matter about us, other than that they think I’m some kind of monster from a nursery tale?”

“Well that’s part of it,” she moved past Tala, pulling her to sit on the bed. “Obviously the Faith doesn’t let them see people who aren’t human. But apparently they also don’t let women see anyone but men. Or men be with anyone but women for that matter.” 

Tala shot back up and all of the bristle went out of her tail as her face paled. “That’s barbaric! Bad enough they control where their people go, they control who they’re with?”

“Apparently.” Keeping her own shock from being overheard by the priests back in the reception hall had been a challenge. “Father isn’t sure if it’s just priests and officials who aren’t or if it’s everyone in their faith, but it’s enough of a tripwire that it could blow up everything he’s worked at.”

Tala scoffed. “All the more reason for you not to go. You said he had a list, send someone from that.” 

Roderika shook her head and fell backwards onto the bed. Normally Tala would be chiding her for outside clothes on the inside linens, and that argument was far more preferable to this one. “Dominic wouldn’t even look at it. He insisted I was the perfect person to send. I’m pretty sure he’d call off everything if I don’t go.” 

Tala sat for a second and then eased back next to her, looking up at the ceiling. Roderika waited through the long silence, tracing her finger over one of Tala’s hands. 

Eventually her partner kicked her feet and let out an exasperated sigh. “I suppose there isn’t much we can do, is there?”

“Not really, no.” The longer she thought about it, the more Roderika wondered what she was getting herself into. 

Tala turned over, propping her head up with her chin in her hand. “Maybe I’ll get lucky. You could bring home some bright eyed country girl to show the wonders of the City.” She could hear the defeat behind Tala’s wistful tone. 

Her laugh was likely just as convincing. She turned onto her side, head nestled in the crook of her arm. “Maybe. Or maybe I still like the idea of keeping you to myself.” She took up a lock of Tala’s hair in her other hand and curled it around one of her fingers. 

Tala’s smile was wide enough to show pointed canines. “Nadia at the Flower Garden would beg to differ.”

Roderika descended into more genuine giggles. “She’ll never need to beg with what we pay her.”

Her partner held out a hand and began to count off her fingers. “Dena from the Velvet Rose, Anet from Ines’s Glory, Nina…” 

She sat up just enough to lean over Tala and get her hands around her middle, tickling just beneath her ribs. “Okay, okay, you’ve made your point!”

They both began grabbing at the other, filling her room with laughter. When neither of them could breathe without gasping and the blankets had all been pushed off the bed, they fell back down side by side and facing one another. 

Tala huffed out a breath, looking her in the eyes, serious again. “For the record, I still don’t think you should go. I know it’s important for your dad, and probably the whole Alliance, but I didn’t like the Faithful before today and I like them even less now. I don’t like how you got dragged into this.”

Roderika heaved a sigh of her own.  “I know. And trust me I’m not looking forward to spending weeks on the road with Jonah of all people.” She paused, searching for the right words to say. “But my dad has been working at this since before I was born. If playing diplomat helps him, then I have to go.”

Tala closed her eyes. “I love you, but this is the worst time for you to develop a sense of responsibility.”

Not knowing what else to say, she kissed Tala. Gentle and slow, making sure they both felt it in a way they could remember for a long time. 

When they stopped, she reached into the front of her dress and drew up a fine silver chain. On the end was a crystal pendant, silver smoke swirling inside it. “Maybe you can’t go with me, but if anything happens to me you’ll know. When you do, I know you’ll follow as fast as you can.”

Tala reached down the front of her blouse and drew out an identical pendant. They both held them forward and when both touched a soft white glow emanated from where they met. “Of course I will Reka. I’d like to see the Nine together try to stop me.”

She touched her forehead to Tala’s for a moment before attempting to get up. As soon as she tried, her partner seized a fistful of dress and hauled her back down. 

“I didn’t say you should stop.” Tala purred, her cheeks red and her eyes averted. 

