Claude de Lune

Charon

As the boy walked by Claude spotted a small shovel sticking up from under the bush, along with something that looked eerily similar to a hand. He blinked and shook his head. He'd seen for himself that there was no netherborne around here. No netherborne, meant no blight.

He took a few breaths to calm the fluttering of his heart and stepped up to the wooden doors. They swung open and out walked a frazzled looking woman frantically stuffing a book in her bag. "Sorry," she said as she shoulder-checked him.

Claude slipped through the door before it closed back and was greeted by an empty foyer. There wasn't even a rack to hang a coat or a shelf to stow a bag, much less someone to greet him. For an archive, this place didn't seem very archival, no books, no desks, no stuffy scholars going to and fro. Just empty beige walls and floors.

The only way forward was the wide hall, lined with lights, that led deeper into the building. Though there were no doors lining the hall, he heard the gentle hum of conversation as he passed through. At its end, he found a door ajar, and the scent of potpourri wafted out.

Claude paused and an ice cold knot formed in his stomach. His hand was already on his sword, an involuntary action. Chants were already filling his head, but he stopped himself before they could escape his lips. There were no netherborne, and yet...

"Are you just going to stand out there?" A low voice boomed from the other side of the door. "You've already spent all morning in my garden. You're not going to spend all afternoon in my house."

Claude's face burned and he pushed open the door. Inside he found an office occupied by two people. A man sat behind a heavy dark wood desk. He had an elbow propped on top and his hand on his chin while he scribbled away on a long piece of parchment. His long dreadlocks were tied to the back of his head, with a few stubborn defectors still falling into his face. The sleeves of his crisp white shirt were rolled up to the elbows, and short, pointed blades lined his suspenders.

A woman sat on a couch, one leg folded over the other while she read from a heavy tome. The gold adornments studding her ear clinked as she tilted her head and frowned. She reminded him of Octavia. Not from her dark skin alone, but also the calming air about her.

"Sit," the man behind the desk ordered without looking up from his work. Claude did so without missing a beat. Quintus' words kept ringing through his head. Keep your head down, don't speak unless spoken to.

He took the opportunity to look around the office more. There were plants everywhere, in thick vases pushed against walls, atop the bookcase with their leaves cascading over the shelves. Despite seeming busy, the guy kept his desk clean. It had only a paperweight, an inkwell and a pen holder. The books on the shelf were arranged by colour and interspersed with little, glass figurines.

My house, he'd said. Were these not the archives? Claude swallowed and cursed himself silently. He was in Jibari, of that he was certain, as he'd followed the sun east every morning, and there were no other towns along the way, at least according to the map.

"So," the man finally said as he waved the parchment to dry the ink. "What brings yet another priest to our humble outpost?"

Claude was too stunned to speak. His throat dried up and his heart sunk to the pit of his gut. How? How could he possibly know? Claude had yet to utter a single word, unless... He must've let a chant slip when he was outside the door. Damn it.

The man came around the desk and leaned against it, folding his arms across his chest. For the first time, Claude noticed one of his hands was hidden by a black glove. "Another spy from the Divine City I presume."

"No!" he said, a little too quickly. "I..." He fumbled with his bag, but pain shot from his palm through his fingers and they curled like withered vines. No, no, not now, he begged silently.

The man closed the distance between him and Claude in a blink, and just as fast, he caught Claude around the throat and hoisted him off the couch. His sword clamoured to the floor. "You will make a lovely addition to the garden." His voice was heavy and cold as a blanket of snow. "Perhaps I'll save your head and send it back to Marius in a box." He stuck a gloved finger under Claude's chin, forcing his head up.

Claude flailed his legs, knocking his bag from his still cramping hand. "Wait, I—" The grip around his neck tightened, cutting off his words and his air. Not like this, not when he was so close. Through wavering vision he watched the man bite the tip of his finger and ease the glove from his hand. On his brown skin was a circular scar vaguely resembling a sunflower. It stank of potpourri.

Claude squeezed his eyes shut and cursed himself for being so foolish. He mindlessly reached for his bag. This message has to make it, even if you don't, Amadeus had said. There wasn't enough air left to form a word. His struggles slowed. This was it. This was—

"Eryo wait!"

He opened his eyes and the woman who'd been sitting across the room now stood over his bag with Quintus' bell and Octavia's note in her hands.

"I knew I recognised that chime," she said.

Eryo let him go and he fell onto the couch in a sputtering heap, drawing greedy gulps of air into his lungs. His heart hammered and his throat and chest felt as though he'd been chugging lava. He cradled his still cramping hand close to his chest. His sword lay on the floor, out of his reach, not that he'd be able to wield it properly anyway with his damn hand.

A hand landed on his shoulder and he recoiled, scrambling to the back of the couch. The woman sat on her haunches in front of him, a frown tugging at her lips.

"Now look what you've done," she said to Eryo, who was slipping his glove back on, a look of annoyance curling his lips into a scowl. Her face softened as she turned her gaze back to Claude. "It's alright, I won't let him hurt you."

Eryo snorted. "He's a priest, Celesta. You're wasting your time."

"Then why does he have—"

"Octavia and Quintus are going to be the destruction of this place," he roared. "They're entirely too reckless with our secrets. First the King of Avaly, now a priest. What next? The entire Assembly of Prefects?"

Celesta seemed nonplussed by his outburst. "They wouldn't send a priest here without good reason, Eryo."

"I'm not a priest," Claude said, finally finding his voice. "I resigned last cycle."

Eryo stared down at him as though he was a pest. "You're gonna have to be more creative than that."

He put his hands up in a placating gesture, and when he spoke next, his words came out in a shaky rush. "Look, I'm not here to cause you any trouble. I came here to find my mother. She's a necromancer and..." He scrambled to grab his bag. "I have to deliver this message from Viperstone."

Celesta and Eryo exchanged a look. "You have a message from Viperstone?"

Claude nodded, his hand finally closing around the canister. He fished it from the bag and offered it to Celesta. She stared down at the message for a long time before plucking it from his hands. Her eyes scanned the engravings on the outside.

"Hmm," she hummed as she stood to her full height. "Grab your stuff and come with me. Quickly. We'll talk on the way. Come come," she urged when he didn't move.

He threw his bag, sword and trunk together, and followed Celesta to the door on the other side of the room.

"Don't let me find out you're a spy, priest," Eryo said to his back.

Claude swallowed, the threat lingering in his mind like a bad dream along with the scent of potpourri.