When Heroes Die

“Miracles are sorcery for stupid people.”

— Dread Emperor Sorcerous

“I’d like to have a talk before you leave,” Taylor stated.

She stood in the doorway with her arms forming an arch against either side of it, blocking off the only route out. The brown of her eyes cut into him like a knife stabbing through flesh.

“Is something the matter, sister?” he whispered. “I thought it was agreed upon that today would be the day when I took my leave from your retinue and began my part of our great work.”

It was better to be considerate to the neighbours before the rise of dawn and not earn anyone’s ire.

“Friends gave me some advice. They told me to be more open. That it suits the person that I’m trying to be. So I’m going to try it.”

She looked conflicted, as if the idea of wearing one's thoughts on their sleeves was a mistake to her. This did not come as a surprise to Pascal. He held a similar belief. To do otherwise in a land like the Principate was like trying to teach scripture to a wizard. Better odds at teaching a dog, and they didn’t even have souls.

“You do not need to concern yourself with your daughter’s safety. I have complete faith in your ability to redeem her,” he consoled Taylor.

Pascal knew that it was wiser not to imply any threat to a mother’s child, however given previous discussions it seemed likely to be a concern that she had. It was a fear that was best put to rest.

Taylor stilled. The glow surrounding her intensified for a moment.

“The only worry I have about Yvie concerning you is how upset she will be if she has to kill you.”

The words were delivered with as much life as the ground within the borders of Keter. It was as if she considered the outcome of such an encounter to be a foregone conclusion and no more thought needed to be given to it.

Yvette spent most of her time reading books or scrolls when she was not with Taylor or Songbird. Pascal had seen no hint of any aggression within her, but the warning was received nonetheless. Perhaps it was best to remain cautious around the pint sized calamity after all.

“What is it that you wish to share with me?” he trailed his spindly fingers along the cool surface of the wall in thought, tapping against bricks as he went. It was evident that this was not what she came here to discuss.

Pascal was not certain why Taylor had invested Songbird with so much trust, but he was not above taking advantage of her lapse in judgement. It would be an important lesson for her in the years to come if she wished to trade blows with those in the halls of power.

“We know that you intend to betray us and co-opt my plans.”

Pascal could read the underlying currents of anger writ into the words that she delivered. Her shoulders were stiff. Her muscles were taught. She held herself ready to leap forward and fight. It reminded Pascal much of the warrior monks at the church he once toiled at before a wizard burned it down.

“It serves your purposes as well as my own for corruption to be cleansed from the House of Light,” he assured her.

“Perhaps I’m not being clear enough. I’m intending to do everything that I legally can. That means no inciting a Liturgical war. No trying to discriminate against sorcerers or anyone else for that matter. There is enough chaos in the land for me to not cause more of it.”

“The Highest Assembly will never accede to your wishes,” Pascal feigned a sigh of regret.

The upcoming war was an unfortunate necessity, but a war was all but a certainty now. The documents they had obtained proved the corruption within the clergy beyond a shadow of a doubt, but they also illustrated just how unfit the Princes were of ruling. It would take the hand of one of the faithful to truly guide the Principate in the years to come.

“They will refuse until someone with a Name that they can’t kill starts decapitating Princes,” Taylor countered, folding her arms together.

“The only laws that you should hold yourself to are the laws of the Gods Above.”

“I do, but the laws of the land need to find some common ground with the laws of the Gods, otherwise there will be problems.”

“We have gone centuries so far without either the Chosen or the Damned making a serious threat to topple the hierarchy of the Principate.”

“Things changed.”

Taylor refused to elaborate on the nature of those changes. Their argument proceeded like a quill trailing from one side of a page to the other. She insisted that he was falling down a dark well with no hope of finding the Light on the other side. She cajoled, persuaded, tried to convince Pascal to give up his own beliefs and champion hers instead.

Pascal was not swayed from the course he had charted.

That did not prevent him from offering her reassurances otherwise. Taylor seemed to believe that she was capable of preventing the seeds he was planting from blossoming. She invested so much confidence into Songbird’s schemes that she made no attempt to cut Pascal off. It was a mark of weakness that she would need to grow out of with time if she intended to brush shoulders with those who held power.

Her mistake was in believing that she had any way to shift the boulder once Pascal had set it rolling. He would speak and people would listen. And the individual they would listen to was him as he spread the words of the Gods. Taylor was allowing him to open the box, and she had no way to close it again. Pascal’s cause would persist even if he should perish.

