Shadow of the Avatar

Chapter 5 -- Precepts and Premonitions

Try as we might, we can rarely escape our fate. Still, some judicious footwork can stave it off for a time...

--Jharon Ko

Wren opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling. The well-furnished bed chamber with its marble stonework, fluted ceilings, and flickering candelabras looked unfamiliar. Coverlets of satin and silk had been pulled up to cover her body. The agony of her wounds now felt like a dull ache on her breast and side.

It told Wren one thing and it made her shudder. The flight from Brethren hall had not been a nightmare. Her chest tightened. Grahm, Vulcindra, Tarmagal and Ishtar only knew how many others--

Dead.

She'd survived. At the moment, it seemed no blessing. Cultists now occupied the place she called home. The man she called friend and companion fallen to poison. She owned nothing now but the clothes on her back. Everything she owned of value still sat in a cubby at the Guild.

Wren felt tears trickle down her cheeks in streaks of burning that made her vision go blurry. What did she have left? Revenge? That seemed so petty now. Nothing meant anything anymore. Even if she found Desiray and saved a few lives, their existences would likely be as crushed as hers. The Brethren were shattered.

Wren sat up and pushed the covers back. The clerics had dressed her in a blue shift. The rod-and-hand sigil of Ishtar was prominent over the left breast, the garment probably belonged to one of the priestesses. Taking breaths, she tried to quell the tears. Jharon's magic could not alleviate the pain of the cruel blow dealt to her and the Brethren. She pulled up the hem of the nightgown and examined her side. Red discolorations marked where her wounds once were. She was well enough to travel with some rest. Well enough to try to do what Grahm asked of her. What then?

It didn't matter.

She looked around the room. The priestess to whom these chambers belonged obviously lived very well. The surroundings were anything but austere.

The candles didn't look burned much so she probably hadn't been unconscious for long. Had the Dagger given up or would they keep after her? Jharon turned away a few, but those would return and tell the others where she'd gone. She'd angered that priest of Set mightily, no telling what lengths he might go to.

She heard footsteps, and snatched up the only weapon in sight, a long hairpin that lay on the bed-table.

Jharon entered the room and stopped, obviously surprised to see her armed. "Still jittery I see." He shook his head, dusky features tight. Jharon stood well over eighteen hands tall, equal parts warrior, diplomat, and academic. He needed to be big to fill all those roles at the same time; to have a fighting man's strength, the soothing tones of a persuader, and the penetrating insightful eyes of a scholar. He possessed more than one facet, that's what attracted her to him when they first met. That and he didn't condemn her for associating with the guild.

He wore a black tunic and kilt rather than a temple surplice. His long hair lay in a braid over one shoulder. He'd come as a friend and not as a church official.

She put the pin down. It made an inordinately loud clatter on the wood. "I--" Her voice quavered. "I've been through a lot."

Jharon came and sat on the bed. He put his arm around her shoulders. "You've been crying."

Wren nodded. Could she tell him? She'd only begun to force the memories down, to try to insulate herself from them.

"Out on the steps, that rogue said something about the Dagger taking over Guildhall. Have the Brethren fallen?"