Below, You will find the First two CHapters of CHurch of Luna… With a twist

You will see four different versions of the same two chapters. Draft 1, 2, 3, then 4. If you’re interested in seeing how my writing has evolved, I expect this would be a decent way to view that. Draft 1 was finished February 2021. Draft 2 was finished December 2022. Draft 3 was abandoned September 2022. Draft 4 was abandoned March 2023. I’ve not returned to this book. I consider them trunked. Maybe one day they will be revisited or scalped for ideas. Until then, maybe someone will enjoy reading this.

Draft 1:

Chapter 1

            Bedowin clung tightly to the small chest as his shoes slid on the smooth concrete of the street. Bedowin nearly lost his balance as he bumped into some unaware Scummers. A few cursed at him as he shoved through the crowd. Bedowin managed to get out a couple of halfhearted apologies as he continued to push deeper into the crowd walking the streets.

            Bedowin risked a glance back to see if the guards were still following him. He could see them a little way back, where Scummers were quickly getting out of their way. Bedowin eyed the sabres and guns in the hands of the guards, then turned back and ducked his head down.

            Since he was dressed in the drab grey and beige that most Scummers wore, he soon blended into the crowd. Once he had rounded another street corner, Bedowin dropped to his knees and put down the small chest he was carrying. He studied the high-quality wooden veneer, adorned with worn gold outlines. Yes, whatever is in the chest must be of value, He thought. With that, Bedowin quickly slid the chest into his backpack, then slid back into the anonymity of the crowd.

            Bedowin kept his eyes down and trudged alongside the other Scummers, doing his best to mimic their utterly hopeless demeanor. Most walked with their eyes down, likely heading to church after a long and grueling day in the factories. Many of the Scummers were covered in dirt, and the smell was wholly unpleasant. Bedowin shook his head, trying to return his focus to the task at hand.

            Baxter should be here any minute, Bedowin thought, scanning the crowd for a splash of color. But Baxter was nowhere to be seen. Bedowin took a deep breath to calm himself, but he could feel himself growing more nervous, they should have rendezvoused by now. Bedowin looked up ahead to where some more guards had cordoned off a street, they were checking everyone who went through.

            Bedowin was only maybe fifteen meters from them, he would get checked soon, and they’d be sure to spot the outline of the chest though his backpack. Bedowin continued glancing around, trying to assess if he could escape down a side ally. But there were no other options. Bedowin’s feet continued carrying him forward with the crowd, dread and anticipation were growing in him.

            “Where do you think you’re off to?” Said a scratchy voice from behind him. Bedowin breathed a sigh of relief and allowed himself a quick smile as Baxter walked up beside him. Bedowin glanced over at Baxter, who was dressed in the ridiculously colorful garb of a businessman. A red hat drew a sharp contrast from his green shirt, blue trousers, and yellow coat.

            “Baxter you look like one of those silly birds that the traders from Salas have.” Bedowin said with a grin.

            “Well I have to play the part if you want us to get past these guards.”

            “Yeah, about that, why do you think there’s so many today?” Bedowin asked.

            “Guess that chest you stole must have been pretty important.”

            “Whatever it is, it better be worth all this trouble. My mom’s been getting pretty mad that I haven’t brought much food or money lately.”

            Baxter nodded and let the conversation fall to silence. Both were getting nervous as they prepared to try and get past the guard post. As they reached the front of the line, Bedowin fell in behind Baxter and tried to look even more miserable.

            “Name and business sir.” Said the guard standing at the front of the post.

            “I am Sir Baxter Maximillian, of Max Works Corporations. This is my assistant,” Baxter said with a distasteful pause. “He’s carrying some of my belongings for me. We’ll be on our way now.”

            “Yes of course sir,” the guard said without much thought. Bedowin kept his head down as they walked past the bored guard. Bedowin could see the sabre hanging from his hip, and the handgun strapped to his bandolier. The metal of his armor complimented the subdued green of his uniform.

            Bedowin finally allowed himself to relax, now that they were well past the guards. It would only be about 10 more minute until they made it to the safehouse.

            “Well, I guess your plan worked out after all,” Baxter said happily.

            “Hey, you, get back here!” Someone yelled from behind them.

            “You spoke too soon,” Bedowin shook his head, “as usual.”

            “Well I guess it’s time we split,” Baxter grinned, then took off at a sprint.

            Bedowin cursed and took off in a different direction. After a few moments of hard running, he risked a look back. Three guards were following him, all screaming angrily. Bedowin shoved through the throng of people, trying to find a clearing so he could run unobstructed.

Finally, Bedowin broke through into a more open street, and quickly took off. Soon he could hear the voices of the guards, calling for him to stop. Bedowin glanced around, trying to assess his surroundings and find a good escape route. Bedowin ran behind a butcher’s shop, then started climbing the crates piled up on the side of the building. Maybe if I can get to the rooftops, I can lose them, he thought. After a few moments, Bedowin had made it to the roof, and he spared a glance back towards the guards.

            Bedowin’s eyes grew wide as he saw one of them slowly raising his handgun. Time seemed to slow down, and Bedowin barely managed to duck as the crack of the gun rang out through the streets. His ears rang. Bedowin settled into a crouch and took off down the rooftops, hoping it would take the guards a moment to catch up. He could hear some of the Scummers screaming from the gunshot. While handguns had been around for at least 15 years, they were still somewhat uncommon in the city, so it was no surprised that many were alarmed by it.

            Bedowin jumped from one roof to the next, yet one guard still managed to keep up. In fact, he was closing in on Bedowin. Bedowin cursed and jumped from the roof down another crate, then down to the street, with the guard close behind.

            Reluctantly, Bedowin pulled a smoke bomb out of his pocket, pulled the fuse, and dropped it as he ran. After an agonizingly long moment, the bomb went off, releasing a huge cloud of dust into the air, obscuring everything. Bedowin trusted that he was still heading in the right direction and continued pushing through the frenzied mob of Scummers.

            Finally, having reached some safety, Bedowin slowed his pace and headed into the residential district of the city. Here, large buildings stood tall around the streets. Many of the rickety looking buildings called tenements would probably hold around 15 families, all packed in much too tightly. Bedowin slid down one of the sides allies and found the boarded-up cellar entrance he was looking for.

            Bedowin found the small handhold near the bottom of the door, and slid it open, then quickly descended into the basement, pulling the door shut behind him. After a moment of stumbling in the darkness, he managed to find the lamp they had left in the corner. He flicked it on, looking around.

            Baxter wasn’t here yet. Pity, he thought, guess I’ll just have to open the chest by myself. He pecked at the meager amount of food left in the pantry, but eventually he couldn’t stall any longer, and curiosity got the better of him.

            He settled down onto the floor and pulled the chest out of his backpack. Bedowin and Baxter had been eyeing this chest for weeks. After one of their informants told them about how much the Church of Luna seemed to care about it, Bedowin and Baxter had determined it would probably be worthwhile to steal. Perhaps it will be filled with gems, or money, Bedowin mused as he examined the lock. It was a simple lock; any competent pickpocket would have an easy time of it.

            Which was good because Baxter was the real lockpicking expert, Bedowin was only good enough to get by. After a few moments of tinkering with it, the lock clicked open, and Bedowin lifted the lid of the chest.

            Inside of the chest, there as a book. Wait, that’s it? Just a book? Bedowin began to grow furious. Weeks of planning, almost getting shot, all that for a book.

            Bedowin stood up and strode over to the pantry of their little hideout. Nearly empty. Bedowin was out of money, food, and his last hope – this chest – had turned out to be a dusty old book. He looked down at his hands, slowly clenching and relaxing them, trying to take deep breaths and control his anger.

Bedowin jumped as he heard the door slip open. He looked up to see Baxter walking down the steps.

“I don’t suppose you waited for me, did you?” Baxter said. He had removed his ridiculous red hat, revealing short cut brown hair atop a strong chiseled face. Baxter was a year younger than Bedowin, but also a few inches taller, which bothered Bedowin too no end.

“Guilty,” Bedowin said with a quick smile, “but it’s just a dusty old book, so it’s kind of seems like a waste of time.”

“Did you read any of the book?”

“Well,” Bedowin began sheepishly, as Baxter sat down to look at the book. Bedowin leaned over his shoulder to see as well.

“I can’t read any of this,” Baxter said thumbing through the pages. A few pages had interesting pictures or diagrams, but most pages were filled with words written in a script that Bedowin didn’t recognize. Each of the letters seemed so smooth and flowing.

“It’s probably written in some sort of language that only the Church of Luna knows,” Bedowin bemoaned, “this isn’t going to help feed us at all.”

“Come on Bedowin, you’re going to let the book being in a different language stop you from reading it? It’s got to be worthwhile if the Church was trying so hard to be careful with it.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.” Bedowin sighed, “I’ve just been really pent up lately. We’re low on food at my home, and my mom’s threatening to enroll me at a factory soon if I don’t make enough money.

“The last thing I want to do is end up working in one of those dreadful factories. Everyone who does it looks so dull and lifeless. I don’t think I could stand to do that,” Bedowin said.

“I’m right there with you,” Baxter replied, putting his hand on Bedowin’s shoulder.

“But we should probably head home and rest for a bit, after all, we’ve got another trick to pull tonight.” Baxter continued.

“Right,” Bedowin replied. He slid the book into his bag, and him and Baxter headed their separate ways towards their homes. After a few minutes of walking, Bedowin reconsidered and decided to double back to the hideout. He slid the book into one of the hidden cubbies in the wall, since he likely wouldn’t have time to look at it until tomorrow. And with that done, he headed home.

Chapter 2:

Asha nervously straightened the lapels of her ceremonial robe for the eight hundredth time that morning. Today was the day. It was Choosing Day.

            Asha looked at herself in the mirror. Her curly brown hair fell to her ceremonial red robe, which was adorned with white lapels. Gold accents outlined the deep crimson silk of her robe. The reflection of her blue eyes stared back at her. Today was her day. Today she would become a Bishop-Tempora of the Church of Luna.

            “Are you ready yet?” Mistress Stafford called out.

            “Yes Mistress, I’m coming now.” Asha gave herself one last quick smile, then turned to leave the bathroom. She opened the door and stepped into the hall, where she was greeted by Mistress Stafford.

            Mistress Elaine Stafford was the Noveau of the Church that had raised Asha. Asha herself was a ward of the Church, raised here since as far back as she could remember. Mistress Stafford was a stubborn old woman, who Asha loved dearly. Asha followed her through the maze of hallways that made up much of The Basilica. Artwork of Luna in various poses adorned the walls. Asha let her eyes linger on one of the newest paintings titled, “Jack with Luna defeats Aldrin.” It depicted a heroic looking man standing next to Luna, casting spells at Aldrin. Aldrin was depicted as a monstrous beast. The artist of this painting had drawn Luna as a young girl, with short blonde hair.

            “Dear if you don’t watch where you’re going, you might run into someone.” Mistress Stafford called back to her.

            “Yes, of course Mistress, my apologies.” Asha smirked. Elaine never failed to catch her when she was zoning out. Asha turned her attention back to her front. They were approaching the door where Asha would stay and wait for the ceremony to begin. It was decorated with ornate carvings, written in Lunen.

            Standing in front of the door were the three other Church wards who were also of age for the choosing ceremony. Two that she didn’t know were from different churches in the city, while her friend Frank was standing a little way away from the other two. She went over to Frank, as Mistress Stafford headed inside to prepare to begin.

            “Hey Frank, did you change your mind yet?” Asha asked, smiling at Frank.

            “Ah, no, Asha, I’m still going to take the endowment and leave. I’m getting out of here.” He said happily.

            “But why leave when you could stay and learn magic?” Asha asked.

            “We both know I’m not a good enough student to get picked for that. And besides, I want to see more of the world. Like what’s beyond the city walls.” Frank replied happily.

            “But there’s still so much to see in the city,” Asha said, “and aren’t you a little worried something could go wrong outside the city?”

            “Well maybe a tiny bit yeah. But I’ve got Luna to look out for me,” he smiled and touched his fist to his chest.

            “Yes, I suppose so.” Asha smiled a bittersweet smile. She was so excited for the Choosing Ceremony, and finally getting a chance to get on with life. But still, she would miss Frank dearly, he had been her best friend growing up. But he had made it perfectly clear he planned to leave the Church.

            Asha couldn’t imagine leaving the Church. It was all she knew. She trusted in it dearly. Luna had always been there to bless her life. Asha was just so grateful for what Luna had done. She was abandoned as a child, yet the Church was happy to take her in, and they would even feed and educate her. Now that she was of age, the Church would finally present her with an option.

            “Alright Wards, gather up, we’re heading in now.” An old Noveau called as he peaked outside the door. Asha fell into the back of the line and followed the rest as they entered the door. This was one of the few doors Asha had never been allowed in, so she was curious to see what was beyond it.

            Asha stepped through the door into a dark hallway, lit only by the faint light of candles recessed into the stone. Footsteps echoed down the hall. The hallway was skinny and sloped downwards. The air grew cool and moist as they went further into the hallway. Soon Asha could see a light up ahead, growing bigger and brighter as they moved closer.

            Finally, the wards were led into a large circular room. The vaulted ceiling was far up, making Asha feel small in the huge room. One huge chandelier hung from the middle. The sides of the room were made up of Bishops, Magistrates, and other Church officials seated in ornate wooden chairs. At the far end of the room, opposite where Asha had entered, sat The Father.

            Asha had only seen The Father a few times before. He was old, with a long white beard to accompany it. He hardly moved, just slouched in his chair. The Father was supposed to be the voice of Luna and was essentially in charge of the Church.  Next to him, one of the Archbishops whispered into his ear.

            Mistress Stafford stepped forward into the center of the room.

            “I bring to the Church council today four wards who would find their role in serving Luna.” Stafford began.

            “Bring forward the first one,” said one of the Archbishops near The Father. The ward at the front of the line stepped forward. She was small and frail, and her fingers trembled as she adjusted her glasses.

            “What role would you seek, child?” An Archbishop called.

            “A Magistrate, sir.” Asha could hear her voice trembling.

            “Any objections?” The Archbishop looked around at the council. “Very well, granted.” He motioned her aside. Two Magistrates came up and walked her away with them.

            “Next.” The Archbishop looked very bored with the ceremony. Asha bit her lip to stop from making any faces. Couldn’t they at least pretend to care about the biggest day in our lives? She wondered.

            The next ward stepped forward; this was the other one she didn’t know. He was a tall boy but looked dreadfully nervous. When the Archbishop asked him what role he wanted, the boy replied, “A Bishop-Tempora, sir.”

            The Archbishop smirked, and Asha could see the boy cringe a little.

            “Any objections?” The Archbishop asked.

            Many voices started talking all at once. While there were far too many for Asha too pick out anyone, nearly all the voices sounded negative. It seemed the Archbishop arrived at the same conclusion. He raised his hand and after a few moments the room silenced.

            “It seems that this is not the will of Luna. You shall become a Noveau.” The Archbishop said with finality.

            “No please, I swear I can be strong enough to be a Bishop.” The boy fell to his knees, begging.

            “This just proves how weak you are,” the Archbishop sneered, “take him out of here.”

            That was the part that made choosing day so scary. If you weren’t granted the role you requested, you were sent to join the Noveau’s. And sure, Noveau’s were still servants of Luna, but it was the lowliest position in the Church. Asha had her sights set much higher.

            “Next.” The Archbishops voice tore Asha from her thoughts.  Frank stepped forward. He didn’t seem nervous. He stood tall, with his shoulders back, projecting confidence.

            “And what role would you pursue?” The Archbishop asked.

            “I would take an endowment and leave the Church sir.” Frank said. Many members of the room gasped. Asha would have if she didn’t already know. Hardly anyone would leave the Church, it was borderline blasphemy.

            “And why, might I ask?” The Archbishop asked.

            “I hope to see more of what the world has to offer, and to help spread the light and love of Luna to those who might not know it.” Frank said. Asha knew he had prepared that response.

            “I see,” The Archbishop said, “any objections?”

            No one spoke.

            “Granted.” He said with a sigh.  Frank bowed then left the room before anyone could change their mind. That left just Asha.

            “Next.” The Archbishop called. Asha stepped forward.

            “And what role would you seek child?” He asked, his icy gaze boring through Asha. Asha took a deep breath to steady herself, then, trying to project confidence, said, “A Bishop-Tempora, sir.”

            The Archbishop stared at her for a moment before asking if anyone had objections. A different Archbishop spoke up, “What merit does she have?”

            All eyes turned to Asha. She gulped, then said, “I’ve gotten the best marks on all of my tests. I know the history of Luna, and I’ve already started taking lessons in Lunen.”

            “Very well.” The Archbishop said.

            Then a Magistrate stepped forward, “And why do you want to be a Bishop?”

            “To serve Luna to the utmost of my ability and help to spread her light and love.” Asha replied. It may have been a prepared answer, but it was an honest one. Asha really did want to become a Bishop to serve Luna.

            “It is not the will of Luna; you will become a Noveau.” The lead Archbishop said.

            Asha’s heart sunk. But how? I’ve always been the best. I went above and beyond.

            But then, The Father spoke for the first time. His voice was old and gravelly. “She will be accepted. It is the will of Luna.”

            The lead Archbishop shot a look at the Father, first confusion, then anger. But he recomposed himself quickly, settling back into a neutral face.

            “Are you sure Father?” The Archbishop asked.

            “Don’t question me.” The Father replied.

            “Of course, my lord.” The Archbishop replied. He turned back to address Asha, “It is the will of Luna that you will become a Bishop-Tempora.”

            Asha couldn’t help but smile. The Father himself has given me his blessing to become a Bishop. Asha was ecstatic. She could barely contain herself as she was led out of the room.

            Finally, Asha would prove to everyone, even Luna, just what she was capable of. Asha had worked hard all her life to get here now, and she wasn’t about to slow down.

            But despite her excitement, Asha was still a little nervous. She was about to leave behind the life she had known and enter a new one. One without Frank, or Mistress Stafford. Or at least, she thought so. She wasn’t quite sure what happened next. Not many wards were picked to be Bishop-Tempora. In fact, now that she thought about it, Asha wasn’t sure she had ever seen a ward picked to be a Bishop-Tempora.

