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Stavros doesn’t meet my gaze, but he must feel it. “Whatever you’re thinking, you can spit it out.”
“I was just wondering what it was like being raised by two generals. Did you literally grow up on battlefields?”
A hint of nostalgia softens Stavros’s chiseled features. “To some extent. But after I was born, my mother was mostly stationed at the main fort in the Pinch, to monitor any bids for territory or trade interference from Velduny, Icar, or Bryfeen. Which isn’t a frequent problem, so it was more of a defensive position. I usually lived with her when my father was caught up in the more active campaigns fending off Darium incursions.”
“You didn’t see him often, then?” I venture.
“Oh, he was still around quite a bit.” The corner of Stavros’s mouth kicks up in a fond smile. “His gift allowed him to travel from one place to another in a blink—he could pull that off a couple of times a day before he exhausted himself. In theory, it was to serve the army, but he used it at least as much to drop in on us whenever he had a stretch of quiet.”
“That’s quite the gift.” Imagine all the things I could do—and steal—with a talent like that.
“He gave up quite a bit for it. A kidney and part of his liver and various other internal parts that he could reasonably survive without.” Stavros chuckles. “It meant he had to give up alcohol, but he always said that wasn’t any great loss since he’d never liked the taste anyway.”
It’s strange, listening to him talk about his childhood. Hearing the affection in his voice.
I can’t quite picture the massive man beside me as a little boy, but he was one once. He had a life so far beyond the little I know of him.
The question of what happened with his best friend, the one he said a riven sorcerer killed, itches at me. But I’m not so foolhardy to risk bringing up that subject over simple curiosity.
I lapse into silence instead. And curse it all if that silence doesn’t feel almost… companionable.
When we emerge from the woods, our destination lies in clear view up ahead. There’s no mistaking the peach-toned marble walls of Inganne’s temple, nor the kites of a rainbow of woven colors that bob on the breeze over its walls.
I’ve read that as long as Inganne’s blessing lies on her temples, those kites stay buoyant regardless of the weather.
The temple stands on a gentle slope, with a low marble wall around the base of the hill and buildings placed at intervals up the rise to the sprawling structure at the top. Sunblot saplings sprout here and there across the grounds, their brilliant orange blossoms nearly glowing in the daylight.
The godlen’s sigil, the circle with its star-like center and outward curving lines, marks the stones on either side of the gate and the lintel of every doorway. Carvings of Inganne’s favorite creatures—larks, butterflies, dolphins, and otters—cavort across many a stone surface.
There’s plenty of cavorting among the living inhabitants of the temple as well. Devouts dressed in orange robes sprawl in the grassy courtyards and sway to the music a few of their fellows are piping and strumming into the air. I spot a line of figures playing leapfrog through the garden and an artist smearing paint across one of the building’s walls in a vague image that might represent a sunrise.
Laughter bounces off the buildings. Actual butterflies flutter between the many flowering plants growing haphazardly throughout the grounds. Toast stares at one that glides over the wall and nickers when it lands on his nose.
We take all this in from the gate, neither of us feeling totally comfortable marching straight in without an invitation. There are no guards, and none of the devouts seem to be paying attention to our arrival.
Well, Julita says,it certainly is an… interesting place.
She sounds as if she’d prefer to flee in the opposite direction.
When no one greets us after a few minutes, I exchange a glance with Stavros. He swings off his horse and ties the stallion to a tree near the gate, so I do the same with Toast.
“There’s some good grass here, and I’ve left you enough rein to reach it,” I tell my steed. “Be good.”
Ignoring the stallion’s incredulous look at my command, I hurry over to join Stavros.
The magical atmosphere of this temple isn’t as intense as the towering Temple of the Crown in Florian, but a tingle wriggles into my skin as I pass through the gate. I resist the urge to rub my arms against it.
I’m here for a good cause, not to do harm. Out of all the godlen, surely Inganne would see my current motives as more important than my past actions.
Stavros peers around us as we continue into the temple’s grounds, searching for someone in charge. But having seen the way Inganne’s devouts worship her, I’m even less sure that they really go for authority figures around here.
“Welcome!” several cheerful voices call out, but then the joyful figures go back to their pastimes. I can’t wrap my head around being that unconcerned, full of pure contentment.
Finally, as we reach the largest building at the top of the slope, a white-haired man with a wizened face steps out to meet us properly. The ornate clasp on his robe marks him as a cleric. He glances us over with a twinkle in his bright blue eyes that reminds me a little of Casimir.
Well, Inganne and Ardonearesaid to be sisters in joy, just rather different aspects of the emotion.
“Welcome and blessings, esteemed visitors,” the cleric says with a dip of his head. “What brings you to the Temple of Artful Dreams?”