Taylor eventually took her leave.

“I forgave the people of Aisne because of the circumstances. I will not allow a similar rebellion to be incited again. Should it appear as if something similar is about to occur, I will do my part to prevent it…” were the last words she spoke to him as she departed the room.

“I suggest that you pay more attention to what Taylor says,” Songbird warned him as the two of them left the Snake’s Nest.

Pascal made no effort to reply.

Songbird was a skilled administrator and schemer. Taylor relied on her to fulfil a critical niche within their group, but the redhead Lycaonese woman was not irreplaceable. If it came to pass that her schemes served as an obstruction between him and the work of the Gods, then… Songbird would find her thread cut loose. It would be easier to guide Taylor properly without her interference.

She led him out of the livelier parts of the Upper Yearning. The roads widened as they passed many large mansions, then narrowed once more as they stepped into a side alley. A turn of the hourglass later and Songbird came to a halt. She had led him to a derelict warehouse in the more industrial parts of Salia. While it would take much to furnish it, Pascal was prepared to concede that it would serve his purposes.

“Scribes that I’ve paid will be copying the relevant records taken from the Holies and concealing them here. I’ll leave the method of distribution up to you, although I expect you will require my assistance. You know where to find us If you find yourself in need of any help we can provide. Sending a written missive should suffice.”

Pascal looked over his temporary base of operations more critically as he listened to what Songbird said.

“This is satisfactory.” He smiled.

“Then I’ll take my leave.”

The bedraggled troublemaker turned and departed. Pascal hummed to himself as she disappeared around the corner. There was much to be done if he wished to overturn the Holies. The conclave presented the ideal opportunity for seizing power from his foes.

Pascal would not allow it to slip between his fingers.

“Heed not the words of those who preach poverty from atop mounds of gold. Those who would have you toil in the mud while they feast upon the spoils of your labour. For it is they who drip poison into the ears of the princes, turning man against man, kin against kin. For it is they who make mockery of virtue. Cast down those who would-” Pascal’s voice reverberated across the thoroughfare.

Esme allowed the current of the crowd to pull her along in the man’s wake. There must have been thousands of people hooked onto his every word. The pale man stood tall upon the back of an open roofed wagon and preached to all who would listen, shaking his fist to the clouded sky above as he spoke. Two surly mules pulled his transport forward across the cobbled road.

Songbird had requested that Esme trail Pascal and hear his arguments for herself. She did not know why Songbird had insisted on it — but with little else to do — she had found herself heeding Songbird’s odd demand.

This was the fourth time she had done as much this week.

The more she had observed Pascal, the less she came to like him. He reminded Esme of her parents and the other nobility. He claimed to be a hero, but was nothing more than another fish of the same breed as those who had ruined her life. Pascal was a schemer through and through.

Being faithful and following the gods did not make the man good.

It surprised Esme how many bought into the story that he told. It had not taken long for him to incite anger among the faithful. Many flocked to his cause. It hadn’t taken Pascal long to appoint trusted helpers who could be seen darting between the crowd like hungry piranhas. They distributed texts that had been copied among the masses and helped build excitement.

One way or another, this storm would die out before the sun set.

The day of the conclave had dawned at last.

Esme listened with one ear to the man’s rhetoric. Her thoughts were adrift, unmoored. They had been ever since the day that Taylor and Songbird had taken her aside and talked to her. There had been many similarities in what the two of them had said, which made the differences so much more telling.

Both had summoned forth the memory of her dead brother. Songbird had used it to bleed Esme like a stuck pig. She had wielded it to harm Esme, demanded that Esme feel shame.

Taylor had not done the same.

She had cast the pebble of her thoughts in a different direction and asked Esme to think on what her brother would have wished for her. The ripples that had followed had not cut in quite the same way.

It was the stark difference between the two ocean currents that left Esme in a daze.

She had seen enough of Songbird to know she had a more deft hand for managing relationships than Taylor did. The redhead would know of the visceral desire for vengeance that her words had given life to. If Taylor had been capable of casting her net and drawing forth the conclusions she desired without giving birth to burning hatred directed her way, then Songbird could have done much the same.

Which brought into question her motives.

For what reason did Songbird want Esme to hate her?

It was a question that had plagued Esme’s thoughts for some time now, much like the new rumours of the ghost of a sunken ship haunting travel at sea.