            Perhaps it’s just a sign from Luna that I’m meant to do great things, Asha thought with a smile.

Draft 2:

Chapter 1: Bedowin the Thief

"And in the darkest hours when the world was broken, Luna emerged, resplendent in Light. Leading the most powerful Heroes of the world, Luna defeated the Isshin, imprisoning the forces of Destruction once again."

-Scriptures of Luna, The Beginning

Bedowin Finarial, street-thief extraordinaire, was running late to his own heist. Again. Stumbling out the stout wooden door, pulling his second boot on, Bedowin mumbled half-apologies to the Dusters who milled about in the streets. The Dusters, like him, were dressed in the usual boring beige garb of the poor. Dust and dirt were worn on faces and arms, as much a uniform as the clothes. Disgruntled and distant faces cursed as he stumbled past them, but few cared for more than a moment.

Soon enough, Bedowin had his bearing and was striding down Leras Street, heading for his meeting with Baxter. The villas here were dirty, like most of the Slums, formerly white walls stained brown and grey with soot from the nearby factories. Orange-red clay shingles lined the roofs of the villa. The faint smell of the sea was covered by a stench that matched the dirt on the walls.

Running a hand through his messy blond hair, brushing it out of his eyes, Bedowin glanced up at the sun. He blinked and groaned, looking away from the bright light that reignited his headache. Hopefully Baxter doesn’t notice that. Better to keep his focus forward. And it wasn’t quite noon yet – he might not be late. If he hurried.

Picking up the pace, Bedowin soon reached the corner of Leras Street and Third Street. At least Lena’s house wasn’t far from the meeting point. Bedowin straightened his sand-colored shirt, grimacing when he noticed it was inside out. He scanned the street, inspecting the crowd. As close to noon as it was, Bedowin had been expecting less people in the streets, but perhaps the extra commotion they provided would be welcome.

            “Where is he?” Bedowin murmured to himself, searching the sea of faces that walked the streets. There. Seated on a bench on the other side of the street, Bedowin spotted Baxter. Baxter was dressed in the colorful garb of the Noblemen. A yellow coat, which looked swelteringly stuffy, was donned over a blue shirt, paired with a red hat and green trousers.

            Bedowin slid onto the bench next to Baxter.

            Baxter didn’t look up from the paper. “You’re late.” Baxter finally folded the newspaper up, side eying Bedowin. “And I’ll bet it was Lena again, wasn’t it?”

             How’d he know? “Of course, not,” Bedowin replied.

            “Bedowin, your shirts inside out, your hair is a mess, and you forgot the smoke bombs, didn’t you?”

            Bedowin cursed as his hand went to his belt. The absence of the smoke bombs was damning. Baxter held up a pouch, bulging with three or four ball shaped objects.

            “You left them at the lair.” Baxter rolled his eyes. “If you’re going to plan these insane heists, you at least need to follow through on them.” He placed the bag in Bedowin’s hand.

            Bedowin looked down. “You’re right Baxter. My bad.” Bedowin glanced around again. The crowd was finally thinning out. “Are the Redsleeves in place?”

            “They’re right inside Luna’s Blessing,” Baxter said, gesturing to the hostel across the street. It wasn’t a particularly big one – just three stories – but it was sympathetic to the Redsleeves. “You’re sure this chest will have the funds to pay for them, and then some?”

            “Near positive,” Bedowin replied. “Dice hasn’t gotten anything wrong in months, and he says the Church has been guarding this close. Only going back and forth between the Bishop, apparently. He thinks the Magistrate doesn’t even know about it.”

            Baxter worked his jaw for a moment, staring off. His brown hair was cut short, outlining a handsome face with a strong jawline. Not to say Bedowin himself wasn’t handsome, but Baxter had always been a lady’s man. Still, Baxter seemed doubtful of Bedowin’s claim. Baxter’s right hand was tapping his leg, though it seemed unconscious.

            “And listen,” Bedowin added on, “about Lena–” he was cut off.

            “They’re coming,” Baxter said. “I’m heading to the rendezvous. Good luck.”

            “I’ve got plenty of luck,” Bedowin murmured as Baxter took off. Bedowin’s hand made its way to his chest, where his father’s lucky necklace always hung.

            There was nothing there.

            The necklace was gone. Bedowin paled, hands grabbing at his pockets. Where was it? His pockets were empty. In his shoes? Nope. When did I last have it? The bar last night. Then Lena had shown up. Bedowin groaned. It was probably still at Lena’s. And today was the worst day he could have forgotten it. He’d need all the luck he could get.

            Still, at least he had Dan’s smoke bombs. No one else in Cataluna seemed to have heard of them, so those alone should get the job done today.

            Bedowin shook out of his thoughts. It was time.

            The carriage, painted the crimson red of the Church of Luna, made its way down Third Street. A squad of ten guards, dressed in the forest-green tunics of the city’s government surrounded the carriage.

            Dusters pressed against the walls of the villas that lined the street. Bedowin eyed the guards with distaste. Worse than scum, that lot. The city guard was filled with the worst of the Dusters, the kind who would betray their own for just a little extra money. Almost as if to prove Bedowin’s point, one of the mounted guards flipped his spear around and smacked an older woman, who was slow to get out of the way.

            Bedowin felt his lip twitch at the sight. He forced himself to stay seated. Now wasn’t the time to get involved, frustrating as it was. No, it wouldn’t do to have the city guard on his back. This heist would likely have the Church on his back anyways. Though not if it could be helped.

            Bedowin felt under the bench for the bag Baxter should have left. Blessedly, it was there. Bedowin pulled out a face sized mask, carved of white wood. It depicted a nighthawk on the cheek. Any second now, the carriage would cross in front of him.

            The horseback guards hadn’t noticed him. He was just another Duster in the crowd, after all.

            A bird call rang out in the clearing. That was the signal. Donning the mask, Bedowin pulled the first smoke bomb from the bag. The little ball – snug in his hand – was cloth, tightly woven around a thick powder. Bedowin pulled a cord sticking from the end, then rolled the smoke bomb under the carriage.

            He took a deep breath.

            A cloud of dust puffed up from the carriage, sending the horses into a frenzy. Shouts pierced the air as guards called to each other, trying to figure out what had happened. Dusters began fleeing from the smoke.

            Bedowin dove in. Hopefully the Redsleeves were doing their job, distracting the guard. Bedowin found the door to the carriage quick enough, feeling by sight alone since the thick cloud of dust obscured everything. Even his own hand, inches from his face, was but a shadow.

            Yanking the door open, Bedowin peered inside. The dust wasn’t in here, thankfully. The carriage was empty, save for a small chest, perhaps two feet by one, sitting in the middle atop a plush velvet seat. Bedowin grabbed the chest, pulling it out of the carriage with the utmost haste.

            Backtracking out of the dust cloud, he got his bearings and took off towards the rendezvous at a dead sprint. The time for stealth was past, now it was all about speed.

            Shouts echoed from behind him, and at least one of the guards must have spotted him. Bedowin turned hard, rounding a corner and nearly falling as his feet slid out from under him. The additional weight of the chest had slowed him down and thrown off his balance.

            Down a dingy alleyway, then across another street, and over a small fence to a backyard, Bedowin ran. The streets of the Slums were a maze unto their own, constructed with no rhyme or reason. Confusing, certainly, but not too a thief who had grown up in those very alleyways.

            Finally, Bedowin turned another corner, stopping in a secluded alleyway. No one seemed to be following him anymore, so Bedowin stopped behind a pile of pallets, sinking against the wall. Catching his breath, Bedowin tossed the mask aside, then examined the chest. It didn’t look particularly fancy, just regular oakwood and iron hinges. It was locked, of course, but that would be a simple matter once he and Baxter were back at the lair. Speaking of, he still needed to get to the rendezvous. It was only a few streets over, so he’d arrive quick enough.

            “There he is!” Shouts called out from the entrance to the alleyway. Bedowin glanced up, seeing the shape of four guards sprinting down the alleyway. Bedowin cursed, looking down the other way. It was a dead end. What to do?

            Buy time. Bedowin drew another smoke bomb, pulled the fuse, and tossed it towards the guards. The cloud of smoke and dust sprang up a moment later, followed by coughs and shouts of alarm.

            Bedowin glanced around the alley, no way out. But there was a way up. Bedowin slung the chest onto the pile of pallets, then followed it up, heaving himself. The guards would be stalled for a few moments more.

            One hand gripping the handle of the chest, the other searching the wall for a handhold, Bedowin began his ascent. Luckily, the building on this side of the alleyway was only a story tall. Finally, some luck, Bedowin thought. One limb at a time, he scaled the wall from a window ledge to a waterpipe to the lip of the roof.

            He slung the chest up first, then pulled himself up. He caught his breath, running his eyes over the chest to ensure nothing had broken. Content whatever inside was secure enough, Bedowin picked up the chest and started across the rooftops of Cataluna.

            The rooftops were a second layer of streets above the city. Inaccessible to all but the most daring, the orange-red tiled rooftops were the quickest way around the city, provided no one noticed. But then, people tended to forget to look up, so Bedowin had noticed. Because of how the buildings in the slums were constructed, the roofs of various buildings would often connect, or only be a small jump apart.

            Jumping from one building to the next, Bedowin veered towards the edge of the Residential District, the part that was littered with tall rickety tenements, rather than the historic buildings of the Slums. Bedowin still doubted what his teachers had told him, claiming that the Slums had once been the wealthiest part of the city. Bedowin couldn’t see how, considering how many huge families crammed into tiny homes.

            Of course, the tenements weren’t better. Tall buildings, four or five stories, constructed of wood, the tenements loomed in the horizon, the first of many eye sores in Cataluna’s skyline. His Mom and Eric’s home was within one of the tenements, nearest the factories. On the fourth floor, where they had managed a room all to themselves.

            The guards had long since been lost. Running the roofs may have been outlawed in Cataluna, but few guards truly wanted to risk chasing a nimble thief. Bedowin had taken to enjoying his chases. But today wasn’t a day for chases. He needed to get this chest to Baxter.

            Finding an unoccupied courtyard, Bedowin tossed the chest down to a pile of crates stacked on one wall, then jumped down after. Once he was on the ground, Bedowin hefted the chest between his arms, strolling into the street to look for Baxter. As planned, he was across the street, still dressed in his ridiculous Nobleman attire.

            “Took you long enough,” Baxter grumbled. Bedowin plopped the chest down into his arms.

            “I’ll see you at the lair,” Bedowin replied. Him and Baxter broke off in different directions, each setting their own amicable pace. From here, they would both take odd, contrived routes back to the lair, to lose anyone following them. A lot of extra work, sure, but Baxter insisted on playing it safe.

            Bedowin supposed it wasn’t such a bad idea, given how much the Church seemed to care about this chest. Whatever was in it had to be worth a fortune. Maybe it was filled with gold or had some powerful magic trinket. Bedowin would prefer the gold, but anything that could keep the bills paid would do.  The Redsleeves wanted twenty gold coins for their part in the caper, and his Mom had told him it was ten gold coins or the factory. Baxter would of course want his cut. There never seemed to be enough money, unfortunately. But perhaps he could delay going to the factories a little while longer. Bedowin shivered as he thought of the factories. Anything but that.

            His wandering carried him through the Residential District of Cataluna, a massive sprawling section of the city. The heist had been on the North end, nearest the Commercial District, and Bedowin was now in the East end, where the tenements were, close to the factories. Cataluna was a huge city, the largest in the world, they said. Bedowin had never left the city, so he couldn’t say if it was true.

            After half an hour, Bedowin decided he had taken enough of a convoluted trail that he was safe to head back. Making his way to the villas, an alarmingly familiar voice reached his ears.

            “Bedowin, where’d you go?” Lena said. Bedowin groaned, turning to face her. Of course, this blasted woman found him. He thought she’d be asleep all day.

            “Hi, Lena,” Bedowin said, forcing a smile. Now wasn’t the time for this.

            “Why’d you leave so early?” Lena asked, stepping forward. Her long black hair fell past her shoulders, outlining a soft face with brown eyes. She was wearing a long blue dress, nicer than any Duster could afford. Lena’s family weren’t noblemen, they fit into that odd section in the middle. Too poor to be a nobleman; too wealthy to be a Duster. And Bedowin wouldn’t be caught dead with her. Not here, where any number of other crews could be watching.

            “Lena,” Bedowin said, leading her out of the street, “I told you, I had business this morning.”

            “Listen Bedowin, I have some extra money if that’s your problem,” Lena said, pursing her lips.

            Bedowin shook his head. “I don’t want your money,” Bedowin replied. “I don’t take handouts.” Thanks to Mom for that. Always work for you money, she would say. Luna says hard work is the key to a meaningful life.

            “But Bedowin, I want to spend more time with you,” Lena said, slipping her arms into his.

            “Listen, Lena, you’re great. But I really don’t like you that way,” Bedowin said. He should have said those words weeks ago, but he couldn’t bring himself too. It was unfortunate, but true. Bedowin didn’t feel anything for Lena, nothing real anyway.

            Lena wiped a tear away. “I see,” Lena stepped back. “Let me know if you change your mind,” she called, walking away.

            Bedowin brushed his hair out of his face. Great! Now he felt even worse. And she still had his necklace! He’d have to stop by her place, later today or tomorrow. Probably tomorrow when her father wouldn’t be home.

            Bedowin shook his head, resuming his journey to the lair. A few minutes later, he arrived. The lair appeared to most as another random villa within the slums, but not too Bedowin. It was two stories tall, constructed in a “U” shape, the opening of the courtyard in the middle facing the street. Vines of ivy climbed the outside of the building, some even reaching in through broken windows. A large red “X” had been painted over the main door, marking the building as either haunted or sickly. Either way, no one would be foolish enough to enter.

            Except for Bedowin, who was now sliding open the door and slipping inside. Once in, Bedowin closed the door behind him, then fumbled through the darkness for the sleeve of matches by the door. Bedowin lit one, then started the nearest candle.

            Using that, Bedowin made his way to a few more candles scattered throughout the room. A quick nock from the door was followed by Baxter entering.

            “You made it,” Bedowin grinned. “Anyone follow you?”

            “Not that I noticed,” Baxter replied.

            “Good,” Bedowin said, gesturing to a table. “Let’s get this cracked open.”

            Baxter set the chest and got to work with a pick and needle. Bedowin was a good lockpick, but Baxter was the better of the two. After a few moments, the lock clicked open. Baxter set it aside and began opening the chest. Bedowin leaned over his shoulder eager to get a look at what was within.

            It was a book. A bloody book! And a thin one at that. Bedowin stared in disbelief. Baxter scratched his head.

            “What?” Baxter finally mumbled.

            Bedowin reached forward, picking up the book. He flipped through the pages, frowning. “I can’t even read this,” he said. “I don’t recognize this language at all.”

            “Let me see,” Baxter said, skimming through it. “It looks like the writing on the walls at Church.”

            “Really?” Bedowin frowned. He hadn’t been to Church in years. He barely remembered what it was like.

            “Yeah. I’m pretty sure only the Church members can read it.” Baxter said at last, setting the book on the table.

            “There’s got to be something else in the chest,” Bedowin said, rummaging through it. Something, please.

            Nothing.

            “Oh, Luna’s leggings,” Baxter moaned, “we’re doomed.”

            “It can’t be that bad Baxter,” Bedowin said, flipping the chest upside down. “We can find someone to translate it. There might be valuable secrets in it.”

            “Bedowin,” Baxter said, “we promised the Redsleeves fifty gold.”

            “And we’ll get it. Just try to avoid them. If you run into them, say you need a few more days.”

            “They’ll skin us alive!” Baxter howled. Bedowin rolled his eyes. So melodramatic.

            “They won’t. We’ve always gotten them the money before. We have enough credit, they’ll give us time,” Bedowin said. “And besides, I’ll take the book home with me. I’m bound to be able to figure out something from it.”

            Baxter crossed his arms. “Fine. But I’m not getting roped into another crazy scheme of yours. Not unless you have the money ahead of time,” Baxter said.

            “Come on, Baxter, you didn’t even have to do anything risky this time.”

            “Working with you feels like risk enough.”

            “Okay, I’m sorry, just give me a couple days. I’ll have this figured out.”

            “Fine,” Baxter said. “I’ve got to get home before our next trick tonight.”

            “Bye,” Bedowin said as he left. Setting the book on the table, he headed over to the bar, examining the drinks they had. A few bottles of wine, and a bottle of spirits, hidden in the back. The pantry, even more meager. A few rolls of crackers and a bit of fruit. Bedowin sighed. He’d have to return home tonight.

            Bedowin blew out the rest of the candles and left the lair, heading down the street towards the tenements. It was already getting late. Time seemed to have breezed by. The sun was already well on its way to the horizon. He’d need to hurry; else Mom might be rather cross.

Chapter 2: Coronation

"Luna is Light, Luna is Love. The Ways are ideals to live life by, to become Connected with Luna."

-The Ways of Luna

Asha Telemon, a Ward of the Church, tapped her finger against her lip as she stared at the chalkboard in front of her – something wasn’t quite right. She shifted in her chair, brushing her blonde hair out of her face.

Yes, it seemed Mistress Stafford had written the wrong date next to one of the historical events. Asha flipped back through her notebook to the notes she had taken a few nights before. The historical event in question was the Second Schism of the Church. It had happened two-hundred and twelve years after the Breaking, of course. Not two-hundred and thirteen, as Stafford had written.

Asha cleared her throat, interrupting Stafford from her lecture. Stafford paused, turning her steely gaze to Asha. “And what seems to be the issue, Asha?”

“Sorry to interrupt, but I believe you’ve got the wrong date written on the board.”

Stafford narrowed her eyes. “And what would the correct one be?” Stafford unconsciously smoothed her dress.

“The Schism was two-hundred and twelve years after the Breaking.”

“It began then and ended a year later. On the date I put.”

“Sure,” Asha replied, “that’s what Remibold’s historical survey suggests, but he was from Andalar, and they don’t track leap years. According to Barkley, the Schism end precisely two days before the new year, when Angeline Davarius mended the broken Church.”

