Written by Thomas Mansfield
Edited by Erin Middleton
Contains strong violence and religious themes
Templar Bellona Domitia rode into the Taenöra Valley at noon astride her chestnut mare, surveying the faraway little village with distaste. She had struggled to find Taenöra on the maps when she’d first set out from Angelos. Now that she could see it, she understood why. It was a sprawl of clay and wood huts, bordered north and south by tall bluffs and rough desert hills. I should have been assigned to a shire on the coast, not this miserable little rock pit, she thought bitterly. But here she was.
Sighing, Bellona spurred her mount forward, trotting down the dirt path that led to Taenöra. She’d chosen to wear her armour on her arrival, a steel lamellar cuirass with accompanying greaves, pauldrons, and armguards, with a long cotton tunic separating the scorching metal from her skin. Over the armour, she wore a white surcoat that contrasted nicely with her dark skin, the insignia of the First Eye depicted on the chest in silver thread. Her short-cropped hair was hidden underneath her visored helm, and her longsword, which she had named Lady Justice, hung nobly from her belt, its white enamelled crossguard decorated with a sapphire as big as her eye.
Bellona held her head high as she rode slowly past the hovels and homesteads of the village proper, her armour glinting in the sunlight. The people of Taenöra watched her from windows and the streets, pausing in their routines to stare at her. No doubt they were awed at the sight of a templar in their midst. Bellona hoped they were not watching too closely. The sun was cooking her alive inside her armour, and they would not be so impressed if they could see the sweat running down her face.
She was greeted formally in the village square by Nadërin, the older man who led the town militia. He seemed in his forties or thereabouts, with a sharp face and greying hair pulled back into a short tail. His deep tan skin and pointed earlobes betrayed his khenedrin heritage, a trait he shared with many people of the Violet Sands. After initial introductions, she had him guide her to the village chapel in the centre of town.
Bellona didn’t recognise the building at first. Nadërin had led her to a dome of opaque yellowed glass, a typical sight in villages touched by the khenedrin desert folk. Only when she got close did she see the symbol of the First Eye carved haphazardly above the dome’s door, and when she did, she felt her heart drop.
Don’t tell me this is what passes for a chapel here.
Bellona climbed off her horse, then had Nadërin hitch the beast outside as she stepped into the dome. The inside was even less inspiring – the floor was dirt, there were benches instead of pews, and the shrine at the back of the chapel seemed to be little more than a sandstone block. She approached the shrine slowly, narrowing her eyes at the crowd of tiny clay sculptures placed upon its surface. She picked one up, inspecting it closely. It seemed humanoid in shape, inexpertly crafted with only a head and a flat base supposed to be a body. There looked to be dozens of them.
Bellona heard footfalls behind her as Nadërin entered the chapel. “I must apologise, diah, but you will be disappointed by our militia,” he said to her, his voice heavy and severe. “Many of our youths were frightened into joining the Wings when they heard of the attack on the capital. They’re training at Ivory Gate as we speak, I’ve no doubt.” He sighed unhappily. “All we have left is myself and a few boys who were too young for the army.”
Bellona didn’t respond. She turned the figure in her hand for a moment longer. “What are these?” she asked.
“These? These are effigies of the Lords of Dust, crafted by our qämah. He has the children help him sometimes.”
Bellona turned to him with a frown. “This is a chapel to the First Eye, not the khenedrin gods.”
Nadërin’s brow furrowed. “The Lords are our ancestors, diah, not gods. And we respect them alongside the Eye and the Saints. Look.” He pointed to three larger clay figures in the midst of the smaller ones, painted red, blue and green.
“Ardos, Morden and Petrus,” Bellona surmised. She gave Nadërin a cold look. “You obscure them with tokens of a foreign faith and call that respect?”
“Obscure them? No, we—”
Bellona pushed the smaller figures off the shrine with the back of her hand. They clattered to the ground like the toys they were. “I’ll have no heresy in my town. Remove these.”
Nadërin stared at the fallen effigies. “Diah—”
“Custodia,” Bellona snapped, stepping up to him angrily. “I am your templar and sworn protector, and you will address me with the templar’s title.”
“… Custodia, Taenöra has always respected the Lords of Dust, long before Providence came to Karatera. It is our way.”
“Was,” Bellona corrected him bluntly. “Taenöra’s path has already been laid out by the First Eye, Nadërin. To muddle the Eye’s messages with foreign faiths will confuse the people of your village and lead them astray. From this day forth, Taenöra will follow the Eye as dictated by the Three Saints. And only the Eye.”
Nadërin was silent for a while, his face twisted in consternation. “This was not an issue with our previous protector,” he told her after a moment.
“I am not surprised. Templar Nestor was abandoned you, as I heard it.”
“He disappeared. It is not the same thing. And he was not faithless, custodia. He was anointed with templar’s magic, and blessed with the touch of mercy.”
That angered her. “Even worse. The Saints entrusted him with their blessing, and he squandered it by deserting his station. We are well rid of him.” She turned away, looking out the chapel doors to the town beyond. “It seems this town is in dire straits, Nadërin. I will need your help to bring this village back into line. Bring the hieropate of this chapel to my residence, at once.”