The cart slowed as it approached the cathedral where the conclave would take occur. Priests moved to intercept it, but were waylaid by the crowd. Pascal descended from his lofty perch and strode forth with the confident arrogance of a man who expected to have his way.

Esme turned down a deserted side alley and started to leave.

She had seen enough of his poisonous rhetoric to satisfy her curiosity.

It was a while later when a voice let out what sounded like a battle-cry up ahead. It was a familiar voice — one that she knew well — and her pace accelerated before she even realized it. Soon Esme was sprinting. Her hand reached towards the knife at her belt and she was quick to pull it loose.

She passed an abandoned vegetable stall and stepped into a cul-de-sac.

Circumstances: Five men, three on the ground — either fatally wounded or dead — two more engaged with Songbird. Songbird backing against a wall is deliberate. Cutting off the other approach.

Condition — Songbird: Cuts on arms, superficial. Blood staining tunic. Suggests a stomach wound. Likely a gut wound. Fatal without treatment.

Condition — Fighters: Heavily wounded. Are also likely to perish.

Songbird deflected another blow with one of her short swords as Esme took in the scene, and then returned a jab of her own. Her movements were sluggish, but she still took the man in the gut then pushed up, before pulling her blade loose. He let out a strangled gasp, then fell to the floor. Two more similar exchanges with the final fighter and Songbird was alone.

She staggered back, then slipped on a pool of blood and fell towards the ground.

Time almost seemed to slow.

Esme’s fingers twitched once more.

I don’t even need to do anything. I just need to leave and I’ll have vengeance.

Esme stood there frozen as she considered what to do. Nothing pointed to her being present. It was a gang of five who had sprung upon Songbird. She didn’t have enough details to put together a full understanding of what occurred. It might have been nothing more than chance, but Esme was prepared to wager on foul play being involved.

She breathed in and out, gripping her dagger tight by the hilt.

What should she do?

Leave, her mind called out to her.

Just sail away.

It would be so easy, but what would occur next?

Connect: Taylor relied on Songbird for strategy. Pascal knows this. Knows that the best way to disarm Taylor is to remove Songbird. Pascal is contesting Taylor for leadership of the church, and thus has motive to remove Songbird.

Her grip tightened. The cold bit into her fingers, but her focus was elsewhere.

This decision was too momentous for her to decide on a whim.

Taylor’s plans would all unravel if Songbird died. Pascal might take over the House of Light. That could play out in multiple ways. He would almost certainly die if Taylor believed that he would cause a war. He would die if Taylor learned that he killed Songbird. The war might break like a storm, regardless of if he lived or perished. A Liturgical war presented plenty of opportunities for vengeance to come to all of her foes. Esme merely needed to…

“Your death would be quick and painless. It would be over before you even blinked.”

Esme shuddered involuntarily. Memories of that terrifying moment surfaced once more. Memories of the stark sincerity that the words had been delivered in. It was as if she was stating that the sun rose at dawn, or that the tides moved according to the moon. Taylor had been trying to be comforting. She wasn’t.

Esme’s life would come to an end if Taylor ever discovered that she had left Songbird to bleed out. However, her vengeance would be all but assured. Was this not an acceptable trade? Her life for the vengeance that she craved?

But…

Taylor would be inconsolable in her grief. She would blame herself for the failure. Blame herself for extending trust like this to another person. Taylor’s relationship with Songbird reminded Esme of her relationship with her brother when they were younger, shortly after one of their fights.

This was her opportunity.

Her fingers tightened around the hilt of the knife.

Esme tried to find it in herself to hate Taylor. It didn’t matter if she would be hurting someone else the way her family had hurt her, this would be vengeance. Vengeance was what she was due. She just needed to walk away.

Her feet would not move.

Despite how much disdain Esme had for Taylor’s vision — her stubborn belief in a peaceful resolution — she did not wish the woman any ill.

She found it beyond her.

Even Discern told Esme that the raven haired priestess was sincere. She was not scheming, back biting or corrupt. While she often harboured dark thoughts, she never allowed them to leave port.

Taylor cared.

Even when she should not.

Songbird will owe me for the rest of her life. That counts as vengeance, right?

Esme sheathed her dagger and released the hilt.

She took one step forward. Then another. Then the next.

Time sped up.

It was not long before she found herself beside Songbird.

Injuries — Songbird: Heavy bleeding. Cut off blood flow. Staunch wounds. Don’t move Songbird. Prevent loss of blood.

She reached towards the woman and followed the instructions in her mind almost mechanically, calling out for assistance while she worked.