Stafford frowned, stepping away from the blackboard as she flipped through a nearby book. Stafford didn’t like being corrected, but Asha couldn’t stand when people got facts wrong. And Stafford would understand, she had practically raised Asha, after all.

Alyssa, another ward who was sitting next to Asha, raised an eyebrow. “Who cares, Asha? What difference does one year make?”

“A year is a long time,” Asha smiled. She was eighteen now. With any luck, a year from now she’d be a fully trained Bishop of the Church. The Bishop were the Servants of Luna and used her magic to carry out their duties. What would it be like to use Luna’s magic?

“A year isn’t so long a time,” Stafford murmured. She was still reading through the book, looking for the entry of the Second Schism.

“Try page three-hundred and forty-four. I think it’s the fourth paragraph down,” Asha said. Stafford huffed as she flipped to that page.            

Alyssa gave her another glance. “That never gets old.”

Asha shrugged. What else was she to do but study and memorize? Wards of the Church had but a few simple tasks. Daily chores, really. Sweep a few floors or help the Noveau with cooking… all simple things that only took a few hours. When she wasn’t busy with that, she preferred to spend her time here in the Grand Archives, studying and reading the countless books and tomes they had.

            “It was the fifth paragraph,” Stafford said, rolling her eyes. “But your point stands.” Stafford erased the date and adjusted it to the correct one.

            “Can we study something more interesting?” Alyssa asked. “It’s 1349 AB, and we’re studying things from 213 AB. It’s a little useless, isn’t it?” Alyssa was a year younger than Asha. Sometimes, Asha thought of Alyssa as a sister. Pretended, rather. What would it be like to have a real sister? She wondered. Or a family, for that matter.

            “Sure,” Stafford said, erasing the board. “Let’s discuss the dangers of war.”

            Asha tapped her lip again. She hadn’t studied this recently. But it could come up on the entrance exam to be a Bishop, so it would be a useful review.

            “War is bad because people die,” Alyssa said. Asha suppressed a smile. Leave it to Alyssa to pick the low-hanging fruit.

            “Yes,” Stafford said dryly.

            “War is often bad because it opposes the principles of Luna.” Asha said. A more pointed answer, of course. One that would appeal to the Bishop Clergy.

            “And how is that?” Stafford asked.

            “Luna always encourages spreading love and peace. War is a last resort.”

            “So, war is acceptable in some circumstances?” Stafford asked.

            “Sure. If another country isn’t acting justly, why wouldn’t we go to war and spread Luna’s light and love?”

            Stafford tutted. “I’m not sure I’d agree with that answer. War is hardly ever justified. The toll, the cost, it’s more than any of your history textbooks could explain. War is more than just numbers and statistics.”

            “How would you know?” Alyssa asked.

            “You don’t live in Cataluna for forty-seven years without learning a thing or two,” Stafford said, eyes twinkling. “It’s a story I’ll share another time.” She turned back to Asha. “As for your answer, I suspect it would be good enough for the Bishop. But still, Asha. Remember that war has a heavy cost. Don’t take it so lightly as your tomes like too.”

            “Of course,” Asha said. She glanced around the room. It was midday, so the Grand Archives weren’t particularly busy. The archives were four stories tall and took up a healthy portion of the Basilica. Four stories, all filled to the brim with books and scrolls. The center of each floor was cut out, creating and atrium that gave the room an open feeling. Asha smiled. She felt safe here, nestled among all these books. There was more knowledge than she could consume in a lifetime. Maybe a hundred lifetimes. It didn’t stop her from trying, though.

            Stafford resumed lecturing, but Asha’s attention was on the Noveau strolling across the floor. He had a bald head, which caught the light from the chandeliers above. His brown robes rustled about him as he approached.

            Stafford paused as he entered their alcove. “Can I help you?”

            “Magistrate Stafford.” The Noveau bowed his head. “The Bishop Council is meeting currently, and they have moved up the Coronation date to today. It will begin in half an hour.”

            Stafford paused. “What?”

            Asha felt her mouth go dry. They moved it up a day? She had been trying hard not to think about it, but now it was crashing back. Tomorrow was the coronation day. Except, they had moved it up to today. Her stomach started doing flips as she considered the ramifications of this.

            She had planned to finish studying the Bavarian Period of the Church tonight, but now she wouldn’t have time. Oh Luna, this Noveau had gone and thrown a wrench right into the middle of her plans.

            “Half an hour?” Stafford said.
            “Yes, Mistress.” The Noveau turned and strode away before Stafford could throttle him. Asha considered throttling him herself. They moved it up a day?

            “Well,” Stafford turning to Asha. “Let’s get moving, we don’t have much time. Alyssa, you’re dismissed for the day. Try to do something productive.” Stafford grabbed Asha by the arm and hauled her up.

            Asha felt dizzy. “They moved it up a day?” Her voice sounded shakier than she expected.

            “It’s going to be okay,” Stafford said. “Take a few deep breaths while we’re walking.”

            Asha nodded. Deep breaths.

            “We’ll hurry to your room,” Stafford said, setting off from their alcove at a brisk pace. “You’ll have to change out of that of course.”

            Asha followed Stafford, struggling to keep up with Stafford’s brisk pace and long legs. Asha spared her clothes a glance. A simple white apron dress, the same as any other female Ward might wear. With a grimace, Asha realized the left side was stained, likely from doing chores earlier.

            “I suppose a change of clothes might be needed,” Asha replied.

            Stafford led them out of the Grand Archives, through arching double doors, and into an adjacent hallway. A few Noveau and other Wards were sweeping down one end of the hallway, but Stafford set off the opposite direction. Stafford’s heels clicked and clacked on the tiled marble floor, echoing along the hallways. Asha’s own steps were much quieter, given the simple flats that Asha preferred.

            They exited the hallway a moment later, into the Grand Hall. It was the main entrance and general hub of the Basilica. The space itself was massive and had countless hallways branching from it. Marble brick made up the walls, save the spots where iridescent windows let in rays of light. Columns also filled the room, spiraling up the ceiling far above.

            Within the Grand Hall, groups of Noveau, Bishop, and Magistrate dotted the floor. The groups varied in size, anywhere from a few friends chatting between tasks, to larger discussions taking place between fifteen or more.

            Stafford continued her brisk pace, weaving between groups. “Keep up, dear.”

            “Why would they move it up a day?” Asha was still barely keeping back her nerves.

            “I’m not sure dear. Perhaps they received another applicant to take Bishop Stoneward’s place.”

            “Another girl wants to be a Bishop?” That was unusual. Asha had thought she was the only one her age. She had begun to think she was guaranteed her spot, seeing as the Bishop Council always replaced a female with a female and a male with a male. It was just the way of things. Seresa Stoneward had been a decent Bishop – so Asha had heard – yet her death was just the opening Asha needed to get into the Bishop Clergy. Asha wasn’t happy that Stoneward had died, but it was convenient.

            “Well,” Stafford reasoned, “it’s either that, or they could try to break tradition and accept another boy. Luna knows things have been feeling weird around here lately. I wouldn’t put it past them.”

            “They wouldn’t,” Asha gasped. They had reached the Ward’s Quarter’s now and were nearly to Asha’s room.

            “Hopefully not,” Stafford said. She opened the door to Asha’s alcove. It was nothing fancy, just a small square room. Big enough for a bed, a trunk, and a small wardrobe. The two could barely fit into the room once the door was closed.

            Stafford threw open the wardrobe while Asha grabbed her hairbrush from the windowsill. She began yanking it through her hair. If another girl was chosen as the Bishop instead of Asha… there were only five spots for females within the Council of fifty. The other female Bishop she knew of were all relatively young, in their early thirties. If she didn’t get chosen now, she’d be in for a long wait.

            “If you brush any harder, you’re going to rip your hair out,” Stafford said.

Asha looked down. Lost in thought, she had started blemishing her hair. She resumed, at calmer pace.

“How about this dress?” Stafford held it up. It was the one Stafford had gifted her during the Winter Festival two years ago. White on top with a flowing sleeve, and the bottom half of the dress a deep blue, with a red half skirt over the top. It was a gorgeous dress, but not the right mood Asha wanted to give off.

“It doesn’t fit right in the chest anymore,” Asha said. She kicked off her flats, then stripped off the socks. “What about the white blouse and black pants? Something simple.” Asha slipped off the dirty dress she wore, tossing it into her laundry pile.

“I don’t know,” Stafford said, “Are you sure you don’t want to do a dress? This red one might be nice.”

            “Yes,” Asha said, pulling the blouse down over her head. “I want them to know I mean business.” Next, the black pants, which clung to her legs just enough to be comfortable, without being too scant. Lastly socks and the flats.

            “That’s my girl,” Stafford smiled.

            “Maybe I’ll do my hair in a bun too.”

            “Don’t get carried away,” Stafford said. “Come on. We’re already running late as it is.”

            Asha followed Stafford out of the room, through the twisting hallways of the Basilica, and toward the Bishop Council’s chamber.

            Stafford led them into the room; they had arrived a few minutes after the meeting begun. Forty-nine Bishop sat on the stage, arranged in a loose circle. The stage was against one wall, in the middle of the room. Surrounding the stage, rows upon rows of chairs climbed upward. An amphitheater, altogether, with plenty of spots for audience members to watch the meetings from. Only a few Magistrate made up the audience today; most of the seats were empty.

            Stafford led them to the bottom row, and had Asha sit in the chair nearest the aisle. Asha studied the council of Bishop while Stafford went to go speak with someone.

 The Father was also in the council, sitting atop an ornamental throne. He was old, so old, with a long grey beard and a faraway look in his eyes. The Bishop were discussing something, but the Father didn’t seem to be paying any attention.

            “…Let’s proceed onto the final item on our agenda,” one of the Bishop said. All the Bishop were wearing variations of red robes, save three that sat closest to the Father. Those would be the Archbishop, each in charge of one of the Sects of Bishop. The Archbishop all wore black robes. The Father wore white.

            “The coronation of a new Bishop, to replace Bishop Seresa Stoneward as an Inquisitor.” Another Bishop intoned. He seemed bored.

            “Do we have any willing volunteers?” Another asked.

            Asha glanced around. Where had Stafford gone? Should I speak up? Asha felt her heart began to tremble picking up speed.

            “I would,” someone else said. Asha craned her neck, searching for the voice’s owner. There, it was her. The other applicant, her competition.

            “Mordra Devillieres,” the girl said, stepping up onto the stage. “Willing to serve as a Bishop of the Church.” Asha studied her. Thick, wavy black hair surrounded a supple face with a pointed chin and pursed lips. She was a fair bit taller than Asha, but just as skinny. Mordra was wearing a simple green dress with white trim, though it was rather low cut.

            “Are there any others?” Another Bishop asked. That one was old, with a hook nose.

            “Asha Telemon would serve,” Stafford said, stepping onto the stage. She beckoned to Asha, who proceeded up the stairs onto the stage. She tried to keep steady breaths, despite all the eyes she felt on her. Blood pounded loud in her ears.

            “Asha Telemon,” her voice shook, “willing to serve as a Bishop of the Church.” She stopped next to Mordra.

            Members of the Bishop began examining the two of them. Hushed conversations broke out between adjacent pairs. After a few agonizing moments of scrutiny, their conversations fell away to silence.

            “Applicant Devillieres,” a Bishop spoke, “you may present an argument in favor of your acceptance.”

            Mordra nodded, taking a step forward. Asha continued trying to manager her breathing while studying the Bishop in the clergy. Many looked disinterested, bored even.

            “I’m Mordra Devillieres. My father, Danson Devillieres is the editor-in-chief of the Cataluna Chronicles.” Mordra paused. Asha thought she saw an odd gleam in some of the nearest Bishop’s eyes. Was that recognition?

            Asha had heard of the Cataluna Chronicles. Everyone had. It was the biggest newspaper in the city. Its next biggest competition was the Luna Listener, but the difference in quality was stark. Even a Duster could tell.

            “I wish to serve the Church because I believe it is one of the highest callings one can pursue. I’m strong of heart and mind, and I believe I can fulfill the duties of this position well.” Mordra took a step back. A few moments of muted conversation from the Bishop.

            “Applicant Telemon,” a Bishop spoke, “you may present an argument in favor of your acceptance.”

            Asha gulped, taking a step forward. Her body practically tingled with nerves. Deep breaths. “I’m Asha Telemon, I’ve been a Ward of the Church for as long as I can remember. Orphaned as a child, all I’ve ever known is Luna, and the generosity she showed me. All I can think to do with my life is try and repay that favor. I would work hard, day after day, to spread Luna’s light and love. I’ve always worked hard, tested well, and studied the dogma of Luna. Because of that, I can fulfill this duty better than any other.” Asha stepped back. She hadn’t the faintest clue of what she just said. Luna! Why was this so nerve-racking?

            The Bishop’s muted conversation began again. Asha spared a glance at Mordra. Mordra kept her eyes forward, face held high. Asha turned back forward, mimicking her posture. Best to portray confidence, Asha figured.

            “Would any like to present an argument against applicant Devillieres?” A Bishop asked.

            Silence.

            “Would any like to present an argument against applicant Telemon?”

            “I would,” Mordra said. She spared a quick glance to Asha. “Sorry,” she whispered, shrugging.

            Asha gaped.

            Mordra stepped forward, addressing the Bishop. “Applicant Telemon, here, is a Ward. She will not be able to offer any financial contribution, the way all other Bishop generally do. It is a tradition, no? A donation to the Church to prove your loyalty? My family is more than prepared to donate to Luna, not just with money but also by establishing stronger relations between the Cataluna Chronicles and the Church.”

            Asha was stunned. Mordra stepped back, sparing Asha another glance. “I was raised a reporter. I do my homework when it matters.”

            “Any responses to that argument?” A Bishop asked.

            Asha flustered. What was she to say to that? She didn’t have any money to donate. Nor connections to a newspaper. Oh Luna! Her breath picked up, coming faster and shallower.

            “Very well.” A different Bishop spoke. “I move that we take it to a vote.”

            “I second that,” another Bishop spoke.

            “All in favor of Applicant Devillieres?” The bald Archbishop spoke.

            “Aye,” the assembly spoke. It sounded like nearly everyone. Asha’s breathing was getting faster and faster. Her face felt warm. Was she trembling?

            “All in favor of Applicant Telemon?”

            Only a handful of “Ayes.”

            Asha’s heart sank. She felt weak.

            “Applicant Devillieres will be accepted as the council’s new fiftieth Bishop, under the order of Inquisitors. This motion passes by the will of the Bishop council, and thus the will of Luna. Any further comments for the record?”

            Why did it feel like her lungs were moving yet she wasn’t getting any air? Panic filled her. She was going to asphyxiate! Why wasn’t she breathing?

            The Father shifted in his seat, drawing all eyes. “One addendum.” His voice was old, gravelly. He spoke slowly as if careful of every word. “Applicant Telemon will also be accepted as a Bishop, under the order of the Inquisitor.”

            Silence. A shocking silence. So shocking, it even distracted Asha from her panic for a moment. “What?” She spoke. All eyes turned to her. She froze.

            The roar of conversation broke out in a frenzy. Asha caught only garbled bits of phrases. “…only fifty Bishop,” and “… has never happened before.”

            Mordra turned, catching her eye. “How’d you pull that off?”

            Asha shook her head. Her breath was beginning to steady again. “I didn’t.”

            Finally, the din of the Bishop died down, and the bald Archbishop tuned to the Father. His brow furrowed and he seemed angry. “Are you sure of this, Father? The Bishop council has always been fifty, never fifty-one.”

            “It is the will of Luna,” the Father said, then slumped into the seat.

            “Then applicant Telemon will also be accepted.” The Archbishop seemed to be forcing the words out.

            Asha gulped again. She had been accepted. She was a Bishop! Asha felt a grin begin to creep onto her face. Stafford rushed over a moment later. Asha felt a little shock of panic run through her at Stafford’s expression.

            “Something isn’t right,” Stafford said in a low tone. The Bishop were all standing from the chairs, the meeting over, but their noise blurred into the background as Asha latched onto Stafford’s words. “Something isn’t right, and I’ll get to the bottom of it. Be careful, you hear?”

            Two Noveau approached Asha and Mordra, while gently pushing Stafford away. “Follow us,” one said. Asha and Mordra shared a glance as they were led off the stage. Asha turned back toward Stafford, who was storming away from the chambers.

            Well. It seemed she was alone now. Or perhaps she would get to know Mordra. Either way, she was a Bishop now.

Draft 3:

Chapter 1: The Trick of a Lifetime

“Now, picture this, Baxter. The prettiest girl you’ve ever seen, sitting next to me on a park bench. There’s a gentle summer breeze blowing, carrying the scent of flowers and trees. The burnt-orange light of the sunset glitters on the rippling water of the lake before us. It’s fall. I can tell because of the leaves that sail in the wind.”

“And what’s this got to do with anything?” Baxter crossed his arms, non-plussed.

“It’s the dream I had. It was perfect; I had to try and fall back asleep. If only for the desperate hope that I would end up back in the dream,” Bedowin said.

“Bedowin,” Baxter sighed. “That has to be the worst excuse I’ve ever heard for being late to your own heist.”

“Ah, but I never said it was a good excuse, merely that it was an excuse.” Bedowin brushed a tangle of messy blond hair from his face, once again surveying the street before them. It was noon and the streets were largely unoccupied since everyone would be slaving away in the factories. Most everyone. Not Bedowin, nor his crew.

His crew had been in position since the gray half-light of early dawn had replaced the night, when the smell of sea salt was thick in the air and the city was eerily quiet. This trick had been planned for nearly three weeks, and it was one of the most elaborate Bedowin had ever schemed up. Even Baxter had been awed by the audacity of it. Normally, the more complex a plan, the more possibilities of something going wrong. Yet neither Baxter nor Daniel nor even Julian had spotted any flaws in the plan.

It went like this.

In twenty minutes, a plump black carriage would come rolling down the street before them, moving from the Basilica to a satellite Church. The carriage would be plain and unadorned (so as not to stick out) but would have a chest of some importance within it.