“… As you wish, custodia,” Nadërin said quietly.
Bellona’s residence, as it turned out, was a squalid clay hovel on the edge of the village, distinguished from the other buildings only by the symbol etched into the brickwork, that being the symbol of Saint Ardos – an eye with a sword-shaped iris. It had all of three rooms, the largest of which could perhaps hold eight people if they squeezed, and her so-called bed was little more than a pile of straw stuffed into a burlap sack. How on earth do people live like this? Even the barracks she’d slept in as an initiate hadn’t been so squalid.
She met Hieropate Prokopios in the larger room of her new home, sitting on a carpet of woven goat hair as she awaited him. Bellona decided against wearing her armour for this meeting, though she kept Lady Justice within arm’s reach, resting against the wall in her scabbard. Bellona watched step inside, inspecting the man with a trained eye. Prokopis was of middling age, with twinkling silver eyes and a shock of white hair to go with his long white beard. He had the pointed earlobes of the khenedrin, yet his seemed less pronounced than what Bellona had seen in some of the other villagers. He was dressed unassumingly, sporting only a long linen robe and a pair of sandals. She never would’ve guessed he was the hieropate at all if it weren’t for the wooden eye symbol dangling from his neck.
“Reverentus Prokopios,” she greeted him curtly.
“Diah Bellona,” Prokopios replied kindly.
“You will call me custodia.”
“All children of Taenöra are taught to greet our leaders as ‘diah’ for women and ‘diin’ for men, and I am no different,” the priest replied, a serene smile visible just under his beard.
“Are children of Taenöra taught to neglect their holy places as well?” Bellona demanded. “You’ve allowed a foreign faith to invade your chapel.”
“Ah, Nadërin mentioned that. But I fear you may be misremembering your history, diah – it’s the First Eye that is foreign, not the Lords of Dust. They’ve been here for generations, long before Providence came from across the ocean.”
Bellona had never met anyone who’d looked so peaceful while spouting borderline heresy. A good part of her wanted to spit full in his face. Or better yet, clap him in manacles. She forced herself to put on a mask of calm, telling him firmly, “The First Eye is the god of humankind, and the Lords of Dust are of the khenedrin. In that sense, they are foreign.”
Prokopios seemed to ponder that for a moment. Then, he asked, “Are you familiar with the khenedrin, diah?”
“No,” Bellona said bluntly. She knew of them, of course, as did everyone. A nomadic race that roamed the Violet Sands in bands, the khenedrin were a consistent point of frustration among the templars of Angelos. They refused to follow the First Eye, nor would they keep to their own lands, constantly impeding on Providence territory as if it was theirs. They were well known and well feared for their magical prowess, said to have been gifted to them by some ancient race of desert sprites. Or demons, for all we know.
“Well, us of Taenöra are well acquainted with them. Indeed, most of us have at least a dash of khenedrin blood, as you’ve no doubt noticed. Knowing that, would you still call the Lords of Dust as foreign to us?”
“I did not call you here to argue the semantics of your ancestry, Prokopios. I called you here to talk to you about this.”
From her lap, Bellona handed him a book bound in light grey leather. The open iris of the First Eye was engraved on the front in white thread, and though the book itself had no title, even Prokopios knew exactly what it was. “The White Book?”
“A translation of it,” Bellona admitted. Within the pages of this book were the stories and tenants that underlined the Path of the First Eye. The real White Book was written in High Celestial, the language of the gods, unreadable to all but the most devout of clerics. Bellona’s copy was but a pale imitation, yet she considered it her most valuable possession. Handing it over to this man made her sick to the stomach, but she somehow doubted that he had a copy of his own. “I assume you can read Old Iliac?”
“In a sense,” Prokopios replied cryptically. He ran his hand across the cover, closed his eyes and uttered, “Poluphrosunē.”
Bellona felt a draft pass through the room and into the hieropate, causing his robes to shift slightly. She saw a faint mist envelop his holy symbol for a moment, and when Prokopios opened his eyes, his irises glowed with a blue light.
“… You’re anointed?” Bellona murmured in disbelief. Only those chosen, or “anointed”, by the gods could cast their divine magics – and only one god taught Its followers incantations in Old Iliac.
“Aye,” Prokopios replied simply, as if he was remarking on the weather. “One of the spells Saint Morden has blessed me with allows me to read any and all writing, no matter the script.” He opened the book as he talked, his shining eyes slowly analysing the text.
“… Well, good,” Bellona muttered, trying to ignore the hollowness in her chest. “Starting this week, every Quinday, I want you to deliver sermons to the village.”
The hieropate looked bemused. “Whatever for?”
Bellona stared at him. “To bolster the faith. To remind the people of the majesty and compassion of the Eye, as is your duty.”
“The people already know the Eye is kind.”
“Is that why they spend so much time worshipping the khenedrin gods?” Bellona snapped. “You’re the hieropate, are you not?”
“I am, diah, but I am also the qämah of this town.”
