| THE LORELEI SIGNAL |
.
| Written by Christine Lucas/ Artwork by Lee Kuruganti |
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| Plague Chalice |
Does anyone really grieve the passing of the old goat?
Ella kept her silence and took a seat on one of the benches before the dead High Priest’s bier, at the feet of
the Azure Altar. Her gaze wandered from the high marble pillars up to the dome that housed the nests of
countless sparrows—the avatars of Ekkas, the God of Chance, Commerce and Thieves.
Bird droppings landed on her nose and her face twisted, but she knew better than to curse openly. She
wiped her nose with the edge of her apron, wondering whether she should smuggle another cat into the
temple. A few months back, she had secretly coaxed a huge tomcat into the Hall. Hidden behind a pillar, Ella
had watched the mayhem, chuckling. Clerics ran after the cat, wild-eyed, tripping over benches, their green
robes billowing behind them.
A nudge from her left startled her. She looked up and met the stern gaze of Amnos, the priest overseeing the
wake. Beside her, Meg, the cook, cleared her throat.
“Stop grinning,” Meg whispered from behind her cupped hand.
Ella bowed her head, faking piety, but she found it impossible to fake grief. Her eyes darted sideways,
stealing glances at the others: priests of lower ranks, servants of the Temple, some local merchants and
townsfolk. She saw blank faces, drawn lips and one or two stifled yawns. No signs of sincere mourning—the
late High Priest had been insufferable. The solemn chants of the ritual bored her. She had only attended the
wake because rumor among the servants had it Derrik, the head of the local Thieves’ Guild, would pay his
respects tonight, as guild etiquette ordered. The same rumors claimed Derrik was one handsome man.
Yet the candles had already burned halfway and no such man had entered the hall. Ella’s lids grew heavy; her
body ached and she had missed supper. Drawing in a deep breath, she stood up and approached Brother
Amnos. Behind her, Meg snorted.
“Your holiness, may I be excused? I have chores to attend to,” she lied. She had finished her duties hours
ago.
“What kind of chores, my child?” His mirthless, unblinking eyes focused on her mouth. Did he still suspect her
of that poison ivy powder in his undershirt last week?
He’s not buying it. He will make me sit here all night. “I must tend to the Chanters’ formal robes for tomorrow’s
rites.” Her heart fluttered hearing her voice tremble.
The lingering stare of the priest made her cheeks burn.
“Very well,” Brother Amnos finally said. “You may go. On your way to the laundry room, stop by the High
Priest’s private chambers. Inside the mahogany cabinet, you will find the banner of the Sparrow God. This,
too, needs cleaning and ironing for tomorrow’s funeral.”
“As you wish,” she said and bowed. She made her way to the side door, fuming. He hates me, I’m sure of it!
Now it will take me hours to make that damned banner presentable, with all its beads and tassels.
Ella entered the dimly lit corridor leading to the inner cloister. By the time she had reached the clergy
quarters, she found her mind drifting away to warm cinnamon bagels and strawberries instead of ways to
hand over her chore to someone else. When she stood before the closed door, her gurgling stomach
dominated all thoughts. Defeated, she turned the knob and swung the door open.
It smells like old age in here.
The Ivory Chamber had long lost its former glory. The protective charms had withered, the silks had been
stolen and only a few of the ivory carvings around the windows remained, tokens of long lost grandeur. And
despite the constant burning of incense and rose-scented candles, the room still reeked of sweat and urine.
Ella chuckled. No wonder the Temple Council kept putting off the selection of the new High Priest. Who would
want to live in this stench?
She kicked aside a velvet-covered stool and walked to the wall opposite the four-poster bed. The mahogany
cabinet had always fascinated her. The old goat stored ritual robes, banners and ceremonial utensils here,
items of power used only in rare occasions—such as a curse or a plague.
Ella opened the mahogany cabinet and searched through the drawers, pushing aside linen and parchments
until she found the banner stored in the lowest drawer. She folded it with slow, cautious moves and tucked it
under her arm. As she closed the drawer, a small wooden box with silver-plated sparrow carvings caught her
eye.
What could be in it? The rumors about powerful artifacts stormed her mind once more. She glanced around.
The door was shut, and no one would come into the room until after midnight—when ekkasandas
commenced. According to Lorêan tradition, from midnight till dawn the local thieves would pay their respect to
the passing of their God’s representative on earth by stealing small tokens from his personal items. Ella
scoffed. Good luck with finding something that doesn’t stink.
She reached out to take the small box out from the cabinet, but her hand stopped in mid air. What if it is
locked—or, worse—cursed? She chewed her lip, her fingers twisting the edge of her apron. A quick peek couldn’
t hurt. Could it? Her hands flew to the box, as if having a will of their own. Just a peek, she promised herself,
nothing more.
Slowly, she took out the box. Once more, her eyes darted sideways and over her shoulder. Certain the room
was still empty, she lifted the silver-plated lid, her fingers slightly numb and trembling. She gasped. The dim
light from the candles reflected off the surface of something shiny—something gold. With a fast, determined
move, she pushed the lid fully open. Her hand jerked to her mouth, to stifle a cry. Ella had never seen
anything so beautiful.
She traced the rim of the gold cup, barely touching the cold surface. She drew in a sharp breath and took the
cup out of the box. With both hands she held it at eye-level, and turned it around, giggling like a little girl,
watching how the multicolored gems reflected the candlelight, filling the room with countless rainbows. She
brought it to her mouth, pretending to drink from it. A folded parchment hit her lips.
Ella unfolded the parchment. Her eyes narrowed as she struggled to read the words on it. For a fleeting
moment, she regretted her lack of attention during all her boring childhood lessons. Reading and writing had
never caught her fancy, and the few words she had managed to scribble were all related to her chores:
words for groceries, clothing and cleaning. That piece of parchment had many words on it. Scowling, Ella
stared at the worm-like signs until she managed to spell out the first three words.
“Cup of Plenty,” she said, and her eyes darted sideways. Her stomach churned at her carelessness. Had
anyone heard her?
The sound of the great bell made her heart skip a beat. Midnight! How had the time passed? She shoved the
cup and the parchment inside the box and back in its place. The moment she touched the cabinet’s door to
shut it, sadness clenched her heart. A servant girl such as she would never again hold anything as beautiful,
unless to polish it. A tingling sensation made her fingertips itch. Hadn’t the bell signaled midnight? Hadn’t
ekkasandas commenced?
Without another thought, she picked up the box, took out the cup and the parchment and hid them inside her
skirt’s pocket. She shoved the box back in its place and, with the banner folded under her arm, she tiptoed
out of the room. When she reached the safe surroundings of basins, clotheslines, and the familiar smell of
lavender soap, Ella let out a long breath and shut the door behind her.
She added a pinch of dried lavender to a boiler and placed the banner in it to soak over hot coals. Let’s hope
the banner won’t smell like the old man’s undershirt tomorrow. She sat on a stone bench by the washing
basins. While waiting for the lavender to cleanse the cloth, she took out the cup and studied the delicate
patterns on its surface. The goldsmith’s hand had carved all sorts of creatures with almost lifelike detail: mice
and spiders, bees and frogs, lizards and locusts. She held the cup high to see the dancing colors again. Its
beauty made her eyes mist.
“Cup of Plenty,” she whispered, her voice echoing strangely loud in the stillness of the room. “What does it
mean, I wonder?” She placed the cup on the table and folded her arms. A grin dawned upon her face. “Give
me plenty.”
The cup remained cold, still and silent.
She sighed and stood up to check the soaking banner. Bent over the boiler, she heard a squeak behind her.
She thought nothing of it; legions of vermin roamed the depths of the temple’s dungeons. Content the
lavender brew had covered the banner’s earlier smell, Ella took it out of the boiler, wrung it carefully so as not
to damage its bejeweled embroidery and walked to the clotheslines to let it dry by the stove. She almost
dropped it when her gaze fell on her cup. A mouse sat in it, sniffing the golden rim.
That filthy creature dares to soil my cup? She grabbed a brush from one of the racks beside her and threw it at
the mouse.
“Shoo!”
As the brush hit the table, the mouse shrieked, leaped out of the cup and onto the floor.