Earlier this morning, Daniel and Julian, the twins, had arrived early and set up road barricades and warning signs. The twins had donned the uniforms of the City Watch (which had been an adventurous acquisition of their own) and were standing around a hole they had dug into the road. Julian pretended to ‘supervise’ the project, which meant smoking a cigar while he studied the clipboard he held. Daniel was within the hole, which was a service hole leading into the sewers, where – with any luck – the crew would make their escape.

The carriage would approach the faux construction sight and see the detour sign pointing them into the nearby rue de fuipois, a cramped alley that veered in a ‘U’ around the construction area. The alley was isolated, the perfect place for a few smoke bombs to go off. That’s when the Redsleeves would hold up their part of the plan: fighting and distracting the accompanying guards. Then Bedowin would make his move, slipping in to steal the chest from the carriage. It was a perfect plan, really.

He fingered the knife hidden within his sleeve. With the flick of his wrist, it could drop into his palm. It was a traditional Catalunen knife, one designed for the handle to fold in two mirror motions to conceal the blade. A knife for self-defense – or a glass breaker for getting into a carriage.

Everything had been accounted for, his information twice checked from different informants (and costly, too), and everyone was in place. They’d been over the plan a hundred times; everyone had rehearsed their parts. Even Emilie, who wasn’t supposed to take an active role in this heist, was waiting on the rooftops above, poised to help out should anything go wrong.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Baxter shook his head. He wore a watchmen’s uniform as well: a blue cotton shirt with brown pants, suspenders, a utility belt including a baton, though his uniform also included a vertical stripe of white, to signify his rank as (faux) captain. “We don’t even know if whatever’s within the chest will be worth enough. How much did we promise the Redsleeves?”

“Deep breaths, Baxter. We’ve been over this: the chest’s contents have to be valuable. The Church wouldn’t have been so hush hush about it if that wasn’t the case. Look, if we want to stop risking our hands on petty tricks, we’re going to have to step it up. Nothing risked, nothing gained. Besides, worst case, I’ll blow the whistle, we’ll be down the sewers and out of the area within two minutes. We’ll lay low a few weeks and start again.”

“With the Redsleeves hounding us for money,” Baxter said, incredulous. “And no money for food, never mind gang business.” Baxter dropped his face into his palms. “We’re doomed.”

“Don’t be so dramatic. You can always play a few taverns. The ladies always tip well when you play that one tune…”

“While my harmonic prowess is undeniable, all the taverns have been dead the past few weeks,” Baxter said. “Ever since the flyers went out about Andalar, everyone has been saving money, staying home from the taverns.”

“People really think that’ll turn into something? It’s idle hearsay and rumormongering. There hasn’t been a war in fifty years, and you think one will start now?”

“I didn’t say I think that. Just that others do.” Baxter leaned back on the bench the two occupied, distracting himself with a newspaper he had purchased that morning, the Cataluna Chronicles.

Bedowin sighed and scanned the perimeter again, absentmindedly twiddling the suspenders of his own watchmen’s uniform. Villas loomed on either side of the street; white-stained-dirty walls roofed with orange clay tiles. Clotheslines, strung across the street in haphazard patterns, billowed with the periodic breeze. Here in the heart of the Residential District of Cataluna, most of the villas were over three hundred years old. A few nearly seven hundred. Though most were in various states of disrepair. Villas that had once housed a single rich family now held as many as five unrelated families. And that was considered spacious compared to the tenements closer to the Industrial District.

“Regardless,” Bedowin said, “there’s only a few minutes left and everything’s going acc—”

A speck of black to Bedowin’s left caught his eye. Was that the…? The carriage was approaching from the wrong direction.

“What?” Baxter asked, head still buried in the newspaper.

“Why’s it coming from that way?” Bedowin asked, grabbing Baxter’s shirt, and nearly pointing before he caught himself. He jerked his head in that direction, and Baxter’s eyes grew wide as he took in the carriage.

“But that’s heading toward the Basilica. That’s not right,” Baxter said. “Maybe it’s a different one?”

Bedowin glanced up to where Emilie should have been sitting on a nearby rooftop. He quickly flashed the hand signs for problem. A moment later, a flash of light glinted in his eye. That was the acknowledgement that she was listening (watching?). Bedowin flashed a few more hand signs and was shortly greeted with another flash of light. A moment later, a dark-colored blur jumped from the first rooftop to the next, heading down the street toward where the carriage ought to have been coming from.

“How long do you think she’ll take?” Baxter asked, rubbing his hand on his neck.

“She’s fast. Two minutes. Maybe less.”

“We don’t have two minutes.” Baxter said. “Maybe thirty seconds at best. What if we just let them go through the detour?”

“The Redsleeves are all posted up in the alleyway. You know they’re dumb, Baxter, if they see that carriage, they’ll drop the smoke bombs. If we try to call off the game, they’ll think we’re double crossing them.”

“Rather untactfully said, but I agree with the premise.”

“Now’s not the time for banter,” Bedowin said, standing up.

“There’s always time for banter,” Baxter replied, following suit.

“Can we reroute them down another street?” Bedowin asked. “Break a wheel on the carriage? Tranquilize their horses? There has to be something.”

“Keep spit balling,” Baxter replied, “the first four or five are always the worst.”

Bedowin frowned. “I’ll have to distract them. You steal the chest from the real carriage.”

“You sure? I’m usually the better talker.”

“I don’t know, I have a feeling that this is how it should go.”

“Only a feeling?” Baxter took a deep breath. “Oh boy.”

“Get in position.” Bedowin marched over to Julian, grabbing the clipboard from his hand, and whispering to him the gist of the improvised plan. His eyes grew wide, but he nodded. They were committed now, that was the way of it. Julian moved over to the hole to update Daniel, while Bedowin headed over toward the approaching carriage.

A flash of light caught his eye. He glanced up to the roofs, where Emilie was signaling that the other carriage was on the way, only a few minutes until it’s arrival. Then the game is on.

The carriage, a fine thing of shadewood and wrought-iron, was pulled by a team of four white mares clip-clopping down the street, and helmed by a watchman dressed in standard attire. Three other watchmen escorted the carriage, each atop a stallion of their own, swords jostling at their hips as they scorned any Dusters foolish enough not to clear out of the street.

Bedowin strode forward, mentally reminding himself of the role he was playing. He’d be a watchman, with three years of experience under his belt, and though he wasn’t particularly talented, he showed up on time and worked hard. Yes, that ought to do. Baxter had taught him the art of acting, of pretending, and though Baxter was the most skilled of the crew at it, they had all grown proficient under his careful tutelage.

So when the carriage and its escort pulled short, and the watchmen’s Squad Leader stepped forward, running a careful eye up and down the scene before him, Bedowin was ready.

“Morning, sir, how can I help you?” he began.

“What is all this?” The Squad Leader removed his helmet and perched it on the pommel of his saddle. He gestured with one hand toward the mess of construction before him, then stroked his mustache as he waited for Bedowin to reply.

“Small foundational problem we were notified of a week ago, sir. We should have it patched up within the next few hours. Got some good folk working on this one. We have a detour set up, but another carriage just busted a wheel going through it. Whole thing is rum blocked up, worse than my auntie when we feed her arris.”

The Squad Leader grimaced at that, and Bedowin made a mental note to leave out any other humor. Still, the pitch was going well so far, best Bedowin could tell.

“I didn’t see this construction sequence on the schedule,” the Squad Leader replied, picking at his teeth. He flicked a small piece of food from his finger. “And only a week is an unusually fast turnaround. Most projects are queued for upward of three months, no?”

“That is correct sir. I didn’t see it either, but Captain Durieux personally asked us to see it. Methinks he was tired of all the cracks in the pavement bumping his carriage rides.” Bedowin shrugged, meeting the Squad Leader’s eyes. “In fact, I’ve got his writ back with all the other stuff.” He gestured to the small tent near the hole in the road. “I can fetch it if you like.”

“No, don’t bother.” the Squad Leader sighed and rubbed his mustache again. “How long until the carriage clears out of the detour? My charge is in a hurry, and I would not keep her waiting.”

“Five minutes,” Bedowin said. “Ten, worst case. Or if you like, we’ve mapped out another easy detour. You’d only have to double back a few blocks.”

The Squad Leader nodded, considering for a second. “What was your name again, Corporal?”

“Oscar Lemillion, sir. May I ask yours?”

“Lieutenant Antoine Desamarquis, at your service.” Bedowin gave a curt bow of his head, to conceal his shock. He hadn’t realized this was a Lieutenant, and one of the old blood, nonetheless. Desamarquis turned his horse back to the carriage, where he came up alongside the passenger window and knocked. An older woman poked her head out of the carriage, blinking against the bright light. “What is the meaning of this?” Bedowin overheard her say. He edged a few steps closer, curiosity getting the better of him as he wondered who this passenger was.

The Lieutenant mumbled something about construction, which seemed to anger the woman. Her head disappeared back into the carriage, only for the door to open a moment later as she stepped out.

Bedowin blinked. The woman wore a ceremonial red dress, with a white tassel hanging from either shoulder. A Bishop. He became acutely aware of his breath, his posture, and the danger he was in. His infallible plan seemed a lot more fallible, suddenly. He went down on a knee, bringing a knuckle to his brow in respect.

“Rise, watchman,” the Bishop said. Her tone was sharper than the knife in his sleeve. Did she know of his knife? Or his subterfuge? Everyone knew the Bishops of the Church had mystical powers… Unnatural powers. But to what extent? Could they read minds? “What is the meaning of this delay? I have need of the utmost haste. Can we not move around the hole in the road? Our carriage is not so wide as to take up the whole road.”

Bedowin gulped. It wouldn’t do to refuse a Bishop, but the game was at stake. No, not just the game either. His crew’s chance out of a life of poverty was also at stake. A trick like this was once in a lifetime. He couldn’t afford to mess this up. Besides, failure could mean death when a Bishop was involved.

Her scrutinous gaze drew him from his thoughts, he stuttered, and cleared his throat. “I apologize my Lady Bishop, but I can’t rightly encourage such actions. The structural integrity of the road is the question, Madam, not the width of your carriage. I couldn’t live with myself were the road to collapse while you all crossed.”

“Hmph,” the Bishop said, crossing her arms. “I see.”

“Might I suggest an alternative detour for you all?” Bedowin offered.

Just then, the door to the carriage opened again and a younger woman stepped out. She must have been within a year of Bedowin’s own age, twenty. Strawberry blonde hair fell in cascades around her pale face. Her chin was sharp, complimenting striking cheekbones and supple lips. In short, she was beautiful.

Her eyes fixed on Bedowin for but a moment, causing him to start, then her attention moved past him as she studied the construction site while walking over to the Lady Bishop. She might have been an apprentice or a daughter, judging by the stylish black dress she wore, accented with a necklace, and other gawdy bits of jewelry.

“What’s going on, Mistress?”

“Construction,” the Lady Bishop shook her head, rubbing the creases at her eyes. “I think it best if we continue by horse, Asha.”

The girl, Asha, frowned, then glanced at the sun. “It breaks formality, but then I suppose we’re already past that point.”

The Bishop turned to the Lieutenant. “My apologies, Desamarquis. Your stallion will be returned, and you’ll be compensated.”

The Lieutenant dismounted without hesitation, handing the reins to her, then turned. “Alex! Surrender your reins to the Lady Bishop and her guest.” Another of the Watchmen came over and quickly dismounted, handing his reins to the girl Asha.

The Bishop mounted with apparent ease, while Asha required the assistance of Desamarquis. Once the two were situated, the Lady Bishop set off at a steady canter, Asha following her.

Bedowin watched her go, unsure why he felt such a pull to her. He’d seen plenty of pretties in his life, and plenty that weren’t snobby apprentices or daughters to the Bishops. Still, something about her–

“I’d be careful not get caught starting, were I you,” Desamarquis replied. “Though she is a pretty little thing, no? I’ve half a mind to court her myself, whenever I get done with this dull tenure as a watchman.” He glanced at Bedowin. “No offense.”

“None taken,” Bedowin said, turning back toward the construction site. Rich asshole. The Desamarquis’ were one of the wealthier families within the nobility of Cataluna. This Antoine was likely serving a few months as a watchman, enough to satisfy some silly rules of being a nobleman.

Bedowin’s gaze focused past the construction site, to where another black carriage was turning into the detour. Like the first, this one was guarded by a squad of three watchmen, with a fourth holding the reins to the four horses that pulled the carriage.

“Perhaps you ought to alert them that the way is blocked?” Desamarquis suggested, following Bedowin’s gaze.

“Of course, Lieutenant.” Bedowin gave a quick nod and set off at a jog past the construction and toward the carriage. A flash of light from the rooftops caught his attention, and then a few more signals told him the game was still on. Good.

Bedowin hurried past the twins, still in the midst of their faux construction work, over to Baxter, where he pointed to the carriage. Baxter nodded in understanding and headed toward the carriage, while Bedowin doubled back into the alley from the other end. Baxter would head up the rear of the alley, where the carriage had come from, while Bedowin would approach it from the front.

The air in the alley was stale and musty, and puddles of water pockmarked the cobblestone street. Walls of villas loomed on either side; flush save for the odd barred window. A stack of palettes was haphazardly stacked against one wall. Two Redsleeves would be hiding in there. Three more on the roofs, poised with rocks, debris, and smoke bombs (which had rather expensive to acquire).

Bedowin rounded the corner, came into sight of the carriage, and held up a hand in alarm. “Woah there!”

The coachmen pulled on the reins, while the lead watchmen continued his horse forward. “What is the meaning of this?”

Bedowin looked around and took a deep breath, savoring the last few seconds before his crew’s life changed forever. With exaggerated grandeur, Bedowin took a large cough, which was the signal to begin.

A loud crash echoed from further down the alley, then a cloud of smoke exploded into the air. Horses whinnied and knickered in fear, while watchmen exclaimed and drew swords. Bedowin flicked his wrist, letting his knife fall into the palm of his hand. He didn’t bother flicking it open.

He charged into the cloud of dust; eyes closed tight against the pepper-laced cloud. It was Dan’s invention, the smoke bomb, but it had been Bedowin’s idea to lace it with cierano peppers, the kind that irritated the eyes and left the throat scratchy. Around him watchmen coughed, fell off the horses, stumbled, or otherwise tried to get free of the dust.

Bedowin’s fingers found the carriage, and he traced it by touch until he felt the outline of a door and a small window. He brought the knife’s pommel to the window, shattering the glass. He reached inside, ignoring the sharp sting of glass tearing flesh, until he found the door handle and the little latch to unlock the door.

He stepped back, wincing again as he scraped up his arm more. A small price to pay. The door swung open, and he stumbled into the carriage, feeling for the chest. The air inside was a hint easier to breath, but his lungs and throat still burned, and tears were rolling down his cheek, despite his eyes being closed. At last his fingers felt the cool wood and polished metal of the chest. He traced the outline of it, just to be certain. It was a small chest, only perhaps two feet across and not even a foot tall or deep. Smaller than I expected. But surely valuable, considering how secretive the Church has been.

Now wasn’t the time for deliberation or second thoughts. Bedowin hefted the chest out of the carriage and clutched it to his chest, he stumbled out of the dust filled cloud, vaguely in the direction he thought he had come from.

At last he emerged from the cloud, but his vision was still blurry from the tears in his eyes, and the sun bright as a candle in the dead of night. Bedowin bumped into a wall as he rounded the corner of the alley. He could see the main street from here, and the twins doing their construction, looking at him with wide eyes.

A whistle rang out from the rooftops. Emilie. It was the signal that the target had been acquired, and a full retreat was in order. Bedowin took off for the construction hole. He had to trust that the others had handled themselves well. His gut told him everything had gone off without a hitch.

As Bedowin sprinted toward the twins, he saw their eyes grow wide. He followed the direction they were looking, to where Desamarquis was standing off to the left, only twenty paces down the road. Bedowin judged the distances. He’d beat Desamarquis to the hole, but any of the crew behind him wouldn’t.

Desamarquis shouted orders, and the watchmen with all drew their swords, moving toward the commotion. Bedowin caught Julian’s eye and tossed the chest toward him. Julian scrambled to catch it, then he and Daniel dove into the hole and took off for their safe spot. The crew probably had about thirty different safe spots throughout the city, and three lairs.

Desamarquis charged toward Bedowin. “Stop in the name of the law!” He shouted.

Bedowin spared a glance back down the alley, which would still be out of Desamarquis’ view. Baxter and three of the Redsleeves were heading down. Baxter gave the hand sign for confusion.

Bedowin knew what he had to do.

He bolted down the street, directly opposite of Desamarquis. He’d have to lead him and his cronies on a nice tour of the city, long enough for Baxter and the others to get away.

Bedowin sprinted past Dusters, whose eyes grew wide in shock at the chaos before them. Bedowin shoved them aside, not bothering with apologies. Desamarquis and the watchmen were perhaps twenty paces behind.

He needed to create more distance. An arrow whizzed past his ear. Shit. He needed to create much more distance.

He pivoted hard and turned down an intersecting street, pumping his arms hard as his lungs ached with every heavy breath. Bedowin had always been in good shape – maybe a little on the thin side – but the cierano peppers in his lungs were making breathing into quite the chore.

The street before him had a pile of pallets littered before a stopped carriage. Bedowin knew an opportunity when he saw one. He dashed onto the pallets and vaulted atop the carriage. The horses whinnied and a few of the Dusters on the streets gasped, but Bedowin was already pulling himself up onto the grated window of the nearby villa, then from that onto the orange clay eaves that overhung the building.

Another arrow whizzed past, scary close, then Bedowin was up on the roof. He spared a glance back, only long enough to see that Desamarquis and his were trying to follow Bedowin’s clever maneuver. Their only problem? Bedowin had been climbing walls and running the rooves all his life. He had a strong feeling that wasn’t the case for Desamarquis the noble.

Still, best not put himself in undue danger. He rolled up to his feet and took off down the rooftop. The great thing about Cataluna’s thirteen hundred years of history was that all the buildings (especially in an older area like the Residential District) had been torn down and rebuilt countless times, and now overlapped each other in odd and unusual ways. Foreigners always remarked on the confusing nature of Cataluna’s layout, but to Bedowin it was home. He knew these streets, rooftops, and alleyways like the back of his hand.

