Brian Staveley - The Providence of Fire

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For a sacred structure dedicated to all the pleasures of mankind, Ciena’s temple didn’t look like much from the outside. It was huge, no doubt, sprawling over more than a city block, but all Kaden could see from the street was a blank stone wall six or seven times his height, the whole thing crawling with flowering vines but otherwise unadorned. Aside from the size, it wouldn’t have been so out of place in Ashk’lan.

“I expected more…” He searched for the right word. “… extravagance.”

“It’s all on the inside,” Triste replied. “Like true pleasure.”

Kaden stared at the nondescript stone. “All right. How do we get inside?”

The cobbler’s shop was small, but the shoes perched behind the glass windows-shoes in every color and shape, from delicate sandals to boots that would stretch halfway up the thigh, shoes made of soft leather and snakeskin and dark exotic wood-looked as though each pair cost at least a golden sun. Reinforcing the impression, two men stood flanking the door, hands on the pommels of their swords. Both were immaculately groomed and armored, but they had the hard eyes and scarred faces of seasoned fighters.

The closest one ran his gaze skeptically over Kaden and Kiel, then raised a palm.

“Nothing your size here, I’m afraid.”

Triste pressed forward, and the guard hesitated, looking her up and down. She murmured something Kaden couldn’t make out, and the man glanced at his companion.

“You know her?”

The other frowned, shook his head.

Triste glanced up and down the crowded street, then tugged down the collar of her shirt to reveal the delicate necklace inked around her neck. The guard’s eyes rose. She hissed something else, and, to Kaden’s relief, he nodded, stepped back, then gestured to the interior of the shop.

“Now that I think of it, I believe there may be something that fits you after all.”

The inside of the shop smelled of cedar and fine leather. Mirrors worth more than Ashk’lan’s entire flock stood against the wall, angled to provide the best possible view of the feet and ankles. Kaden found himself staring at his rough boots, but before he could think to scrape away some of the grime, the shopkeeper, a wide woman in a dress of very fine silk, bustled into the room. She took one look at Triste’s tattoo, then waved them back through a curtain blocking off the end of the shop. She studiously avoided looking at either Kaden or Kiel as she led them down a long hallway to a heavy wooden door, then slipped a key on a chain from between her breasts. The lock opened with a heavy click. She lifted a lantern from a hook inside the door, lit it, then handed it to Triste. Eyes still downcast, she gestured them down a flight of stairs.

“Be welcome to the home of the goddess,” she murmured as they passed. “May you find inside the pleasure you seek.”

Only after they’d descended the stairs and walked fifty paces through a tunnel floored with burnished black stone and paneled with shining maple did Kaden venture to speak.

“What did you tell them back there?”

“I told them my mother’s name, that the two of you were her patrons. That you were wearing a hood because you didn’t want to be recognized and that if they left us standing in the street for another moment, I would see that they were flogged and their employment terminated.”

Kiel frowned. “You bullied your way past the guards? That would seem to be weak security.”

“Not really,” she replied. “It was the tattoo that got me through. That and the fact that I…” She hesitated, coloring. “I look the part.”

“Really?” Kaden asked, raising his brows. He gestured to her burns, to the lacerations cut into her skin. Even without the obvious wounds, Triste was filthy, hardly the image of a pampered priestess.

She bit her lip. “Not all of Ciena’s gifts are made of silk and fine wine. There are … rougher pleasures. This will not be the first time the guards have seen a priest or priestess return to the temple looking … less than pure.”

Kaden grappled with the notion for a moment, then shook his head. “Now what?” he asked. “What happens when we get inside?”

“We find my mother.”

After walking another hundred paces and climbing a spiral staircase, Kaden followed Triste through a second wooden door, this one unlocked, into a small pavilion of cedar and sandalwood. Instead of walls, intricately carved screens shielded them from sight while allowing glimpses of leaves and tree trunks beyond. The noise and chaos of Annur’s streets was gone, replaced by the music of birdsong, the soft gurgling of running water, and from somewhere in the distance, two overlapping melodies picked out on great harps. Green vines spilling over with tiny red flowers twisted through the woodwork, their soft scent twining with that of the cedar and sandalwood. Twin divans upholstered with dark silk and piled with artfully arranged pillows flanked the walls of the pavilion, while between them a small stone fountain trickled water into a clear pool.

A quiet chime sounded as soon as Triste shut the door behind her, and moments later a young man in a simple white robe stepped into the space. Like the shopkeeper, he kept his eyes downcast, a humble posture that did nothing to obscure the perfection of his features. He gestured to the divan.

“Please, make yourselves comfortable,” he said, setting three filled glasses on a wooden table. “May I ask which of the leina you seek?”

“Louette Morjeta,” Triste replied.

Her voice trembled, and Kaden glanced over to see her biting her lip.

“So,” he said, when the man in white had gone, “this is your home.”

He tried to put a name to the feeling that had been tugging at him since they entered the temple, to trace the various strands of emotion, to follow the weave. There was nervousness, and doubt, despair and hope twisted together, even a thin thread of anger. He watched the feeling snare his body in its net, listening as his pulse quickened and sweat beaded his palms. What is this? Not resentment. Not fear. He considered the silk hangings, the sweat beaded on the blown crystal filled with wine and crushed mint. He watched himself watching the things of the temple, studied his responses.

Embarrassment, he realized finally. It was an unfamiliar emotion, one he’d not experienced with the Shin for many years. It was surprising to encounter it here, now. After all, he’d grown up in the opulence of the Dawn Palace, surrounded by servants and slaves, grown accustomed early to the genuflections of even the highest ministers. It was, he supposed, a testament to the thoroughness of the monks, to their ability to scrub away all such habits, that he felt so out of place now, among the luxury of the temple. The priestesses and priests, even their servants seemed like queens and kings, all poise and perfection, while he felt acutely the dirt beneath his nails, the oiliness of the beaten wool tunic, the rough stubble hazing his chin.

“You didn’t tell me your home was so beautiful,” he said, gesturing vaguely.

She frowned, glanced around as though really seeing the place for the first time, then shrugged. “Your monastery was beautiful.”

Kaden compared the rough stone buildings of his memory with the sweeping curves and sumptuous fabrics surrounding them. “A different kind of beauty.”

“A clean beauty,” Triste said. She lowered her voice. “This place … it’s all wine and silk on the surface, but beneath…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “Even in the Temple of Ciena, there are things that are not pretty. And people.”

Before she could say more, however, the screen to the pavilion swung open and a woman surged inside. Kaden had expected the poised reserve he’d seen from everyone else associated with the temple, but she utterly ignored him and Kiel, throwing her arms around Triste in a desperate embrace, sobbing her name over and over. After a long time, she pulled back, staring in horror at her daughter’s wounds.