Well, Roderika had wanted out of the dress anyway. 

4 – Roderika 

The next day found Roderika seated outside the Ninth Ring Guardsmen Barracks beneath a small silver pavilion with the sides rolled up. 

Tala stood behind and to the right of her, dressed in her handmaiden’s outfit. Flat black slippers, silver silk stockings, a knee length black dress over a flowing silver shirt, all cinched close to her frame with a black and silver demi corset. Roderika had picked the outfit out as a joke when they decided to invent the position, but Tala had taken to wearing it whenever she accompanied her during the day. 

She wore her own usual fare of tight black trousers tucked into calf high brown leather boots and held up by a matching belt, with a loose fitting forest green blouse. She’d left the top two laces undone, as even with the constant breeze that swirled around the highest levels of the Tower City, early fall was still a balmy season. 

“Good morning ladies. What exciting things are we getting up to today?”

She turned towards the voice. Henet, her erstwhile magic tutor turned friend and confidant, ducked beneath the pavilion’s canopy. Like all elves they stood well over six feet tall, nearly topping seven. Their slight frame and long limbs were lost in the folds and layers of their purple and blue silk robes. Shaggy white hair fell to their shoulders haphazardly, almost hiding the upswept pointed tips of their long ears. Their face was vulpine and androgynous enough that, despite having known them most of her life, Roderika still wasn’t sure if they were male or female. Which was entirely by Henet’s design. With enough time and effort any elf could be either sex as they pleased. To hear them tell it most eventually settled on one or the other, but they enjoyed keeping everyone guessing. 

Their most striking feature though were their eyes. From a distance they looked like black holes in their face, but up close she could see wisps of midnight blue and deep purple swirling through them. Instead of irises and pupils Henet’s eyes had small scattered white points throughout them like stars in a clear night’s sky. 

At the moment though Henet’s eyes were squinting out into the muster yard, watching the goings on there with open curiosity. Next to them on invisible threads of magic floated a divan couch that they set down to Roderika’s left before draping themselves over it. “Arlo certainly seems to be having fun.”

Roderika Ignored their inquiry for now. “Henet, where did that couch come from?”

“Oh, somewhere.” They replied while turning one hand in a vague gesture before reaching into one of their sleeves and produced a flask. After unscrewing the cap and taking a deep pull they added, “Don’t worry, I’ll put it back. Not out to make more work for the staff.” 

“I seem to remember,” Tala said from her other side in an offhanded tone, “seeing one very similar in the reading hall not far from Ambassador Conlin’s apartment. And that she has a fondness for spending this time each morning enjoying her current book in her favorite reading chair.”

Henet’s smile lit up their face, “You don’t say?” They gave a meaningful look across the yard. 

In the distance Roderika could see an elvishly tall figure in daisy yellow robes framed in an arched window several stories up the side of the Sovereign’s Palace. She wondered to herself what Ambassador Conlin had done to draw Henet’s attention. They were fond of mostly harmless pranks and minor annoyances against anyone and everyone for reasons largely kept to themself. As she watched the figure turned and left the window. 

“She’s going to get you back, you know.” She said, hoping that she wouldn’t be caught in whatever revenge the Ambassador was simmering in her mind. 

“I look forward to the attempt.” Henet said with exaggerated defiance. “So, what are you up to out here? Does it have anything to do with why Arlo is currently beating those men senseless?”

They all turned their attention to the scene playing out in front of the pavilion. Arlo, shirtless and sweating with exertion in the mild heat, was in the middle of a large semicircle of seated men. One at a time a man would stand, grab a training weapon from the rack at the end of the line, and square off against him. The two would spar, ending with the other man either disarmed, tripped, or otherwise dismantled. Arlo would then walk over to a small board with several pages of paper affixed to it and make a few notes before returning to the center and calling up the next man. About half were already rubbing bruised arms or legs. 