“And that is?” Bellona was running out of patience.
“It is the title given to the speaker of the spirits, the one who keeps the traditions of Taenöra so we do not forget where we came from. What you ask of me is not tradition,” Prokopios told her, tapping the cover of the book. “I remember having a similar conversation with young Nestor when he first came here. He did not understand our ways, but he accepted them all the same.”
Bellona leant forward, her hands clenched into fists. “I am not Templar Nestor,” she growled, allowing the hieropate to hear a fraction of her anger. “And I do not intend to neglect my duties like he did.”
Prokopios stroked his beard, looking down at the White Book in silence. “I’ll need a while to read it,” he finally said. “Give me a month, and I will see what I can do.”
Bellona glared at him. She glanced down at her White Book, still clasped in his hand. “Fine,” she agreed reluctantly. But you will be speaking sermons eventually, old man, or Taenöra will find itself a new hieropate.
The days passed slowly, far too slowly for Bellona’s taste. Since Taenöra was so small and so poor, rarely did anything come to pass that demanded her attention. As protector, she was supposed to mediate arguments between villagers, but such arguments invariably turned out to be disagreements over livestock owed, the quality of lentils, and other similarly trivial nonsense. She quickly learned to ignore the villagers when they requested her intervention in their squabbling. “I am your sworn protector, not your mother,” she would tell them when they asked. By the end of the first week, they’d stopped asking.
Her other task involved patrolling the valley for threats, of which there were next to none. Each day, she rode her mare up and down the valley’s rocky goat trails, searching desperately for something to fight. Each day, she found nothing. No shai beasts, no chimera, not even any yasharu hyena-men. Taenöra is as peaceful as it is dull, Bellona reflected unhappily after riding all the way to the Dust Road and finding nil. Still, the patrols gave her an excuse to get away from the squalor of the village, so she kept at them.
It was halfway through the month that it happened. She’d returned from yet another fruitless patrol and was walking between the mudbrick huts with Nadërin by her side. “We’re expecting a khenedrin band within the next three or four weeks, custodia,” he relayed to her. “The Children of Tän, they call themselves. They’ve been friends to the town for quite a few years.”
“Corrupters of the town, you mean,” Bellona muttered, stopping to wipe down her armour with a rag. The white of her surcoat had been stained by dust, sand, and sweat, and the smell of limestone clung to it stubbornly no matter how many times she had it washed. I’ve only been here for two weeks. By the end of the month, it’ll be more sand than cotton.
Nadërin grimaced. “You should know that Templar Nestor often treated with them personally. They spoke highly of him.”
“They would. By all accounts, he enabled them. Still, I hear what you say. I shall speak with them when they arrive, and ensure they understand how things …”
She trailed off as a young boy came running up to the two of them, shirtless, breathless, and pale. “Diah,” he gasped at her. “My brother, he’s hurt … please, come!”
Bellona glanced at Nadërin, his brow furrowed in concern. Uneasily, they followed after the boy.
He led them to a commotion near the southern edge of the village, where a small crowd had gathered between the huts. Pushing her way into the centre, Bellona found a woman wrapped in linen, sobbing over an unconscious young boy who sported the same stringy blonde hair as the one who had found her. A jagged piece of bone was jutting out from his forearm, blood running down in a red trickle. He wasn’t moving.
The mother turned to look at her with wet eyes underneath a weathered brow. Bellona knew what she wanted before she spoke. “Help him,” she plead, holding out her boy. “Please.”
Bellona swallowed, trying to hide her discomfort. “What happened here?” she asked.
“He fell … he was on the roof, fool boy … please, diah, your magic … help him.”
The boy’s brother tugged at Bellona’s belt. “Help him, diah,” he begged, tears running down his cheeks.
Bellona knew what the woman wanted. It was common knowledge that an anointed templar could perform the touch of mercy, the ability to channel the spirits and heal wounds with a touch. And as far as the villagers were concerned, Bellona was anointed.
Reluctantly, she turned to Nadërin. “Go and get the hieropate,” she said quietly.
“Custodia?” Nadërin seemed confused. “Can’t you …?”
“Just do it.”
It took some time for Nadërin to return with Prokopios. Bellona wrapped the wound in linen while she waited, trying to gently reset the bone without causing any further harm. And all the while the villagers watched. And they muttered. Shame weighed silently on Bellona’s shoulders, keeping her from meeting any of their eyes. It will be worse if they learn the truth.
The crowd parted as Prokopios approached. If the sight of a broken child disturbed him, it didn’t show on his face. As calm as ever, he knelt down beside the boy, took a deep breath, and quickly uttered a short chant in Old Iliac. He raised his hands to the sky, white spiritmist forming and spilling from his palms, then placed them upon where Bellona had tied the makeshift bandage. The mist flowed across the wound, seeping through the fabric, and Bellona felt the bone reset and the skin pull together underneath her grip. Bellona recognised the incantation he’d used, to her dismay. Hands of the Healer, it was called. She’d seen it performed many times back in Angelos. The thin hope she’d held that it was some pagan deity that had anointed Prokopios was well and properly dashed now.
