Secret Seller: Prequel to The Famine Cycle, an epic fantasy thief saga

3: At Sanctuary Doors

The Eidolan sanctuary in deme Iris was better preserved than most I'd visited and retained much of its former glory. Its worn pediment rose on six thick columns smeared with a gray patina from their long watch. Etched into the stonework were the eleven Eidola, with the World-Father, Tyurn Sky-Sea, in the center. But the worn faces of the gods said much of how the religion had fallen out of fashion with many Oedijans. Fiery Valemism, a religion centered around an angry, volcanic god from the southern empire of Avvad, had taken the place of Eidolan as the primary religion of Oedija. But despite having some Avvadin cultural inheritance from my father's side, it had never much spoken to me. When I had a craving for the divine or a philosophical itch, I came to the oracles and their sanctuaries for satisfaction.

As Nomusa, Xaron, and I filed through the great doors, an acolyte quickly approached. Glancing down the center aisle over the acolyte's shoulder, I saw a ring of candles in the middle of the floor. Familiar as I was with Eidolan rituals, I knew what this one was erected for: a ward against daemons, the malevolent pyr said to reside in the Pyrthae. They were often blamed for ill happenings, yet I had a feeling such spirits were more myth than reality. I kept my skepticism to myself.

"Welcome, children of Tyurn," the acolyte said hurriedly. "If you would excuse us, some odd happenings have forced us to be less than hospitable. Perhaps we can foster your prayers later—"

Little as I wanted to, I saw I was going to have to bull over this poor acolyte. "We haven't come for prayer," I interrupted him. "We've come about the man who died."

The young man wrung his hands, glancing back towards the candles, or perhaps to the oracle's rooms behind the altar. "I'm afraid I can't speak to you about that. Please, I must insist that you leave."

Nomusa stepped forward. "At least let us speak with the oracle," she said as if it were so reasonable a request he could hardly refuse.

The acolyte's tongue moistened his lips. "Please, my ladies, my sir, I can't—"

"Look!" Xaron pointed back at the candles, and we all turned to see the flickering flames roar up in a dozen conflagrations. It was all I could do not to laugh at how the acolyte jumped and cowered away, even as another part of me groaned at Xaron's recklessness.

"That's a sign we should continue, right?" Xaron continued to string the boy along. "I'm going to take that as a sign." He led the way down the aisle before the acolyte could respond. When it became apparent that the poor boy, shaking and still staring at the candles, wasn't going to stop us, Nomusa and I followed on his heels.

I walked up next to Xaron. "You shouldn't be so blatant with your talents."

He rolled his eyes. "That dullard doesn't know the difference between divinity and divine gifts."

"And you don't know the difference between wisdom and wisecracks," Nomusa said, flanking his other side. "Caution would not be the worst thing to practice from time to time."

Xaron shrugged. "I'll consider it next time you don't need me to save your investigation."

We stopped at the end of the aisle by the circle of candles. I stared at the empty space, as if trying to summon back the image of Agmon's body when he died there. Yet now that Xaron wasn't channeling and scaring acolytes, there was nothing out of the ordinary about the space. Then I saw it: a hint of red glow tucked under one of the front pews. A bit of pyrkin from our unfortunate patrician, I did not doubt. I gestured us on, and my companions and I moved behind the altar to the heavy, blue curtains that guarded the back room, ignoring the acolyte's weak protests for us to stop.

I pushed the curtains aside to reveal a small, circular room with a wizened, bald man in ash-gray robes in the middle of it. The man didn't look up from the book before him as we entered. It was a mammoth thing, half the length of his person, and so heavy it had to be mounted on a pedestal to be handled. We waited for a minute, then two, for him to acknowledge us. In the end, Xaron's impatience won, and he cleared his throat loudly.