Jean Johnson - The Guild

Rexei worked with the others, guiding the collar-bound men and women to the temple doors. Most of them were young, a few middle-aged, none truly old. As she worked, she heard bits and snatches of the archbishop’s speech wafting in through the doors. “My dear fellow Mekhanans . . .” And, “. . . unexpected sadness, yet an unexpected joy . . .” The outright lie of, “. . . victims of our late God’s wrath, just the same as you!” And the one truth, “. . . decided to let these go into your care, with our deepest apologies . . .”

Well, a half-truth. She didn’t believe for one instant that the priests of Mekhana were actually sorry about anything they’d done to the men and women captured and forced to have their magic sucked out of them until they died. These velvet-clad men were sorry they no longer had their God’s protection, but that was all, and that was not the same thing.

Each time she directed a collared mage up to one of the two priests standing just beyond the front doors, she could see that while a crowd had gathered and that they were somewhat angry . . . they were also concerned about the men and women being pushed through the barrier holding them off. She could even see some of the mages beginning to recover as they stumbled into the arms of the crowd, usually the younger ones.

Hands lifted to the faces of their catchers, their partial rescuers, then fell limp, weak with disuse. Only the priests knew what they’d been fed, how little they’d exercised. Grimly, Rexei fought back the thought of her mother in similar straits and the sting of tears that wanted to accompany that thought.

It won’t do any good. It’s been over eleven years. She’ll have been used up by now. Dead, with who knows how many half sibs popped out and shoved off onto who knows whose hands as girl-orphans, but watched . . . always watched . . . to see if they developed magic. Or kept and coddled and spoiled as boys who might grow up to be privileged priests.

No. She’s gone. I can only . . . hope . . . that my brothers and father are still alive and free somewhere, and that she’s safely dead.

It was no good. Two tears spilled out, and two more. One of the novices spotted them and mocked Rexei. “Aww, is the little dullwit upset at how these little piggies have been treated? They were feeding your God , you greaseless twit!” the young man scorned, arm sweeping up to cuff her head. “Show some respect!”

Rexei ducked most of it, but the blow still made spots dance in front of her eyes. Her mage-prisoner kept walking, though, forcing her to scramble to catch up once her senses cleared. Thankfully, one of the priests scowled and intervened, ordering, “Leave him alone, Novice Jorlei, and keep to your own work. This isn’t the time for games.”

It wasn’t until she moved outside, stopping the mage with a touch and a word, that she realized her cap had been left behind, knocked off with the blow. Rexei realized it only because the temple steps were shrouded in shadow, making her hyperaware of how cold the air was on her short-cropped hair compared to the brazier-heated halls of the temple and how much she had sweated climbing and descending all those stairs. Not even the sun helped; it was shining brightly, but the crisp glow hit the far side of the modest square in front of the temple and not the spell-wrapped top of the steps.

She had to urge the mage through the barrier, but when she turned back to reenter, she found the priests retreating now that the last of the prisoners had been released. Archbishop Elcarei grasped the edges of the double doors, giving one last statement as he backed up into the hall behind him. “My fellow Mekhanans . . . until we have a new Patron Deity, this temple is closed .”

With that, he shut the doors firmly. They all heard the bolts being shot home . . . and a tingle of energy washed over the door and spread out across the walls, warding the place. Her cap, and the secrets of a possible demonic summoning, were now locked inside. For that matter, so was her winter coat, an oversized, carefully mended garment of sturdy felted wool pieced together from several shades of dark gray, with wooden buttons she had carved herself.

It was winter, specifically winter in Heiastowne, which was attached to the foothills of the southeastern mountains. If she stood in the sunlight, she wouldn’t freeze quickly, but as soon as night fell, she’d definitely be in trouble without a cap and a coat. Unfortunately, she found herself with a bigger problem immediately at hand.

“That’s it ?” a burly, wool-coated man growled, his voice ringing across the stunned quiet of the crowd. “Thank you fer letting us suck yer men an’ women dry, here’s the lot of ’em, an’ we’re still too high an’ mighty t’ give you the time of day or a word of why? ”

“If they can give us back our people, they can give us back our tax monies!” someone else cried out.

Rexei flinched as the crowd grumbled. Though most of them weren’t mages, even the least-powerful peasant could hurl pure life-energy at a hated target and have a chance for some of it to stick—usually as a curse, since it was unformed and untrained, but sometimes as a physical sort of blow. She knew it was about to turn ugly, knew they were about to charge the temple with nothing more than whatever they had in their hands . . . and she was still on the temple steps, squarely in their path. Quickly, she cried out on instinct in a hard, high voice, “ Enough! ”

It wasn’t quite a child’s scream, but it was similar enough to stop the pending mob in its tracks. Tugging her knitted sleeves down over her chilled hands, she slowly descended the steps, trying to glare hard at every face that wanted to twist with anger and charge the place.

“We have bigger problems on our hands. If you haven’t noticed,” she bit out sharply, “these men and women are nearly naked, and it is winter . There are a hundred and fifty-three of them. They need shelter. They need clothing. They need food , and several of them need to visit the Apothecaries,” Rexei added sternly, moving into the crowd.

She tried not to shiver as a stray bit of wind started stealing away what warmth she did have inside her knit tunic and the two linen shirts that lay beneath. Her trousers were faring somewhat better; they were felted wool with a linen lining, and she wore stockings that came up just past her knees and long undertrews that came to just below her knees. But somewhat better wasn’t perfect, and the wind pushed through the layers with invasive, icy fingers.

At least the others were closing in around her, hiding her from some of the wind as well as the temple, but only somewhat. Unfortunately, her words had to be said, and the responsibilities asserted. “ Every guild in this square will have to take in two to four of these men and women, just to ensure they are fed and clothed and cared for while they recover from what has been done to them. That is our first priority.”

The same first man spoke again, his face flushed with anger. “The priests are—”

“The priests aren’t going anywhere!” She hated all the eyes on her and hoped that the priests hadn’t realized that the dull-witted, soft-spoken Rexei of the Servers Guild was one and the same as the owner of that sharp voice . . . but her back was to the narrow, glazed windows of the temple. She lowered her voice, knowing that what she said next would spread on its own. “Listen to me carefully, and tell everyone what you can see with your own eyes. Mekha. Is. Gone. I was there when the Dread God’s images melted from the walls. I saw the embroidery vanish from their sleeves.