Chapter 22

Borner looked around the room at the simple, sturdy furniture that gave the eye the texture of comfort and coziness. The private chambers of the High Priestess of Denarah were just that, private. Her duties were performed in another precinct of the Temple, closer to the sanctuary, and those rooms reflected the power of the goddess upon her believers. Borner’s own chambers during his life before had been a tad austere, if only to minimize the amount of time necessary to keep his room clean. His priesthood had not come with chambermaids.

Turning back to the window, he searched the roofs and streets for signs of the mood of the people. Only a week had passed since the House on the Hill fell in a populist rebellion, but the cold weather was settling in with a blustery chill. People had returned to the necessary business of earning coin and feeding their households. Yesterday, he had stood near the western gate and counted the numbers of carriages returning to the city, looking for other cues of growing normalcy. The nobles were returning by the tens.

The day before, he had sat at Kanner’s bedside in the hallways of the third floor of the palace, as he had every morning since the fall of the snake. Each day Borner would mix a preparation of his collected medicinal herbs and coat the sewn wounds on both sides of the leg in hopes of preventing infection. The chirurgeon declared that the leg would not have to be amputated, putting off any predictions on how well Kanner would walk. Borner pulled his friend up and off his sickbed to stand on the leg and exercise his limbs.

Borner had help at the bedside; her name was Annaquette. She walked from cot to cot, offering a drink of water, a sympathetic ear and a comforting pat on the arm. Kanner had made her acquaintance as a widowed noblewoman whose husband had been a victim of Urutu long before the battle. She listened momentarily to the other wounded, moving on from cot to cot, but with the Sojourner she stayed and visited. Kanner held her hand. Borner did not need prophetic sight to guess his friend’s intent as he showed the woman how to dress the wounds.

Nothing of import appeared on the rooftops, only more clean laundry flapping in the wind. Surely the last days of rooftop drying were almost done as winter drew nearer on the calendar. Still, clean clothes were necessary for the coronation later in the day. Thus noted, his thoughts took a meandering path back to the present and its concerns.

He heard the door open behind him. He sought to greet the chambermaid only to be surprised by the figure of Andela with a stray strand of hair over her face. Her duties between the temple and the palace had kept her running back and forth. Although not by official title, she had already become an advisor to the queen in these early days when many decisions had to be made quickly.

Something in her demeanor made him stop from rushing to sweep her up in his arms. She gave him a little smile and a curl of her index finger telling him to follow her. Her front chamber was a sitting room with a table and chairs for private dining if she wished. Andela took a seat, patting the table for him to join her.

“The kitchen is sending up tea and biscuits,” she said. “I have been dismissed from the palace for the day until the ceremony. There are matters to discuss between you and me.”

“Official, private, or other​?” Borner asked as he settled back into the seat. Since the Night, as he and others had taken to calling the night the king fell along with the snakes, he had been out of sorts, not sure of what to do with himself. There was no temple for him or private library in which to lose himself.

“I’m not sure,” Andela said. “Salomet dismissed us this morning but held me back for a private moment, no servants or others in the room. She asked me some peculiar questions about you. She wanted to know if your staff had magical powers; I told her the only power was years of practice.”

She hesitated, as if searching for words. Borner strove to keep his face impassive as sadness seeped into his thoughts.

“She asked me...” Andela said. “She asked me if you were made of living stone. I told her that you were definitely flesh and blood, and few other fluids. I didn’t tell the whole truth though, did I? I saw the tear in your robe and undershirt over your left breast. It was a sword thrust, but your skin is unblemished.”

“I’m not a prophet,” Borner began but then faltered. He did not know what he was himself.

“Are you a god?” she whispered.

“Certainly not,” Borner said with conviction. “I am more than I was when I fled Andamathea; the journey transformed me, my soul for sure, but now I believe my body as well. There was no food for me there but there was water in a rock cistern. Every time I drank the water, I fell asleep. I wonder if I slept for twenty years.”

Andela appeared to consider his words in silence for a few moments before continuing. “Salomet heard Reghisis scream ‘only Nivanir’ when his sword shattered against your skin.”

“Timmaus,” Borner began and stopped again, unsure of what to reveal.

“What about the Master of Lies?”

Borner drummed his fingers for a minute. “Timmaus has a scrap of ancient parchment from the palace. The text describes Nivanir’s descent underneath Tzewerda-Arka. I know the tale is true.”