Parabolis (6 page)

Dale’s thoughts of Sparrow were interrupted by the sight of a young woman, a cleric of the Benesanti, walking down the aisle looking at the seats and the ticket in her hand.

She was beautiful. The modest appearance required of a Holy Order acolyte did little to hide her simple beauty. Her short, espresso hair was cut in a unisex fashion. She wore a cleric’s habit in standard gray, marked with the red and white crest of the Benesanti on its shoulder. The unflattering dress and the haphazardly cut hair only highlighted her face—fair with blue-gray eyes, full lips, and high-arching eyebrows that gave her the uninviting weightiness of a full presence, concerned more with what she was doing than who she was.

She took a seat, four rows up, facing Dale. He could neither look away nor sit staring directly at her. He was like a man pained by the setting sun, the unapproachable brilliance, the beauty of what he could not touch, slowly and inevitably slipping away. After thirty minutes of stealing glances, Dale got up and walked to the back of the train in agitation.

The last time he’d felt like this was when he first set eyes on Johana Sagan, a nurse-in-training at an all-girls school near the Academy. She had chestnut hair and a kind face. Dale couldn’t stop obsessing over her. After months of misery, he had an opportunity to talk to her. Like any boy his age, he feared rejection. Still, he tried. And to his surprise, Johana reciprocated his interest. They began seeing each other as frequently as they could. But with each encounter, the enchantment began to peel away layer by layer until at last, there was no more depth to their notions of love into which they could fall. He realized then that it was never Johana with whom he had been smitten, but rather a meticulously constructed idol in his mind bearing her likeness—a far cry from Johana the real. Before graduation, Dale called off the relationship, vowing never to make the same mistake again. A vow he could hardly remember standing there in the back of the train.

Darius was right. Dale was a hopeless romantic. When he returned to his seat, he couldn’t help himself from thinking about what might be. His approach, her reaction. For the three remaining hours, this cleric was his singular focus. At one point, he took an unnecessary trip to the toilet in the next car so he could get a closer look. In the bathroom, Dale was disgusted with himself. He was determined to stop obsessing. Then he went right on obsessing until the train finally pulled into Carnaval City’s Central Station.

As the passengers began to collect their belongings, Dale knew it would likely be the last he’d see of her. If there were to be any chance of either realizing or dispelling what only existed in the realm of possibility, he would have to exercise some sort of bold initiative. When the doors opened, Dale was one of the first to stand. He slung his duffle bag over his shoulder and weaved his way up the aisle. To calm himself, Dale remembered,
I’m a soldier, I’ve been in battles. I’ve killed people.

The cleric had her back to him, gathering her belongings—a small satchel and several books. He tapped her on the shoulder.

“Excuse me.”

She turned to him with an inquiring look.

“Yes?”

“I…” Dale went blank.

When Dale said nothing, she quickly assumed he was trying to get by.

“Oh, sorry.”

With a “thank you,” Dale walked past her. He stepped off the train, rolling his eyes and shaking his head. Walking through the station, his cognitive capacity coming back to him, Dale ran through all the things he could have said. It was so plain to him. It seemed so simple. He thought of how different the last leg of the trip was from the quietness of the first. How easily life is disrupted. Dale thought he had better find a place for a drink.

The cleric emerged from the train after Dale. Alaric Linhelm, Marshal of the Vail Templar, was waiting to greet her on the platform.

“It’s been a long time, dear child,” he said, bowing.

His voice was a raspy whisper. It suited his weathered face, generously marked by battle scars. A prominent scar ran down his right eye, leaving it with a colorless iris. Even as he greeted his guest with warm words, his expression was stoic, firm.

“Champion Alaric Linhelm,” said the cleric. “I’m pleased to see that the years have been kind to you.”

“And you. You’ve grown into your own, haven’t you? A proper sister of the Benesanti now.”

“The Maker has been gracious to me on this side of life.”

“Shall I call you Prioress Evenford, then?”

“Selah is fine.”

“The name suits you, Selah.”

In Balean fashion, they spoke humorlessly, without inflection, like mathematicians or librarians.