“Knew you’d do it,” the redhead slurred. “Knew you’d help me.”

“You are the barnacles on the hull of my boat,” Esme replied.

There was no heat in her words.

Songbird’s eyes were clouded over. Her skin was sweaty.

Behaviour — Songbird: Delirious, rambling, confiding more than she would otherwise.

Speculation: Songbird expected this attack. Set up Esme to find her.

Esme could not even find it in herself to hate the woman for that.

Songbird kept rambling while Esme worked. She had cut loose parts of Songbird’s ill-fitting coat and did her best to dress the wounds with torn off pieces of her own sunflower yellow dress. Discern kept complaining about the possibility of long term illnesses, but Esme dismissed the warnings.

It was only necessary to delay Songbird’s demise until Taylor was able to mend the wounds.

It was not long until one of the guard patrols stumbled into the side street. Esme shouted out to them. Told them where the Snake’s Nest was. Told them to find Taylor.

One of them ran off.

The rest chose to remain.

A blonde haired youth moved in to assist.

It was not even a quarter of an hour later when a searing sphere of blazing Light descended from above and Taylor arrived to heal Songbird’s wounds. She looked at Esme, her eyes softened and she smiled.

Esme did not need to reach for her gift to know that Taylor trusted her.

“You did the right thing.”

“Pascal was responsible for this attack against her.”

“Go to the Cathedral,” Taylor pointed in the wrong direction.

That was fine. Esme could find the cathedral on her own.

“This girl is a witness to the crime that occurred here. She needs to be taken to a magistrate to report the events,” one of the guards interjected.

“Esme will do that later,” Taylor’s brown eyes met those of the guard, unblinking. “You will escort her to the conclave.”

The woman shrunk away from her gaze, then nodded her approval.

“Go to the Cathedral, Esme. You’ll know what to do there. Might as well finish up Songbird’s scheme. I can guess the next part.” Taylor’s grip on Songbird’s arm tightened. “I’ll deal with this fool who thinks plans involving getting herself stabbed are acceptable. She knew that I’d never approve of this stupid scheme if she’d told me of it, even if it's definitely heroic.” The last words were shouted out in a tone that was both possessive and fond.

Esme followed behind the guards as they led her off. Her mind was blanketed beneath a thick fog.

She had helped someone who she had sworn vengeance to.

She had helped them and had felt good about it.

Had she made the right choice, or was this a decision she would come to regret?

Her hands felt clammy, sweaty, and it wasn’t from the blood that stained them either. The blood almost felt clean. It felt as if it belonged.

Esme doubted that it would ever come off.

The guards led her past the crowds of Pascal’s supporters who watched them like hungry sharks. The streets outside the cathedral were so packed with people that they needed to shove their way up the stairs. Her escort hid their nervousness well as she passed beneath the church bell and opened the double doors.

Like a fog bank at sea, the pews which in other circumstances would seat men and women from the streets were instead crammed with priests clad in white. Additional chairs had been found and extended the occupied space all the way to the stained-glass windows on either side. The cathedral was hot, humid from all the bodies pressed up inside it.

The building may have been large, but it was far too small for the crowd gathered within. There was a small group who were tied to chairs at the front, seated facing the audience. They bore gold markings on their robes. The Holies. Esme could not see their expressions, but she doubted that any of them were pleased with their circumstances. It had astonished her how fast Pascal’s opinions had propagated among the peasantry. Esme would wager a Whale to Walleye that his words had taken root among the clergy and spread like a wildfire there as well.

The bear in the salmon run stood at the lectern opposite to the doors and was in the process of addressing the conclave.

Esme ignored the Reformist’s grand declarations.

She did not care to hear the man utter another word.

Her blood boiled, her anger sang to her.

Silence fell as she stepped through the doors.

Pascal was no better than another scheming snake attempting to poison those whose purpose was purer than his own. Esme would see him brought low. She had no weapons to fight him save that of her own tongue, but under this roof that would be enough.

Words were spilling out of the Inquisitors lips before she even realized that she had opened her mouth.

Pascal was not fit to lead the House of Light.

And so — much like she had once taken Yvette to task — she began to Denounce him.

Yvette looked through the many stalls in the open market. Her ma would be upset with her for sneaking out with Songbird like this, but Yvette wasn’t prepared to be coddled. She was thirteen, and she had a Name. She was safe. Safe. She didn’t need her ma for everything. Nobody was going to come and slice into her like shards of broken glass again. What would other people think of her if they heard that she listened to everything her ma told her to do?