“As a matter of fact it does.” Roderika returned to the pages sitting abandoned in her lap. There were requisition lists of supplies, maps of the route they would be taking, and other minutia she needed to sort through before her journey. “We are selecting my honor guard for the journey to the Redeemer’s Holy City.” Tala’s tail began twitching in the corner of her eye. 

Henet raised an eyebrow and took another pull from their flask. “Who’s idea was that?” 

“The trip or the guard?”

“Both.”

She sighed. “The trip was Bishop Dominic’s idea. He’s a High ranking priest in the Church of the Redeemer sent to replace Father Jonah. My Father has been working for years to try and get the Faithful to be more involved in the City, and to do that we have to send someone to their Holy City. I’m going to spend weeks on the road to go get preached at in a language I don’t understand and then turn around and come home.” 

“And that requires your own Guard?” Henet turned back to watch Arlo salute his next victim. 

“Apparently,” The Guardsman was about their age, and seemed to be holding his own fairly well. He lasted longer than most, but still went down after a few minutes. “Dominic and Jonah said it was a tradition of the Faithful’s world. Something about ‘protecting my honor and virtue.’” 

Henet barked out a laugh while Tala repressed a giggle. She smiled to herself, remembering the previous afternoon. As a slight heat rose in her cheeks she balled up one of her papers and threw it at Henet while they continued to laugh. 

Everyone settled into a comfortable silence, Henet watching Arlo test the rest of the Guard candidates, and Roderika going through the papers in her lap with Tala looking over her shoulder and commenting occasionally on some detail. 

Eventually there was a longer break than usual in the sound of wood striking wood or men striking the ground. She looked up to see the semicircle of Guards dispersing back towards their barracks and Arlo approaching her pavilion. Still shirtless, he stopped at a bucket of water at the base of one of the poles and dipped a large cloth into it before rubbing himself down. Henet waved their hand and there was a howl and snap as the water in the bucket flash froze and broke apart. Arlo nodded his thanks before dunking the towel back in and splashing the now ice cold water onto his face. 

“Out of all of them,” he said, easing himself into the empty chair on her right, “maybe ten would be any good in a fight. The rest can ride a horse without falling off, but otherwise are just going to look pretty.” 

“That’s all they’ll need to do.” She remarked. “We knew we wouldn’t find any dueling champions for this. The Guard has always been for breaking up fights, not getting into them.” 

“Reka, between the two of us we could have torn through those men and barely broken a sweat.” Arlo shook his head and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “You’re sure you don’t want me to go back to my dad for higher ranked men? Or at least some better fighters?”

“I am.” Her tone was firm. “Everyone above who was here today needs to be in the City helping manage the Festival, and everyone lower won’t be able to at least look the part.” 

“What part is that anyway?” Henet’s curiosity was tinged with bafflement. “You could walk naked down the seediest street in the City and only get a few funny looks and whistles. Are the Faithful so unruly that a visiting dignitary needs protection from them?” 

“No.” Roderika shook her head, then stopped. “Not exactly. It’s about appearances, which doesn’t make much sense to me but Jonah and Dominic were insistent.”

Tala’s tail went still and puffed up. “Speak his name and he appears.” She whispered, her tone dripping with venom. 

They all turned to look, Henet peeking up over the back of their divan. Walking over from the front of the Sovereign’s palace was Jonah, his hands folded into his sleeves. He extracted one to wave and she could see his smile didn’t touch his vacant eyes. “Good afternoon, Princess.”

Roderika despised the title he and Dominic had foisted on her. They’d tried to explain the concept of Royalty from the Faithful’s original world and how it applied to her and her father, but she refused to wrap her head around the concept. Her father was a servant of the Alliance, not its ruler. She had no interest in inheriting his station, and the idea that she might only for the sake of her birth was ridiculous. 

“Good afternoon, Father Jonah.” She replied in as neutral a tone as she could. “What brings you here?” 

“Bishop Dominic and your Father are meeting to discuss further terms regarding your journey to the Holy Bastion, and I felt my presence superfluous.” Jonah looked around the courtyard, “I had hoped to see the last of your guard selection, but it seems you have finished.”