“You sound local,” said Alaric, taking note of the cleric’s Meredian accent, or rather, the lack of a Balean one.

“I should hope so. It’s been quite some time since I’ve taken to life in the Republic.”

The templar paused, suspicious of every passerby within earshot, before finally snatching her books and satchel.

“Come. This is no place to dawdle.” He hurried out of the station where his coach was waiting for them. Four more templar guarded it. They wore polished helms, breastplates, gauntlets and greaves. Their armor shimmered in the morning sun as they stood vigil with their tower shields and their signature broadswords that measured shoulder high from tip to pommel.

After loading her belongings and settling into the car, Alaric seemed more at ease.

“Forgive me for rushing you, child,” he added, “but there are eyes lurking in the shadows. And this city has many shadows.”

The carriage started toward the temple.

“That dangerous, is it?”

“Carnaval City is no Lumarion.”

Gazing out the window, Selah softly muttered, “Brilliant.”

“You have nothing to worry about. I’ll keep my good eye on you.”

A small patch of fog formed on the window from Selah’s breath. She poked two eyes into it and completed a smiling face with a swipe. Then she turned to Alaric. “Just the same, I’d feel safer with a sword of my own.”

“You still know your way around steel?”

“Of course.”

“All this time in service of the cloth has not softened you?”

“Is this a challenge?”

Alaric huffed.

“It’s not easy to forget when I’ve learned from the best,” Selah added.

Alaric folded his arms across his chest and sighed. “Aye. The best I most certainly
was
, before my body began to betray me.”

“Making excuses? That is unlike you, Alaric.”

“Be mindful of the robes you wear, child. A sword has no place in the hands of a cleric.”

Selah glanced out the window just in time to catch a group of mischievous children fleeing a candy store. Tracking them with her eyes until they disappeared beyond view, she said, “If I were born a man, I could’ve been a templar.”

“Aye. A fine one at that.”

Then she looked at Alaric.

“And had you been born a lass, what kind of cleric would you have been? I wonder.”

Again, Alaric huffed.

“I would’ve been far too pretty to be a cleric.”

Selah smiled. But the smile faded as quickly as it had appeared. She looked over at this old man and her thoughts drifted into a distant past when she knew Alaric only as her mother’s friend. A past when her smiles were more frequent.

The carriage pulled into the West Gate of the temple grounds. At its center was one of four temples in the entire world, ornately decorated with reliefs carved into its whitewashed façade, and skyscraping spires guarded by gargoyles perching on every corner. Flanking it on either side was the College of Sisters for the clerics and the barracks of the Vail Templar.

Serving as monuments of the Benesanti’s vast global influence, each temple had been erected in four select cities in each of the four corners of Parabolis. This one, in Carnaval City, represented the whole of Groveland.

“There are rumors,” said Selah, unmoved by the architectural marvel.

“What kind of rumors?”

“I’ve heard that Duke Thalian is preparing for an invasion. Is this true?”

“I don’t know,” Alaric replied. “But pray that it is not.”

The city teemed with traders, sidewalk musicians, street performers. A prophet stood on his soapbox. And in the shadows lurked the swindlers and strangers. Progress had changed the backdrop; the buildings were newer, taller, shinier. Most of the street vendors had given way to rows of storefronts. But the feel of Carnaval City endured. Dale hailed a cabriolet and took it to the waterfront, hoping to find his bearings in more familiar surroundings. As he rode into the old neighborhood, Dale saw that it too had transformed under the hand of progress. There was now a large cannery where there once was an outdoor market. Beyond the wharf was the monument of modern progress known as the Spegen. It was a contraction of “Steam Powered Electric Generator,” or the “S.P.E. Gen,” a smaller counterpart to the massive thermal power plant in Pharundelle. Its steady hum, and not the crashing waves of the bay, had become the new ubiquitous sound of the waterfront.

The familiar smell of freshly baked baguettes drew Dale into the old bakery. It was smaller than he remembered. A little rusty bell rang as he entered. There was a young woman wiping down the counter, her fingernails painted dark purple. She had a delicate frame and a porcelain-sculpted face. Her ears were poking out of her dark brown hair that fell short of her shoulders and naturally curled up just below the jaw line.

