Page 48 of The Garnet Daughter
I am not prepared for the harsh wind that rips through the sand-stained buildings, gaining speed and anger as it coils around them. I pull my outer layer over my head and hold my sleeve to my mouth to prevent any grit from entering.
“Just up here,” Commander Wesley says.
It’s a short walk, but the friction pushing against us slows me down until Commander Vermeil positions himself in front of me. At first, I find it rude, but then realize he is taking the bulk of the wind now, intentional or not.
We approach a tarnished metal building, windowless and tall as the safe house hangar. The outlines of other structures are shadowed by the dim light and sandy wind blurring the scenery. A door is opened for us by two men who hold cloth to their mouths as we enter, bringing in the grainy breeze with us.
Our escorts lead us down a long hall and then up a flight of open-air stairs in silence. With a Viathan at my front and one at my back, blocking most of my view, I try to keep my eyes on my feet, hoping not to stumble on the dilapidated stairs.
One of our guides knocks on a partitioned-off section of the building, and when I look out at the rest of the hangar-like structure, there are three or more Viathan ships and other commanders working below.
A lanky, roughed-faced man opens the door, looking each of us over as if he could deny our entry if he deemed us unwelcome.
“The party to see Mayor Everson,” our escort announces.
He steps aside, allowing us into a modest room with chipping paint and a small sitting area that looks like whoever has used it has left the dust from outside on its cushions.
A harsh-looking, older man sits at a partially rusted desk, watching us with patient but curious eyes. He stands and shakes Commander Wesley’s forearm.
“Welcome, welcome. Please sit.” He points to the two metal chairs in front of his desk. Commander Wesley takes one and I take the other.
“Are you one of the mountain folk they said was coming here?”
Commander Vermeil takes a step behind me somewhere, casting an obnoxious shadow over my lap. It’s so distracting, I take a moment to realize the strange question is directed at me. “I am Frithian, yes.”
“No trees here, not as far as the eye can see.” His smile is smug.
“Fortunately, we are not looking for trees.” Commander Wesley’s voice is friendly, but he’s clearly trying to stay on task. “We need to know the location of the temple of—” He looks to me.
“The temple of Omnesis.”
Mayor Everson considers, scratching his chin. “An old god. We are not the faithful type in this town, unlike the people farther in the birthlands, if that is what you are after.”
“No, just its location,” Commander Wesley states.
“There is a woman the town over, a healer?—”
“A death doula,” the mayor’s guard standing behind him chimes in, cursing the mention of the woman with a spit on the floor.
“She’s called Maestra, but I will warn you she worships all the gods. Both sides. Might not take kindly to—” Mayor Everson gestures to Commander Wesley’s armor.
“That far out in the birthlands, you get quite a mix. Makes for an interesting time figuring out who’s who,” his guard muses, his hand resting on the gun at his hip.
“I can’t offer any help, but we have a small population of folk who will often take mercenary work if the pay is favorable,” the mayor offers.
There’s tension that I cannot place, yet Commander Wesley stated these were trusted allies.
“We do not require it, but I thank you for the offer,” Commander Wesley responds.
Mayor Everson relaxes further back in his chair, nodding with his mouth pulled down at the sides. “Alright then. I will send you the coordinates to the next town.”
“Thank you,” I say.
His attention flicks at me and lingers. “I have had so many odd requests during this conjunction, a Frithian in search of a temple in the middle of the desert doesn’t even make the top five . . . and you are welcome. But as for clearance, I sadly cannot grant it.”
“We have orders from the 99th Commander of Viathan.” Commander Wesley sits straighter in his chair, adding to the undercurrent of tension in the room.
“I’m sure you do. However, there is a ship-swallowing sandstorm headed this way. Each tremor sends another. This one would ground a ship your size, and I cannot spare a rescue crew to dig you out.”
