They rattled towards Eirene Cathedral not long after first light, but the line of people waiting for alms had already snaked around the City Square. The carriage that Claribel chose to wave from today was no unmarked mystery; it was draped with blue velvet and silver ravens, screaming the Aquilon name at every peasant it thundered past.

‘The Lady Claribel Aquilon, Lower Warden of the Guild of Mages!’ cried the coachman once they’d slowed to a stop in front of a row of bowing Holy Guards, in case anyone had been rendered blind by the morning sun glinting off the gems that adorned the carthorses’ caparisons and couldn’t decode the ravens for themselves. Apparently the gems lay in a line that symbolised her descent from Clarus the Seer – as Claribel had explained to her – but all that Ari saw were manmade coats that’d serve better purpose draped around any of those shivering shoulders hunched against the wind.

Those at the front of the queue had just received soggy-looking bread, covered in brown splotches. Claribel assured her that they were not mouldy, but had merely served as plates – trenchers – in other noble houses. Ari didn’t feel much assured.

Most gave a cheer upon her arrival, most likely out of their love for the fresh bread in the wagon that trailed their carriage rather than the daughter of Aquilon herself. Some remained stony-faced, as cold as the wind that nipped at their feet: unwilling participants in this act of charity.

Were their soles birch too, like Hesperus’s had been?

And what did it matter to Ari?

What did any of this matter, if she could just see this world in the same colour as June, peddling her pickles as she dreamed of wearing a wealthier lady’s skin? Why was she looking for a face among the crowd like her own, before the Chief had caught her and clothed her? Why would anyone give a fictional footnote the same weight as a creature of flesh and blood?

She greeted the Holy Guards, mouth too dry and heart too loud.

The truth of it was that she could tell no difference between any of the people she’d met in this world and anyone who’d belonged in hers. If she’d asked the squint-eyed Holy Guard with a patchy beard for his past, if she’d asked the snotty-nosed boy with a too-short fringe for his dreams, they’d be able to paint a richer picture than she could offer. All she had were the dreams that she’d sold to another man for shelter and roast chicken, and her hazy past, evaporated like the waters, memories like morning mist.

The truth of it was that she had no right to puppeteer Claribel’s body, gliding up those steps of the cathedral under expectant stares; even the sprinkle of cold indifference was so unlike the frozen terror that used to await her.

The truth of it wasn’t what she’d told herself: that she was here to get Miri and get out, that she’d been tangled in a web of interweaving threads. No. She’d let the city lead her astray, spending time here, standing in front of the Cardinal in his mulberry purple robes, offering alms, instead of seeking out June again for any other traces of Miri she could glean, because she didn’t want to go home.

She had no right–

‘–the rights to the income from my mana mines.’

‘Generous as usual, my lady,’ said Cardinal Octavus, smiling easily now that they were alone with a giant golden statue of a gaping mouth, large enough to swallow them both, leaving the guards to feed the hungry mouths outside. He clutched the scroll in his claw-like hands, nails filed to a point.

‘You will be able to build the alms-house you’d mentioned before.’

‘In exchange for their prayers, I presume? You are young for seeking a space among the bede-roll, to have them pray for a life of equally good fortune after being consumed by the Fated One – may the Fated One savour us.’

‘Malory was several years my junior, and she was too late in getting her share of prayers, as was Tristram. We cannot pretend to predict the Fated One’s appetite. Still, I am satisfied with one life’s worth of blessings.’ Words of a lady who didn’t live with memories of an unblessed life. ‘You may place another name on the bede-roll, as long as you can tell me his name. Tell me, my dear friend, who authorised the burning of Malory?’

An inhaled breath stuck in his throat. He glanced down at the scroll in his hands and shook his head. ‘It was not me.’

‘I would not be here if I thought it was.’

‘It is not for an outsider to involve herself in the matters of the Church, even if it is the likes of you, my lady.’

‘I merely wish to offer prayers to a worthy man. He must be a cardinal, to have been able to request your compliance. One of six, not counting your good self. Should I take a guess? Or should I offer those prayers to the Pope himself? He is getting rather advanced in age. Perhaps I should–’

‘It is very kind of you to think of our Most Holy Father,’ said Cardinal Octavus, even as he tugged her sleeve and placed a finger against his lips. Drawing out a piece of parchment and a pot of ink, he motioned her closer, close enough to see his curling writing even as he continued, ‘I shall insist on placing your name on the bede-roll for an act so generous. It reminds me of the legendary giving by the great hero Susu. Being the only hero to capture more than one of Lady Una’s Eyes, she gifted an untouched Eye to the then-Pope, thereby healing the souring relationship between the Church and the Children…’

The rest of the tale faded into the background as his letters took form:

Pope Eternal III – in hanging bed. Expect conclave in spring.

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Expected votes:

Cardinal Eugenus

Cardinal Petrun

Cardinal Oris

For Archbishop Benedine

Other three for Cardinal Capac. RERNIN.

Burning ordered by Eugenus, Petrun, proof of possession submitted by Benedine’s archdiocese.

Rumour will spread that Capac ordered burning.

Riots expected in Leth.

There, his quill stopped, ending with a splotch.

Ari pulled herself together, doing what she did best: focusing on the task at hand. Even if this was not her task, and not her hands. She was a weapon, a descendant of the Lee-Enfield: lock and reload, with bullets that were an alchemy of metals, not melancholy. The strong had no time to be sad, and what was she if not strong?