She hurried to the cup. “Has it soiled you?” She checked it for mice droppings. Once content it was spotless,
she put it back on the table and walked to the clotheslines to hang the banner. When she finished and made
her way back to the table, the mouse had returned and rubbed its whiskers with its forepaw inside the cup.
Ella’s mouth twisted and she yelled, no longer caring if anyone heard her.
“Get lost!”
Another brush crashed on the table, and the mouse fled, squeaking its objections. Ella had hardly taken
another step closer to the table when another mouse peeked at her from inside the cup. And another. And a
third.
How many mice can fit in that cup?
The thought had barely left her mind as a whole village of mice crawled out of the cup, ran across the table
and scattered into the dark corners of the laundry room. Speechless, Ella watched them, her tongue numb in
her mouth, the patter of tiny paws echoing like thunder in her head. A single phrase flashed before her eyes
to the rhythm of her racing heart: Cup of Plenty. Cup of Plenty. Cup of Plenty.
Of plenty mice, that is.
The mice squeaked, sniffed the air and ran around Ella’s frozen feet for what seemed an eternity. When the
last of them vanished into the shadows under the cupboards, Ella let out a long breath. Her hand clutched
her chest in a futile attempt to calm her heart. She scuffed along the stone floor and approached the table,
stretching her eyes as wide as possible to spot any more mice. When she saw none, she collapsed on the
bench and hid her face in her palms.
I’m such a fool! I’ll take the chalice back, but not tonight—not during ekkasandas. Not when others might see me.
A brush of velvet against metal made her look up.
“Holy feathers of the Sparrow God, are there more mice in it?”
A long, furry leg; seven more followed, and Ella shrieked at the huge black spider that climbed out of the cup.
She sprang to her feet knocking the bench over and ran to the door, her eyes blurry and cold sweat dripping
down her spine.
“Not spiders! Not spiders,” she chanted her mouth dry as she fled into the dark corridors. She stumbled, hit
her hips on corners, stubbed her toes on furniture, but did not stop until she reached the cloistered garden
where the Brother Healer grew his herbs. She collapsed on the ground among the rosemary and the thyme,
every joint and muscle of her body aflame.
How long did it take for her heart to slow? Moments, hours, days—Ella could not tell. Lasserin, the Midnight
Star, was still high in the night sky when she regained control of her limbs and crawled to the fountain. She
pulled herself up, sat on the ledge and reached for the clear water to freshen her face. The clank of metal
against stone from the folds of her clothes sent shivers down her spine.
Ella gazed at her apron as though vipers slithered in it—and perhaps they were. She gulped, her throat
suddenly laced with thorns. Carefully, she reached into her front pocket to check its contents.
In it lay the cup. Another hairy leg reached out from it and touched her finger. Her throat closed on a shriek
and she battled with the laces of her apron behind her back. She no longer controlled the frantic moves of her
hands that wrapped the apron in a bundle around the cup and tossed it in the fountain.
“Drown, spawn of the seven hells!”
She collapsed back on the ledge and the sobs she had been pushing back surfaced. Hiding her face in her
hands, she wept her terror out until her eyes dried. Certain she had rid herself of the damned cup, Ella
suddenly remembered the banner she had left to dry. Although her back ached and her body throbbed, she
had to finish that. Supporting her aching back with her left hand, she got up to return to the laundry room.
The front of her skirt felt oddly heavy. As she took the first step, something heavy bumped against her right
thigh. Terror gripped her heart as she reached down to feel the large pockets. Her fingers traced the outline
of a cup and, as if scorched, her hand jerked to her lips. Her lower lip trembled and despair took control of her
mind. Grasping her hair, almost pulling whole locks from the roots, she fled to the sheltering darkness of the
inner cloister.
“Cursed! Cursed!”
She raced through the deserted corridors. As if through a veil, she heard the creaks of doors opening and
caught glimpses of puffy, bedazzled faces peeking out of dimly-lit cells. How long, how far did she run? She
never knew, until her head bumped against something: a broad-shouldered, tall, leather-vested obstacle. Or
so he seemed to her, as she gazed upwards from the floor.
At a loss for words, Ella stared at the offered hand reaching down to her: a strong hand, with a gold, feather-
shaped ring adorning the index finger. After a moment of hesitation, she grasped the stranger’s hand and
pulled herself up.
“Thank you,” she mumbled, dusting her blouse and backside. She still felt the cup’s weight pulling the front of
her skirt downwards, and her hands avoided that area.
“Are you all right, lass?”
Only then did she look at the man’s face. Her hand brushed through her disheveled hair, her cheeks burning.
How awful must I look, she thought, her lids still heavy from crying, her face and clothes soiled with dust and
cobwebs. He towered over her, over the filthy servant girl she was, and he a lord, tall and handsome. No
longer young, silver streaked his dark hair, but his brow arched strong and confident over clear brown eyes.
Clean-shaven, a scent of cinnamon lingered on his grey shirt and vest.
“Yes, my lord. Thank you.” Her voice sounded crude and hoarse in her ears. This would be a good time for the
floor to open up and hide her.
“You don’t look well to me.” His hand reached out and pushed a stray lock away from her face. Ella flinched. “I
won’t hurt you.”
She stood with her gaze fixed at her feet, her hands twisting and pulling the cords at the side of her skirt. Her
tongue, so quick to lash back at other servants and novices, now lacked the proper words to address this
man whose persistent stare made her face burn.
“Why aren’t you sleeping?”
The words stuck in her throat. “I have chores to finish in the laundry room.”
“Four hours before dawn? On ekkasandas?”
Ella’s head jerked upwards. “I’m not a thief!”
“Ah.” The stranger folded his arms across his chest and tilted his head sideways. “So you consider thieves
beneath you?”
“You are…” Ella blinked, her quick tongue numb, recalling all the rumors around the Master Thief.
The stranger bowed, his eyes never breaking contact. “Derrik Leafsong, Guildmaster, at your service, my
lady.” He winked.
Ella collapsed, landing on her buttocks. The cup fell out of her front pocket and rolled on the stone floor
between them.
“No offense meant, sir,” she managed to say.
“None taken.” His eyes narrowed. He leaned over and grabbed the cup. “Not a thief, you say?”
Ella jumped up, her lost strength surging through her body. “Don’t touch that, it’s cursed!”
“Of course it’s cursed. It’s the Plague Chalice.”
Her jaw dropped. “What?”
“All decent thieves know the tale of the Plague Chalice.” Derrik rolled his eyes. “At least, all those who work
for me do. I make sure of it.” He looked inside the cup. “Wasn’t there a scroll in it? Didn’t you read it?”
Ella flushed all over and lowered her face. “I can’t read well.”
“Ah. That explains it, then.” He offered it back to her.
The blood left her face and she shook her head so fast her neck hurt.
Derrik grinned. “I take it you have seen its gifts.”
She gulped. “I can’t get rid of it. What can I do?”
“It’s all in the scroll. You need to cleanse it in the Pool of Starless Night.”
“But…but that’s in the lower dungeons! There are ghouls and ghosts and all sorts of nasty traps in there!”
“Not really.” Derrik grinned. “That’s just rumors spread by the clergy to keep outsiders away from their
precious archives. No doubt a few traps guard the way and a ghost or two roam the catacombs, but all you
need to do to reach the pool is to pass its three guardians: Compassion, Temperance and Honor. Come.” He
offered her his hand. “Let’s go find the pool.”
“Why?” She chewed her lower lip. “Why are you helping me?”
“Honor among thieves, lass.” He winked.
I am not a thief! Ella opened her mouth to object, but shut it without a word. She needed all the help she
could get, although he had not convinced her. “Thank you.” She took his arm. She looked around, trying in
vain to regain her orientation in the dark corridor. “Which way, sir?”
“Call me Derrik.” He pointed to their right. “Do you have a name?”
She followed him through the dark passage. “The sisters named me Ella.”
“Ah. One of the Temple’s orphans, I gather.” Derrik stopped outside a closed door. “Wait just a moment.” He
opened the door to what appeared to be a storage room. He came out holding a lantern. “We will need light
down there.” He used one of the corridor oil lamps to light it.
The soft, orange glow of the lantern soothed her heart, although briefly. Perhaps there is still hope to get out of
this mess unharmed. She rubbed her arms as they reached a narrow door with a double lock.
“It’s…it’s locked,” she stammered, as her hopes vanished.