“There,” Prokopios said calmly as the mother’s weeping grew stronger in her relief. “The arm will be stiff, but he will be able to keep it.”
The mother thanked him profusely, all but forgetting Bellona in her fervour. Bellona stood up quietly, hoping to escape before attention returned to her. But then the hieropate looked up and said, “I am surprised you did not tend to this boy yourself, diah. A templar can seal wounds with a touch, can they not?”
What felt like every pair of eyes in the village turned to her at once. Her cheeks flushed in fury and humiliation under their accusatory stares, and her fist clenched instinctively over the pommel of her sword. “A templar’s magic is too great to be wasted on a boy’s folly,” she said stiffly. “Yours, less so.”
“Truly? I would think—”
“And I would think you would know better than to question your protector!” Bellona snapped. She turned to the mother, commanding her, “The hieropate may not be there to save you from your negligence next time. Do not let this happen again.” With that, she spun around and left, pushing the people aside.
She marched in a black rage all the way to her residence, villagers stepping away as she stormed through the streets. Her so-called home seemed even smaller than it had when she’d first arrived, and the door almost snapped clean off its hinges when she threw it open. Frustrated, she unbuckled her sword and all but threw it to the floor, where it landed with a clang. Regret came an instant later, and she swiftly knelt down to ensure there had been no lasting damage.
“That was unwisely done, custodia.”
Bellona looked over her shoulder to see Nadërin standing in her doorway, like a disappointed spectre. “I do not need your chiding, old man,” she retorted, standing up with Lady Justice in her hands. “Did you hear him back there? He dared to question me! To undermine my authority!”
“Prokopios did not ask anything that we were not already thinking,” Nadërin told her sternly. “If it had been Templar Nestor—”
“I am sick to death of hearing about Templar Nestor!” Bellona exploded, getting into his face with fire in her heart. “If he was such a good man, why did he abandon the village he had sworn to protect? Tell me that!”
Nadërin was unmoved. “I cannot speak to that, custodia. All I know is that it is a templar’s duty to care for the innocent, and you refused to do so.”
Bellona looked away, so frustrated that she couldn’t speak. She looked at Lady Justice’s pommel. There seemed to be a chip in the otherwise perfect enamel.
“Or was it inability to help the boy, rather than refusal?” Nadërin asked carefully.
Bellona didn’t answer him. How could she? What answer could she give that would let her keep her dignity? She turned to look out the window, seeing not the clay huts and dirt roads of Taenöra, but the courtyard back in Angelos, with the great statue of Saint Ardos standing in its centre. She remembered the countless days and nights she had spent praying before that statue in the Trial of Favour, the first step on the templar’s path. “Once the Saint answers your prayers,” her instructors had told her, “He will bestow the mysteries of spiritbinding upon you, and you will no longer be a mere soldier, but a templar, a holy warrior of Providence.”
Bellona’s grip on Lady Justice tightened. Her first attempt at the trial had been met with silence, as had all the attempts she’d made thereafter. She had never been able to call even the weakest of spirits, but her father was a lesser lord and a dealer in desert spices, and the right coin in the right hands had her named a templar regardless. She was not the first one to be falsely anointed, and likely wouldn’t be the last, but the memory of it all still evoked a bitterness in her heart. It’s not fair. I was pious. I was devout. I was just as faithful as the other initiates, if not more. So why didn’t the Saint ever answer my prayers?
From over her shoulder, Bellona gave Nadërin the same answer that her tutor had given her, long ago. “If Saint Ardos thought I needed magic to do his work, he would’ve given it to me. I am a templar because He trusts that I can enact the First Eye’s will without such crutches.”
Nadërin was silent for a good while. After a moment, he said, “You should tell them. The people.”
Bellona turned to give him a disbelieving scowl. “And look weak in front of the village I have sworn to protect?”
“Being pitied is better than being hated, custodia,” Nadërin said bluntly. “As it stands, Taenöra thinks you cruel and uncaring, too preoccupied with enforcing the faith to do right by them. If you want to earn their love—”
“Enforcing the faith?” Bellona was incredulous. “The faith is not something that I should have to enforce! These people are citizens of Providence, subjects of King Ergon Caspio! The First Eye is their god, their only god! The decision to eschew It in favour of the dust lords, these false idols, is a deliberate choice bordering on apostasy! If we were in Angelos, you and the rest of this village would be imprisoned, sentenced to months, if not years of penance for your heresy! Does that not mean anything to you?”
“No, custodia,” Nadërin said slowly. “Because this is not Angelos.”
Bellona glared at the warrior for a while before waving him away with a growl. “I’ve had enough of your prattling. You are dismissed.”
Nadërin’s weary sigh came a moment later. “As you wish, custodia.”
Bellona visited the chapel on the last day of the month. She marched into the crystalline dome in the dawn hours, armed and armoured, and found the hieropate sweeping the floor between the benches. She saw her copy of the White Book lying upon one of the benches. She’d missed the comfort of the book dearly over the last month. Any longer and she would’ve gone mad from its absence.