“We have,” she motioned to her right, “This is my friend and son of First Gate Captain Aman, Arlo. He will be leading my honor Guard.”

Arlo stood and put on his billowy white shirt in one smooth motion before extending a hand to Jonah. “A pleasure to meet you, Father.” He said politely but without much enthusiasm. 

Jonah looked up at Arlo, his eyes suddenly focused. He took Arlo’s hand to shake and she could see the tendons in his hand stretch his skin as he tightened his grip. “The pleasure is mine, Captain. Justicier Rodgier spoke highly of you yesterday and again today. I understand you and Princess Roderika have trained together since childhood.” 

Arlo made no motion to crush Jonah’s hand or indicate in his tone that the priest’s grip affected him. “We have, and I wouldn’t be half the fighter I am without her.” He released Jonah’s hand and folded his arms in front of his chest. “Truth be told, before you came over, she was explaining to us the necessity of this Honor Guard. Unfortunately I think the concept is still a bit foreign to us. Perhaps you would care to explain further?”

“Of course.” Jonah’s hand was red and he flexed it several times after Arlo let go. He looked around for another chair but found none. Arlo moved his from beside Roderika to face everyone and then sat on the edge of Henet’s divan. “It’s something of a relic of our old world.”

“Our?” Henet asked, incredulous. “It was my understanding that your people did not share the same lifespans as humans of the Alliance. Surely you aren’t one of the original otherworlders?”

Jonah looked like he was about to ignore Henet’s question so Roderika spoke up. “An excellent question, Magister Henet.” She saw their face twitch at the title she gave them, but Jonah wouldn’t be able to ignore someone with a title to their name. At least, she thought he wouldn’t. 

Jonah looked at her instead of facing Henet when he answered. “I am a descendant of the First Saints, but was born in this world. I was raised on my grand and great-grandparents’ stories though, and grew up in the Faith, so though I have never been there I still feel some attachment to their home.” 

“Of course,” Henet’s divan slid closer to Roderika’s seat and more into Jonah’s view. “Please continue then Father.”

There was a single twitch at the corner of Jonah’s eye before he spoke again. “In the world of the First Saints there were many more nations like the Alliance of your world, and they often came into conflict with one another.” He shook his head and made a reaching gesture with one hand. “Conflict isn’t exactly the correct word. I have never been able to find one in your tongue that covers the same meaning as bellum. Or mention of an event that would match either.” 

“I can’t think of a part of the Alliance having any sort of conflict with another.” Roderika looked over to Henet, who had a deeper knowledge of history than her. They shook their head. 

“Suppose then that one of the other Alliance cities grew discontented with Justicier Rodgier’s rule and sent their legio,” Jonah made a frustrated sound in the back of his throat, “apologies, their Guard to the Tower City, and you responded in turn. The two forces would fight over strategic locations until one side or the other was either drained of manpower, overrun, or sued for peace.”

“Drained of manpower?” Arlo’s face twisted in disgust. “As in until enough of either side was dead?”

Jonah’s eyes lit up as he nodded. “Indeed.”

Roderika mirrored Arlo’s expression along with the rest of her friends. Just the very thought of such things made her sick to her stomach. 

The silence stretched until Jonah shrugged and continued unprompted. “As I said, events such as that were common in our old world. As such, people of prominence often needed protection, as their deaths could end or begin a bellum. In the times of peace between conflicts these guards often also served ceremonial purposes and would be used to show the wealth or power of the person they were protecting.”

“So my Guard is to show the people of the Holy City that I am someone worth taking seriously.” Roderika was skeptical. 

Jonah nodded. “That and more. It shows them that you respect them and their traditions, something we both know is important to your father. How they are outfitted will tell the people who see them much about the Alliance.”

“If it’s about telling people about the Alliance,” Arlo gestured  to Henet and Tala, “why not let us bring all of it?” 