A moment later, he dropped into a side alley that would spit him out onto King’s Way, one of the main thoroughfares of the city. From there, he could easily blend into the crowd, then make for one of the rendezvous points.

Now that he was safe, he leaned against the wall of the alley, sinking down to his butt, and fishing a handkerchief from his pocket. He tried to clean his eyes as much as he could from the dust and the pepper, but if anyone saw him, they’d assume he had been crying or smoking Galician Grass. He sniffled. There was little he could do for that, now.

He stood up and brushed some of the dust from his butt, then set off at a steady walk out of the alley. Oddly, he found his thoughts turning not to the chest, but rather to the girl he had seen earlier. Asha. Who was she? Why did she strike him so?

Chapter 2: Deliberation

Asha Telemon, a Ward of the Church, tapped her finger against her lip as she stared at the chalkboard in front of her – something wasn’t right. She shifted in her chair, brushing a strand of blonde hair behind her ear.

Yes, it seemed Mistress Stafford had written the wrong date next to one of the historical events listed on the board. Asha flipped back through her notebook to the notes she had taken a few weeks ago. The event in question was the Second Schism of the Church. It had happened nearly two-hundred and twelve years after the Breaking. Not two-hundred and thirteen, as Stafford had written.

Asha cleared her throat, interrupting Stafford from her lecture. Stafford paused, turning her steely gaze to Asha. “And what seems to be the issue?”

“Apologies for the interruption, but you’ve got the wrong date written on the fourth line there.”

Stafford narrowed her eyes. “And what would the correct one be?”

“The Second Schism was in two-hundred and twelve AB, not thirteen,” Asha said.

“It began then, and ended a year later, on the date I put.”

“Sure,” Asha replied, “that rings true if you’re following Tsavant’s historical survey, but he was from Andalar, and they didn’t track leap years for the first century after the Breaking. If you use the Barkley survey that I was telling you about, then the Schism ended precisely two days before the new year, when Angeline Davarius mended the broken Church.”

The crimson red dress Stafford wore swished as she walked over to one of the open textbooks lying on a table on the left wall. The chalkboard was situated at the front of the room, with the only door to the alcove on Asha’s right.

Alyssa, the only other occupant of the room, gave Asha an exasperated look. “Who cares Asha? What difference could one year make?” The part Alyssa left unsaid: You’re prolonging this lesson and I really want to go play with my friends. Alyssa was fourteen and hadn’t the patience for Stafford’s arduous lessons. It wasn’t that Stafford was a bad teacher – on the contrary, she was the best teacher Asha had ever had – but her lessons were grueling and demanding even for Asha, who prided herself on loving the act of learning.

“A year can be a long time.” Asha smiled. She was nineteen now. With any luck, in a year she’d be a fully trained Bishop of the Church. She swallowed and tried not to think about the Deliberation scheduled three days from now. She had no reason to be nervous, considering how much studying she’d been doing, yet her nerves often got the better of her. How could they not? The Deliberation would determine the rest of her life.

“A year isn’t so long a time,” Stafford murmured. She continued flipping through the pages of Barkley’s Historical Surveys of the Catan Church, c5AB-439AB.

“Try page three-hundred and forty-four. The fourth paragraph down, I think,” Asha offered. A ghost of a smile tickled the corner Stafford’s lips.

“It was the fifth paragraph down,” Stafford said dryly, “but your point stands.” Stafford erased the date on the chalkboard and adjusted it to the correct one.

Alyssa shook her head. “That is so weird.”

She meant Asha’s memory. Though it wasn’t impeccable, it was far better than most peoples. And Asha wasn’t being arrogant when she made that claim, it was merely the truth. But honestly, what else was she to do but study and memorize her history, sciences, and languages? Wards of the Church had but a few simple tasks or chores. Some days she swept the Sanctuary, other times she washed the laundry, or helped the cooks in the kitchen. Yet those tasks only took a few hours of the day, and though the chores kept her hands busy, her mind was often free to wander and think. Sometimes she invented riddles or stories to keep herself distracted. Other times she mentally recited histories or songs.

And when she finished the day’s chores, she always found her way to the library. Every Church in the city had a library of varying sizes and capacities. None could rival the Basilica’s Grand Archives, which Asha had the privilege of visiting a few times. It had five floors filled with bookshelves, and more packed away in cellars. While Asha’s home Church had only a small library, she could submit requests for any book she was keen on, and it would be delivered from the Basilica within a few days.

“Can’t we study something more interesting?” Alyssa said, “It’s 1349 AB, and we’re studying things over a millennium old. It’s a little useless, isn’t it?” Asha suppressed a smile. Alyssa could be so blunt at times.

“Sure,” Stafford said, moving too any empty section of the board, “Let’s discuss the themes of war time during the previous century.”

Asha tapped her lip again. She hadn’t studied this topic recently. But she supposed it could be brought up during the Deliberation, so it could be a good use of time.

“I know this one,” Alyssa said, “war is bad because people die.”

“Yes,” Stafford acknowledged. “Is that all?”

“War is a means of spreading the Light of Luna,” Asha said.

“So war is perfectly fine? Should it be encouraged then?” Stafford asked.

“No. I’m sure war isn’t ideal. But if people are threatening us, I don’t see why we wouldn’t be prepared to defend ourselves.”

“You take war too lightly child.” Stafford paused. “But then you would. You’ve grown up without it. You only know war by the numbers in your textbooks. Isn’t that right?”

Asha didn’t particularly enjoy the tone with which Stafford addressed her, but the meaning rang true. Asha wasn’t so naïve as to ignore the reality of her fortunate life. She was incredibly lucky, and that was why she meant to repay Luna for the good fortune she’d been bestowed. “I haven’t lived through a war, correct. But I can still imagine the horrors.”

“Perhaps,” Stafford tutted, “but I fear that is not the case.” Stafford had a pensive look on her face.

“How would you know?” Alyssa asked.

“You don’t live in Cataluna for fifty-three years without learning a thing or two,” Stafford said, eyes twinkling. “it’s a story I’ll share another time.” She turned back to Asha. “As for your answer, I suspect it would be adequate for the Deliberation.”

“I don’t get why you all are so worried about the Deliberation. Didn’t Stoneward leave a letter of recommendation behind?” Alyssa asked.

“Well yes,” Asha admitted, “but I have to do this the right way. I want to earn my spot on the council, not get it merely off a recommendation.” The Bishop Council sat fifty members when it was full. Recently Seresa Stoneward, the Bishop presiding over Asha and Stafford’s Church, had passed away from an illness. With her untimely death, a new spot had opened up, and Asha was the favored candidate, by her’s and Stafford’s estimation.

The death was a sad one, for a few reasons. Though Asha had never been particularly close with Stoneward, she was a good woman and had been a role model for Asha while she grew up in the Church. Secondly, Stoneward was only in her early forties when she had passed. Thirdly, she had been well-favored by the Dusters, the commonfolk of Cataluna, for her generous portions of food after Church services and her altruistic donations to schools and clinics.

So the death saddened Asha. Yet Asha could not deny that she felt the tiniest bit of joy at the fact that she would get the opportunity to become a Bishop. Luna, I hope that doesn’t make me selfish. She only sought the position of Bishop so that she might better serve Luna. I’m not selfish if I’m doing it for Luna, right?

“She’s right,” Stafford said. “The recommendation will go a long way, but it does not guarantee her acceptance. And besides, if Asha wishes to inherit this Church, she’ll need a strong showing, else one of the Bishops stationed in the Basilica may vie for it.”

“Oh,” was all Alyssa said.

A knock at the door drew everyone’s attention.

“Come in,” Stafford called, smoothing the front of her dress.

The door opened to reveal a courier, wearing a silky grey shirt beneath a frilly yellow doublet. The outfit was completed with a three-sided hat, done in the same style as the doublet and ornamented with a swan feather plume. The courier himself had a rather pompous mustache that drooped on either side of his lips.

“Pardon the intrusion, my lady,” the courier performed a sweeping bow. “A matter of grave importance has arisen. I was sent by Bishop Hadan Romani to inform you that the date of the Deliberation for Stoneward’s replacement has been expedited forward to the day of today, and the meeting shall initiate at noon.”

Asha frowned. What did he say? But Stafford beat her to the punch. “What? They’re moving the Deliberation forward? With only an hour notice?”

Asha felt oddly lightheaded. And dizzy. The Deliberation would be in an hour? But I haven’t finished studying. Her breaths came shallow, her heart picking up speed.

“How could they do this?” Stafford demanded, voice rising, her hand crept toward the amulet resting on her chest.

“I am only a messenger,” the man said, holding his arms up before him as his eyes bulged. “My apologies, Lady, but I must take my leave.” The man slipped out the door with the utmost haste.

But Asha paid him little heed. What if they ask me about the Pleistieriene Period of the Church? Or they question me on my Andalarese? I wasn’t scheduled to practice it until tomorrow, so I’ll be terribly rusty, and that’s not to mention that the fact that—

“Asha!” Stafford’s voice cut through the barrage of thoughts. She hadn’t realized Stafford was right in front of her.

Another shallow breath. “Yes?” Asha managed.

“We’ll need to hurry. Come on.” Stafford spared a second glance to Asha, concern flickering on her face. “Take a deep breath.”

Asha managed to get control of herself and took a few shaky breaths.

“It’s gonna be okay Asha,” Alyssa said, giving her a hug. “You’ve got it.”

Asha swallowed. “Thanks.” A few more shaky breaths.

“Come on,” Stafford said, tugging her to her feet. “Alyssa, run and tell Master Kinwell that we’ll need a carriage drawn, and an escort of watchmen, if he pleases. And tell him it’s urgent.”

“Yes, mistress,” Alyssa said, hopping from her chair and scurrying off.

“Why would they move it up with such short notice?” Asha asked, following Stafford into the hall. The white marble walls and floors echoed with the click clack of Stafford’s heels. She set a fast pace, and that coupled with her long legs left Asha struggling to keep up.

“I’m not sure, dear. I can only speculate.” Stafford replied. She spared a quick glance back to Asha. “You’ll need to change out of that. And we can fix your hair.”

Asha took a deep breath as she glanced down at the simple white apron dress she wore. Stafford had a point. It was a work dress, not meant for any occasion. “What do you think, the black dress, or maybe the green blouse?”

Stafford continued through one doorway and down another hallway. “The black dress, probably.”

“Sure,” Asha said. “I can’t imagine why they’d change the Deliberation, though.”

“Don’t fret too hard. Sometimes these things happen. Though I will admit, something about this feels irregular. I fear I’ve been away from the Council too long. Perhaps I should have paid more attention to politics, I might have seen this coming.”

“Don’t blame yourself,” Asha said, “you yourself always say that politics is a great way to waste your time.”

Stafford opened the door to Asha’s small room. It was more of a closet than a room. It was large enough for a small bed, an oak trunk, and a wardrobe. The two barely fit into the room with all the furniture.

Asha grabbed her brush from the windowsill and began combing out the knots. Stafford threw open the wardrobe and snatched Asha’s black dress. It was one of the few nice pieces of clothing she owned.

A few minutes later, Asha was cleaned up. Her hair fell in curls down to her shoulders, the blonde contrasting nicely with the black dress. The dress was simple, with sleeves that ran down to her elbows and the hem fell just above her knees. It bordered on scandalous, to Asha, but that was the most recent style to take Cataluna, and she supposed it wasn’t such a bad thing considering the heat of the summer. The outfit was completed with a silver necklace, a few bracelets, and a ring. Far more embellishment than she’d normally wear, but Stafford insisted.

After that, they hurried out of the Church and into the small pavilion before it. Amidst the trees and bushes within the courtyard, the carriage was ready to go, strapped up with four horses and with a watchman atop to drive.

Next to it, three city watchmen waited atop their horses. One, the squad’s leader, dismounted and crossed the clearing. He offered a curt bow, then addressed Stafford. “My Lady Bishop. I am Lieutenant Antoine Desamarquis, at your service.” He was a tall man, with a strong figure and a sharp chin. Alyssa would have swooned over him.

“Excellent, Lieutenant,” Stafford said. “We’ll need to reach the Basilica with the utmost haste. There can be no stops nor delays.”

“Understood, my lady. Let us proceed, then.” Desamarquis gestured to the carriage, then hurried to open the door for Stafford and Asha. Desamarquis flashed Asha a smile, which she politely returned. Desamarquis closed the door behind them, then presumably returned to his mount. Within a minute, the carriage was moving, and they were on their way.

Asha peered out the small window, checking the sun. “It’s not noon yet. We’ve got maybe half an hour.”

The ride continued interrupted for a few minutes, Asha mentally going over her notes, when the carriage came to a sudden stop. Stafford sighed impatiently but placated herself by smoothing the wrinkles from her dress. Asha tapped her lip as she did some simple math to keep her thoughts occupied. One plus one is two. One and two is three. Two and three is five. Three and five is eight. Five and eight is thirteen. And so on.

The highest she’d ever gotten was 987, but now she kept getting distracted before even getting to fifty-five.

A knock at the window startled her. Stafford quickly unlatched it. It was Desamarquis. “There is some construction traffic ahead. We can either wait five minutes for it to clear or we can double back two blocks and take an alternative route. If I may suggest, my Lady, doubling back may be faster.”

“Construction?” Stafford frowned. “Let me see.” Desamarquis took a step back as Stafford poked her head out the window. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Routine construction, as I understand it.” Desamarquis said.

Stafford pulled her head back inside. “It’s either that, or it’s politics,” she said, turning to Asha.

“You really think it could be?” Asha asked, a flutter of nerves running through her.

“There’s only one way to find out,” Stafford said, unlatching the door and stepping down. Asha hesitated. Should she follow?

She peaked her head just past the door, watching as Stafford walked up to a scrawny looking watchman with messy hair, who bowed down and brought a knuckle to his brow. It was a grossly overexaggerated gesture of respect, far more than was needed. Almost enough to be a mockery, truth be told. But this watchman must’ve been a Duster, judging by his grimy appearance. It wasn’t a surprise, then, that he was uneducated on the finer points of courteous behavior.

A few words were exchanged between the two, too far away for Asha to make out. Stafford gestured toward the road, specifically toward a wide patch of available space adjacent to the hole. A few other watchmen milled about, languid and placid. They certainly weren’t in a hurry.

Asha frowned. Had these fools really shut down the entire road to fix one small hole? It was both silly and ridiculous. Before she could second guess herself, Asha stormed out of the carriage, heading for Stafford and the watchmen who cowered before her.

“What’s going on Mistress?” Asha asked.

The duster watchmen before them stared at Asha awkwardly, saying nothing.

“I think it best if we continue by horse, Asha,” Stafford rubbed the crease of her eyes.

Asha glanced at the sun. They were running low on time. “It breaks formality, but then I suppose we’re already past that point.”

Stafford turned to the Lieutenant, who hovered nearby. “My apologies, Desamarquis, Your stallion will be returned, and you’ll be compensated.”

Desamarquis was quick to dismount and hand Stafford the reins. Then he shouted for another of his watchmen to surrender his horse to Asha. What Asha found odd was how different the two sets of watchmen looked. Those with Desamarquis were all taller, well-built, and cleaned up. While those working on the construction site were lean, dirty, and all slouched. Were all the watchmen groups segregated so sharply?

Asha looked up at the tall horse brought over to her. She gulped. She didn’t exactly know how to ride a horse. The scrawny watchman was nearby, watching her and hesitating as if to say something. Well, Asha didn’t want to look a fool in front of him, so she got Desamarquis to help her up. 

Her and Stafford continued past the construction site, on toward the Basilica. Luckily, the streets were largely unoccupied, so they were able to move at a light canter. They passed another of the Church’s black carriages, then a squad of patrolling watchmen, in addition to the ever-present trickle of Dusters.

Homeless Dusters – who either couldn’t afford a home or had been kicked out – a sat hunched on the corners of streets, a can or hat in front of them in hopes of receiving some coin. Many were disfigured or crippled and wouldn’t be able to work in the factories for money or a meal ticket. Asha felt guilt for them, and fished a few lunarins from her coin pouch, tossing the gold coins to them.

The beggars nearest to her all dove for the coins, any semblance of decency or civility gone. In seconds a small pile of them had coalesced, wriggling about like maggots within rotten food. Stafford gave her a disapproving look, and Asha bit her lip. Why is it that whenever I try to do good, I only make the situation worse?

Before long, they reached King’s Way Bridge, one of four that spanned over the Catacline river and lead to the Basilica, positioned on its small island in the center of the river. It occupied the entire island it was built on, save for a large clearing before it dubbed as ‘the Pavilion.’ The Catacline was packed with barges, galleys, vaporettos, and even a few voiliers (owned by the wealthiest nobles of the city).

The Basilica towered overhead, so tall it seemed to lean over them. Asha shook her head and focused her eyes back on the bridge before her. The Basilica had been constructed more than a millennium ago, but not by humans. The sheer scope of it was breathtaking, even now, a millennium later. A massive, orange-shingled dome made up the center sanctuary, with enough standing room for twenty-thousand Dusters. Surrounding that, countless crenellations, towers, spires, three keeps, battlements, and more. That’s what her textbooks said, anyway. In a pinch, the Basilica could fend off a siege for a year. It’s shining white walls had never been broken.

Once they had crossed over the Catacline, Stafford quickly surrendered their horses to a noveaux working the stables. Stafford set a brisk pace through the massive gates, then across the pavilion, and finally through the front doors.

The Bishop Council’s Chamber was on the eastern wing of the Basilica. As they entered the auditorium, Asha forced herself to take a deep breath. I can do this.

A semi-circle of forty-nine Bishops sat at desks upon the stage in the center of the auditorium. The countless rows of seats for the audience were largely empty, save a small group sitting near the front. Asha followed Stafford down the shallow steps toward the stage. The Bishops were already chatting, their voices easily filling the entire room. She recalled reading once that the room had been constructed in such a way as to amplify noise from the stage and suppress noise from the audience.

“Wait here.” Stafford stopped Asha at the final row before the stage, not far from a set of stairs onto the stage, which Stafford took. Asha looked around awkwardly. Sit or stand? She reclined into the seat at the end of the isle.

