Intemperate Seas

9

Shrieking scrapes of metal clashed against the dull thuds of wooden panels, echoing through the dimly lit space. Faint, cold light filtered through jagged splinters onto the sleeping figure curled up amidst the crates. Rook's eyes snapped open, but he remained still. I must have overslept between these crates, he thought, feeling the ache in his legs intensify beyond what a few hours should have caused. Now the port inspectors will be hot on my tail.

Muscles tense, he listened intently, waiting until the silence was absolute, his mind racing to pinpoint the source of the blade-like sound against the crates. Slowly, he retrieved a small mirror from his pocket and cautiously angled it to peer into the aisle. After a painstaking minute of scrutiny, he determined the coast was clear. With nimble movements, Rook maneuvered himself out of the gap in the crates and hastened down the aisle, the hem of his cloak billowing behind him, dispersing waves of mist that caressed the early morning air. The dark fabric swiftly surrendered the warmth it had absorbed during the night. All that remained were receding boot falls sinking into the already bustling crowd where dust beats the refreshing breath of sea fog down into submission.

Habit nearly took his feet uphill, steam off of freshly baked bread drifting lazily through the air until his every breath was hunger, but he stayed on the right path, veering away from finer cobblestone past crumbling shops and sticking to the lower level of the city. Skin prickling at the thought of scorching bath water and scented oils, fresh fish and lemon salt, he forced his head down, refusing to look up the slope at what he knew was there, looming down on him. A cold burst of air shot his chapped lips, and warmth bloomed where blood seeped through the cracks. The sun cast a soft, cold filter onto the shimmering roofs of metal lining the boardwalk shops, tethered fisheries and eeleries bobbing delightfully off the wooden edge.

As a larger opening between shops approached, Rook pulled the cloak hood down farther over his face, tinkling bells springing from the spire of the Ekaleio in the center of the square. He nearly swore out loud. I thought it was Second day, not Third! Grumbling very quietly, Rook scurried to the edge of the street away from the middle, joining the small fray that was unfortunate enough to be caught all shuffling to the outsides, making way for the procession. The slaves of Immortal began to drain from the Ekaleio's gilded doors, black robes trailing each one like another shadow. These men always made Rook's skin crawl. Several older people in the crowd cried out and threw coins into the street in front of the slaves, younger acolytes following them collecting the coins as they went. Rook had never understood why each and every single higher ranking slave had their own acolyte boy until he watched this procession for the first time as a child and quickly realized they existed almost entirely for money collection. He turned and studied the Ekaleio itself instead of facing the line of slaves directly. As before, its dark walls made it seem somehow smaller than it was. The many windows full of colorful glass depicting pictures and stories gave the building a rainbow effect, resembling a shiny jungle beetle effervescent in all colors.

Blinking quickly, the colors seemed to flash around him, surrounding him in a dizzy spin. Rook closed his eyes, pain pulsing in his temples.

The Ekaleio's dark marble columns cast long shadows across the inner courtyard as the late hot sun descended. He stood before the altar, muscular frame draped in a simple white robe, dark hair shimmering in the light like silk, a stark contrast against the deep bronze of his skin. Perrin watched from the edge of the sacred space, chest rising and falling with nervous breaths. The lead slave approached Rook, his dark robes billowing around him like clouds of incense. In his hands, he carried a ceremonial dagger, its blade gleaming in the fading light. Rook met the priest's gaze, his eyes unwavering, his jaw set with determination.

As the ritual began, Rook found himself holding his breath, fingers lingering on his tunic as his arms were at his sides, wetting the soft fabric with clammy palms. He had witnessed these rites countless times before, but the sight of Perrin at the edge of the room, watching him, stirred something deep within him, and the knowledge the outcome of this ritual should be different based on the traditions. After all, when Perrin had performed it no one expected some sort of hidden power to surface. The slave's voice rose and fell in a melodic chant, the ancient words echoing off the temple walls. Rook followed the prescribed movements with practiced movements.