Gods & Thieves ✔

38. Blame and Repent

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Worry pulls at my stomach when I realize someone is watching us in the dark. Aura, flashing around the tips of my fingers, fades away as soon as the peace of my mind is replaced with frightened tension.

Loretto doesn't say anything, just stares at whoever is behind me now, and Mentor's face takes on an impassive, detached expression as it usually happens in the moments of potential danger.

And it makes me feel even more troubled when Tayen, still saying nothing, slowly releases my hand and takes a step away from the bakery door. As if preparing to defend faerself. Or attack?

Is Maricela behind my back? Like a needle prick, a terrible thought pierces the mind. If she showed up again in the dark to finish what she started yesterday, all we have left to do is run like cowards. Loretto definitely won't be able to stand against her if fae loses another portion of faer blood tonight. And I'm a dead man in a fight with a witch.

But Loretto doesn't attack. And fae's not defending faerself. And my teacher is certainly not going to run away.

When I finally force myself to turn around, clenching my tensed hands into fists, I don't see Maricela or a shaman, or even a patroller. An elderly man--a plainblood--stands in the middle of the street and looks at us with the same surprise, clearly trying to figure out why we are hanging around here, too.

Homeless, I realize. His pants and sweater are a dirty mess. Worn-out shoes. Sunken eyes and hollow, unshaven cheeks. His greasy hair on his temples sticks out in clumps as if it's been hastily cut with blunt scissors for convenience. And in his hands is an old bag, rusty candlesticks peeking out of it. Apparently, he was rummaging through the trash of a candle shop nearby--poor people who don't earn enough aura for magical lights go there.

When I look at the homeless man and his calloused, dirty hands, disgust wakes up in me again. I've completely forgotten that only Tik'al's residents are bathed in prosperity and lives full silks and flowers.

Yet this time, my disgust is mixed with pity and some kind of half-forgotten evil bravado--an instinctive desire to find those responsible and help those in need. It's these poor people that Cale always mentions when he tells his fiery speeches about the need to deprive sorcerers of magic. About the need to make everyone equal. Aura, food and clean water are more than enough for everyone in the world, he always said, chuckling humorlessly. So why do some people have more than they can spend in a hundred years, while others can't even scrape together for a day of their lives?

Loretto is still silent next to me, assessing the situation or maybe waiting for a trick.

But the homeless man is not used to waiting. Everything or nothing--that's the survival's tactic.

"Bastards," he mumbles with his toothless mouth, and the next second, he spits in our direction not just with disgust, but with sincere rage.

Alas, his drool does not reach us.

Then, clutching the handle of his ragged bag, where the candelabras are ringing, he meticulously examines us from head to toe, curls his weathered lips as if we're the ones who haven't washed in a month, not him, and makes a new attempt. "Because of people like you, life is getting worse and worse nowadays!"

At first, I'm sure he noticed aura on my fingers, recognized us as shamans, and my thoughts begin to whirl in search of excuses. However, I don't have time to insert a word, because then it becomes obvious that the stranger mistook us for ordinary thieves.

"Because of your scoundrels, the gods have turned away from our world!" he continues, drawing out each words with contempt. "You rob us, honest people, and then we live in the stench of your sins. We suffer for you. I lost my job and my home because of you!"