Upon the stage, one of the Bishop was speaking. “… if the tyrant doesn’t end these ridiculous embargoes, we’ll be forced to take actions.”

“You want war over trade prices?” said another, incredulous.

“Please,” said a bald Bishop near the center, “I have a chest on the way right now, containing important documents that will change your all’s perspective on a war.”

“Bishops, our prospective candidate has arrived. Can we not continue onto the final item of the agenda? My leisure time suffers from these ceaseless bickerments.”

There was a murmur of assent from most of the Bishops. They all wore varying outfits, each fanciful and expensive and most of all, red. The Father of the Church, the Voice of Luna, sat at the center of the arc. Unlike the others, he was dressed in all white, and though he had a throne, he had no desk before him. The current Father, Amaris Marcendiella, had presided for nearly forty of his eighty years. His age was evident by the long white beard that almost blended into his robes. The Father reclined into the golden throne. Asha had not heard him speak once since her arrival. Come to think of it, she hadn’t heard him speak in years, not since she was little.

“The coronation of a new Bishop to replace Bishop Seresa Stoneward,” one Bishop said. His voice was bored and lacked inflection.

“All candidates who have passed the first phase, please come to the stage,” said another. The first phase had been a written test, to ensure her general intelligence. Asha sat up and walked onto the stage. Am I the only one? That would be convenient.

But the sound of more footsteps intruded, and as Asha took her place on the stage, standing before all the Bishops, another candidate walked onto the stage.

She walked with a confident saunter, the slightest sway in her hips, while her long black hair fell like a waterfall around her supple face. She had a small chin, pursed lips, and large brown eyes. Taller than Asha, just as skinny. The woman wore a simple green dress with white trim, but the low-cut of the neckline seemed rather intentional.

Asha resisted the urge to frown. Side by side, well… Asha took a deep breath.

“Candidates, name yourself,” one Bishop said.

Asha hesitated and the other girl spoke first. “Mordra Devillieres.”

Devillieres? Where did Asha recognize that name? No, I don’t have time to worry about that.

“Asha Telemon.”

“Very well applicants,” a woman Bishop close to the center said, “we will begin with a brief examination to determine fluency in arithmatics and business. Candidate Devillieres, you will go first.”

Mordra Devillieres took a step forward. “As you please, my Lady Bishop.” She offered a slight curtsy.

The Bishop cleared her throat. “Suppose you have a Church service to run this evening, you’re expecting a turnout of five hundred Dusters, but you only have the food for four hundred and fifty. You can request food, but it only comes in sets of one hundred. Do you request the food, bearing in mind the cost in procuring food and the rate at which it will spoil? And explain your reasoning.”

Asha bit her lip. There was no right answer here, was there? It had to be more about explaining your reasoning than what answer you actually gave.

“I do,” Mordra said. “On average, you can expect a fluctuation of about ten percent day to day, when it comes to your turnout for services. But seeing as tonight is a full moon, I would request two extra sets of food, as even the least pious Dusters usually make it to Church on a full moon.”

“Well spoken,” another Bishop said, a hint of smugness in his voice.

Asha clenched her fists behind her back, hoping none of the Bishop could tell how nervous she was. Of course I should have thought of that. A full moon. How could I forget?

“Candidate Telemon, your question is this. Suppose an Andalarese merchant arrives, wishing to exchange his seventeen sols for the Catalunen equivalent. What coinage do you give him?”

Asha cleared her throat and allowed herself to smile. Maybe fortune was favoring her since this was an easy question. “Assuming the standard rate of exchange of today, the seventeen sols would be twenty-five catacoins and five lunarins. But, since they were Andalarese, I would surely add a slight upcharge given the current political climate. Therefore, I would provide them with twenty-three catacoins, four lunarins, and two lunics.”

It was a pointed answer. It would lose the favor of a few Reformists but would certainly earn the attention of the Loyalists. This was one of the types of questions her and Stafford had prepared for. A few of the older Bishop did give her approving nods, but the general reception was mixed.

Asha stepped back, next to Mordra, pressing her lips tight and trying to look composed, even if she felt the exact opposite.

“Next,” another Bishop spoke, “Candidate Devillieres, you may present an argument in favor of your acceptance for the position of Bishop.”

Mordra brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “I would make a strong Bishop candidate for a variety of reasons. Firstly, Cataluna is my homeland, and I will always have a loyalty for that. Secondly, I have attended Church services since my childhood, at least once a week. Thirdly, I am trained in the discipline of reporting, a skill I learned from my father, Danson Devillieres, owner of the Cataluna Chronicles. Though I’m sure it goes unsaid, my acceptance into the ranks of the Bishop would foster a certain sort of… intimacy between the Church and the Cataluna Chronicles. A partnership of sorts.”

Asha saw a gleam in the eyes of many of the Bishops. She bit her cheek. Mordra’s father ran the Cataluna Chronicles? Asha trembled. What did she have to compare to that? Deep breaths. She had to have faith, she had to trust in Luna that she would end up where she needed to. Yes, that’s it. She had the letter, and she had a compelling, heartfelt argument. She had a chance.

“Candidate Telemon, you may present an argument in favor of your acceptance for the position of Bishop.”

Asha took a deep breath. “I’ve been a ward of the Church for as long as I can remember. Orphaned as a child, all I’ve ever known is Luna and the generosity and kindness she has shown me. All I can hope for with my life is to repay that favor, to the greatest extent I can. I would work hard, day after day, to spread Luna’s light and love. I wish to see the people of the city safe and well-fed and prosperous.” Asha took a shaky breath. That wasn’t half bad. She tried not to squirm under the Bishops’ scrutiny.

A quiet conversation sprang up between clusters of Bishops, carrying on for nearly half a minute before a silence once again claimed the room.

“Would any like to present an argument against Candidate Devillieres?” said the Lady Bishop near the center. Her question was met with silence.

“Would any like to present an argument against Candidate Telemon?”

“I would,” Mordra said. She spared an apologetic shrug to Asha. “Nothing personal, strictly business,” she whispered. She turned back to address the Bishops. “Candidate Telemon, here, is a ward. Knowing this, we can safely assume her financial situation is quite dire, and her ability to contribute to the wealth of the Church will be tenuous for the next few years. Admittedly, that’s best-case scenario. With her lack of fiscal familiarity, it could easily take as many as ten years to develop the same skills that one such as I would come with already. After all, you need money to make money.

“And if I’m not wrong,” she continued, “a donation is something a tradition, no? It would be near blasphemous to accept a Bishop with nothing to give. On the other hand, my family and I are most excited to renew our financial relationship with the Church, and to prove our altruism. Beyond that, there is of course the matter of the Cataluna Chronicles, of which my Father oversees any and all articles that are printed.”

Even an idiot could tell that Mordra had a good point. Controlling the city’s leading newspaper would only make the Church that much stronger. Part of Asha even wanted to root for her, if only to see the Church succeed. Maybe Mordra is the better candidate. Sorrow welled within her, but she dampered it down. She could remain composed at least until she left the stage.

“Any responses to that argument?” a Bishop asked.

Asha hesitated. What was there to say? Everything Mordra had said was true. Asha had Stoneward’s letter of recommendation, but what was that compared to an alliance with the city’s newspaper? Her breath came in quick shallow bursts, erratic, and it felt strangely like the air never made it into her lungs. Does this mean I won’t–

“Very well,” another Bishop spoke, “I move we take it to a vote.”

“I’ll second it,” said another.

“All in favor of Candidate Devillieres?”

A collection of ‘ayes’ from the assembly.

“All in favor of Candidate Telemon?”

A few, scattered ‘ayes.’

Asha felt her heart sink.

“Candidate Devillieres will be accepted as the council’s fiftieth Bishop, to replace the late Seresa Stoneward. This motion passes by the clear majority of the Bishop Council, and thus the will of Luna. Are there any further addendums for the record?”

The Father stirred, sitting up in his seat. All eyes turned to him. “One addendum,” his voice came out hoarse and raspy from disuse. “Asha Telemon will also be accepted as the fifty-first Bishop. It is the will of Luna.”

What? The rest of the room must have been equally as shocked, given the stark silence. Fifty-first? But there’s only fifty Bishop. That’s how it’s always been. What was this, some sort of cruel prank?

A frenzy of conversations broke out, the majority of which sounded negative from the bits and pieces Asha caught. Asha scanned the stage for Stafford, but she was nowhere to be found.

Mordra turned, catching her eye. “How’d you pull that off?”

Asha shook her head. Was this real? She was a Bishop?

One of the Bishops nearest the center, an older bald man with a stern face and the nose of a hawk held up a hand for silence. “Are you sure of this, Father? The council has always been fifty, never fifty and one.”

“I am the Voice of Luna and I have spoken,” the Father said, then slumped back into his chair.

“Then Candidate Telemon will also be accepted,” the bald Bishop spoke, his tone grating and annoyed.

Asha found control of her breath, steadied herself, and collected her thoughts. The Council session ended a moment later, and the Bishops all broke into small groups of two or three to talk amongst themselves. Asha scanned the room once more for Stafford and spotted her rushing toward Asha.

“Something isn’t right,” Stafford whispered.

Asha’s smile froze. “What?”

“I worry that you are in danger, child,” Stafford said, holding Asha by the arms. “It hurts me to not celebrate with you, but something isn’t right.” Stafford glanced toward the door, where a pair of noveaux were strolling toward them with a diligent step. “I’ve made a mistake, burying my head in the sand for all these years while I mentored you. I hadn’t realized the situation evolved to this.”

“What?” Asha asked again.

“I’ll get to the bottom of it, but for now, you’ll have to play along. Anger no one,” Stafford said. “You’ll have to go with them now.”

“Wait, Stafford,” Asha said. But the two noveaux had arrived, hands grabbing Asha’s arms as they instructed her, she had to go complete her ritual. Asha complied, sparing Stafford one last concerned glance. Stafford pressed her lips together.

As Asha was led from the room, she saw Mordra likewise being led out a similar door. A cocktail of emotions whirled within her. She had achieved her goal; she was officially a Bishop of the Church of Luna. But what came next?

And what of Stafford’s warning?

Draft 4:

Chapter 1: Bedowin Finarial

The dishwater squelched as Bedowin plunged his hand into it and felt for the drain. Bits of soggy food had clogged it; with a grimace he scooped it out and tossed into the nearby bin. He grunted a sigh of disgust as he picked up the next plate, still caked with dried meat-sauce and bits of casserole. He took the soap-laden steel wool to it, and soon the plate was clean.

Contented, he set it on the stack of clean plates to his right, then turned to his left for the next dish. Bedowin eyed the remaining pile. Only a few to go. Perhaps there was a light at the end of the figurative tunnel that was his small corner in the back of the bar called The Nighthawk.

A discontentment had taken him of late. Is this all my life is now? Scrubbing dishes? He’d been at it for four months, and the owner, Dan, had hardly taken notice of his effort. He longed for the life he had once known, a life of rooftops and running, adrenaline and fear. But with those memories always came the other ones… the ones that hurt to remember.

He looked down to see that the last of the dishes had been finished. Perfect. Perhaps he could sneak out back for some fresh air and—

“Coming in,” someone shouted, then kicked the door open from the other side. Baxter hurried in, arms laden with a massive tub stacked precariously high with dirty plates, silverware, and glasses. Baxter dumped it on the table with a distinctive thud, then turned to Bedowin with a sheepish grin.

“Sorry to let the pile get so big. We’re absolutely slammed. Could hardly catch a break.” Baxter wiped his hands on the black apron he wore over his Nighthawk uniform: a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and black slacks. Discrete but comfortable work shoes. Baxter was a year Bedowin’s senior, but the two had known each other far too long for that to mean anything.

Baxter leaned in closer. “I don’t think Margot will show up for her shift. She’s already near a half hour late, and Dan’s getting annoyed. Besides that, Jasper says he saw her at Pint and Bite earlier today.”

Bedowin shrugged. “So?” He absentmindedly picked up the first plate of the stack and scraped the food off into the trash.

“So?” Baxter mimicked. “So… I’m gonna tell Dan to put you on the bar top.”

Bedowin raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“Come on,” Baxter said. “You’re ready. You’ve put in the practice. Now it’s time to perform.”

“You really think he’ll go for it?” Bedowin said, swallowing nervously. Gods. I used to run a crew, yet running a bar terrifies me?  

Baxter nodded. “Good chance. Dan doesn’t like bartending. He’d rather be cooking.”

Bedowin nodded. “Okay. Cool. Let’s do it.”

Baxter grinned. “That’s the spirit.” The two clasped hands for a brief second, then Baxter bustled back into the dining room while Bedowin turned to face his mountain of dishes. So much for the fresh air break.

Luckily, it only took some ten minutes before Dan grew exasperated with the customers at the bar top, and in he came to the dish pit. Bedowin looked up, keeping his expression neutral. “Sir?”

Dan was a wiry old man with the characteristic tan skin of a Catalunen, and a short beard that covered his sharp shin. He wore the same uniform as the rest of them, only his apron had been replaced with a black tie. “Listen,” he began. “Margot called in. We need someone to run her station on the bartop. Baxter says you’ve been practicing your pours. Is that true?”

Bedowin nodded. “Aye sir.”

Dan studied him for a sharp moment. “What’s the recipe for our Demerara Old Fashioned?”

The ingredients and ratios came to mind in a flash. What had once felt like far too many hours of studying with Baxter was now coming in handy. “One dash of cherry bitters, two dashes of angos bitters, a half part of demerara syrup, two parts Demir Ten Year. Add ice, stir until frosty. Strain over a large ice cube into a rocks glass. Garnish with an orange peel, express the oils over it, then drop it in.”

“In that order?” Dan asked.

“In that order,” Bedowin confirmed.

“How much do they cost?”

“Normally one lunarin a drink, but since it’s Sabadday, it’s only nine lunics.”

“Good. What about a martini?”

“How do you like your martini?” Bedowin asked, just as Baxter had coached him.

Dan regarded him carefully. “A perfect martini, up, with a lemon zest. Can you recommend me a nice gin for it?”

“We have a new Roselandi dry gin we just got in. Quite floral and rather silky on the tongue. It has a strong start, but it doesn’t overstay it’s welcome. Of course, if you want something more traditional, we also have a—”

“Enough,” Dan said with a weary wave. “I see you’ve studied. We’ll give you a shot. Studying doesn’t tend to mean much once you’re deep in the weeds. We’ll see if you can thrive in the chaos or not.” Dan handed him a wine key, which also had a bottle opener in it. Go to my office, grab a uniform off the shelf, and do something with your hair. Be out on the bartop in ten minutes. We’ll put you in the corner, should be a little less busy than the other stations.”

“Thank you, sir,” Bedowin said, eager to keep it simple.

Dan nodded, huffed, and left the room. Bedowin hurried into the office – a tiny room crammed in between the dish pit and the kitchen, hurriedly changing into uniform, and sparing a moment to finger-comb his mess of brown hair. Not perfect, but it’d do. Best not to linger on those sorts of things.

Bedowin took a deep breath, then stepped out into the dining room. He was met with a wall of noises and smells. The customers – guests, rather – were everywhere. Packed like sardines into booths, while the bar rail was lined with people, every stool occupied. A crowd had formed at the dance floor in the center, dancing to the jig that a trio of bards in the corner had taken up.

The scent of booze was everywhere, and the buzz of conversation faded to the background as Bedowin pushed his way through the crowd toward the bar. This, at least, was familiar. Slipping between the gap of two circles of people, offering pardon me’s and excuse me’s, as a necessary. Narrowly avoiding a drunk guest who sloshed their tankard of beer about. Even down to picking the correct route. Bedowin had done this before when he’d moved through a crowd with a different purpose.

But those were bygones of a past time, and right now he needed to focus on the present. He needed to perform. He stopped at the edge of the bar, glancing at the guests seated at stools in front of his well. A few of the spared him an unconscious glance, but none had truly noticed him yet. He had the strange impression that he was stepping onto a stage as he stepped onto the slightly raised surface behind the bar.

He went to the sink and quickly rinsed his hands, head down as he glanced at the well he would be working at. The corner spot, with the fewest seats. Probably for the better. He’d still have to serve the walk-up guests, and he could see a line beginning to form.

To his left, Baxter was putting on a show. He’d been working on and off in bars for his whole life, and he’d always been charismatic. Bedowin suppressed a grin as Baxter finished pouring one bottle into his shaker, then tossed it into a quick flip, easily catching it and trading it for the next spirit to be added to the cocktail. The guests at the bartop before Baxter watched with wide eyes, clearly enjoying the show.

“Excuse me?” someone said. Bedowin quickly glanced to see one of the guests at the bartop brandishing his empty beer tankard. “Can I get another one?” he continued.

Bedowin nodded and snapped into motion. “Of course, sorry about that.” He grabbed a new tankard from the shelf, and started to pour from the nearest barrel, then hesitated. He turned back to the guest. “Sorry, which one was it?”

“The cider,” the man said, gesturing to the barrel next to Bedowin. “And I like mine in the same glass.”

“I see.” Bedowin set the used glass down into his dish tub. Oops. Protocol was a fresh glass for every drink, but then Baxter had also taught him to follow any odd requests of the guests, whenever possible. Bedowin filled the man’s glass and set it in front of him. “Which tab is yours?”

The man chuckled, then turned to his friend beside him. They were both older fellows, the sort who all almost look the same. The first man was the skinnier of the two, but not by much. “You seen this guy before?”

“Nah, never,” the other said. They both leaned back into their chairs and crossed their arms. “Where’s Margot?” the second one asked.

 Bedowin shrugged. “I guess she was feeling sick. Dan asked me to cover, so here I am.”

“And what’s your name?” the first asked.

“Bedowin Finarial,” he said, offering a handshake. “You all?”

Luckily, they accepted his handshake, and introduced themselves as Miles and John, respectively. “Well, Bedowin,” Miles continued. “All I ask is that you keep this tankard full. I have a tab that I settle up at the end of the week.”

“And I drink on his tab,” John said.