Prokopios barely looked up as Bellona stood in front of him, standing tall with her hand resting on Lady Justice. “Reverentus Prokopios,” she began firmly. “I gave you a month to choose your sermons, and that month has come to a close. As we discussed, you will deliver sermons every—”
“I fear I must disappoint you, diah,” he interrupted her carelessly. “I cannot do the thing that you ask of me.”
Bellona recoiled, almost choking on her outrage. “What? You told me—!”
“I said that I would read the book, diah, and I have.” He gave her White Book back to her, smiling apologetically. “They are entertaining stories, to be sure, but I don’t quite see how they are useful to Taenöra.”
“Stories?” Bellona spluttered. He might as well have slapped her. “Those stories are tales of the Great Voyage, you old fool! When the good people of Providence fled the northern lands and sailed across the Shattered Sea! It is our connection to our forebearers, to the First Eye Itself!”
“Ah, but that is your connection, diah, not Taenöra’s,” Prokopios told her calmly, leaning on his broom with an almost casual air. “We honour the Saints every day through our work, you see. We honour Saint Petrus when we sow our crops, Saint Morden when we learn our letters, and Saint Ardos when we go hunting. We honour the First Eye by living, by protecting our families and ensuring that each of Its gifts are not gone to waste.” His eyes glinted. “And we honour the Lords of Dust, for they came before us and gave us life and wisdom. That is Taenöra’s way, diah. Always has been.”
Bellona was shaking by the time Prokopios was done, her hand locked in a vice grip upon Lady Justice’s ivory pommel. She felt so much rage coursing through her blood that she thought she was going to explode. “You,” she growled, “are the hieropate of Taenöra, and if you want to remain as such, you will do your duty and deliver these sermons.”
Prokopios’s smile didn’t flicker. “Hieropate is a title that was put upon me, diah. Remove it, or don’t; I shall tend to this place regardless.”
“No, you won’t,” Bellona decided. She’d had enough. Drawing herself up to her full height, she declared, “By the power vested in me by the Holy Order of Angelos, I hereby strip you of your title as hieropate, name you an apostate, and sentence you to exile.”
At last, the priest’s smile vanished from his face. “This is my home, diah. I was born here. I intend to die here.”
“You will if you are not gone by the end of the hour.”
The priest held his ground for a moment longer, the silence between them taut and dangerous. Then, Prokopios sighed, his shoulders sagging. “I would prefer to live a little longer, I suppose. If this is the way things must go, then at least give me leave to say my farewells to the village.”
And spur them into rebelling against me, I’m sure. “No. You leave now, old man. Pack your things.”
And so, mid-morning found Bellona escorting Prokopios out to the Dust Road, her on her mare, and him with only a donkey, a cart and a sack of belongings. She was already sweltering under her armour, but she wasn’t in a mood to take chances. More than a few villagers had seen them leave, but Bellona had been quick enough to get Prokopios out of town before they could do anything about it. She was under no illusions that the villagers would thank her for this, but she had no choice. This is the only way to set them on the right path.
They arrived at the great dirt road in silence, the mountains of the Western Laceration looming to the north. Following the road west, she knew, would take the false priest to Angelos. She sent him east, towards the Ivory Gate.
Before he left, Prokopios turned to her, his eyes sad, mournful, and tinged with bitterness. “Farewell, diah Bellona,” he told her heavily. “I hope Taenöra is kind to you.” Then he left, walking slowly down the road towards the rising sun. Bellona watched him go until he was a speck in the distance, then turned her mare back towards the village.
Bellona returned to Taenöra in good spirits, humming a tune with a smile on her lips. The village was awake now, the people going about their business. There was a small cluster of people standing before the chapel, staring silently at her as she hitched her mare to a pole outside. She entered the dome and walked to the other side where the shrine stood. Nadërin stood beside it with a grave expression, watching her uneasily as she approached. She looked down at the idols on the shrine, the three clay saints standing alone as they were supposed to, and let out a long, deep sigh of satisfaction.
“Custodia …” Nadërin murmured. “What did you do?”
“I protected Taenöra,” Bellona replied simply. And now, there is only one last thing that I need to do.
The khenedrin arrived the very next week, settling in a camp about an hour’s ride from the village. Bellona departed as soon as she heard, quickly donning her lamellar armour and buckling her sword belt before setting off on her mare. Nadërin accompanied her on camelback, armed with his scimitar and armoured in leather underneath his pale linen cloak, riding in sullen silence. The sun was blazing high in the sky by the time they left, and Bellona was sweating a river under the armour. A thick cotton tunic and leather trousers separated the scorching metal from her skin, but it did little to assist with the heat.
She did her best to hide her discomfort as they came upon the khenedrin camp. The trail they’d been following curved around a hill and down into a shallow decline where the nomads had set up. Their camp consisted of a single tent raised beside a trickling stream, woven with goat hair and large enough to hold twenty people. Unlit pole-torches stood in a circle around the camp, with a smoking fire pit in the centre. Beyond the camp, the Violet Sands stretched endlessly to the south, the dunes glistening with iridescent colours.