“Of course it is.” Derrik handed her the lantern. “Hold this.”
She took the lantern and he searched the pockets of his leather belt. He took out a set of delicate tools and
bent over the locked door. Stretching her neck, Ella tried to peek over his shoulder to watch him work, but his
fingers moved too fast for her sore eyes to follow.
“Hold the light steady, will you?”
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled and steadied the lantern with both hands. As she watched him work, the words he
had spoken earlier gnawed on her mind. Shifting her weight from one leg to the other, she finally voiced her
curiosity. “Derrik?”
“Yes?”
“Will you tell me the tale of the Plague Chalice?”
“In a moment. I’m almost done here.” A soft click followed his words and the door creaked open. Derrik
pushed it wider and waved to her to follow. “Come.”
She glanced at the narrow steps leading into darkness, then back over her shoulder. It’s not too late to turn
back. But the weight of the cup in her front pocket urged her forward. The overflow of filthy creatures seemed
to have stopped, at least for the moment. Had Derrik’s presence anything to do with that respite? Drawing in
a deep breath, she raised the lantern and stepped into the darkness.
Derrik waited a few steps down. “Let me carry that.” He took the lantern from her hands. “Stay behind me, in
case the priests have managed to set any decent traps down there. They try hard to keep us thieves from
venturing down there.”
Ella gulped and rushed behind him, careful to step exactly where he trod.
Their descent lasted quite some time—or so Ella thought. With each step the wall grew colder under her palm.
Her chest tightened; the narrow passage seemed to close in on her. With the only sound the constant drip of
water around her, the stale air suffocated her, made her eyes blur and her heart race. I need air! I need light!
“Are you well, lass?”
“Yes,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. She had made herself enough of a fool that night. She let out a
sigh and spoke again in a steadier voice. “Yes, I am.” Are we there yet?
Derrik glanced over his shoulder. “We have almost reached the catacombs. As soon as we enter the wider
hallways, I’ll tell you the tale of the chalice.”
A few steps later, the light fell on another closed door. She grasped his arm. “Is it locked?”
He tried the handle and the door opened with a creak. Ella let out a long breath and followed him into the
catacombs. He raised the lantern and its glow illuminated the dusty walls around them.
They were in a circular, domed room, its walls covered with ledges carved into the stone. The remains of
several priests lay there, their clothes tattered, their flesh long gone, their voices long silenced. Empty
sockets stared into nothingness, of those faithful to the Sparrow God, their skulls now nests to the creatures
of the deep, dark places: mice, cockroaches and spiders. Ella shuddered and brushed her bare arm, as
though something multi-legged crawled there. Derrik’s grin flashed white in the gloom.
“Do the dead frighten you?”
“No. I fear the living more.” Especially those that crawl out of a cup in large numbers. “Where to, now?”
Derrik pointed to their right. “The entrance to the Pool Cave is at the end of that passage.”
Ella’s eyes narrowed. He has been here before. Why, I wonder? And why is he here now?
“Come,” Derrik said. “Follow my step and don’t rush. There may be traps ahead.”
She nodded and followed his lead. The air grew colder around them and Ella rubbed her arms. More corpses
lay in niches around them, the remnants of long out-fashioned robes still hanging from their bones. Derrik
hardly glanced at the dead, his eyes on the ground, his step slow and cautious.
She touched his arm. “Will you tell me the tale now?”
His head jerked upwards, as though he had just awoken from sleep. “Ah, yes, the tale.” He drew in a deep
breath. “Many lifetimes ago, when Madagala in the Southern Desert was still an independent state, Momnah,
the lord of the city outlawed the Thieves’ Guild. The city’s Guard—the Watchers—in their rigid self-
righteousness convinced him to do this. He sentenced the local guildmaster to exile and the guildmaster, in
return, invoked the Sparrow God to his aid. Be careful here.” Derrik stopped and pointed at a loose plate on
the floor. He reached to the wall and ripped out a thigh bone from one of the skeletons.
The hair on the back of Ella’s neck stood at the sound of snapping bones. Unease overwhelmed her, along
with the sudden sensation that, any moment now, the bone’s rightful owner would sit up and demand its
return.
Silent and still, the corpses kept staring into the void as he knelt, stretched out with the bone in his right
hand and pressed the plate. Somewhere inside the walls they heard a click, and a thick, green cloud filled the
space before them. Derrik covered his nose and mouth with his palm, sprang to his feet and grabbed her arm.
“Back! Don’t breathe the dust!”
Wide-eyed, she followed him to a safe distance.
“What is it?”
“Rashvine powder, most likely; a favorite of Ekkas’ priests, it causes terrible itching and rash on the skin. But if
you breathe it in, or if it comes in contact with your eyes…” He shook his head. “Not pleasant at all, I assure
you.”
Terror gripped her heart, as she watched the green dust dance in the distance. What have I gotten myself
into?
“Shall I continue with the tale?” His soft voice soothed her ears.
“Yes, please.”
He leaned against the wall, whirling the bone in his hands. “The Sparrow God answered the guildmaster’s
plea, and gave him a chalice—the very chalice you’ve stumbled upon. He sent it to Momnah as a gift, with a
request to revoke his earlier decision. Disguised as a servant, the guildmaster watched Momnah laugh at his
request.” Derrik chuckled. “Legend has it that, in a matter of hours, rats and scorpions overflowed Momnah’s
palace and he died in agony from their stings. Legend has it the rats got to him next, gnawing on flesh and
bone at their leisure. The guildmaster, his authority now undisputed, re-established the guild and put the
chalice into the priests’ care. And, ever since, it respects the guildmaster’s presence and spawns no
creatures.” He laid the bone down and turned his gaze to the corridor. “It seems safe now. Come.”
Ella stayed one pace behind him, in case other, equally nasty surprises awaited them. After a few moments of
silence, she gently touched his arm again.
“Has it been, well, removed from the priest’s care before?”
“Of course it has,” Derrik said, amusement coloring his voice. He glanced at her sideways. “You are not the
first to be charmed by its glitter.”
She flushed and lowered her face, thankful for the cover of darkness.
“Wait!”
The thief’s voice made her head jerk up.
He pointed at the darkness ahead. “Do you see that?”
A green mist stirred ahead and she hid behind him. “Another trap?”
He glanced over his shoulder. “In a way; it’s a ghost.”
She dared a peek from behind Derrik. The mist floated closer until the form of an old woman became clear.
Barefoot, clad in rags, with long strands of unkempt hair crowning her face, the spectral hag limped toward
them, mumbling. Almost an arm’s length away from them, the ghost looked up, stopped her chanting and
fixed her eyes on Ella. An ethereal hand reached out in plea.
“Don’t fear, good lady, don’t look away. I’m not mad, good lady, I’m not mad. I’ve lost my cat—have you seen
my cat? It’s a small cat—a striped cat, my cat. Have you seen my cat? My poor girl, she must be cold and
hungry, my poor cat. Have you seen my cat, good lady?”
Ella opened her mouth to reply, but no words came—only tears. The ghost’s plea, the unspeakable pain in her
voice made Ella’s eyes water. “No, my good woman, I have not. But I’m sure you will find her soon. Many mice
roam these halls, and she has probably trailed off chasing them.” Ella managed a smile. “I’m sure you’ll find
her before the dawn comes.”
The ghost’s face beamed. “Bless you, child.” Her fleshless hands wove a pattern before dissolving into the air.
She gulped. “What was that? And who was she?”
“You can let go of my hand now.”
Only then did she realize she had been clutching his hand all along. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled and released
him.
He signaled forward and started walking again. “That was Nonna, a beggar from a past time. Legend has it
that many lifetimes ago, her cat sneaked in the temple, lured by the sparrows and the rats and got lost in the
lower dungeons. Poor Nonna went searching for her cat, her only friend and family, but neither of them saw
the light of day again.”
“So sad,” she said as they reached a crossroads.
He raised the lantern to check the crossing corridors. Fast as a blink, a spectral cat ran past them, chasing an
equally spectral mouse.
“That was—that was?”
“Yes, that was the missing cat. They part each dusk and reunite each dawn.” Derrik grinned. “And
congratulations; you have just passed the first Guardian: Compassion.”
Ella blinked. “The first Guardian?” She frowned. “You could have warned me.”
