Jean Johnson - The Guild

“Hansu—the mage-prisoners,” the gray-haired priest said, catching his companion’s sleeve while Hansu hesitated. “Without Mekha draining them, they will start to recover, and then they’ll come after us . We have bigger problems on our hands!”

Torven rolled his eyes again. Feeling well enough to stand, he pushed off the altar but leaned his hip against it for hidden support. If he had to fight to get out of here, he would need his reserves for battle not for balance. “For the love of a proper education . . . Gentlemen. Set them free , apologize to them—even if you have to choke on your bile to do it—and tell them that you were forced into doing everything you’ve done by your former Patron Deity! After all, who can go against the will of their God? Who cares if it’s a partial lie or a flat-out fib? With Mekha gone , banished from existence itself, you have the perfect scapegoat to blame!

“At the very least, you’ll have them pushed outside the temple doors before they know what’s happened to them, and you’ll have a valid excuse to lock those doors behind them,” he added archly.

“ Apologize? ” Hansu looked like he was being asked to swallow a manure-covered toad. He checked himself after a moment of thought, albeit with a look of distaste. “I . . . I suppose if we must . . .”

Mind no longer fogged by the spells laid on him, Torven had already thought five moves ahead. I could easily flee or overpower these two . . . but I’d have to go looking for another Fountain to try to take over, and that could take years of searching and careful insinuation. If the shattered remnants of this priesthood can pull their heads out of their collective arses long enough to stay organized, we might be able to summon up a vast source of power . . . and retain positions of power in this land. If they’re not idiots.

“Yes, you must ,” he said, barely concealing his impatience. “You have a very rare opportunity, gentlemen. With the removal of Mekha—as evidenced by the loss of His symbols and sigils from everything, even from the embroidery on your robes—you have the opportunity to create a God or Goddess of your choosing. One with all the power you could want . . . and one completely under your control.”

He smiled at them. Not a bland or a pleasant smile, but rather the kind that showed too many teeth. Koler blinked and frowned at him, but the bearded Hansu slowly nodded his head. “Yes . . . Yes. A powerful ‘God’ of our choosing . . .”

“Whatever you have planned, you had best stay here, if you want to see it through, mage. The others don’t yet know that you’re willing to join us,” Koler said, pointing at the Aian. “And they may not yet know that Mekha is gone. If He is truly gone.”

Torven glanced down at the hand still clutching the Truth Stone, then lifted it. “I have every reason to believe, based on ancient texts I have read regarding similar situations, that the disappearance of Mekha’s sigils from your robes and these walls—and His very presence from your ‘power room,’ whatever that was—means that He has somehow been disbanded and removed from His Patronage of Mekhana.”

Turning his palm up, he unfurled his fingers, revealing the unblemished white disc balanced neatly on his palm.

“As you can see, I have every reason to believe this may indeed be the truth.” He gave the other two men an arch look. “If you still want to retain some power, magical and governmental, I am willing to work with you on terms favorable to both sides.”

Again, the stone was white. Sighing heavily, Koler stepped into the hall. “I’ll contact the Patriarch and talk with the other temples. This may just be something that is strictly localized, or it may be kingdom-wide. We won’t know for sure until we talk to everyone.”

Hansu looked at his departing colleague then at the groaning Healer whose mouth-covering web was still in place, and snapped his fingers, knocking out the older foreigner with a wordless cantrip-spell. He stared at the younger mage. “Don’t get full of yourself, Aian. We’ll see how ‘favorable’ those terms truly are . . . and you may still have to be oathbound to them.”

Torven dipped his head. He was a capable law-sayer when needed, quite able to word rules and oaths just so. Without the power of their God behind them—provided Mekha truly was gone—Torven was fairly confident he could wrest a good deal from these people.

At least they seem to be sensible, practical souls like me, and not a bunch of moralizing imbeciles, hobbling themselves just because they’re afraid of the true advantages that lie beyond being mindlessly good all the time.

• • •

Torn between wanting to stay in the next prepping chamber over from the two newest prisoners to try to keep eavesdropping on that slimy foreigner, and running to the slave pens to free the mages—if they were free—Rexei finally set down the coal bucket she had been clutching to her flat-bound chest and forced herself to think through the thoughts swirling and clashing in her head. It wasn’t easy to comprehend, but the blankness of the very walls around her did seem to corroborate the mage’s claim. More than that, though, the pervasive, sour, mildew-slimed feel of the place, the way it had pressed in and down upon her inner senses in a blanket of cold, uncaring repression and depression, was now gone.

Mekha . . . gone. Just gone, poof, vanished! It was a giddy, liberating thought, but also a disorienting one. She felt like a mouse that had long been caught under the stare of a cat, only to see it finally move off and vanish. Except she couldn’t quite believe it. The background tune—one of a score—that always filled her thoughts hummed louder, cloaking her life-force to further hide her magical signature just in case.

He’s gone from this temple’s power room . . . but I know the other major temples around the kingdom also have power rooms, which He occupies simultaneously. I . . . I need to get close to the scrying room and try to overhear. If He is truly gone, the other temples would surely be discussing it with the priest.

The foreign mage’s other claim was quite chilling. Conjure a demon? Bind its powers for draining? Did I hear him right? She hoped not. Demons were reputed to be even nastier than Mekha was, and He was loathed by His whole people, save for the priests who profited from His demands. And yet if the foreigner was telling the truth . . .

She picked up the coal bucket, since it gave her an excuse to go places, though she didn’t yet move from the room she was in. It was winter, and Heiastowne had been built in a broad valley nestled against the foothills of the eastern mountains. The entire temple was crafted from thick stone laid by masons many centuries ago, back when Mekha had been a kinder, less capricious, less insatiable, less insane God. That meant the place required braziers and hearths to keep it warm. The priests weren’t going to tend those fires, though; they considered themselves superior to all others.

In all other guilds, from Apothecaries to Chandlers, Masons to Tanners, Vintners, and more, all apprentices were equal to each other. Journeymen were equals, as were masters and grandmasters, each to their own rank. There was a little bit of jockeying among the Guild Masters, but mostly among related groups, such as Goldworks, Silverworks, Brassworks, Ironworks, and the like, though Brassworks and Silverworks were both considered equal to Lumber, even if they didn’t always agree between themselves. At least, they were supposed to all be equal save for the Priests Guild, but there was always an argument or three about whose craft was the more skilled, the more valuable, or the more whatever.