The caravan arrived in the mercantile ports of Terilein more or less on time. June hadn’t left her room in the few days since the incident, trying to muster the shroud of calm that had been shaved thin since then. She hadn’t seen much success. Her nerves were still fried. Loud noises still startled her. And she would have no time left to ruminate.

Because when those horses stopped, the momentum of the caravan only doubled. Dozens of traders and port workers went to work. Doors were flung open into the morning sun. Showers of dust were loosened into the air from the force. Men in short sleeved worker’s uniforms stepped on light and off heavier. Crates of warm ale were sent to the ice pits. Piles of fruit were sorted into ripe, unripe, rotten, and bruised. Flies buzzed above the spongy pile. The port falconer loosed vermin pigeons to clear the insects.

Wood creaking, men shouting, chapped lips whistling, boots grinding on pavestones, flies buzzing, wings beating.

June reinforced the Rites protecting her ears one more time before gathering her staff and stepping out into the warehouses. She picked up conversation, laughter, deal-making. Endless streams of sound and noise and intentions. While the citizenry did their work, the Scoutrunners carried out the mummified forms of their deceased and loaded them on the back of an unmarked carriage. She walked alongside them as they moved. When they were finished, she thanked them and got on the carriage just behind the driver. One more passenger arrived onboard before they left.

“Lisŗa?”

“We have a couple days break apparently.”

The driver didn’t seem to care about the additional traveler. He swung his crop, and the horses obeyed. They left the warehouses, joining the lanes with the carriages. The roads were all paved in Terilein. One lane per direction divided down the middle. Pedestrians skirted past in their dark dresses and suits. Some eyed their carriage with disdain.

“Modern place,” Lisŗa said. She pointed. “Look at that one. It’s got no horse!”

“Ah. One of the Kalladale steeds,” June said. “There are large piles of cells in its undercarriage mimicking a Mind. It draws on Kalla, a plane of turbulence to power its locomotion.”

“A Mind in a machine?”

“A mimicry insofar as to establish a bridge. It’s all barbaric to me.” June wrinkled her nose. “Arch- um… my mentor always said nothing good can come from relying on the planes the way mages like to do. Now machines have taken up the habit. And it’s spreading throughout Faleria.”

“I think they look neat. Who makes them?”

“They were invented by a Highcaster in Ralagast, a week from here.” June hugged her staff, bringing the pole close to her chest. “It’s wrong. You don’t feel it the way I do. When a plane opens, something stares back. The more you draw the less benevolent the watcher. And powerful mages are ravenous things.”

“You’re all still colleagues, June. The Order and the Cadre. Do you hate them that much?”

“You see them as people. I see more behind and beneath their flesh. Casting changes you. I’m glad you don’t understand.”

Once they left the thick of the worker’s sector, the buildings became more modest. They only rose four storeys above the ground. Low angle roofs with rain collectors funneled water into tubes that ran throughout the city. Lisŗa began to see the familiar points of tall spires peeking over the townhouses. The carriages turned a corner, ducking in the shadow of an estate. The church was momentarily unseen. Here, taverns and inns lined the road. Some places offered services of the flesh. She thought she saw someone familiar among the girls advertising outside.

Lisŗa looked at her lap. She had begun fiddling with her thumbs without realizing. The adventure they had experienced thus far hadn’t given her pause to think. Was this what she wanted? Maybe she’ll survive long enough to become lieutenant in a few years. Then there’d be opportunity to move to a city and join the Knight’s Guard. A State servant of Faleria. The country that destroyed hers. Not that she had much connection to her forefather’s past. Or a father at all. Valdren had told her he died trying to protect them from their own citizens, not from Falerian troops, so she couldn’t even sustain an anger towards Faleria. Now here she was. At the heart of the Falerian experiment.

This was wrong. But it was too late the moment she joined the Karavane. Funny how in the comforts of civilization, people had so little true choice. She looked to her new friend. More lost kitten than true equal. June stared at the road ahead, her knuckles a whitened vice on her staff, brow constantly furrowed, as if suppressing pain the entire time. As if she ever had a choice to become what she was. Lisŗa flattened her palm against the handle of her dagger and felt what meager training they were allotted flow through her nerves, calming her. Maybe that’s what they wanted. Maybe the Falerian standard wasn’t to find joy in service of the state, but to find service as the only escape.