He shrugged. “I’m just leading the way. I cannot assist you further in this task.” He smirked. “Had you
mocked or ignored the ghost…”
“What would have happened then?” An icy chill ran down her spine.
“You don’t really want to know.”
“How much further?” Her voice quivered with irritation, and his grin widened.
“Come.”
Not long after, they reached a sturdy door, adorned with cast iron in abstract patterns, with no bolt on it.
Derrik pushed it and it opened easily, as though time had not rusted its hinges. He moved to cross the
doorstep, but Ella’s feet had rooted in the dusty floor. Merciful God, help me in this and I will never put poison
ivy powder in Brother Amnos’ undershirt again. She grasped his sleeve.
“What’s behind that door?”
“The second Guardian: Temperance.” He placed his hand on her shoulder, rubbing it gently. “You cannot go
back now.” His steady gaze steeled her heart.
“So be it.” Inhaling deeply, she followed him into the Guardian’s hall.
The lantern’s glow illuminated a large round room, its walls lined with shelves. Thick dust covered a collection
of peculiar items: rusted swords and shields, boxes of various shapes and sizes, clothes full of holes. A large
table stood at the middle of the room with a chair behind it. She took a step forward to get a better look on
the table, when the light fell on a human form seated in the chair: the second Guardian.
Dry skin stretched over the angles of a skull, his eyes empty, his grin impossibly wide. A golden circlet held
back scarce strands of hair and remnants of a velvet robe covered the skeletal body. The dancing shadows
upon the fleshless face created the odd impression of movement, and Ella’s knees grew weak. Gulping, she
turned to Derrik to ask him about this. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the corpse move.
Slowly, the Guardian raised his head, his empty sockets fixed on them. “Ah, Guildmaster,” he said, his voice
cold, distant, like a lonely old man speaking to his wife’s headstone. “I have not seen you in a while.”
Derrik bowed his head.
“What is the purpose of your visit, Guildmaster?” The corpse tilted his head sideways, and the sound of
grinding bones chilled her blood.
I lied! I dread the dead! Get me out of here! Before she could voice her protests, Ella felt Derrik’s hand at her
back pushing her forward.
“This young lady requests admittance to the Pool Cave.”
The Guardian clasped his bony hands. “Is this so, my child?”
She nodded, her tongue limp in her mouth.
“Then come forth.”
The Guardian waved over the table before him. In a blink of an eye, the dust and the cobwebs vanished.
Torches filled the room with light. The shelves no longer carried remnants of the past, but sharp blades,
polished armor and eastern silks. Gems overflowed from ivory and mahogany boxes, and the best artifacts lay
before the Guardian. On a table now covered with purple velvet, Ella saw three items: a gilded box filled with
jewels, a silver-plated dagger with an ivory serpent-shaped hilt and a blue silk pouch, embroidered with
pearls, full of gold coins.
“Three items I offer—and a riddle.” His voice echoed of distant thunder. “Choose wisely, my child, and cross
the door behind me with the item of your choice. Make a fool’s choice and die.” He fixed his empty sockets on
her. “Do you wish to proceed?”
Ella gulped and nodded. She had never been good at riddles.
“So hear my riddle, and make its answer your choice.” The Guardian waved over the items before him.
“Relieve the merchant from his gold, the abbot from his jewels.
May locks be toys in your hands, may darkness be your ally.
The glitter fades, gold flies away. No true friends a thief has.
To live and steal another day, you need this one to trust.”
Ella shifted her weight from one leg to another. The Guardian’s words slipped her mind as soon as he had
spoken them. Despite her attempts to focus, she could not recall even one line of what had sounded like a
nursery rhyme for thieves’ babes.
Taking a cautious step forward, she approached the table. They expected her to choose one of the three
items, right? The radiant jewels drew her fingers first. She browsed through the sapphires and the rubies, the
rings and the bracelets. Her heart longed to view her reflection in a mirror wearing their sparkle, but her brow
furrowed at the thought of her plain hair and freckles shaming their splendor. Should she choose those,
where could she show them? In the laundry room, washing the sweat off the priests’ undershirts? Or while
scrubbing the sparrows’ droppings from the main hall?
She shook her head. She could neither wear them nor sell them—no local merchant could afford those.
Perhaps then, she should take the gold. Her fingers felt the soft fabric of the pouch, finer than any cloth she
had ever seen. She could use it to buy new shoes, better food and throw the duster to Brother Amnos’ face—
and leave the Temple for good. But how far would she go carrying that much gold? How far until someone
hurt her—killed her—for her hoard?
What about the dagger, then? Carefully, Ella picked it up. It felt light and effortless to handle, and easy to
hide inside the folds of her clothes. She tried its tip with her thumb and a crimson droplet stained her skin.
Sucking her finger, she recalled the sacks of potatoes she had to clean before the various Temple feasts.
Sharp as this was, it would make her chore a game. She raised the dagger at eye level and faced the
Guardian.
“I’ll take this.” In the long silence that followed, her shoulders slumped. Had she made the wrong choice?
“So be it.” The Guardian waved a pattern in the air and dispelled the illusion, reinstating the dominance of
dust.
A click from the far wall lifted the burden from her heart.
“Wise choice,” the Guardian said. “A sensible thief does not steal more than he can carry. A sharp blade can
make the difference between life and death. You can go forth.”
Unsure of how to thank him, Ella simply bowed her head.
“Farewell, sire,” said Derrik behind her and took her arm. “Good call, lass,” he whispered in her ear, as they
crossed the door to a narrow passage.
Ella just nodded and slipped the dagger in the side pocket of her skirt. She had a feeling he wouldn’t approve
of her intended use for it.
“Behind this door lies the third and last Guardian: Honor. Are you ready for his test?” Derrik placed his palm
on a simple, wooden door, much like any other door in the aboveground temple, save for the sign of the
Sparrow God on its surface.
“Do I have a choice?”
He chuckled and pushed the door open.
Ella followed his steps and entered another round, dusty room, this too was lined with niches carved in the
walls. No table or seated Guardian awaited her inside—only a large sarcophagus. Twilight shone upon its
stone surface, coming from an opening somewhere on the domed ceiling above. Strange carvings adorned its
sides, carvings of people and birds entangled in a joyous dance. All words stuck in her throat in the thick
silence of that sacred place.
Derrik took a few steps and looked around, his brow furrowed.
“Anything wrong?” His frown was anything but comforting.
“They have brought dead bodies here.” He pointed at the bones resting in the niches. “I had not expected
such nerve from the priests.”
Her gaze darted from Derrik to the skeletons and back. “Why? Is that bad?”
He rubbed his chin. “The priesthood has tried for long to eliminate the connection of the Sparrow God with the
guild, those up-tight, good-for-nothing eunuchs. As if they don’t pocket half the offerings, the hypocrites. And
they call us crooks.” He spat on the ground. “This is nothing less than an insult.”
A shiver ran down her spine. “Will that… Will that affect me?” Inside her front pocket, the cup grew heavier
every minute.
“I don’t think so. We’re almost there.” Derrik flashed her a forced grin and took out a small container from
inside his vest: an urn. No longer smiling, his gaze dark and solemn, he approached the tomb and placed the
urn upon the cover. He took a step backwards and spoke, lowering his face.
“A friend to those who walk alone…” He had barely finished the first line of his prayer, when a deep, inhuman
sigh filled the room. He looked up, his eyes wild. “What devilry is this?”
“There!” Ella pointed at the dead priests lying in their stone beds. No, not lying, but sitting up, their vacant
sockets searching the room. One by one, four corpses came forth, their bones shining in the twilight, dragging
their ragged robes behind them. They approached the sarcophagus, their steps slow but purposeful, their
fleshless hands outstretched like talons.
“Go!” Derrik took out a dagger from his boot and reached for the urn he had left on the sarcophagus.
Ella spun around and ran to the door. She grasped the handle with both hands, but the door wouldn’t open.
Tearful, she struggled to ignore the sounds of metal against bone, the cries and the moans behind her. The
Master Thief could take care of himself. She had to flee.
“Come on!” The harder she shook it, the heavier it seemed to grow. I don’t want to die! She banged the door
with her fists, kicked it, but the door remained solid and unmovable. Defeated, she glanced over her shoulder.
