Chapter 15

CHAPTER 15

Across Talin, throughout its twenty-eight provinces, there have been reports of spontaneous combustion at temples and shrines, all of which are burning without discernible cause.

Outside the wall, the kingdom still believes in the old gods. San-Er has lost its reverence for the mystical, but rural dwellers pass down the stories of their homes, their land, their ancestral encounters with minor gods who used to walk among mortals. Their shelves hold small labels— plate retrieved with help from god of lost objects ; guidebook drawn with aid from god of yellow flowers ; bow gifted from god of pretty boys.

If the old gods are to come down from the heavens, they will come to the provinces first. They will find their believers and exercise their influence. A shop shrine for the god of winter harvest burns red in Daol. A family shrine for the god of pottery bursts into flames and almost burns down half a village in Youlia before it is put out. The half-husk ruins of a temple erupt on a slow afternoon, and though they stand on Pashe’s outer periphery, the smoke is visible from the yamen in the province center. No cleric has tended to that temple in decades. The councilmember for Pashe receives the reports and assures the province that it must have been an old lantern, its oil warmed by the sun and bursting.

The villagers nearby wonder about the god of the summer sun instead. Each time they are told there must be some explanation for these occurrences, the next occurrence grows more bizarre. Approved travelers from the capital have started bringing news about other feats of nature inside the wall, and the rumors spread fast. A noblewoman awakens from the yaisu sickness after seven years comatose. The captain of the royal guard is arrested only for trying to spread divinity. The princess has negotiated with the gods personally, because how else could she have stayed hidden in the cities for this long, save for protection from above?

I’ll tell you what, some villagers say when the royal soldiers aren’t in earshot, maybe the gods had Calla Tuoleimi kill the king and queen of Er back then.

Maybe they have been whispering into her ear from the very beginning.

Do you remember their names?

For the Tuoleimis? I haven’t heard them spoken in so long.

It feels like the work of the gods. As if they are deciding who ought to remain and who ought to perish.

Then Otta Avia’s declaration comes rippling into each village like a blazing gold arrow, and suddenly, it’s an explanation, a reason why the gods have been striking again and again. The heavens never chose their king. Maybe it is time for the heavens to pick someone else. It all comes down to the crown, and whether it can be found. For the first time, the provinces have a hand in the kingdom’s affairs, and maybe this is when it will change.

So the people begin to pray.

Inside the wall, the remaining Crescent Society members are starting to merge temples.

They need the consolidation if their numbers are to operate functionally. There are structures to build and procedures to put in place. Their members have been striking across the board, afraid that they will be among the next killed or arrested.

Are we sure Otta Avia isn’t one of ours? one Crescent asks. The timing is almost too perfect.

Murmurs down the table agree but confirm that this was certainly not a Crescent Society effort. This should be expected: at some point in the death of a kingdom, the nobility will begin fighting themselves.

We should coalesce an effort to intercept the crown, another says. The common people will follow someone the heavens confirm. It is the easiest route to liberation.

This meets dissent.

Unless you have some way of attaching yourself to the bottom of the palace carriages that leave tomorrow, we can’t exactly get out of the capital.

The Crescent Societies, anyway, have always been the organization within the walls. They understand this. The unanimous decision settles quicker than usual. A tide has turned to push their agenda forward, and they won’t miss the opportunity.

We must trust that the Dovetail will do their part. We keep our goals clear. Our job from the inside is to strike at the center.

After they clear the body, Calla stands dumbly by the stain in the carpet.

Someone will come to clean it while she’s away, they tell her. She should get some sleep. Especially if she agrees to accompany the delegation.

Slowly, she crouches and presses her finger into the stain. It hasn’t dried yet. There’s so much blood that when she pushes hard on the threads, it beads on the surface.

Left dot. Long and slanting curve. Dot above. Another dot to the right.

Calla lets her shirt collar snap back into place. The blood settles on her chest, drying where the sigil has been drawn.

As she crawls into her blankets for rest, she doesn’t think she’s imagining the rush of cold air that whispers down her spine.

When dawn comes, there’s already a crowd waiting at the wall.

After the riots and the many Crescent Society members dragged into the city’s dark alleys, the civilians here now only wish to bear witness. They stand by curiously. Gape and peer at the horses brought out for transport, point and stare at the palace aristocrats who wait stone-faced.

The palace guards hold the civilians back, their weapons out in case they need to use force. No one pushes forward. A hush falls over the crowd, almost in disbelief that the palace has acted so quickly. They must really be worried about the crown. There must be a true possibility that King August could lose it.

The guards open the gate.

And the delegation enters the provinces.