Bedowin raised an eyebrow toward Miles for confirmation, and he gave a very slight nod of the head. “Awesome, sounds good guys.” He offered them another smile as he moved toward his well, where an impatient young woman was clearly waiting for his attention.

“How can I help you?” Bedowin asked.

He turned an ear toward her, to better pick her voice out from the deep clamor of the room.

“Whiskey sour?” he repeated back to her. She gave him a nod. “Awesome. It’ll be seven lunics.” He glanced down to his well. Whiskey should be the sixth from the left, if Baxter’s knowledge was to be trusted (generally, it was).

Sure enough, it was. He picked up a set of shakers, carefully holding both pieces in one hand. First an eight count of the whiskey. After that, a four count of the lemon juice, which was in a bottle next to the ice. As he put that bottle back, searching for his simple syrup, it occurred to him that the order was wrong. Cheapest ingredients first in case you mess up.

Next time, then. He squirted a nice dollop of simple syrup into the shaker. Baxter had taught him to do that more by feel, since it was harder to measure the flow of that precisely. It didn’t move at the same speed as liquors did.

All the ingredients assembled, Bedowin scooped in a full load of ice, then sealed the shakers and started diluting.

Once his hands stung from the cold, he stopped, and popped the shakers apart. He gathered his strainer from the small cup of tools soaking in water next to his sink. Then he— shit. I forgot to prepare the glass ahead of time.

The girl looked to him expectantly, holding out eight bronze coins in her hand. Bedowin hurried to the glass rack for a rocks glass. He loaded it with ice, poured the drink, then handed it to her. She gave it a peculiar look, then handed him the money.

Bedowin spared a glance to the drink he’d made as he added all but one of the coins to Dan’s jar, keeping the extra in his own pocket. The first tip he’d ever made. But what was wrong with the drink? He spared another glance, and realized he’d forgotten the garnish. Damn.

But no time to dwell on that because John’s cider was getting low, and he still hadn’t greeted the other two parties sitting at his bar, and already a line of six had formed at his service well.

Suddenly, Bedowin understood what Baxter meant about being in the weeds. There was no time for thought. There was only time to go.

So Bedowin danced. Figuratively, that is. He made countless errors as the night wore on. Girls got their martinis mixed up, he made a margarita with rum by accident, but the guy either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He broke no less than four glasses, luckily none in the ice well, and spilled at least four other drinks.

But he made it through the night, and in surprisingly good spirits, nonetheless. He knew there was room for improvement. Drastic room, even, but he was keeping up. Dan watched him for a few minutes at one point, and the close scrutiny was certainly the cause of at least one of the broken glasses, but Bedowin kept going, merely focused on finishing the night with a smile on his face, even if he desperately wanted a chance to take a sip of water or grab a bite to eat.

Finally, Dan left, passing by Bedowin with a quiet, yet audible. “Keep it up.”

Bedowin beamed from that, whether he wanted to or not.

It must’ve been well past midnight when the rush finally died down. The Nighthawk still had a healthy crowd, but no newcomers had joined, and the lines for drinks were gone too. There were even a few empty spots along the bartop. Miles and John had closed out their tab, and were nursing their last round, only about halfway through.

For the first time in what felt like ages, Bedowin had nothing pressing to do. He sighed and poured himself a glass of water, which he gulped down. Baxter strolled over to him, proffering a small shot glass, while holding a second in the other hand. “That was damn good,” he said. “Cheers.”

Bedowin clinked glasses and tossed it back. “Vodka?” Bedowin choked out, flushing as the liquid burned its way down. “Couldn’t you have picked something more palatable?”

“Aw, do you need some milk? Is vodka too strong for our baby bartender?”

“Shuddup,” Bedowin said, shaking his head and grinning. “I shouldn’t be surprised. You’ve always had shit taste.”

“If I have shit taste, then you must enjoy shit, since you always love my cocktails?”

“Alright, let’s not get crazy now,” Bedowin said, grinning as he set the shot glass into his bus tub. “What comes next? When do we do last call?”

Baxter snorted. “Not for another hour or two. We can start cleaning though. Get most of that out of the way.”

“Cleaning?” Bedowin groaned. His back and his legs both ached; cleaning was the last thing he felt like doing.

“The sooner you accept that cleaning is half the job, the easier it gets. Besides, the shot we took was to pep you up for cleaning.”

“I see.” Bedowin found a clean rag and got to work wiping down any of the surfaces he could find covered in alcohol or other mystery liquids. Intermittently, he continued making drinks for anybody who needed one, but that grew less and less frequent. Before long, they’d gotten nearly all the dirty dishes back to the sink, as well as wiped down all the surfaces, put away as many things as possible, and all that was left was to sweep.

“Now,” Baxter said, “we can do last call.” There were only a handful of people in the room. Even the bards in the corner had finished their set, and now packed their instruments away. Baxter climbed onto a stool. “Last call, everyone. Last call.”

A few of the more haggard drinkers stumbled up to the bar, eager to secure their final drink, even if their current one still had a fair share to go. Bedowin made one final mule for the fellow who’d been slamming them all night. Remarkably, he appeared completely unphased by the alcohol. It was impressive, if not in a slightly concerning way.

The door opened, and Bedowin felt a little tinge of annoyance as he turned to see who would arrive at such a late hour. And after last call, no less. Annoyance quickly turned to concern as he realized who was at the door.

The five figures who strolled in all wore the red of the Church. Bishops. The entire room fell to silence, and all turned to regard the Bishops with a mixture of equal parts awe, reverence, and fear.

Each Bishop wore the red in a different manor. The three men each wore a finely tailored suit of compromised of various shades of black, white, grey, and red. One of the women wore a black dress with only a slit of red ribbon twirling around her midriff. The other woman wore a dress with red on the top and white on the bottom. Both had their upper chest exposed, revealing the telltale amulet that every Bishop was rumored to possess.

The amulet was a conduit for their power. With it, they could cure a sickness or curse someone with a jinx, or so the rumor said. Few had seen a Bishop’s magic with their own eyes. As Bedowin understood it, it was a closely guarded secret.

Bedowin gave Baxter a glance, and Baxter held up a hand in a calming gesture. Dan was nowhere to be seen, probably in the office. After a few tense moments, the Bishops seated themselves around one of the tables near the middle.

“Come on,” Baxter said, grabbing five glasses and loading each with ice. “We’ll wait on them together. Best we treat them like royalty. Last thing we want is trouble with a Bishop. We’ll greet the table with waters, and I’ll get their drink orders.”

“Alright,” Bedowin said, pouring water into the cups, starting from the opposite end as Baxter.

“Lemons, too,” Baxter said, “make sure they’re a nice enough piece.”

Bedowin understood, logically, that the Bishop were far more important than he’d ever be, and that with the influence they held, they were entitled to a certain level of respect more than any normal person would get. Still, a lifetime of seeing Bishops as a threat was hard to ignore, even if they had no reason to regard him as anything more than a random bartender.

He followed Baxter over with two of the five glasses, and Bedowin dropped them between the ladies as Baxter set down each of the gentlemen’s waters.

“Good evening, Bishops,” Baxter said, offering a deep bow. “It’ll be our honor to serve you all tonight.” Bedowin stopped near to Baxter, hands clasped behind his back as he waited. “Can we start you with anything else to drink right now?” he continued.

The Bishop on the right, dressed mostly in black, had a bald head a strong nose, accompanied by hawk eyes and severe cheekbones. He was… intense. “I’ll have a double Demir Ten Year, rocks.”

“Gin and tonic, for me,” said the next, a well-built older man with a white beard atop a strong chin. A scar ran from his forehead, across his left eye, and down part of his cheek. Notably, he wore a sword upon his hip. Few Bishops openly carried weapons, other than perhaps a staff or their amulet.

“Tall beer, anything hoppy,” said the third, a smaller man with glasses.

“We’ll be sharing a bottle of white wine,” said the first of the ladies, Do you have any pinot grigios? Something nice. At least a few years aged.”

Baxter nodded. “I may have a few selections that may be perfect. Let me run to the cellar to fetch them. I’ll have my assistant, Bedowin, start on the drinks. And my name’s Baxter, just so you know. We’ll be right back.”

Baxter led Bedowin back to the bar. “Start on those. Beer last. Get the wine glasses ready.”

Bedowin nodded and hurried to start the drinks while Baxter darted downstairs. As Bedowin got the glasses lined up, Dan wandered out of the kitchen and stopped next to Bedowin.

He dropped his voice low. “What the hell is going on?”

Bedowin shrugged and kept his head down as he measured out a double of Demir Ten Year. “They came in just after last call. Baxter’s taking the lead, fetching them a bottle of wine. I’m getting the other drinks.”

Dan sighed. “Alright. Treat them like royalty. I’ll talk to them in a little bit. I’ll go let Jasper know not to close the kitchen yet.”

“Aye,” Bedowin said, moving on to the gin and tonic.

“Please don’t fuck this up,” Dan said, then hurried away.

“No pressure, right?” Bedowin mumbled to himself.

Bedowin poured the beer last, then turned toward the cellar door, but Baxter wasn’t back yet. Bedowin glanced at the drinks, then back to the door, then to the table. The hawk-eyed one waited impatiently, watching Bedowin. Already, the foamy head on the beer was beginning to settle. Bring the drinks now? Or wait for Baxter?

Always keep moving. That was a lesson Bedowin had learned well much earlier in his life, and he saw no reason to doubt the wisdom now. He collected both the rocks-glasses his left hand and the beer in his right. He set each of the glasses down for the Bishops, then spared a glance to the ladies.

“Baxter will be right along for you.” He awkwardly backed away. Gods. Interacting with a Bishop shouldn’t be so weird, should it? They were just people after all. People with magical powers and complete control over Cataluna.

If anything, Bedowin probably should’ve resented them more. After all, the Church – and the Bishop by extension – were the ones responsible for the steeply rising food costs. Their crusades and their opulence would suck the city and its people dry. Or so it was whispered by those on the streets who were in the know.

Baxter reappeared a moment later with three different bottles of wine and hurried to the table. Bedowin followed, quietly setting the glasses down for the ladies as Baxter began his presentation.

The men paid it little attention, instead loudly continuing their conversation. Bedowin couldn’t help but to listen in.

“…can’t understand why this happened so soon? Two months ahead of schedule?” said the Bishop with a sword. Gin and tonic guy.

“Relax,” said the one with hawk-eyes, “a good plan is built with room for variance. We will adjust as necessary.”

“And what of the Deliberation?” asked the third, the beer guy.

“What of it?” Hawk-eyes scoffed. “We convince the council to schedule it immediately, fill the spot with the first wide-eyed young woman to walk in the room. Business as usual from there. My alchemist has continued his research.” Hawk-eyes reached into his suit pocket and briefly flashed an envelope. “He’s made some promising advancements as of recent.”

Hawk-eyes suddenly seemed to notice Bedowin’s presence and shifted his attention to Bedowin.

“Excuse me,” Bedowin mumbled, stepping back, and keeping his eyes down. He felt his cheeks redden as he tuned back into what Baxter was saying.

“…from the eastern coasts near Catablanca. They actually have a local roster of musicians that play music for the grapes as they grow. Every hour of the day that the sun is out. And they use a special type of soil to enrich the flavors, all of which creates a more exsquisite end product.” Baxter brandished the bottle to the two Lady Bishops, as if it were liquid gold.

Bedowin resisted the urge to laugh. It was purely ridiculous, right?

But the Lady Bishops ate it up. Or drank that is. Baxter made another presentation of the uncorking the wine and pouring it, but Bedowin’s thoughts had drifted elsewhere. The envelope that Hawk-eyes had flashed. It had to be valuable. He wouldn’t have kept it so close if it weren’t the case.

Once upon a time, Bedowin had been a deft pickpocket. Stealing that envelope would’ve been a serious challenge, but he reckoned he could do it. Could’ve done it. I won’t. If I lose this job, I’ll be back on the streets, and then Esme will have my head.

Finally, Baxter was finished, so he and Bedowin both returned to the bar and quietly continued cleaning whatever more they could find. However, they quickly ran out of tasks, other than refilling the Bishops drinks as it went.

And it dragged on further. Their second round gave way to the third, and eventually a fourth, and it had to be atleast two hours passed their normal close times. But still the Bishops drank and talked eagerly about whatever diabolical machinations they had.

Baxter had always been the more patient one, but even he was beginning to show signs of frustration. Bedowin too was tired. Sleepy, even, and he generally liked staying up late.

Gin and tonic guy raised his glass and motioned to Bedowin and Baxter. “One final round,” he said.

Baxter nodded, plastering on a polite smile. “Absolutely.”

The two quickly made the drinks and brought them to the table. Atleast it’s the last rou—Bedowin’s foot caught on something, and he stumbled, dropping the glass of Demir Ten Year all over the lap and stomach of Hawk-eyes.

“Shit! I mean oops,” Bedowin stuttered. “I’m so sorry.”

Hawk-eyes growled and stood.

“Let me get you a napkin,” Bedowin snagged two from a nearby table and began dabbling at Hawk-eyes’ chest. “I’m so sorry,” Bedowin continued.

“Give me that,” Hawk-eyes said, snatching the other napkin from Bedowin’s hand. “And stop that.”

“I’m so sorry, my Lord Bishop.” Bedowin backed away, conscious of all the eyes on him. “It was an accident. True and honest.”

“You imbecile,” Hawk-eyes snarled. “How could you be so careless?”

“I don’t know,” Bedowin said, feigning ignorance and confusion.

Dan finally came out to see what the commotion was. “Pardon, gentleman, but what seems to be the matter?”

“This fool has ruined my hand-tailored clothes. They’ll never be the same. I want him fired. In fact, I’ve half a mind to jail him for the month.”

Bedowin felt his hands trembling, the familiar thrill of danger humming through him. Gods but it could be intoxicating.

“I’ll give him a serious talking too,” Dan promised. “He’s new. Still learning his way. And listen, as an apology, I’ll be happy to cover all the drinks from this evening. They’re on us.”

On cue, Baxter appeared with a new drink for Hawk-eyes. “And here’s a replacement for you.”

“Bedowin,” Dan turned. “Go on out back. Take a walk. We’ll handle it from here.”

“Are you sure?” Bedowin asked.

Dan nodded firmly. “Go.”

Bedowin bowed and backed away, eyes down. The moment he was in the kitchen and out of sight, he broke into a grin. He continued out the back door, then he started laughing. “What have I done?” he continued laughing for a moment longer, then pulled Hawk-eyes’ envelope from his pocket.

“Too easy,” Bedowin muttered, running his fingers along the envelope. Now, what was Hawk-eyes really up too? With a tremble, he tore into the envelope.

Chapter 2: Asha Teleman

Asha Teleman tapped her lip as she stared at the problem Stafford had sketched on the small chalkboard. Deep in thought, she hardly noticed the jostling of their carriage as the driver navigated them around what must’ve been a pothole in the road.

Stafford sat opposite her, both of them cramped within the confined space of the carriage interior. Though the seats were cushioned with fine velvet, it had proven nearly impossible to stay comfortable during their travel. Stafford fluttered a small hand-fan as she pursed her lips.

“Well?” she asked. “Do you have a solution?”

Asha returned her attention to the problem at hand. It was a multi-variate equation, asking her to figure out optimal food-distribution for a district within Cataluna. The question had been written in Andalerese, and the answer had to be given in Suthric. The translation wasn’t difficult, but it was an extra layer of information she had to hold onto as she constructed the equation in her mind. She used the chalkboard for scratchwork as she worked through the last few steps of the calculations.

Finally, Asha wrote the answer in Suthric currency, drawing a big square around her answer. She proffered the board to Mistress Stafford, who studied it carefully and compared Asha’s work against the key she had. Stafford tutted the way she always did, twirling a pen around her finger as she worked.

“Very good,” she said, looking up. She set the board aside and smoothed the skirts of her silky red dress, then adjusted the white overcoat that was patterned with red flowers. Stafford didn’t often dress with such opulence, but this would be her first time back in the city in nearly five years, and impressions mattered.

The carriage rolled to a stop a moment later, followed by the sound of footsteps coming round to the door. A knock, then Stafford undid the latch. Lieutenant Antoine Desamarquis poked his head into the carriage. “This will be the last stop before we arrive, my Lady Bishop. If it pleases you, I recommend we rest for about an hour, then continue. Without further delay, we would arrive shortly before supper.”

Asha approved. That left plenty of time to eat, go to an evening service, and still get plenty of sleep before the Deliberation tomorrow.

“Excellent,” Stafford said. She offered Desamarquis a hand and he politely helped her out of the carriage. Asha followed suit, unfortunately feeling the tiniest bit flustered as he took her hand. Life as a ward of the Church had left Asha with precious few boys to talk too, let alone ones as tall as Antoine. Though his face was not the prettiest, she admired his chivalrous nature, his easygoing confidence.

Outside, they found themselves in a meadow, trees in the distance and mountains looming much further behind them. It was autumn now, the sun providing little warmth against the chill of the wind. Leaves of every color rustled and drifted across the ground.

The horses knickered as their escort of Watchmen fed and watered them, while others setup a pair of lawn chairs for Asha and Stafford. Others started on a fire, eager to prepare a midday meal. It was a small party they had taken: two carriages with two drivers and three horses a piece, accompanied by seven mounted watchmen, including Desamarquis.

Asha ignored her chair for now, though, for she needed to stretch, cooped up as she’d been in the carriage. “D’you think I could ride for a minute?” she asked Stafford, gesturing to one of the Watchmen’s horses.

Stafford pursed her lips. “The wind would ruin your hair. And you’ll smell equine during the carriage ride.”

“Fine,” Asha said. She could always brush her blonde hair, and the carriage already smelled quite equine, but Stafford had been stressed lately, so Asha decided to bite her tongue and acquiesce.

The group ate quickly, and before long they were back on the road. Stafford switched their topic of study to history, where they maintained a discussion over the morality of both sides during the second schism, which happened in the year 212 AB (After Breaking). Though the topic of discussion was more than a millennium old, Asha found the subject engaging.

History was a comfort to her. It was sure as stone, dependable. Facts were immutable, so she could always trust those to guide her. Same with the Church, with Luna.