Perhaps there was another way out? What she saw chilled her blood. The undead priests had pinned Derrik
against the sarcophagus, their talons tracing red on his face and chest.
“Leave him alone!” She took out the dagger from the second Guardian’s test and held it up. “I’m warning
you!” Much good that will do me against those fiends. Perhaps it would distract them enough, to let him break
away?
Apparently, it was not her lucky night.
One of the undead straightened up and fixed his empty sockets on her blade. He pointed at the dagger and
chuckled, and his companions joined him.
“You’ve got some nerve, wench, pointing your kitchen knife at us.” His voice was cold—merciless. He waved at
her, and the door behind her clicked. “Go; we have no dispute with you. Our issues are with the guildmaster.”
One of the others pulled Derrik’s hair, stretching his neck outwards. “The thief has disgraced our God’s abode
for the last time.” He reached out and clawed a red line across Derrik’s throat.
Ella’s fingers flexed around the hilt of the dagger. The door behind her had opened. They let her go. Even if
she wanted to help him, she had no skill with blades—just brooms and washcloths. She was just a servant
girl. They could kill her in a blink. Their claws could tear her skin, their jaws could snap her bones before she
got one step closer. More than death, she feared dying—painful, slow dying.
Her grip around the dagger loosened, and she wiped her free hand on her skirt. She paced backwards.
Tracing her steps back to the temple shouldn’t be that hard. And there should be another way to rid herself of
that cup. Cold sweat dripped in her eyes and she blinked it away. Derrik’s twisted face filled her vision. She
would never rid herself of the guilt.
“Leave him alone!” She took a step forward, wielding the dagger before her.
“How dare you?” The skeleton released Derrik, and focused on her. “Flee, fool, while you can. You owe
nothing to this thief, servant!”
She pointed the tip of her dagger at him. “Even servant-girls have honor. Let him go.”
The dead priest’s jaw dropped. “You dare?” He waved at the others, calling them forth.
The hilt of her dagger exploded into a storm of light. A sudden breeze blew Ella’s hair back, and the strangest
of sounds filled the room: the flutter of countless sparrows. The skeletons looked up and shrieked, as a
whirlwind of dust and light overtook them. The sparrows pecked their fleshless heads, tore away strands of
hair, bits of bone, driving their beaks into the dead priests’ skulls. Bone by bone, the undead dissolved to ash
and dust, their shrieks a sigh in the night breezed.
Ella licked her lips, surprised at the salty taste. She slipped the dagger back in her pocket and wiped her face,
to find it wet. A few paces away, Derrik grimaced and stood, dusting his clothes. His shirt and vest hung in
shreds, and deep, red scratches marred his face and chest.
“That was…interesting.” He picked up his dagger and sheathed it back inside his boot.
She walked to him. “Were those creatures Guardians?”
He looked up, his eyes wide. “Those? Good God, no! I never expected that.”
“Who’s the last Guardian, then?”
He chewed his lip and looked away. “I am.”
“You?”
He shrugged. “Usually, by this time I have determined whether the guild candidate has honor, but this was
an interesting change, to say the least.” He glanced at his ruined clothes. “Although a bit messy.”
A burden left her heart, now light as a sparrow’s feather. “Then, we can go now? Drop the damned cup in the
pool and go home?”
He turned to her, his smile wide, warm and honest. “In a moment, Ella.” He brushed his fingers against the
urn on the sarcophagus, and spoke the unfinished incantation.
“A friend to those who walk alone,
To those who walk with shadows.
Ashes to feathers, dust to light.
Among thieves only Honor.”
The moonlight thickened around them. It grew brighter, a sparkling mist that danced and swirled, a whirlwind
centered on the urn. The brightness blinded her and she averted her eyes until the strangest of sounds
reached her ears: chirping. The light had dimmed and Ella, bedazzled, gawked at the sparrow flitting on top of
the tomb. With a decisive flap of its wings, the bird flew through the opening above and vanished into the
twilight.
“What just happened?” She pulled Derrik’s sleeve.
“By the grace of the Thief God, this is the thieves’ resting place. A sacred place the priesthood envies, for it’s
forbidden to them who made him a Merchant God. Once one of us has passed away, it’s our duty to carry the
ashes here. The Sparrow God grants the thief the form of one of his avatars, to chirp, fly and steal
breadcrumbs from pigeons.” Derrik sighed. “I’ve brought the ashes of a good friend here tonight.”
“I’m sorry.” Ella looked away, her face burning. I’m lucky none of the Guardians asked how I feel about the
Temple’s sparrows—or, worse, about that cat incident.
“One day, I hope someone will do the same for me.” He fixed his eyes on her.
Ella recalled the trap, the dead, the ghosts and her skin crawled—but how could she refuse him?
“Of course I will.”
She had barely finished her words when the tomb shuddered and a cloud of luminous dust engulfed her,
making her skin tingle. Across the room, a door creaked open.
“Come.” He took her hand.
Together they entered a large cave, its walls sparkling crystals, reflecting the light of the lantern a
thousandfold. A narrow basalt path encircled still waters: the Pool of Starless Night. A few paces to their right,
a steep staircase led upwards.
“What do I do now?”
“Toss the cup in the waters.”
Ella gawked at him. “Just toss it? Shouldn’t I return it?”
“Just toss it, and think of where you want it returned. Trust me, it will suffice.”
Not fully convinced, she took out the cup, careful to touch it as little as possible, in case anything crawled out.
Drawing a deep breath, she gathered her strength. She had almost thrown it, when a plan dawned on her.
Grinning, she focused on one of the Temple cells and a lean, stern figure sleeping on a narrow bed. She
crossed the fingers of her free hand and tossed the cup. As soon as it touched the still waters, a flash of
lightning filled the room. It lasted only a heartbeat and faded away with a long sigh. When her vision cleared,
she saw no sign of the cup. Her tensed muscles relaxed, her lids grew heavy, and wished she could sleep for
a week.
“It’s over. You can go home now.”
Derrik’s words did not comfort her. Home—she had no home. The Temple provided her with a bed and a bowl
of food for her hard work. All her life, she had known little more than scrubbing soiled linen and cleaning floors
and dishes, and Amnos’ relentless scolding—and lustful stares, when he thought she looked elsewhere. She
wanted air. She wanted wings, like that sparrow.
“I’m always interested in new members, Ella.”
She looked at him, studying the shadows on his face. “I am not a thief.” This time, she smiled.
Derrik smiled back and offered her his hand. “Come. Let’s go home.”
Warmth spread through her blood as she took his hand and followed him up the staircase. The steps led to a
hidden passage behind a statue at the Hall of the Azure Altar. As they crossed the inner garden to a side exit,
a wild-eyed man in his nightshirt ran past them screaming, almost knocking them down in his frantic race.
Ella chuckled. Who could have known Brother Amnos had such skinny knees?
That Plague Chalice sure worked better than poison ivy powder.
Ella kept her silence and took a seat on one of the benches before the dead High Priest’s bier, at the feet of
the Azure Altar. Her gaze wandered from the high marble pillars up to the dome that housed the nests of
countless sparrows—the avatars of Ekkas, the God of Chance, Commerce and Thieves.
Bird droppings landed on her nose and her face twisted, but she knew better than to curse openly. She
wiped her nose with the edge of her apron, wondering whether she should smuggle another cat into the
temple. A few months back, she had secretly coaxed a huge tomcat into the Hall. Hidden behind a pillar, Ella
had watched the mayhem, chuckling. Clerics ran after the cat, wild-eyed, tripping over benches, their green
robes billowing behind them.
A nudge from her left startled her. She looked up and met the stern gaze of Amnos, the priest overseeing the
wake. Beside her, Meg, the cook, cleared her throat.
“Stop grinning,” Meg whispered from behind her cupped hand.
Ella bowed her head, faking piety, but she found it impossible to fake grief. Her eyes darted sideways,
stealing glances at the others: priests of lower ranks, servants of the Temple, some local merchants and
townsfolk. She saw blank faces, drawn lips and one or two stifled yawns. No signs of sincere mourning—the
late High Priest had been insufferable. The solemn chants of the ritual bored her. She had only attended the
wake because rumor among the servants had it Derrik, the head of the local Thieves’ Guild, would pay his
respects tonight, as guild etiquette ordered. The same rumors claimed Derrik was one handsome man.