There were fifteen khenedrin by Bellona’s count, most of them sitting around the fire pit, unsurprised by her and Nadërin’s arrival. They were lithe of body, all of them, with skin that shone burnt copper, light bronze, and dark amber beneath the pink cotton robes and headwraps that they wore. The lobes of their ears hung down past their jaws, pointed like daggers and pierced with tiny quartz gemstones. Most of them were shorter than her, but only by a head or so, and they all sported hair that shone like molten gold. As much as Bellona wanted to deny it, they were the most beautiful people she’d ever seen.
Two khenedrin stood out beyond the others. A man and a woman, they sat upon a pair of flat rocks away from the main group, dressed in completely different clothes. The woman wore a loose blue dress tied by a long length of rope, long silky hair flowing down her shoulders as she played a mournful tune on a reed flute. The man, whose camel-hide armour was adorned with pieces of horn and bone, sat cross-legged with his eyes closed, a quartz circlet upon his head. Some kind of khenedrin priest, perhaps.
One of the khenedrin by the fire turned to the tent and called out, “Ayele!” Bellona blinked as she snapped out of her trance, realising she’d been staring for too long. Get a hold of yourself. Beautiful or no, they are no friends of yours. She glanced over at Nadërin to see if he’d noticed, but his face was as still and sullen as it had been when they’d left.
Bellona cleared her throat. “Greetings,” she said loudly to the khenedrin. “I am Templar Bellona Domitia, protector of …”
Another khenedrin stepped out of the tent, giving Bellona pause. She was an older woman, it seemed, as her braided golden hair was flecked with streaks of silver and grey. She was armoured in what looked like plate over padded cloth, complete with cuirass, pauldrons, armguards, gauntlets, thighguards, greaves, and armoured boots. Yet her armour was made of no metal that Bellona had ever seen. It was silvery white, blindingly so in the sunlight, and the surface of it looked almost porous, rather than smooth. It’s crystal, Bellona realised in disbelief. It was similar to the crystal that formed Taenöra’s chapel, differing not just in colour, but in clarity. The glass that made the chapel was mostly opaque, while this was clearer, almost allowing one to see the clothing underneath.
“Diah Bellona,” the woman greeted her curtly. “I am Ayele the Sandswimmer. I speak for and protect the Children of Tän, who you see here.”
“… It is an honour to meet you, Ayele,” Bellona replied carefully, touching Lady Justice to assuage her unease. She didn’t like that this woman had come here armoured, nor did she like the look of the long, thin curved sword tucked into Ayele’s belt. Immediately, her eyes swept across the other khenedrin searching for weapons. She didn’t like what she saw – short bows slung across shoulders, knives tucked into belts … nothing that could pose a threat outright, but in a group like this …
Stay calm. They’re at a distance and you’re on a horse. She stole another glance at Nadërin, who seemed merely wary, and forced herself to relax.
Ayele looked around. “Where is the qämah?” she asked.
It took Bellona a moment to remember what that word meant. “Hieropate Prokopios no longer tends to Taenöra,” she replied.
The khenedrin’s face was unreadable. “I see.”
Bellona’s mare huffed and stamped nervously beneath her. Pulling on the beast’s reigns to steady it, Bellona sat up straight to address the khenedrin, trying to ignore the river of sweat that was running down her back. “I am given to understand that your band trades with the village regularly.”
“We do,” the Sandswimmer replied calmly. “And have done for generations.”
“I also understand that you have been teaching the people here to follow your gods, the so-called Lords of Dust.”
“The Lords of Dust are not gods, diah, no more than you are. They are the ones who came before, in the time before time. They are our mothers and fathers, and all the mothers and fathers who came before them.” The Sandswimmer folded her arms across her chest, defiant. “They are Taenöra’s mothers and fathers too.”
“That is where you are mistaken, Ayele. Taenöra’s people are human, not desert folk. It is not—”
The Sandswimmer cut across her. “Taenöran blood is just as khenedrin as it is human, as you well know. Do you think it is just spices and flowers we have gifted on our journeys?” She pointed at Nadërin. “Nadërin’s own mother was a child of Tän. Naela, she was called.”
Nadërin didn’t say a word, his face grim. Bellona spoke on his behalf. “A dash of khenedrin blood does not wipe out the human in us. We are people of the First Eye, Sandswimmer, and you have misled the people into thinking they were khenedrin. You did not do it out of malice, but you misled them all the same.”
The Sandswimmer’s eyes narrowed. “Us, mislead Taenöra? I think you are mistaken, Bellona. It is you who has been misleading the people of the Violet Sands, you and the rest of the invaders.”
“We are no invaders,” Bellona said stiffly.
“You have forgotten more than you know,” the Sandswimmer scoffed, stepping around the fire pit. The other khenedrin kept their eyes on Bellona. “Providence came from across the northern sea, remember?”
“We did. We sailed across the Shattered Sea in refuge, guided by the First Eye to—”
“—to conquer us,” the Sandswimmer finished bluntly.
