Elisaf’s claims are proven right a few minutes later when we enter a vast space lined by four-story buildings. In the center is a circular pool with a water fountain, and all around it, men and women stand on platforms affixed to their colorful wagons, hollering to announce their merchandise. The aroma of cured meats and baked bread wafts, and banjo chords play from somewhere unseen.
On this side, onlookers clap and laugh as two lithe men duel with wooden sticks, volleying exaggerated stabs.
“There are mimes here?”
“The painted faces? Yes, they are popular performers. More so in the east. It is said you can’t walk a block along Kettling’s streets without running into someone busking.”
The late-day sun gleams off their ear cuffs. “They’re mortals.”
“And their keeper is right there.” Elisaf looks pointedly at the distinguished man in the suit, strolling around the circle with his top hat to collect money in its crown.
“Will they see any of that?”
“Hopefully in the form of a warm bed and hearty meal.”
“We must keep going.” Gesine clutches her cloak close to her neck to cover the telling gold collar that will earn attention we don’t want. Still, several leering men—immortals, by their dress and confidence—ogle her. Two begin keeping pace behind us. They remind me of Korsakov’s men with their smarmy smiles. If I didn’t know better, I’d assume it was because she is strikingly beautiful.
“She’s not wearing a cuff,” Elisaf says.
“You read my mind.” And to any of these immortals, she is just like any other human. One who isn’t currently owned by a keeper and is therefore free for the taking. “We should have given her a fake one.”
“We will be out of this throng soon enough.” Elisaf shifts closer to her side, his normally soft brown eyes hard with warning as he turns to face our pursuers.
But it’s Jarek and Zorya closing in to bank either side of the two men, their hands resting on their daggers, their wicked smiles begging for an excuse to use them, that steers the men in another direction.
The remainder of our passage through the square is uneventful, and soon we are on a quiet, cobblestone street, our two Legion warriors fanned out on either sidewalk.
“That is the sanctum, up ahead.” Elisaf points to a tall church. It’s nowhere near the grand spectacle of the one in Cirilea and only half the size, but it is elaborate nonetheless, its walls a pristine white stone, the clock tower gilded.
“I didn’t think there were casters anywhere except Cirilea.”
“There aren’t. These are false priestesses. Unremarkable humans who devote their lives to the fates in prayer. Almost none have even met a real caster, but they study Mordain’s belief system as if raised within it.”
Gracen’s words spring to mind. She’d said she had never seen a “real” priestess before. This must be what she meant. “You don’t sound particularly fond of them.”
Elisaf chuckles. “My feelings are mixed. Some are pious and gracious. Others develop rather grandiose and self-righteous illusions of their value to society.”
“Are there sanctums with false priestesses everywhere in Islor?”
“Even in the villages. There was one in Freywich. I’m sure Lady Danthrin is in there at this very moment, seeking salvation for her sins.”
“Some of these priestesses do have skills as healers. Not with affinities, but with knowledge of herbs, tonics, and a delicate hand. The woman who runs the apothecary where we met had such a gift.” Gesine picks up her pace, her keen focus flipping between the iron doors ahead and a small laneway to the side that leads into a well-tended garden and stable. A covered wagon and horse sit idle. “I think that was her wagon.”
“When did you last see Ianca?”
“The night we arrived. Wendeline was worried that word of a seer would spread, so we paid a man to bring her here and not ask questions.”
“And you know she made it?”
“I do not. We left Cirilea before I received word. I gave him half his payment up-front and promised the other half when I arrived here to collect her, and I hoped Wendeline’s trust in him was well placed.” Her brow furrows. “But I have heard the legionaries talk about raiders in the hills. I fear what may have happened during her travels.”
“I’m sure she’s fine.”
Gesine offers an appreciative smile before pausing at the bottom of the steps. “Sanctums are a place for prayer and reflection. Warriors and their weapons normally wait outside—”
“Except in this case.” Jarek strolls up the steps and yanks open the door. “After you.”
Gesine walks through the doorway, offering a cold look to Jarek—which earns her a stony glare.