Yet the candles had already burned halfway and no such man had entered the hall. Ella’s lids grew heavy; her
body ached and she had missed supper. Drawing in a deep breath, she stood up and approached Brother
Amnos. Behind her, Meg snorted.
“Your holiness, may I be excused? I have chores to attend to,” she lied. She had finished her duties hours
ago.
“What kind of chores, my child?” His mirthless, unblinking eyes focused on her mouth. Did he still suspect her
of that poison ivy powder in his undershirt last week?
He’s not buying it. He will make me sit here all night. “I must tend to the Chanters’ formal robes for tomorrow’s
rites.” Her heart fluttered hearing her voice tremble.
The lingering stare of the priest made her cheeks burn.
“Very well,” Brother Amnos finally said. “You may go. On your way to the laundry room, stop by the High
Priest’s private chambers. Inside the mahogany cabinet, you will find the banner of the Sparrow God. This,
too, needs cleaning and ironing for tomorrow’s funeral.”
“As you wish,” she said and bowed. She made her way to the side door, fuming. He hates me, I’m sure of it!
Now it will take me hours to make that damned banner presentable, with all its beads and tassels.
Ella entered the dimly lit corridor leading to the inner cloister. By the time she had reached the clergy
quarters, she found her mind drifting away to warm cinnamon bagels and strawberries instead of ways to
hand over her chore to someone else. When she stood before the closed door, her gurgling stomach
dominated all thoughts. Defeated, she turned the knob and swung the door open.
It smells like old age in here.
The Ivory Chamber had long lost its former glory. The protective charms had withered, the silks had been
stolen and only a few of the ivory carvings around the windows remained, tokens of long lost grandeur. And
despite the constant burning of incense and rose-scented candles, the room still reeked of sweat and urine.
Ella chuckled. No wonder the Temple Council kept putting off the selection of the new High Priest. Who would
want to live in this stench?
She kicked aside a velvet-covered stool and walked to the wall opposite the four-poster bed. The mahogany
cabinet had always fascinated her. The old goat stored ritual robes, banners and ceremonial utensils here,
items of power used only in rare occasions—such as a curse or a plague.
Ella opened the mahogany cabinet and searched through the drawers, pushing aside linen and parchments
until she found the banner stored in the lowest drawer. She folded it with slow, cautious moves and tucked it
under her arm. As she closed the drawer, a small wooden box with silver-plated sparrow carvings caught her
eye.
What could be in it? The rumors about powerful artifacts stormed her mind once more. She glanced around.
The door was shut, and no one would come into the room until after midnight—when ekkasandas
commenced. According to Lorêan tradition, from midnight till dawn the local thieves would pay their respect to
the passing of their God’s representative on earth by stealing small tokens from his personal items. Ella
scoffed. Good luck with finding something that doesn’t stink.
She reached out to take the small box out from the cabinet, but her hand stopped in mid air. What if it is
locked—or, worse—cursed? She chewed her lip, her fingers twisting the edge of her apron. A quick peek couldn’
t hurt. Could it? Her hands flew to the box, as if having a will of their own. Just a peek, she promised herself,
nothing more.
Slowly, she took out the box. Once more, her eyes darted sideways and over her shoulder. Certain the room
was still empty, she lifted the silver-plated lid, her fingers slightly numb and trembling. She gasped. The dim
light from the candles reflected off the surface of something shiny—something gold. With a fast, determined
move, she pushed the lid fully open. Her hand jerked to her mouth, to stifle a cry. Ella had never seen
anything so beautiful.
She traced the rim of the gold cup, barely touching the cold surface. She drew in a sharp breath and took the
cup out of the box. With both hands she held it at eye-level, and turned it around, giggling like a little girl,
watching how the multicolored gems reflected the candlelight, filling the room with countless rainbows. She
brought it to her mouth, pretending to drink from it. A folded parchment hit her lips.
Ella unfolded the parchment. Her eyes narrowed as she struggled to read the words on it. For a fleeting
moment, she regretted her lack of attention during all her boring childhood lessons. Reading and writing had
never caught her fancy, and the few words she had managed to scribble were all related to her chores:
words for groceries, clothing and cleaning. That piece of parchment had many words on it. Scowling, Ella
stared at the worm-like signs until she managed to spell out the first three words.
“Cup of Plenty,” she said, and her eyes darted sideways. Her stomach churned at her carelessness. Had
anyone heard her?
The sound of the great bell made her heart skip a beat. Midnight! How had the time passed? She shoved the
cup and the parchment inside the box and back in its place. The moment she touched the cabinet’s door to
shut it, sadness clenched her heart. A servant girl such as she would never again hold anything as beautiful,
unless to polish it. A tingling sensation made her fingertips itch. Hadn’t the bell signaled midnight? Hadn’t
ekkasandas commenced?
Without another thought, she picked up the box, took out the cup and the parchment and hid them inside her
skirt’s pocket. She shoved the box back in its place and, with the banner folded under her arm, she tiptoed
out of the room. When she reached the safe surroundings of basins, clotheslines, and the familiar smell of
lavender soap, Ella let out a long breath and shut the door behind her.
She added a pinch of dried lavender to a boiler and placed the banner in it to soak over hot coals. Let’s hope
the banner won’t smell like the old man’s undershirt tomorrow. She sat on a stone bench by the washing
basins. While waiting for the lavender to cleanse the cloth, she took out the cup and studied the delicate
patterns on its surface. The goldsmith’s hand had carved all sorts of creatures with almost lifelike detail: mice
and spiders, bees and frogs, lizards and locusts. She held the cup high to see the dancing colors again. Its
beauty made her eyes mist.
“Cup of Plenty,” she whispered, her voice echoing strangely loud in the stillness of the room. “What does it
mean, I wonder?” She placed the cup on the table and folded her arms. A grin dawned upon her face. “Give
me plenty.”
The cup remained cold, still and silent.
She sighed and stood up to check the soaking banner. Bent over the boiler, she heard a squeak behind her.
She thought nothing of it; legions of vermin roamed the depths of the temple’s dungeons. Content the
lavender brew had covered the banner’s earlier smell, Ella took it out of the boiler, wrung it carefully so as not
to damage its bejeweled embroidery and walked to the clotheslines to let it dry by the stove. She almost
dropped it when her gaze fell on her cup. A mouse sat in it, sniffing the golden rim.
That filthy creature dares to soil my cup? She grabbed a brush from one of the racks beside her and threw it at
the mouse.
“Shoo!”
As the brush hit the table, the mouse shrieked, leaped out of the cup and onto the floor.
She hurried to the cup. “Has it soiled you?” She checked it for mice droppings. Once content it was spotless,
she put it back on the table and walked to the clotheslines to hang the banner. When she finished and made
her way back to the table, the mouse had returned and rubbed its whiskers with its forepaw inside the cup.
Ella’s mouth twisted and she yelled, no longer caring if anyone heard her.
“Get lost!”
Another brush crashed on the table, and the mouse fled, squeaking its objections. Ella had hardly taken
another step closer to the table when another mouse peeked at her from inside the cup. And another. And a
third.
How many mice can fit in that cup?
The thought had barely left her mind as a whole village of mice crawled out of the cup, ran across the table
and scattered into the dark corners of the laundry room. Speechless, Ella watched them, her tongue numb in
her mouth, the patter of tiny paws echoing like thunder in her head. A single phrase flashed before her eyes
to the rhythm of her racing heart: Cup of Plenty. Cup of Plenty. Cup of Plenty.
Of plenty mice, that is.
The mice squeaked, sniffed the air and ran around Ella’s frozen feet for what seemed an eternity. When the
last of them vanished into the shadows under the cupboards, Ella let out a long breath. Her hand clutched
her chest in a futile attempt to calm her heart. She scuffed along the stone floor and approached the table,
stretching her eyes as wide as possible to spot any more mice. When she saw none, she collapsed on the
bench and hid her face in her palms.
I’m such a fool! I’ll take the chalice back, but not tonight—not during ekkasandas. Not when others might see me.
A brush of velvet against metal made her look up.
“Holy feathers of the Sparrow God, are there more mice in it?”
A long, furry leg; seven more followed, and Ella shrieked at the huge black spider that climbed out of the cup.
She sprang to her feet knocking the bench over and ran to the door, her eyes blurry and cold sweat dripping
down her spine.