At some point, she must’ve dozed off, for she awoke to the steady hum of a crowd talking. Asha peered around, groggy. Stafford looked back from the window she’d been peaking out of.

“Good, I was about to wake you. We’ve arrived.”

Asha clambered around so that she could see out the small carriage window. It was darker outside now, the sun reaching for the horizon. Outside, the people of Cataluna milled about on the cobblestone streets, a sea of pedestrians breaking against the rock that was their carriage and it’s escort.

On the surface, atleast, these people looked just the same as those from her home town of Catalpa, a small town on the northern end of their country. Cataluna, the capital, had by far the largest population, some four hundred thousand. Catalpa, in comparison, only had some fifty thousand.  

Unfortunately, the small window limited her view – she had no chance to see the breathtaking skyline she’d heard many a story of. A river split the city in two, and the source of the Church’s power, the Basilica, rested upon an island in the center, accessible by either ship or one of four massive bridges.

“Can we stop so I might sit alongside the coachmen,” Asha asked. “Please, Mistress? I’ve always wanted to see the Basilica in person.”

Stafford wanted to say no, Asha she could see it, but she relented. “Fine. But toss on a cloak and draw up the hood. A young woman as pretty as you is sure to attract unwanted attention.”

Asha smiled as Stafford rapped thrice on the thin wall between them and the coachmen. The carriage pulled to a stop a moment later, and Antoine Desamarquis was there in an instant to open the door. “Is something the matter, my Lady Bishop?”

Stafford shook her head. “Help Miss Teleman out and onto the bench next to the stagecoach.”

“Absolulely, my Lady,” Desamarquis said. A moment later, he offered Asha a hand and helped her down. Asha gathered the folds of her simple back dress as she climbed onto the bench next to the stage coach, then she tucked her hair, a bright strawberry blonde, into the hood, which she pulled up. Considering the chill to the air, she might’ve worn it anyway, regardless of Stafford’s request.

The stagecoach hiya’d the horses back into action and Asha turned to the city. Buildings, two and three stories, loomed around them like great walls to a maze. The stagecoach took turns that Asha would never have expected. In the distance, great clouds of smoke came from a collection of stone spires, coughing their black fumes into the sky. Those must be the factories.

During the last war, some ten years ago, researchers in the Church had made great strides on the technology of steam engines, and now the technology was spreading through the city like a plague. Though the technology had originally been the Church’s, it was quickly copied and improved upon by merchants, leading to a huge increase in factories within the southern district of the city.

Before long, the maze of gothic inspired buildings, each with red-clay roof shingles and tan walls, gave way to the river, and the north-western bridge.

The bridge was breathtaking, unlike anything Asha had seen. It felt, unnatural. It was wide enough for ten carriages to travel abreast and still have plenty of room to spare, and it spanned the half mile width of river without a single support beam. Architecturally, it was impossible, and yet it existed. It was a relic, built before the Breaking, before the humanity’s Fall.

But the bridge was nothing compared to the majesty that was the Basilica.

It radiated everything that Luna meant. Peace. Majesty. Balance. Love. It was the biggest building Asha had ever seen, bigger than she could wrap her head around. It may as well have been a small town, contained solely within the alabaster walls and the red roofs. A massive dome was the centerpiece, towering far into the sky, and to the side a rectangle shaped building extended out to complete the church.

It too, had been built long before the Breaking before things changed. Asha wondered what life had been like then, when every person in the world had magic, not just the select few worthy of serving Luna.

And what would that be like? To use magic… It was one of the Church’s most closely guarded secrets, and no amount of prying had ever gotten Asha close to so much as a hint from Stafford. But, if things worked out during the Deliberation, Asha could change that.

The foot traffic thinned out as they passed through the courtyard before the Basilica. To the left, she saw a fine garden that she would be sure to explore when the opportunity arose. For now, the carriage stopped before the long set of steps that led to the building’s façade, laden with too many details for the eye to understand, but all of it dedicated to Luna and her majesty. Asha couldn’t help but to stare, eyes wide.

“You’ll catch flies, dear,” Stafford said, helping Asha up the steps.

“It’s amazing,” was all Asha could manage.

The inside of the Basilica only continued to impress. Soaring columns tall as trees surrounded by marble tiles upon the floor and bricks of the same color for the walls. And alcoves at regular intervals, each displaying a different work of art. Some were statues, others were paintings taller than her. One even had a string quartet playing a piece from Luna’s canon. Small groups of pilgrims from far away towns were positioned around every piece.

Further ahead, the main hall, a massive atrium with some five floors all looking down into the central open space. Asha gaped. Mistress Stafford was clearly amused by it, but Asha caught her admiring the ceiling. The mural that decorated the dome of the main hall was surely the centerpiece of the entire Basilica.

It depicted a familiar scene, one every Catalunen ought to know by heart. Luna, and the seven Heroes standing strong against the nine Isshin, the demons that represented the purest form of destruction. The paint nearest the edges of the mural twisted and mutated colors, representing how the very fabric of reality had once been frayed, only held together by a few gossamer strands.

But that was in the past, and the Deliberation would soon be in Asha’s present. She and Stafford were shortly escorted to the third floor and down a series of hallways, eventually to end up in a small apartment with two beds and a bathroom. Guest Housing.

The two had just finished unpacking their clothes when there came a knock at the door.

“Yes?” Stafford answered it as Asha removed her of toiletries from her chest, half-listening to Stafford’s conversation.

“…scheduled forward due to concerns… immediate attendance.”

Asha perked up. What was that? She hurried to the door.

“What do you mean scheduling concerns?” Stafford repeated.

The courier, a bald man with pudgy cheeks, held up his hands defensively. “I’m just relaying what I was told. I don’t know anything else about it. My Lady Bishop.” He added the last part belatedly.

His eyes shifted to Asha, who now stood beside Stafford.

“And you must be the new ward everyone is talking on,” he continued.

Asha hesitated. “People are talking of me?”

The courier smiled. “How sweet.” He turned back to Stafford. “She doesn’t know how good her test scores are? Or is it that she doesn’t know how much attention they would draw?”

“Go on,” Stafford said, dismissing him. “Tell them we’ll be there shortly.”

“Do you know the way, still?” he asked.

Stafford stared at him down her nose. “I haven’t been gone that long.” She shut the door curtly in his face.

“What was that?” Asha asked.

“He’s a courier, but he’s a consort of one of the Lady Bishops here. He’s protected, but he loves to toe the line of what’s acceptable.”

“And what was that about the test scores?”

Stafford hesitated, something Asha rarely saw. A sense of concern fell over her.

“There are some things I have neglected to tell you,” Stafford began. “And perhaps now isn’t the best time, but… it’s time.”

Asha glanced around. “What is it?”

“Asha,” Stafford began. “I may have led you to believe that the scoring a ninety percent on the test was the norm. And that a good student should easily score a hundred, right?”

“I only scored a ninety-eight,” Asha said, frowning.

“I lied to you about that,” Stafford said simply. “Most prospective Bishops only score around a seventy-five. Sixty is the minimum for entry. In fact, only a select few score above a ninety. Ninety-fives are unheard of… so a ninety-eight?”

“So what? You’re saying I did really well on the test? Why did you need to lie to me?”

“I didn’t want you to grow complacent, nor did I want it to go to your head.”

“Then why tell me now?”

“It is a strong point in your favor, when it comes to the Deliberation, but the courier mentioned that there will be another young woman there, also vying for your spot. I need you to be fully confident that you will be the smartest person in that room because we have to get going now. They’ve moved it forward.”

“What?” Asha’s voice came out as a squeak.

“Something suspicious is a foot,” Stafford muttered. “The Bishops have always loved to play politics. It’s part of the reason I retreated to the countryside. But maybe I’ve been away for too long. Alliances have shifted no doubt…” she turned back to Asha. “Let’s get you ready. We’re pressed for time.”

***

Fifty-eight minutes later, Asha and Stafford stood outside the doors to the central meeting chamber. Asha’s hair had been brushed until it shone, and they’d applied a light set of makeup to make her look older, more confident. Lastly, she’d opted for a nice overcoat to add a layer of professionalism to her black dress.

“Ready?” Stafford asked, straightening Asha’s collar.

Asha nodded. “Ready.”

“Good,” Stafford said. “Then let offer you one final piece of advice, and a brief prayer. Firstly, remember this when you’ve been accepted, for I am confident you will be accepted. Remember to always trust your heart above all else, and when in doubt do what Luna would do. Second, I offer this prayer. Dearest Luna, please with all your grace, watch over Asha and bless her with the light of your wisdom, so that she may serve you to the best of her ability. In your name, we pray. Veras.”

“Veras,” Asha murmured back. She looked up at Stafford and saw a tear in her eye, and likewise felt one forming in her own eye.

“I’m so proud of you,” Stafford said. “Now go.” She rapped on the door twice, then pushed open the double doors. Despite their size, they swung open effortlessly, without so much as a creak.

Inside, yet another stunning display of the Church’s beauty. A stage occupied the center, surrounded by countless rows of seats, each one higher than the last. Seven Bishop sat upon the stage, each at their own desk, arranged in a semi circle. The chair at the center, a more elaborate design reminiscent of a throne, went unused.

The Father of the Church, the Voice of Luna, was a position that had been vacant for some six years. Luna had yet to mark a new person as her voice, and thus, the Bishops had chosen a steward, for the council needed an odd number. If memory served, the steward was a traditionalist known as Hadan Romani. Indeed, the man sitting there had a bald head and piercing eyes. They reminded Asha of a hawk, for whatever reason.

His gaze found her as she descended the steps, and she quickly looked down, flinching under his scrutiny. She continued to the bottom of the steps and found her way to the stage. The audience was mostly empty, save for Stafford sitting somewhere near the back.

Asha waited quietly near the edge of the stage, inspecting the array of candles that hung from the ceiling, lighting the room with a soft warm glow.

Finally, another set of doors near the back opened, and Asha’s competition descended the steps. Envy and concern rose within her stomach both vying for control. The woman she was everything Asha was not. Tall, poised, and elegant, she wore a simple black dress of a less traditional style. It left little to the imagination in the way it clung to her body. Her black hair had been done with careful waves, and as she reached the stage, she met Asha’s gaze with green eyes. She gave a subtle smirk as she stopped next to Asha, then turned to face the Council of Bishops.

“Ahem,” the Bishop furthest to stage right said. Asha peered at the nameplate on his desk. This was Bishop Roswell, who had a friendly if not aloof face, and short brown hair. “Now that we’re all here, let’s get things underway.”

“Today, on this day,” intoned another Bishop. Asha didn’t have a good view of his name plate. “The fourth day of the sixth month of the year 1392, we meet for the sacred purpose of Deliberation. Today a new Bishop will be selected to join our ranks. With a complete council present, we will proceed. Will the first applicant please state your name.”

Asha took a breath. Should I go first or…?

Before she had a chance to decide, her competition stepped forward. “I am Mordra Devillieres, daughter of Danson Devillieres.”

“The council recognizes Mordra Devillieres. Are there any others?”

It’s now or never. Asha cleared her throat and stepped forward. “Asha Teleman, ward of the Church.” She felt the eyes of the Bishop Council shift to her, as each took their time, scrutinizing and inspecting her. The older men had a sickly gleam in their eyes that made her uncomfortable, while the two women within the council both watched her with narrowed eyes, as if somehow suspicious.

“Applicants,” said the Lady Bishop on stage left, “we’ve only one spot to fill within the clergy.”

“Applicant Devillieres,” said Bishop Roswell, “you may present an argument in favor of your acceptance.”

Mordra nodded. “As I said, my name is Mordra Devillieres. I am twenty-one, but though I was young, I studied at the university for five terms. Before that, I apprenticed under my father, the editor-in-chief at the Cataluna Chronicles.”

Asha noticed a gleam in Romani’s eyes at the sound of that. The Cataluna Chronicles was one of the biggest newspaper publications in Cataluna, a small supply of weekly issues even made it out to Catalpa, most of the time. Asha was familiar with his work; Danson was a sharp writer, and Asha was beginning to expect that Mordra followed suit.

 “I wish to serve the Church,” Mordra continued, “because I believe it is one of the highest callings one can pursue. I’m strong of heart and mind, and I believe I can fulfill the duties of the position to a high standard.”

A few of the Bishops exchanged pointed glances, and some also scratched down notes on the papers before them.

“Applicant Teleman,” Bishop Roswell continued, “you may present an argument in favor of your acceptance.”

Asha’s pulse pounded in her ears, and she felt oddly light-headed, but she took a breath and tried to speak from the heart. “I’m Asha Teleman, and I’ve been a ward of the Church for as long as I can remember. I grew up in the small town of Catalpa, where I spent the morning doing chores and the afternoon in the library. Evenings were for service. All I’ve ever known is the life that the Church – and Luna – have given me.

“All that I hope to do is repay that favor. I will work hard, harder than most, to spread Luna’s light and love. I’m consistent, diligent, and I’ve studied for a long time. But I am well-versed in the much of the Church’s lore, and I will always try to do right by Luna.”

Asha stopped. Okay. Not perfect. But genuine, at least. That’s got to count for something… Right?

 The Bishops exchanged more glances. More scratching sounds as pens went to paper.

Asha glanced to Mordra, who stood facing the Bishop, her back straight and her chin held high. Asha turned back to the Bishops, trying to mimic Mordra’s posture. Maybe if I act confident, I’ll start to feel it. Luna but this was nerve-racking.

“Would any like to present an argument against Applicant Devillieres?” Bishop Roswell asked.

Silence.

“Would any like to present an argument against Applicant Teleman?”

“I would,” Mordra said without hesitation. She spared Asha a quick glance. “Nothing personal,” she whispered.

Asha gaped, but Mordra had already turned to address the council. “Applicant Teleman, here, is a ward. She will be able to offer little when it comes to the traditional donation that one makes upon being accepted into the clergy. Additionally, Applicant Teleman has lived in the backwater town of Catalpa her whole life, hardly more than a collection of huts next to a swamp. She will be naïve and ill-equipped for the challenges that life in the city will present her.”

Mordra bowed her head to signal the end of tirade. More scritch-scratching, more furtive glances.

“Are there any replies?” One of the Bishop asked.

Asha flustered, heart still pounding in her ears as her cheeks grew warm. She searched for words, but her throat had grown so dry she thought might burst into a fit of coughing if she tried to speak.

“Very well,” Bishop Roswell said. “The candidates have made themselves known. Let us deliberate.”

The Lady Bishop next to Roswell was the first to speak. “My vote is in favor of Applicant Teleman. She seems pure of heart, and proper training will make up for any shortcomings.”

“And who would train her?” Asked the older Bishop with a white beard on the opposite side. “Your hands are already full with that nutcase of a student you have. I certainly have no interest in training a country bumpkin.”

“We all know you don’t want to train anyone,” she replied. “Nothing new there.”

“Regardless,” the white-bearded Bishop said, “I vote for Applicant Devillieres. Her connection with the Cataluna Chronicles is an invaluable resource, especially as tensions rise with the trade embargo we’ve planned.”

“I’m in agreement,” said the Lady Bishop next to white-beard. Gods. Asha really needed to start learning names. “Open communication will be vital. And Applicant Devillieres seems more suited to city life.”

“But,” Bishop Roswell broke in, “Applicant Teleman’s scores were ten points higher on the entrance exam. Her score was remarkable. We’d be fools to ignore that.”

“Doesn’t mean she’s useless,” white-beard replied. “We’ll put her to work in the archives or as an engineer. She can still serve Luna. But Teleman hasn’t instilled any confidence in me that she can be quick or decisive.”

“I may have a solution,” Bishop Romani said, the first time he’d spoken the entire meeting.

Everyone turned to him, silence draping across the stage.

“I will take both on as apprentices.”

There was a long breath of silence, then a cacophony of several voices erupted. Finally, the Lady Bishop near Roswell gained the attention of the room. “Why would you seek to expand the clergy? This hasn’t been done in some two hundred years.”

“The city has grown significantly in the last twenty years,” Romani said. “With the growth we’ve seen in the industrial district, we can expect even greater growth for the next twenty. Does it not make sense to increase our numbers, proportional to the population? You spoke yourselves about the embargo with Andalar. If things take a turn for the worse, which they well could considering that their tyrant king is every bit as savage as they are, then we’ll need the clergy of Bishop to be the strongest it’s ever been.”

A few mutters came from the Bishop, but none seemed to want to disagree with him.

Finally, Bishop Roswell seemed to have pieced together some semblance of pushback. “Two apprentices at once?”

Romani shrugged. “Both are intelligent, and apt. Perhaps learning side by side will foster competition, both forcing each other to be better.”

“I can train one,” Roswell said, “if it should come to that. Or we could trade off as necessary.  My Alannel is more than ready to finish his apprenticeship with me.”

“That’s if we even vote to allow an additional member to the clergy,” white beard said.

“Does anyone actually oppose it?” Romani asked, tapping his finger on the desk. “I’ve some other business I need to attend to.”

The question hung in the air for a long moment.

“Very well,” Romani continued. “Have them both prepared for their initiation. Unless anyone else has something, can we adjourn the meeting?”

A murmur of ascent came from the congregated Bishops, and with that, the meeting came to a rapid end. The Bishops rose from their desks and formed into small huddles, while the Noveau, the workings hands of Luna, hurried onto stage. They all wore oversized brown robes, leaving their figures obscured. Additionally, all hair had been shaven from their heads and faces.

A Noveau stopped next to Asha and gently took her arm, guiding her off the stage.

“Wait,” Asha breathed. “Can’t I go speak with Bishop Stafford before I go?”

The Noveau turned back to Asha and shook her head. She gestured for Asha to follow, then repeated the gesture more urgently. Near her, Asha saw Mordra being escorted off the stage in a similar fashion.

Asha relented and followed the Noveau. As the noveau dragged her along, Asha managed one glance back toward Stafford, who was talking to Bishop Romani near the edge of the stage. Stafford gestured frantically, but Romani dismissed her and walked away. Stafford turned to Asha and the two locked eyes for a brief moment.

I love you, Stafford mouthed.

Asha mouthed it back, then turned as the Noveau lead her around the corner and into a corridor of white marble.

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