“To liberate you!” Bellona snapped, reaching the end of her patience. Her horse whinnied anxiously beneath her as she argued, “The First Eye saw that Karatera was tainted by evil, and It guided us here to smite it! Providence brought peace to the four deserts, a peace that you khenedrin are threatening by forcing your Lords of Dust onto us! Say whatever you want, these people are human. They will follow a human god.” Pulling the reins harshly to get her horse under control, she addressed all the khenedrin. “From now on, you will no longer try to spread your faith to the people of Taenöra. You will not enter the village without my express permission. You retain the right to trade with us, so long as you keep your beliefs to yourself, but should you breach these terms, then this place shall be barred to you. Do you understand?”
The khenedrin were glaring at her now, all of them, none as darkly as the Sandswimmer herself. “You have no right to tell us where we can and cannot go, human,” she said coldly, speaking the word like a curse. “This is not your land. It never was. I had hoped we could reason with you, but it seems I was drinking from a mirage.” The Sandswimmer turned to the rest of her band. “Restrain her.”
The desert folk leapt up as one. They had no scabbards, drawing blades from their belts with nary a sound. So be it, Bellona thought with a scowl. She reached down to draw her sword, hearing a soft metallic ring as Nadërin did the same. She had no intention of fighting such a large group, but if she could cut some down while she and Nadërin made their escape—
Behind her, she heard the brief sound of metal singing through the air. Her horse reared back with a bestial scream, and before Bellona realised it, she was sent flying.
Instinct kicked in quickly. She tucked herself up like she’d been trained to, guarding her head as she hit the ground. Her shoulders took the brunt of the fall, dull pain flaring through her body as she hit the rock and dust. She saw her mare rear again, stomping and shrieking in agitation, and she quickly rolled out of the way. It turned and bolted back the way she’d come, a thin line of red trickling down its hind leg.
Bellona quickly leapt to her feet, spinning around to face the khenedrin. They’d darted forth as soon as the horse ran away, a mob of swirling pink cloth and long thin swords. Bellona’s heart was in her throat as she drew Lady Justice, holding it in front of her to keep the nomads at bay. The sun was blazing in the sky and her armour was hotter than a forge, yet in this moment, surrounded by over a dozen foes, Bellona felt icy cold.
She didn’t get the chance to defend herself. The man in camel hide stood at the front of the crowd with the flute player, who was now playing a fierce, angry tune. He raised his hand towards her, uttering a loud, breathy cry, and Bellona suddenly felt herself seize up, everything from her neck to her feet locking in place. Magic, she realised with dread. He’s a spiritbinder. The khenedrin were upon her before she could blink, pushing her to the ground and ripping her sword out of her hand even as Bellona tried to fight the spell with every bit of her willpower. This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening. She saw the rope around the flute player’s dress unknot itself by its own accord, slithering from the woman’s waist like a hempen snake and across the ground to Bellona. The flutesong grew more rapid, and the rope danced to its tune, coiling itself around Bellona’s ankles and binding itself into a tight knot, at the same time as the other khenedrin bound her wrists. Only when she was truly helpless did the spiritbinder release his spell. Bellona gasped as control returned to her, her captors surrounding her, their faces beautiful and hostile.
“No!” Bellona shouted as the khenedrin pulled her to her knees to drag her away. She struggled furiously against her binds, but all to no avail. “Let me go! I am a templar! A templar of Angelos!”
Nadërin was watching from atop his camel, eyes filled with steel and sorrow. Drops of her mare’s blood dripped from the tip of his scimitar as it hung by his side. The Sandswimmer approached him calmly, her own blade still resting within its scabbard. “Thank you,” she said graciously. “We may not have been able to do this without you. What will Taenöra do when they learn of her fate?”
Nadërin’s gaze was locked on Bellona even as he replied. “Nothing. The expulsion of our qämah is still fresh in our minds. Angelos will be less understanding. They may send five templars next time.”
“We know.” The Sandswimmer gave him a short bow. “Be safe, diin Nadërin.”
Nadërin turned to her, bowing back from atop his mount. “And you, Sandswimmer.” At that, he took the reins of his camel and pulled it back towards the road, the beast snorting disinterestedly as he did.
Bellona stared disbelievingly as Nadërin abandoned her, speechless with rage and betrayal. The khenedrin began to drag her to the tent, regarding her desperate attempts to break free as nothing more than a child’s tantrum. As Nadërin rounded the curve of the hill, she screamed with all the bile she could muster, “TRAITOR!”
He stopped just long enough to give her a withering glance. Then, he was gone.
The Violet Sands didn’t seem as mystical to Bellona, now that she was being dragged through them by a band of armed khenedrin. From a distance, the dunes had seemed to sparkle like they were lined with gemstones. But she could see now that it was just sand. The khenedrin are so full of deceit, even the beauty of their deserts is a lie, she thought darkly.