“Not spiders! Not spiders,” she chanted her mouth dry as she fled into the dark corridors. She stumbled, hit
her hips on corners, stubbed her toes on furniture, but did not stop until she reached the cloistered garden
where the Brother Healer grew his herbs. She collapsed on the ground among the rosemary and the thyme,
every joint and muscle of her body aflame.
How long did it take for her heart to slow? Moments, hours, days—Ella could not tell. Lasserin, the Midnight
Star, was still high in the night sky when she regained control of her limbs and crawled to the fountain. She
pulled herself up, sat on the ledge and reached for the clear water to freshen her face. The clank of metal
against stone from the folds of her clothes sent shivers down her spine.
Ella gazed at her apron as though vipers slithered in it—and perhaps they were. She gulped, her throat
suddenly laced with thorns. Carefully, she reached into her front pocket to check its contents.
In it lay the cup. Another hairy leg reached out from it and touched her finger. Her throat closed on a shriek
and she battled with the laces of her apron behind her back. She no longer controlled the frantic moves of her
hands that wrapped the apron in a bundle around the cup and tossed it in the fountain.
“Drown, spawn of the seven hells!”
She collapsed back on the ledge and the sobs she had been pushing back surfaced. Hiding her face in her
hands, she wept her terror out until her eyes dried. Certain she had rid herself of the damned cup, Ella
suddenly remembered the banner she had left to dry. Although her back ached and her body throbbed, she
had to finish that. Supporting her aching back with her left hand, she got up to return to the laundry room.
The front of her skirt felt oddly heavy. As she took the first step, something heavy bumped against her right
thigh. Terror gripped her heart as she reached down to feel the large pockets. Her fingers traced the outline
of a cup and, as if scorched, her hand jerked to her lips. Her lower lip trembled and despair took control of her
mind. Grasping her hair, almost pulling whole locks from the roots, she fled to the sheltering darkness of the
inner cloister.
“Cursed! Cursed!”
She raced through the deserted corridors. As if through a veil, she heard the creaks of doors opening and
caught glimpses of puffy, bedazzled faces peeking out of dimly-lit cells. How long, how far did she run? She
never knew, until her head bumped against something: a broad-shouldered, tall, leather-vested obstacle. Or
so he seemed to her, as she gazed upwards from the floor.
At a loss for words, Ella stared at the offered hand reaching down to her: a strong hand, with a gold, feather-
shaped ring adorning the index finger. After a moment of hesitation, she grasped the stranger’s hand and
pulled herself up.
“Thank you,” she mumbled, dusting her blouse and backside. She still felt the cup’s weight pulling the front of
her skirt downwards, and her hands avoided that area.
“Are you all right, lass?”
Only then did she look at the man’s face. Her hand brushed through her disheveled hair, her cheeks burning.
How awful must I look, she thought, her lids still heavy from crying, her face and clothes soiled with dust and
cobwebs. He towered over her, over the filthy servant girl she was, and he a lord, tall and handsome. No
longer young, silver streaked his dark hair, but his brow arched strong and confident over clear brown eyes.
Clean-shaven, a scent of cinnamon lingered on his grey shirt and vest.
“Yes, my lord. Thank you.” Her voice sounded crude and hoarse in her ears. This would be a good time for the
floor to open up and hide her.
“You don’t look well to me.” His hand reached out and pushed a stray lock away from her face. Ella flinched. “I
won’t hurt you.”
She stood with her gaze fixed at her feet, her hands twisting and pulling the cords at the side of her skirt. Her
tongue, so quick to lash back at other servants and novices, now lacked the proper words to address this
man whose persistent stare made her face burn.
“Why aren’t you sleeping?”
The words stuck in her throat. “I have chores to finish in the laundry room.”
“Four hours before dawn? On ekkasandas?”
Ella’s head jerked upwards. “I’m not a thief!”
“Ah.” The stranger folded his arms across his chest and tilted his head sideways. “So you consider thieves
beneath you?”
“You are…” Ella blinked, her quick tongue numb, recalling all the rumors around the Master Thief.
The stranger bowed, his eyes never breaking contact. “Derrik Leafsong, Guildmaster, at your service, my
lady.” He winked.
Ella collapsed, landing on her buttocks. The cup fell out of her front pocket and rolled on the stone floor
between them.
“No offense meant, sir,” she managed to say.
“None taken.” His eyes narrowed. He leaned over and grabbed the cup. “Not a thief, you say?”
Ella jumped up, her lost strength surging through her body. “Don’t touch that, it’s cursed!”
“Of course it’s cursed. It’s the Plague Chalice.”
Her jaw dropped. “What?”
“All decent thieves know the tale of the Plague Chalice.” Derrik rolled his eyes. “At least, all those who work
for me do. I make sure of it.” He looked inside the cup. “Wasn’t there a scroll in it? Didn’t you read it?”
Ella flushed all over and lowered her face. “I can’t read well.”
“Ah. That explains it, then.” He offered it back to her.
The blood left her face and she shook her head so fast her neck hurt.
Derrik grinned. “I take it you have seen its gifts.”
She gulped. “I can’t get rid of it. What can I do?”
“It’s all in the scroll. You need to cleanse it in the Pool of Starless Night.”
“But…but that’s in the lower dungeons! There are ghouls and ghosts and all sorts of nasty traps in there!”
“Not really.” Derrik grinned. “That’s just rumors spread by the clergy to keep outsiders away from their
precious archives. No doubt a few traps guard the way and a ghost or two roam the catacombs, but all you
need to do to reach the pool is to pass its three guardians: Compassion, Temperance and Honor. Come.” He
offered her his hand. “Let’s go find the pool.”
“Why?” She chewed her lower lip. “Why are you helping me?”
“Honor among thieves, lass.” He winked.
I am not a thief! Ella opened her mouth to object, but shut it without a word. She needed all the help she
could get, although he had not convinced her. “Thank you.” She took his arm. She looked around, trying in
vain to regain her orientation in the dark corridor. “Which way, sir?”
“Call me Derrik.” He pointed to their right. “Do you have a name?”
She followed him through the dark passage. “The sisters named me Ella.”
“Ah. One of the Temple’s orphans, I gather.” Derrik stopped outside a closed door. “Wait just a moment.” He
opened the door to what appeared to be a storage room. He came out holding a lantern. “We will need light
down there.” He used one of the corridor oil lamps to light it.
The soft, orange glow of the lantern soothed her heart, although briefly. Perhaps there is still hope to get out of
this mess unharmed. She rubbed her arms as they reached a narrow door with a double lock.
“It’s…it’s locked,” she stammered, as her hopes vanished.
“Of course it is.” Derrik handed her the lantern. “Hold this.”
She took the lantern and he searched the pockets of his leather belt. He took out a set of delicate tools and
bent over the locked door. Stretching her neck, Ella tried to peek over his shoulder to watch him work, but his
fingers moved too fast for her sore eyes to follow.
“Hold the light steady, will you?”
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled and steadied the lantern with both hands. As she watched him work, the words he
had spoken earlier gnawed on her mind. Shifting her weight from one leg to the other, she finally voiced her
curiosity. “Derrik?”
“Yes?”
“Will you tell me the tale of the Plague Chalice?”
“In a moment. I’m almost done here.” A soft click followed his words and the door creaked open. Derrik
pushed it wider and waved to her to follow. “Come.”
She glanced at the narrow steps leading into darkness, then back over her shoulder. It’s not too late to turn
back. But the weight of the cup in her front pocket urged her forward. The overflow of filthy creatures seemed
to have stopped, at least for the moment. Had Derrik’s presence anything to do with that respite? Drawing in
a deep breath, she raised the lantern and stepped into the darkness.
Derrik waited a few steps down. “Let me carry that.” He took the lantern from her hands. “Stay behind me, in
case the priests have managed to set any decent traps down there. They try hard to keep us thieves from
venturing down there.”
Ella gulped and rushed behind him, careful to step exactly where he trod.
Their descent lasted quite some time—or so Ella thought. With each step the wall grew colder under her palm.
Her chest tightened; the narrow passage seemed to close in on her. With the only sound the constant drip of
water around her, the stale air suffocated her, made her eyes blur and her heart race. I need air! I need light!
“Are you well, lass?”
