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Usually.
But not today.
Her footsteps echoed up the high marble of the sacred circle, with the five vast, bronze figures inspecting her from on high.
There were myriad lesser deities that made up the Galaxians, the family of gods and goddesses that governed every aspect of life in Dynosia. Those lesser deities could be called upon by those with specific needs—Evengis Vatic, God of the Noble Hunt; Selin Mesti, Goddess of the Moon; Krasi Ardor, Goddess of Wine; and countless others.
But these were just offspring and descendants. They were not the Five High—the Pentariat.
Teigra lit a short stick first to Ondo—God of Prosperity, Intrepidness, and the Oceans—a bag of gold in one hand and a deep-ink pearl in the other. She prayed that their journey to Ardora be safe and swift.
She lit a short stick second to Vatic—God of Fate, Vitality, and the Wilds—shears in one hand and a long-staff in the other, around which coiled a hissing albino opium snake. She prayed that the god twist his words of prophecy, dispelling Xiber from her bloodthirsty intent.
She lit a short stick third to Rina—Goddess of Discord, Bravery and Tempests—a spear in one hand, and the other holding a burning heart from one of her own war priests. She prayed that the goddess inflame the hatred of the other Rinathi warlords, leading to further civil war and division, rather than a united invasion.
And, after a moment of intense guilt, she lit her final short stick to Mesti—Goddess of Reason, Artistry, and the Night Sky—one hand holding a great shield, the other perched upon by a wide-winged celestial strix. She asked that the goddess give Aurelius the patience and insight to complete his dangerous mission.
Lastly, she came to the statue of Ardor—Goddess of Fertility, Passion, and the Sun—one hand raising a sprig of oak, the other holding an eternal rose to her bare bosom. Teigra twisted the long stick of incense in a nearby sconce, placing it at the goddess’s feet.
It was only the second long stick placed there in recent times.
She kneeled, much in the same way that Prince Calix had done just over one week ago.
One week? Has it really been so short a time? And yet, so much has already changed...
Words from long past scrolls rose with the earthy curls of pine-scented smoke. The incantation came to her in a twisting flow of Voresoma—the language that predated Mestibes itself, and one she was much better at reading than speaking. It drifted by the statues, up past the frescoed ceiling, through the oculus itself, all the way up to the skies beyond.
“Mother of Fertility, Mistress of Passion, sow seeds of affection within Calix’s heart. May they grow under your holy sunshine into a verdant field of fervor for Aurelius, to be harvested in tribute to your divine vehemence.”
Teigra stayed for the entire length of the burn, feeling every drawn-out second of the wait. Aunty Urosina’s last letter, so coded that a casual reader wouldn’t have understood its meaning, had been over a month ago. Just before she went on the mission that killed her. They didn’t know when the attack might come. Weeks? Days? Perhaps Xiber had slipped by the scouts and was already making for the mountain.
They had to get going!
But favor with the Five was a two-way road. And the length of the incense was set for a reason.
And so, she stayed until the resin burned down to the wood. Only then did she make haste for the Administration.
When she arrived in the courtyard, with Jaspar preparing a wooden carpentum, it all became hideously real. She was going to climb into that carriage and watch as the city faded from view. Away from her family. Away from the horses that she’d raised from foals. Off on the most important mission that she could ever complete. Just like the heroes of old.
Her breath grew heavy.
Hero?
Me?
It was the least funny joke that had ever been told.
Four centaurs passed as she entered the yards, three male and one female. They were not the muscle-bound sprinters from the Alogo, but taut and lean. Messengers, clearly. Off to tell the embassies of Ondocis and Vaticily and Rinath and most of all Ardora of the appointment of the herald, and perhaps of Teigra’s own appointment.
The female centaur—her skin as deep and shimmering as obsidian, with hair down to her navel—gave her a curious wink as she passed, causing a little flutter in her stomach, over and above the existing nervousness. Then they all hit full pace, breaking off at the gate in four different directions, their saddlebags bouncing against their flanks.
There was no going back now. The word was out.
“Oh, no! Let me get that!” she said when she turned back to face Jaspar.
The minotaur was lifting the sack of possessions she’d left here at dawn. Part of her was worried that the folio might fall out and reveal itself. She hadn’t told Aurelius that she’d kept it. She hadn’t had the chance. But she would. Of course she would. When the time was right. When he’d settled into his mission.
But the other reason she was surprised that the minotaur was lifting her bag was simpler: it wasn’t Jaspar’s job to do that for her.
