The Orphans' Promise (15 page)

The killer was smart, and he was not fooled.

“What worn-out disagreement?” he asked, dragging his words. “You have been judged by Züia. Her messengers deliver the sentence. What you call a ‘worn-out disagreement’ is nothing less than a divine command.”

Grigán held back from leaping at the killer, to punish his insolence with a blow to the head. To do so would be to sign his own death warrant, but it was hard to restrain himself. Corenn had asked him to not interrupt as much as possible, and now he understood why. One false step could tip the balance in the Züu’s favor. Even if the warrior didn’t agree with the idea behind this attempt, he was smart enough to leave Corenn every opportunity to bring it to fruition. He kept his anxiety at bay for now, even though things seemed to be off to a truly poor start.

Corenn had prepared herself for the first attempt’s failure, but it didn’t gall her any less. She had to attack from another angle.

The Mother leaned in toward the Zü, who did the same to hear her better. Grigán watched and felt his muscles tense up like a panther ready to pounce.

“We both know,” the Mother said with a complicit tone, “that the messengers are sometimes hired as vulgar hit men by those who care very little about Zuïa, her judgment, or justice in general.”

The fanatic didn’t respond, thereby acknowledging that he shared her opinion and inviting Corenn to continue. So far this was the best result she’d had.

“It’s obvious that this is our case. The man who claims to speak on behalf of Zuïa and who sent the messengers after us has deceived you. He doesn’t believe in Zuïa.”

“He made an offering to the Judges of Lus’an,” the assassin shot back. “That’s enough to prove his faith.”

Corenn felt her heart leap. She had just wrested an important piece of information from him. A man. Their enemy was a
man
.

She let a long moment of silence drift by, fixing the Zü with a weighty stare. Then she launched her strongest attack.

“We would also like to make an offering to the cult.”

Yan scrutinized the little seashell with a bluish sheen. By replacing the hated coin with this beloved charm, he had resparked his interest in the exercise. He was proud of himself. Concentrating on the seashell made him think of Léti, and thinking of Léti encouraged him to concentrate. Bit by bit he attained a new spiritual level; it was as if his mind had been cloistered in a narrow, dark cave before, and now he had let it stretch and soar across a vast plane. With each stride, his mind grew into this new power. Yan felt like he was making progress. As he stared at the shell, he fell into a trance, as if he were sleeping with his eyes open, ignoring everything that wasn’t the seashell and the force needed to move it. Then he would “wake,” tired beyond reason, and wait until he had recovered enough to start all over.

It was during one of these resting phases that he started asking questions again. This new consciousness he was gradually acquiring made him hesitate. After all, why did he even want to succeed? What did magic matter to him? It seemed like such a difficult discipline to get such meager results. Just knocking a coin over? He had wasted three days of his life contemplating a coin.

To better know his own being, to touch his own essence—that could surely suffice to please him. Was there really any benefit to moving little objects without touching them? Did he really need something like that?

He suddenly realized what was happening. He was at the edge of a breakthrough, and this realization scared him to his core. He was frightened that if he continued, he could never go back. Then again, perhaps he would never want to.

Fear froze him for a long time, until he remembered what it was he wanted the most. An image of Léti appeared clearly in his mind, and with it his fear vanished. He wanted this skill, because he had so little else. Because Léti had so many talents. He wanted this power, not for himself, but for her.

Hardened by this realization, he made himself concentrate, as he had taught himself to do. His Will had already shown itself on the cliff, and had saved both of their lives in an impossible feat. He tried to remember this moment, the emotions he had felt. The memories flooded his mind, much too strong and clear for his taste. His closest friend’s terrified face. The reefs forty yards below. His powerlessness to save her.

He had rushed to reach her, swinging one leg out into the void, and then the next, and then his whole body. He had grasped onto the rocky cliff face, putting himself in grave danger.

But he still couldn’t do anything.

He had given her his hand, and she grabbed it with the full force of her desire to live. But he couldn’t do anything. There had been nothing left to do but wait for one of their arms to weaken and then plummet into the abyss. He had clenched his teeth, pulled, pulled, feeling nothing but Léti’s hands in his own, and his will to pull her up. Suddenly, he understood. He felt the power that he had unleashed. He felt it
now.

Blood pounded in his temples, and his skin went cold. He was out of breath, his head spinning, having relived all of it—the cliff and their hands and Léti’s terrified face.

He opened his eyes and stared at the queen moon. It was a long time before he realized what he had done.

The little blue shell was laying on its side.

“We would like to make an offering to the cult,” Corenn repeated to the surprised assassin. “There’s nothing stopping us, is there?”

The priest read his assistant’s face, looking for a cue. All he saw was an expression just as surprised as his own.

“Indeed, nothing’s stopping you,” he answered after gathering his thoughts.

Corenn had caught him slightly off guard. A crack in the Zü’s armor. She forced her way in.