“Mo?”

“Excuse me?” she asked, startled.

Her voice was soft as a song. Her eyes lit up. Though nineteen years old, Mosaic Shawl still had the face of a child with full triangle lips. Her large doe eyes were kind and curious.

“Dale? Dale! Papa, it’s Dale!” she yelled as she ran around the counter.

Before he knew it, there was an onslaught of hugs and kisses. And questions. Finally, Uncle Turkish burst out. “Okay, hey, let’s give the boy some room.” With that he led Dale to their table in the corner and placed a plate of fresh bread in front of him. “It’s damn good to see you, boy.”

“You too, Uncle.”

“How was the trip?”

“Nice.”

“Long, I imagine.”

“Long, but nice.”

“How about some port to wet your beak?”

“You got anything lighter?”

“Sure, we’ve got some white wine and I think I’ve got some bottled ale in the back.”

“Actually, could I get some chocolate milk?”

“Heh! Did you hear that, love?”

Turkish poured himself a glass of port while Cora Tess prepared a cold glass of creamy chocolate milk for Dale.

“Just the way you like it,” she said, setting it down in front of him.

She watched with satisfaction as Dale cleared half its contents.

“Gosh, I missed this,” he said. A cocoa mustache coated his upper lip. “This really is an art, Auntie. That golden ratio of powdered chocolate, sugar, and milk. I don’t know how you do it.”

She touched her ear and laughed.

Mosaic smiled in the back. “Never knew you were a connoisseur of a five-year-old’s drink,” she said.

“Never mind her,” said Cora Tess.

“You just let me know when you want a proper drink,” said Turkish, lifting his glass of port. “I’ve got an excellent bottle of brandy at home I’ve been meaning to open.”

Cora Tess then clasped her hands together, an epiphanic expression on her face. “I’ll whip up a fig cake just for you.”

“No, don’t trouble yourself, Auntie,” Dale tried.

“Nonsense. There’s always a lull in the afternoon. Might as well make myself useful.”

Cora Tess grew up in an era of wars and famines. She was familiar with both and what they did to the value of food. For her, love was feeding someone a good meal. Whenever Darius and Dale would visit as kids, she’d give them a big hug and with great enthusiasm say, “Auntie will make you boys something really good!”

Having finished wiping down the tables and packaging orders placed for pickup, Mosaic quickly changed out of her apron. She stopped by the table, apologizing that she had to get to rehearsals for an upcoming performance at the Halo’s Concert Hall. Apparently, she had taken up the piano a few years back as a part of her studies and turned out to be quite a talented musician.

“I wish I could stay and catch up.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Dale. “We’ll have plenty of time for that. Get going.”

“Will you be home for dinner?” asked Cora Tess.

“I don’t think so.” Mosaic gave her a peck on the cheek.

Seeing her interact with her parents only made their age difference more pronounced. They’d had Mosaic late; Dale’s uncle and aunt were old enough to be her grandparents.

“Well, don’t be too late.”

“Don’t wait up. Love you.”

She slipped into her coat and gave Dale another hug.

“It’s good to have you back,” she said.

Then she walked out, shoelaces untied. She hopped on her rusty old bicycle and waved through the window before peddling off.

“There she goes again,” said Turkish, shaking his head. “Always on the go, that one.”

“I hardly recognized her. Can’t believe it.”

“Can’t say much about her fashion sensibilities, but she’s blossomed into quite a beautiful young lady.”

“Bet there’s some boys sniffing around here, huh?”

“Keeps me up at night,” Turkish replied. They all laughed.

“Don’t worry about it, Uncle. Just give me a list and I’ll take care of them.”

“No! There is no list. That’s the problem. She’s too busy for boys. Every morning, she’s in here with us, and every afternoon, if she’s not buried in her books, she’s off to the Concert Hall. She has no interest in boys at all. Is that normal?”

“Really? That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know. It just doesn’t seem right. Most boys and girls her age are given to some chasing. Not Mosaic. Not that one.”

“Can’t rush a lass into love,” said Cora Tess from behind the counter.