So they rode along through the veins of the empire, basking in its walls, its Light, beside a small mound of corpses. The engine rolls on. Burning and burning, no less hot after losing a few souls.

“What did your captain decide to do with that man?” June asked.

“The forest dweller? Apparently he wanted him questioned, but the guy can’t speak Nephila. Or any civilized language. We’re keeping him for now.”

“Hm…”

The carriage arrived at the Order church’s back entrance. Young boys in white robes immediately came to unload the bodies. Lisŗa watched the process with some fascination.

“They’ll be left to rest a while,” June explained, “Sometimes the Soul doesn’t want to leave the Form. We have Rites to give them peace and allow them to return back to Etrylis.”

“Then the bodies will be sent to their homes?”

“If their families want them.” June shrugged. “Sometimes they couldn’t care less.”

The last of the bodies was carried away. The two of them stood alone in front of the well-trimmed gardens behind the church.

“Want to go grab a drink?” Lisŗa asked. “Or does the Order abstain?”

“That was the old Order… Maybe. I need to speak with the Father. I have matters to absolve.”

“Alright.”

“You can come with, if you’d like.”

“Oh um- sure.”

Lisŗa followed her inside the building. It was more modest than the establishment in Cadeau. But as usual upon entering it felt as though the sun fell upon the glass roofs with greater favor than anywhere else. She actually felt better just by being here. A Father walked over with an outstretched arm, beckoning June to come with him past the rows of pews to the tabernacle. There were cushions available for kneeling before the ornate marble cast of some figure in the faith. The man frozen in white stone was surrounded by hordes of creatures and men, cowering before the spikes of his halo. His eyes were closed, his brow stoic. Among those creatures were women with the bottom halves of snakes. Tall, thin men with sharp ears and black eyes. Many-eyed bulbs that floated off the earth. Giant man-like insects.

The Father returned to stand next to Lisŗa. They watched June pray before several other priests and priestesses.

“I thank you for your service,” he said.

“I haven’t done much yet,” Lisŗa said. “All I did was nearly die.”

“There is a balance between humility and self-esteem. It’s remarkable you children can be so brave after but a year of training. The Karavane have always been a trampling ground to squeeze talent out of noble children.”

“I am no noble.” Lisŗa turned to look the Father in the eye. She hoped her identity pushed the man away. He was nonplussed.

“Daughter, when one joins the military, or the Order, or any segment of Faleria, your membership is your identity.”

“You are unaware of the tribulation I survived as a result of my ancestry.”

“Be that as it may.” The Father gestured at the people kneeling. “Do you find this farcical?”

“How could you tell?”

“There are those who believe, those who do not, and those who hate the belief not realizing much of their own knowledge depends on having faith in an authority.”

“Which one do you think I am?” Lisŗa humored with a smirk.

“Those who do not, but possess overwhelming empathy. I believe you’ve seen her work.”

Lisŗa twitched. She cursed herself silently. She couldn’t leave in a huff now, not without further revealing her thoughts.

The Father continued, “Do you know why we choose such tender children. All of them, look.” And Lisŗa looked, despite not wanting to. Beside June, the other priests and priestess prayed just as intensely, basking in a teary halo of light, all while sniffling, trembling. “While the Cadres invite chaos through opening the planes, Rites draw purely from within. The ever replenishing Light. But one human can only have so much. The darkness within is what gives them such strength, so their Light shines so very bright by comparison. Just like all things that concern the self, it is but a matter of perspective.”

“So you choose broken children.” Lisŗa was chewing nothing. Her fists clenched.

“They come here to absolve. So they can be reminded of their past, bolstering the strength of their Light. So their pain can be used for the good of Faleria.”

“They will never have peace then,” Lisŗa hissed. “Their job is to torture themselves!”

“Better this than to rely on the planes.”

“I’m beginning to disagree.”

“Have you ever spoken to a Highcaster?”

“…no.”

“Good. Don’t. We are equals. Whether we are Archbishop or scribe or…” He glanced amiably at Lisŗa, “skeptic. Speak to a Highcaster, and you will see a different relationship entirely.”

The absolution finished shortly after. Lisŗa walked closely with June as they exited the building. June wiped her eyes with a handkerchief and quickly stuffed it back inside her robes.

“I think I need a drink,” she said.

“Yeah, we do,” Lisŗa said.