“Your cult claims that the Goddess can express her will through any mortal intermediary. I have a feeling Zuïa is with me. Not the impious one who uses her messengers as lowly hit men.”

The Zü listened, resigned. At the beginning of their exchange he thought the Mother had come to plea for mercy, as everyone judged by the Goddess did before receiving their sentence. In which case it would have been easy to refuse and simply savor the familiar moment. But the woman’s words weren’t beseeching. They were… unsettling.

Even in a cult as fanatical as the Züu, the less dim-witted ones learned to question themselves. Why did Zuïa talk through the mouths of mere mortals? And why did they have to make an offering? And since there were no new temples constructed, where did all the money go? Were the Judges really just complacent opportunists who had built an earthly Lus’an for themselves?

The Zü didn’t like feeling doubt. Zuïa judged; he carried out the sentence, full stop. The Kaulienne was disturbing his peace of mind, pulling the ground from underneath what he held to be most true. He resented her for it.

“We’re ready to make a substantial offering,” she persisted. “Zuïa speaks through me. She doesn’t want to judge us.”

Aha! The Zü suddenly regained his composure, and the world returned to normal. Just like all the others condemned by the Goddess, this woman was asking for the same thing: mercy. She had gone about it in a different way, though, more insidiously than others, which could have fooled him if he hadn’t been careful.

“Impossible,” he stated with satisfaction. “The Goddess would never let anyone usurp her word. You’ve been condemned, and no human will ever change that.”

Corenn let out a sigh of disappointment. Though her chances had always been slim, she still held out hope that she could win. These killers were too indoctrinated to think for themselves, though. For a brief moment, she wondered what kind of strange indoctrination they must have received to have such a twisted sense of reality.

She exchanged a grim look with Grigán; then, she collected herself. The fight wasn’t over yet, and in a flash she dug in again, determined to win this war of words. No more need to speak in veiled terms now. She got right down to it.

“We would like to know the name of your benefactor,” she stated frankly. “Or any other piece of information about him. We’re prepared to pay for it.”

“And next you’re going to ask me to kill him,” he rebutted, having fully regained his confidence. “Classic. But neither one is possible.”

Grigán signaled discreetly to Corenn that it was time for them to leave. Nothing else was going to be gleaned from the discussion, and with each passing moment the situation became more dangerous. The Mother ignored him. She hadn’t finished yet.

“I have one final request. One that you can’t refuse,” she announced. “I would like the messengers to grant us a delay in carrying out the sentence. To give us time to pay for our sins.”

The Zü stared at her silently. This too was something he had never seen before. This request was reasonable, and perfectly in line with his beliefs.

“How long would this delay be?”

“It’s up to you to decide. At least a few moons, of course. And we will make an offering to the cult.”

He thought for a moment. He had landed so many victories in this battle that he was inclined to accept her inconsequential request.

“I have to think it over,” he replied. “Consult my superiors. It’s a new idea.”

“I understand,” Corenn acknowledged, happy enough to not hear a definitive no.

“Let’s meet again, next dékade. I’ll have an answer by then.”

Corenn nodded and paid them leave with a polite bow. Grigán left, displaying a look of utter scorn.

“What a waste,” he muttered as they reached the exit. “Forty golden terces and all of the risk for that.”

The Mother didn’t respond. Later she would get him to understand that they had made progress. For now she was too tired.

“Follow them,” the Zü whispered to his sidekick. “I want to know where those rats are hiding.”

Léti was starting to worry; she wondered if Corenn and Grigán had left the Small Palace while she and Rey were visiting the Courtyard of Games. They had been inside for far too long. She tried in vain to ignore another possibility, a much more pessimistic one, that maybe her aunt and the warrior would never leave the palace. This idea kept nagging her, and even Rey’s banter was ineffective at driving the notion from her mind. She kept her eyes fixed on the monumental porch of the palace that merchants of all types shuffled across in both directions. Finally, the jelenis guarding the entrance moved aside to let Corenn pass, immediately followed by Grigán.

Léti sighed, relieved, but she knew not to approach them, despite her boiling curiosity. They had agreed on a plan, and she had to respect it.

The warrior scanned the surroundings and easily located them. Without signaling to them, he hurried down a back alley with Corenn.

Rey and Grigán had mapped out the way back to the Rominian Pig during their last trip to Lorelia. They had to choose an indirect route, to avoid drawing attention to Bellec’s inn. They would traverse the most deserted neighborhoods to make it easier to spot anyone following them. They waited and watched the palace, as planned. What they saw was just as Grigán feared.

A Zü shoved his way to the exit. Even from their distant position, they could see how he cleared a path quickly. As each jeleni approached, trying to bar his way, the murderer would show the interloper the poisoned dagger he had just retrieved from the pile of weapons. His intentions were clear and menacing. The guards stepped aside every time.