Songbird had disappeared a while ago, claiming she had business at the conclave. She had told Yvette to stay out of trouble and be a big girl, then given her an exaggerated wink.

That was okay.

Songbird had been giving Yvette plenty of advice when she could. She told Yvette that it was her duty to be the irresponsible one, and did her best to lead Yvette into trouble. It was fun, but her ma wouldn’t approve. Her ma would want her to be responsible. Then, if Taylor was in a bad mood, she would give Yvette the look. The look always made Yvette feel like she was ten years younger and had been caught stealing apples from a horse. She didn’t like the look.

So Yvette would be responsible.

She would stay here until she was ready to go back to the Snake’s Nest and not get into any trouble. This was fine. She wasn’t doing dangerous magic without supervision again. Well, except for the spell to keep her skin warm and her clothes clean. That one didn’t count. It wasn’t dangerous. Neither did the spell to push snow away from her, or the spell that made her less interesting to everyone around her.

Don’t lose focus. Breathe.

Yvette took in a deep breath, centring herself.

Her ma was out on the streets and busy healing people. She had asked Yvette if she wanted to come with but seeing so many injured people reminded her of the day again. She would rather do without the reminder. Yvette took a moment to examine the wares of a cobbler, before leaving when she found nothing that suited her needs. Other patrons shied away from Yvette as if she was diseased, even though they weren’t fully aware that she was present.

Breathe.

Was her hiding spell working at all? They noticed her, and they shouldn’t. What she was doing to the surrounding environment wasn’t subtle. Yvette wasn’t sure that she could do subtle. Such open hatred had been uncommon in the past, but became more frequent the longer Pascal gave his awful speeches.

Breathe.

Nothing was going to go wrong.

Yvette passed a merchant selling foul smelling fish, then spotted the front face of a two-storey building nearby. It was clean, well looked after and had windows instead of shutters. It advertised itself as a jewellery store. Yvette stopped and watched a flock of pigeons as they took flight. Their feathers made good components for sleep spells. It would be nice to look at rings and necklaces. Perhaps she should suggest a trip here to her ma in future?

Breathe.

She started forward once more and felt the onset of a memory returning to her. She shoved it aside, only to trip and fall. A horse kicked up some snow behind her. Oh, did it almost run into her? She needed to pay more attention. Her lips curled into a frown. She hated being so distractable. Yvette climbed to her feet and walked towards the statue in the middle of the square.

Don’t think about bad things.

She slowed as she saw a patrol escorting someone with bloody hands down a road on her left. The person looked familiar. Who was it? She reached up, brushed her golden locks aside, and scratched the nape of her neck in thought. Oh, it was Esme. Anger, regret, and guilt lanced themselves through her like a needle piercing cloth.

What had Esme done now?

Yvette’s feet had started to follow behind the group without even realizing it.

She loathed Esme. Esme didn’t deserve her ma’s attention. She didn’t deserve to be helped. Esme went out of her way to be as unpleasant as possible to everyone. Had she killed someone? Was the guard finally arresting her? It was uncharitable of her to think as much, but it wouldn’t surprise Yvette if that was something Esme had finally done.

She did her best to follow without being seen — avoided three carts, a hound and only spared a glance for a cat — while trailing behind Esme and her escort. Yvette wasn’t going to cause any trouble, she just needed to make sure that Esme wasn’t going to do anything either. Yes, that was it. They headed past a grove of oak trees towards a massive crowd gathered outside a cathedral. Oh. This was where the conclave was taking place.

Yvette bit her lips.

Breathe.

How could she follow behind? Flight? No, she wasn’t confident with flying magic. Her hand went to her pouch and opened the clasp, then fumbled around inside as she thought. A distraction? No, that would backfire. These people probably didn’t like magic. Especially if they listened to Pascal. Best not to make them angry. Her fingers brushed against a cocoon and she paused.

Yes, that would work.

The cocoon for metamorphosis, change, mutability. A tiny hourglass for transience. A broken fragment of a mirror for a broken perspective. She selected a few more reagents for the ritual. It was a…complicated spell that she wanted to try, but not one that should be beyond her.

Yvette faced the walls of a nearby building and started to mutter under her breath. She kept her movements muted as she traced the symbols into the air, careful to obscure them from view.

It was best not to attract any attention.

The shutters of the building opened for a moment. Someone was looking in from the other side. Yvette yelped, lost attention, and released the spell.