It wasn’t the most important question, but somehow an image of an elderly pope, swaddled in tropical prints, consumed her. He’d be sipping a piña colada, tapping his foot to the beat until thump went the swinging hammock, and out fell another faceless body, grey-lipped and empty-eyed, bleeding pineapple, crumpling into earth. What was it this time? Arsenic or asphyxiation?

~It rocks him over holy water, to add humidity to his body. It doesn’t often strengthen a life for long. More importantly, there is a motive.~

Before Ari could reexamine all the unfamiliar words and attempt to memorise at least one name, Cardinal Octavus flung his note into the hearth. They watched the parchment, once upon a time the skin on a living sheep, descend into cinders. Ari wondered what kind of symbols she’d need to draw to send the words back into her world. All the while, Cardinal Octavus continued his sermon about Susu’s act of kindness, voice soft as a lullaby.

~For the death of Tristram. If Pope Eternal III will be gone by spring, this is the time to ensure that the man you want will be the next to raise the One-Eyed Sceptre within the walls of the Holy Fang. Seven cardinals will cast their votes. They are split down the middle: the three cardinals who are not from Ventinon are casting their votes for a cardinal from Rernin.~

~In his dreams, perhaps, though he would certainly like to be hers.~

~Knowing him, he would support the man who’d make the best pope. Cardinal Capac would. Archbishop Benedine, however… is an odd case. He is a young man with little experience and no outstanding reputation, but has managed to climb the ecclesiastical ranks at an astonishing speed: the first archbishop with no grey hairs in living memory. The first Church-appointed archbishop anyhow.~

~An old king in what’s now become part of the Tasrine Empire appointed his son archbishop when he was yet hairless at six months of age.~

~The Holy Fang did not deem him wise, and his knowledge of canon law was insufficient for it to recognise him as a true archbishop. His idea of a just war would involve shaking down the world for a warm teat.~

~Perhaps he is connected. Who knows. But I do know that I don’t know him.~

~Unnatural. The only explanation I have come up with so far is that he is exceptionally handsome, and willing to let the cardinals who support him pull his strings, except why a man like Cardinal Eugenus wouldn’t take the votes for himself, I cannot explain. Cardinal Eugenus already has all the aspects required for his faction: a man born and bred in Taur, not imported through Ventinon’s past empire days. Only during conclaves, searching for the next man to raise the sceptre, do we regret burning down the churches of the Creator in Rernin and making them bow to the Fated One.~ Claribel floated to her side, wearing a dagger-sharp expression that’d be more at home on her own face. ~Many in Taur feel the same way. If the men of Taur believe that Cardinal Capac orchestrated the burning, they will riot in support of a Ventinon-born pope. It has happened before.~

~They could have, to increase the fervour. You were the one who suggested the Church’s involvement when you examined his body – the idea of being able to move the body without it being at odds with our beliefs, remember?~

She did, but the pieces didn’t slot together quite right, surrendering no satisfying click. It had the whiffs of a conspiracy theory. Didn’t it? She pondered the question, even as Cardinal Octavus’s story finally flatlined to a conclusion. ‘The Eye now sits within the finial of the One-Eyed Sceptre, and is now a symbol of power for the Holy Fang. That is the power of giving.’

The gentlest of scoffs escaped from Claribel upon the word ‘symbol’.

~It’s not just a symbol. It is power. There is no other Eye that is still untainted with a wish, and there are no more heroes to cut out more from Lady Una herself. The Pope holds the power of the last wish.~

The silence that greeted her was unsettling. It wasn’t like Claribel to fail at detecting the playful inflection in her voice, in her heart.

Slowly, she said, ~The Eye of Una makes heroes. That is because the wishes can grant changes to a body. You may wish for strength that surpasses all men. You may wish for eyes that can see from a thousand miles away. Then why would you not be able to wish for a second body?~

The path shone bright and clear for a moment. Who cares about murders and missions when she could be housed in a body that was hers and hers alone once more? She’d broken into buildings protected by machine guns and lasers. What was a little medieval security, even if it was for an item from the legends? What could keep her out… apart from Claribel’s velvet-soft hands and her silk-strong noose of duty that tied her to Eirene. Apart from the unfamiliar realm of magic, and how that might be a better guard than pressure-sensitive triggers.

The pendulum swung between within her grasp and a galaxy away.

She’d wish for her old body back, exactly as it was, with the muscles she’d honed and the calluses she’d collected. With the scars that had once been wounds he’d dressed, with the heart that had once beat the pulse he’d checked, stumbling in from mission to mission, ripped and frayed, but soon to be darned back whole. And hands that would never betray their memory.

She’d wish for all that, but it was no fun playing with hypotheticals, things she could never have.

‘So we appreciate your gift, my lady,’ said Cardinal Octavus, ‘and I do hope you’ll accept the prayers we’ll offer in your name. If you wish for nothing but chance in your next life, then may the Fated One await a gentle expiration of this life, many decades from now. May you offer the Fated One a morsel bursting with joy and fulfilment before your rebirth, and may you do so only when you are wrinkled and ready to receive a brand new body.’

‘Maybe I would like a prayer for my new body after all,’ said Ari. She’d never been a praying woman, but if the gods of this world were as real as Claribel, she’d be a fool not to be. She touched three fingers to her lips and prayed.