Page 103 of Secrets of Graves and Gold

I force myself to relax. If I’m asking them to trust me to take care of myself, I have to extend the same trust in return. “Sounds like a plan, then.”

Rheave finally rouses as Toast’s gait shifts when we leave the road behind. It only takes a little arguing to convince him that I don’t need him to attempt to shadow me on my stealthy mission into town.

We tap our fists together before we part ways as if reaffirming the bonds we’ve formed. I make sure that Toast isn’t looking to buck Casimir off, remind the stallion to be good, and then set off for Iblin with only my own scrawny body to conceal.

It isn’t hard to find a decent place to make my entry. I’ve got a lot fewer concerns about being caught when I’m effectively invisible.

I pick out a spot where the stone blocks that make up the wall are a little uneven, leap up to snag my fingers around one thin ridge, and scramble the rest of the way up and over just fifty paces from a guard standing watch.

I wasn’t lying when I said I’d like to know what sort of talk is going around in town. As I weave through the streets, I keep my ears pricked for any mention of the Order of the Wild, Eppun province and its counties, or uprisings. But with every turn, I work my way closer to the main temple.

You seem as if you know where you’re going, Julita remarks.

“There’s someone I’d like to talk to, if he’ll bother to talk back,” I reply under my breath.

We come around another corner, and at the other end of the street, the white-washed walls of the grand temple shine in the setting sun.

Julita goes still. Ah, I see.

I hurry along the road toward the temple, dread warring with hope in my chest. I haven’t felt Kosmel’s presence or heard his voice since the dream that led me to Sulla.

He told me he couldn’t interfere quite as much anymore. Maybe he’s angry that I was so quick to leave the sanctuary he directed me to.

Who can say what goes on in the mind of a godlen?

The square outside the temple is bustling with locals. No one looks or sounds at all concerned about an approaching army.

I dart between them and climb the steps to the arched doorway. The vast hallway beyond swallows me up.

It feels strange walking into the domed worship room, heading toward the statue of the Kosmel in his alcove. This rendition has the trickster godlen in his typical hooded cloak, his marble eyes peering keenly from beneath, with carved playing cards fanned in one hand and the other raised over his lips as if to encourage secrecy.

As usual, a few dice lie scattered around the marble base, but the question I have can’t be reduced to a yes or no answer. I sink to my knees in front of the statue, feeling abruptly awkward.

Even when I prayed to Kosmel back in Florian, it was as much for show as out of any actual divine piety. For most of my twenty years of life, I never prayed to any of the lesser gods at all.

But he’s helped me. He’s kept me alive and directed my magic away from harm.

If anyone can help me through the mess I’ve found myself tangled in, it’s him.

I bow my head and think the words I want to say. Kosmel, please hear me and answer. I’m trying to use my magic to do good using the strategies the woman you sent me to offered. But I think it’s become too much. I’m seeing and feeling things that don’t totally make sense… I don’t want to go mad. I don’t want to fail the men who’ve been counting on me. I don’t want to see the country upended because I faltered. Where do I go from here?

A lump fills my throat as I wait. Faint voices drift from the other alcoves, but no divine words ring through my head.

I look up at the statue. As much as I’d like a real conversation, he’s answered with simple signs before.

Nothing appears to shift on the statue’s face. I peer into the shadows around the marble figure, the ache of dread expanding in my chest.

Is he totally ignoring me?

The shapes flicker with the lantern-light, and I have the impression of coins tossed as if at a betting table. When I blink, the cards seem to ruffle in Kosmel’s hand as if he’s adjusting them impatiently.

As if he’s waiting for me to call or fold.

Is he telling me I have to make the decision for myself?

That does fit with our past conversations. He’s always told me to figure out what I’m doing and then tell him what I need, not expect him to make my plans for me.

I guess I should be reassured that he thinks I can still figure my way onto a path that won’t ruin everything I’ve worked toward.

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