Oh, no.

Yvette staggered as energy flowed out of her, then steadied herself against the wall. She took two steps back, puzzled, then tried to determine what it was that she had done. That had used… most of her energy to cast.

Reality rippled.

An understated shriek echoed that was simultaneously louder than the wail of a child burning to death in Aisne, and quieter than a feather touching the ground. The sound spread no further than within a few feet of her, as if it obeyed laws of its own.

A region of space three feet wide and six feet tall shattered.

Breathe.

This wasn’t what Yvette had wanted to do. She had only wanted to pinch space a little. Connect where she was to the roof of the cathedral so that even a single step could bridge the distance. Her ma had told her not to attempt teleportation — but she hadn’t been trying to teleport — only to reorganize the world so that it suited her better.

She… hadn’t succeeded.

A desolate landscape occupied the space on the other side of the tear in reality. So that was where the desolation happened. Good. At least it wasn’t in the town. Yvette looked further through the fissure. A cold, harsh, wintry landscape occupied the other side. Oh, no. Was this a gate to Arcadia? She had wanted to spend some time studying Arcadia. Her ma had mentioned the possibility of wizards being sent to investigate Constance’s Scar, and was hoping she could be one of them. It was a good opportunity for her to learn more about magic and perhaps make some headway on the runes. The decision would need to wait until after the civil war ended, but Yvette thought that it would end soon.

Breathe.

This was fascinating. The breach would fix itself in a few hundred heartbeats. It was the perfect opportunity for her to take a step into Arcadia and see what it was like inside. Yvette’s chances of encountering one of the Fae were slim to none, and she wasn’t going to get another opening like this any time soon. She took a moment to reinforce her warming spell and then stepped through the gap into the desolate landscape, then examined the area behind her.

A dense deadwood forest loomed in the distance.

Breathe.

Yvette turned once more.

Another break back into reality was beginning to form. It was only a few steps ahead of Yvette. She ambled over and looked through a pinhole sized gap into a large open room packed with people wearing white. They were probably priests. Maybe it was the cathedral? So her spell hadn’t failed completely… just succeeded differently. The portal continued to grow. This wouldn’t do. Somebody might notice it. Yvette’s fingers danced as she used the last of her magic to weave a mirage, obscuring the portal from view. So long as Yvette didn’t say anything or step through, nobody would notice that she was listening in.

Pleased with her limited success, Yvette almost stumbled when she heard voices from the other side.

“-you make a mockery of the very faith you claim to uphold. Far be it for you to denounce the words of the Holies when you yourself scheme to undermine the deeds of another among the chosen. You hide in the depths like a predatory fish and knife your own allies to promote your own purpose. There is-” Esme continued to rant from the other side of the tear.

The denouncement she gave echoed out through the portal.

“Hear me now, my brothers and sisters: you should pay no heed to her words. She comes before us today as one of the damned and seeks to undermine the very foundations of our faith. For it is only-”

Pascal was there as well. It sounded like the two of them were arguing. She didn’t have the mental capacity to focus on all the details of what they said, and so focused on only the important bits while she observed the tear. She needed to remember to leave it on time.

Esme accused Pascal of working to undermine Taylor.

Pascal argued that Taylor would make a good subordinate but bad leader.

Esme accused Pascal of stirring up another Liturgical war.

Pascal argued that sorcerers deserved to die.

The two continued to fling accusations at each other, and Yvette only listened with half an ear.

Yvette wasn’t certain of who was winning the debate. She also wasn’t sure of whom she wanted to win. She suspected that Pascal would succeed because between Esme and Pascal he was the smart one, but that wasn’t saying much. Both of them were awful people who said awful things. Why hadn’t the priests killed Esme already anyhow? It wasn’t like they couldn’t just spear her with the Light and nobody would blame them for killing one of the damned.

Oops.

Had she said that out loud?

An awkward silence fell in the room before her.

Esme began to turn around.

“I see you, little mouse,” an eerie voice called out from behind Yvette.

She yelped and stepped through the portal beside Esme, then looked behind herself and dismissed her mirage. There was nobody there. Yvette wanted to take a moment to complain about the Fae, but realized that she had bigger problems to deal with.

She had just stepped through a portal into a cathedral filled from one side to the other with priests. Priests that didn’t like nice little wizards like her. There was a group of city guards beside her, but they didn’t look pleased to see her either.

Yvette knew that she had landed in hot water.

“Ma!”

So she let out a Call.