The khenedrin marched in a column, led by the Sandswimmer and the two magicians. Bellona was being escorted in the middle row with two guards, their grips like a pair of iron vices on her arms. The desert folk had stripped her of her armour before they left: cuirass, greaves, everything. She didn’t know where they were keeping them. She had been made to watch as they broke Lady Justice over a rock, snapping off the hilt and taking only the steel and the sapphire that had been embedded into the crossguard. They kept her tied at the ankle and the wrist, like a common criminal, stripped of the dignity that her station demanded.
They will all pay for this, she vowed. They’d left just enough slack in her ankle binds for her to shuffle step by step through the sands, and every time she stumbled, every time she felt her binds chaff, she would renew her silent oath of vengeance. She would have all their heads: Nadërin, the khenedrin, and whoever else had been involved with this betrayal. This was a conspiracy, it must have been. Prokopios must’ve organised this to get rid of me, to take revenge. The villagers as well, they must’ve known something. Once I’ve freed myself, they will all feel my vengeance.
It was well into the night when the khenedrin set camp once again, erecting their tent between a sprawl of dunes. Bellona, meanwhile, was dragged up to the crest of one of the sandy waves by four khenedrin, the Sandswimmer and the man in camel hide following behind. Once they’d reached the top, Camel-Hide began to sing an incantation, waving his hands up and down in her direction. The sand surrounding her began to whip up into a violent, swirling pillar, just wide enough to encase Bellona’s hands and lower arms, still bound behind her back, as the other khenedrin held her there. She kicked and swore all to no avail as the sand spun faster and faster, cutting through her clothes and skin, burning with heat. The magician ended his spell with a sharp clap, upon which the sand fused into a pillar of jagged yellow glass, encasing her arms and locking her in place.
The khenedrin left her there without a word of mockery, as if it was all routine for them. The Sandswimmer remained behind, approaching Bellona with a disdainful expression. Bellona glared silently at her, her head filled with too many insults to choose.
“I didn’t want it to come to this,” the Sandswimmer told her. “I had originally hoped we could reason with you, like we had with diin Nestor.”
“I am nothing like that weak-minded coward,” Bellona spat at her.
The Sandswimmer raised an eyebrow. “I’ve never known anyone to bear such hate for someone they’ve never met. Nestor was a good man. He loved Taenöra and kept the Lords of Dust alive as long as he did … but his loyalties were misplaced. He refused to excise the invader’s faith from the village, no matter how often I asked.” The Sandswimmer’s eyes turned mournful. “We came upon him during his patrol of the outskirts, the last time we visited Taenöra. He thought we were desert bandits at first, until he saw me. I fought him in single combat and gave him an honourable death, at his request.” She looked back towards the north, towards Taenöra. Her voice was whisper soft. “It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.”
Bellona stared at the woman, understanding coming to her slowly. “You never told the village, did you?” she murmured. “If Nadërin had known that you killed him …”
The khenedrin’s gaze snapped back to her. “Don’t think for a moment that he would’ve aided you,” she said coldly. “You dug your grave when you exiled qämah Prokopios.”
“Then give me a sword,” Bellona growled. “And let me die on my own terms.”
The Sandswimmer drew herself up to her full height, contempt painted across her face. “No,” she replied. “The Princess has a different end in mind for you, human.”
“Princess?” Bellona parroted, confused. The Sandswimmer gave no answer as she left.
The night that passed was terrifying. Immobilised by the crystal pillar, Bellona’s only defence against the horrors in the dark was a single pole-torch that the khenedrin had planted nearby. She couldn’t see the ghosts and monsters through the darkness, and the air was as silent as death, but she knew they were there. Watching. Waiting for the flame to go out. I cannot die here, she kept telling herself, even as she drifted in and out of sleep. I will not die here.
She woke to the feeling of the sharp tip of a knife brushing against her belly and the sound of tearing cloth. Her eyes opened to reveal a khenedrin slicing through the front of her tunic, pulling away the cotton to reveal the bare skin underneath. “What are you—” Bellona gasped, trying to pull away, but the pillar held her firmly in place. “Get your hands off of me!”
The khenedrin paid her no heed. He cut away at her breast bindings with clean precision, barely batting an eye as her chest was exposed. Behind him, two other khenedrin carried her armour: cuirass, greaves, everything. “What is this?” Bellona demanded, trying to keep the fear out of her voice. Again, they ignored her, approaching with the armour as her trousers were yanked down. They pulled the cuirass over her, fastening it so forcefully that they almost broke her ribs. Then, they fitted her greaves, just as tightly as the cuirass, the cords cutting valleys into the back of her leg.
Bellona looked up, blinking through the dim light of the dawn. She saw the faintest hint of the sun starting to peek out from the horizon. She realised their plan then, and she backed up against the glass pillar as they approached with her pauldrons. “No,” she muttered fearfully. “Not like this, I beg you.” They ignored her pleas, fitting the armour to her shoulders, and once it was done, they left her. She shouted after them, all but begging for mercy as they departed down to their camp, already packed away as if it had never been. They left mere moments later, the band winding around the dunes and disappearing into the desert.
Bellona turned to watch the rising sun with dread. Its rays touched her, and her armour began to warm.
The End
Sprouting Nonsense 