Jonah’s smile turned brittle and uneasy. He raised his hands in front himself, palms out. “This is about making people feel comfortable, and meeting their expectations. I’m afraid that,” he bit down on whatever word was about to leave his mouth and swallowed before saying, “non-humans would be bringing to mind very different expectations. And while I am sure,” Jonah swallowed again, his voice cracking under having to acknowledge them, “Magister Henet and…”

“Lady Tala,” Roderika supplied for him, Tala herself stepping closer and placing a hand on her shoulder, “my handmaiden and daughter to one of my father’s most trusted advisors.” 

Jonah nodded and his eyes looked wild for a moment as they darted up to Tala and back down again. “And Lady Tala and their kin are extremely familiar to you, no one in the Holy City has ever seen anything like them. And what people do not understand, they fear, and what they fear, they want to get away from. Or make go away, as the case may be.” 

Roderika was baffled by the priest’s thinking. If you did not understand something, you should make the effort to learn about it. What kind of nightmare world must the first of the Faithful have come from that not knowing something was immediately a reason to be afraid. 

“If they never meet the other races,” she said while keeping her hand from drifting up to Tala’s, “then they will never come to know them. Never move beyond fearing them.” 

Jonah stood, straightening his robes. “Perhaps, but all things in time, yes?” Though sweat beaded along his forehead, his smile had gone back to its usual lopsided lack of warmth. “In any case, I am glad I could shed what light I could on the subject. I think I will go check in on the Bishop.”

Roderika traded a look with her companions as they watched Jonah’s departure. Arlo’s face was a thundercloud, while Henet looked mildly amused. She looked up to see Tala watching Jonah very intently, her pupils larger than the light called for, ears forward, and tail close to her body. Her hand tightened on Roderika’s shoulder as if holding back from pouncing on the man. She was about to ask what was wrong when she saw Jonah stop and turn back out of the corner of her eye. 

“Since this handmaiden cannot accompany you, have you chosen another to make the journey, Princess?” His usually distant eyes locked onto her, a sudden burning intensity behind them. 

She kept her eyes from his, focusing her gaze just over the priest’s shoulder. “Lady Tala is my only handmaiden. If she cannot come with me then I will have to take care of myself.” 

Jonah’s eyes unfocused again, and she could just barely make out what he said as he turned and walked away again. “Well that won’t do, no, it won’t…”

They all watched him go this time, no one speaking again until he disappeared around the corner of the Sovereign’s Palace. 

~~~

She heard the door open behind her and froze. No one had reason to be back here and anyone else would have knocked. He had returned from the palace. 

Setting aside her darning needles and current project, she schooled her face, turning with a smile that immediately curdled on her lips. He was already so close.

The door was closed behind Him.  

“I have a task for you.” He said, hooking a finger under her chin and tilting her face upward. His eyes, usually so vacant and far away, were alive with an ugly fire that seared down into her soul. “Someone of importance will be accompanying us on the pilgrimage to the Holy Bastion. You will attend to her when I have no need of you.”

Of course she would. It would be her pleasure. Should she report back with this person’s activities?

He began running his thumb along her jaw. “I do not care for the comings and goings of some pampered, simpering, empty headed little trollop. She is little more than a prize piece for His Excellency. No, I simply want her occupied and out of my way.” He leaned down, stretching her neck uncomfortably and inhaling deeply around the top of her head. 

She managed to slip loose of his grip and took a step back to curtsy deeply, head down so he wouldn’t see the disgust or fear warring over her features. She would do as he commanded, in God’s name. 

“Of course you will. Do this, and it will go a long way towards convincing His Holiness to expunge your vows. Then, we can be together.”

She said nothing, only curtsying again. He left without a backwards glance, leaving the door open behind him. She prayed now, as she had every day for the last seven years that His Holiness would see through Him. That her Mother Superior would demand her return as soon as she crossed the city gates. 

She prayed she never had to feel his touch again.