“Yes,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. She had made herself enough of a fool that night. She let out a
sigh and spoke again in a steadier voice. “Yes, I am.” Are we there yet?
Derrik glanced over his shoulder. “We have almost reached the catacombs. As soon as we enter the wider
hallways, I’ll tell you the tale of the chalice.”
A few steps later, the light fell on another closed door. She grasped his arm. “Is it locked?”
He tried the handle and the door opened with a creak. Ella let out a long breath and followed him into the
catacombs. He raised the lantern and its glow illuminated the dusty walls around them.
They were in a circular, domed room, its walls covered with ledges carved into the stone. The remains of
several priests lay there, their clothes tattered, their flesh long gone, their voices long silenced. Empty
sockets stared into nothingness, of those faithful to the Sparrow God, their skulls now nests to the creatures
of the deep, dark places: mice, cockroaches and spiders. Ella shuddered and brushed her bare arm, as
though something multi-legged crawled there. Derrik’s grin flashed white in the gloom.
“Do the dead frighten you?”
“No. I fear the living more.” Especially those that crawl out of a cup in large numbers. “Where to, now?”
Derrik pointed to their right. “The entrance to the Pool Cave is at the end of that passage.”
Ella’s eyes narrowed. He has been here before. Why, I wonder? And why is he here now?
“Come,” Derrik said. “Follow my step and don’t rush. There may be traps ahead.”
She nodded and followed his lead. The air grew colder around them and Ella rubbed her arms. More corpses
lay in niches around them, the remnants of long out-fashioned robes still hanging from their bones. Derrik
hardly glanced at the dead, his eyes on the ground, his step slow and cautious.
She touched his arm. “Will you tell me the tale now?”
His head jerked upwards, as though he had just awoken from sleep. “Ah, yes, the tale.” He drew in a deep
breath. “Many lifetimes ago, when Madagala in the Southern Desert was still an independent state, Momnah,
the lord of the city outlawed the Thieves’ Guild. The city’s Guard—the Watchers—in their rigid self-
righteousness convinced him to do this. He sentenced the local guildmaster to exile and the guildmaster, in
return, invoked the Sparrow God to his aid. Be careful here.” Derrik stopped and pointed at a loose plate on
the floor. He reached to the wall and ripped out a thigh bone from one of the skeletons.
The hair on the back of Ella’s neck stood at the sound of snapping bones. Unease overwhelmed her, along
with the sudden sensation that, any moment now, the bone’s rightful owner would sit up and demand its
return.
Silent and still, the corpses kept staring into the void as he knelt, stretched out with the bone in his right
hand and pressed the plate. Somewhere inside the walls they heard a click, and a thick, green cloud filled the
space before them. Derrik covered his nose and mouth with his palm, sprang to his feet and grabbed her arm.
“Back! Don’t breathe the dust!”
Wide-eyed, she followed him to a safe distance.
“What is it?”
“Rashvine powder, most likely; a favorite of Ekkas’ priests, it causes terrible itching and rash on the skin. But if
you breathe it in, or if it comes in contact with your eyes…” He shook his head. “Not pleasant at all, I assure
you.”
Terror gripped her heart, as she watched the green dust dance in the distance. What have I gotten myself
into?
“Shall I continue with the tale?” His soft voice soothed her ears.
“Yes, please.”
He leaned against the wall, whirling the bone in his hands. “The Sparrow God answered the guildmaster’s
plea, and gave him a chalice—the very chalice you’ve stumbled upon. He sent it to Momnah as a gift, with a
request to revoke his earlier decision. Disguised as a servant, the guildmaster watched Momnah laugh at his
request.” Derrik chuckled. “Legend has it that, in a matter of hours, rats and scorpions overflowed Momnah’s
palace and he died in agony from their stings. Legend has it the rats got to him next, gnawing on flesh and
bone at their leisure. The guildmaster, his authority now undisputed, re-established the guild and put the
chalice into the priests’ care. And, ever since, it respects the guildmaster’s presence and spawns no
creatures.” He laid the bone down and turned his gaze to the corridor. “It seems safe now. Come.”
Ella stayed one pace behind him, in case other, equally nasty surprises awaited them. After a few moments of
silence, she gently touched his arm again.
“Has it been, well, removed from the priest’s care before?”
“Of course it has,” Derrik said, amusement coloring his voice. He glanced at her sideways. “You are not the
first to be charmed by its glitter.”
She flushed and lowered her face, thankful for the cover of darkness.
“Wait!”
The thief’s voice made her head jerk up.
He pointed at the darkness ahead. “Do you see that?”
A green mist stirred ahead and she hid behind him. “Another trap?”
He glanced over his shoulder. “In a way; it’s a ghost.”
She dared a peek from behind Derrik. The mist floated closer until the form of an old woman became clear.
Barefoot, clad in rags, with long strands of unkempt hair crowning her face, the spectral hag limped toward
them, mumbling. Almost an arm’s length away from them, the ghost looked up, stopped her chanting and
fixed her eyes on Ella. An ethereal hand reached out in plea.
“Don’t fear, good lady, don’t look away. I’m not mad, good lady, I’m not mad. I’ve lost my cat—have you seen
my cat? It’s a small cat—a striped cat, my cat. Have you seen my cat? My poor girl, she must be cold and
hungry, my poor cat. Have you seen my cat, good lady?”
Ella opened her mouth to reply, but no words came—only tears. The ghost’s plea, the unspeakable pain in her
voice made Ella’s eyes water. “No, my good woman, I have not. But I’m sure you will find her soon. Many mice
roam these halls, and she has probably trailed off chasing them.” Ella managed a smile. “I’m sure you’ll find
her before the dawn comes.”
The ghost’s face beamed. “Bless you, child.” Her fleshless hands wove a pattern before dissolving into the air.
She gulped. “What was that? And who was she?”
“You can let go of my hand now.”
Only then did she realize she had been clutching his hand all along. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled and released
him.
He signaled forward and started walking again. “That was Nonna, a beggar from a past time. Legend has it
that many lifetimes ago, her cat sneaked in the temple, lured by the sparrows and the rats and got lost in the
lower dungeons. Poor Nonna went searching for her cat, her only friend and family, but neither of them saw
the light of day again.”
“So sad,” she said as they reached a crossroads.
He raised the lantern to check the crossing corridors. Fast as a blink, a spectral cat ran past them, chasing an
equally spectral mouse.
“That was—that was?”
“Yes, that was the missing cat. They part each dusk and reunite each dawn.” Derrik grinned. “And
congratulations; you have just passed the first Guardian: Compassion.”
Ella blinked. “The first Guardian?” She frowned. “You could have warned me.”
He shrugged. “I’m just leading the way. I cannot assist you further in this task.” He smirked. “Had you
mocked or ignored the ghost…”
“What would have happened then?” An icy chill ran down her spine.
“You don’t really want to know.”
“How much further?” Her voice quivered with irritation, and his grin widened.
“Come.”
Not long after, they reached a sturdy door, adorned with cast iron in abstract patterns, with no bolt on it.
Derrik pushed it and it opened easily, as though time had not rusted its hinges. He moved to cross the
doorstep, but Ella’s feet had rooted in the dusty floor. Merciful God, help me in this and I will never put poison
ivy powder in Brother Amnos’ undershirt again. She grasped his sleeve.
“What’s behind that door?”
“The second Guardian: Temperance.” He placed his hand on her shoulder, rubbing it gently. “You cannot go
back now.” His steady gaze steeled her heart.
“So be it.” Inhaling deeply, she followed him into the Guardian’s hall.
The lantern’s glow illuminated a large round room, its walls lined with shelves. Thick dust covered a collection
of peculiar items: rusted swords and shields, boxes of various shapes and sizes, clothes full of holes. A large
table stood at the middle of the room with a chair behind it. She took a step forward to get a better look on
the table, when the light fell on a human form seated in the chair: the second Guardian.
Dry skin stretched over the angles of a skull, his eyes empty, his grin impossibly wide. A golden circlet held
back scarce strands of hair and remnants of a velvet robe covered the skeletal body. The dancing shadows
upon the fleshless face created the odd impression of movement, and Ella’s knees grew weak. Gulping, she
turned to Derrik to ask him about this. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the corpse move.
Slowly, the Guardian raised his head, his empty sockets fixed on them. “Ah, Guildmaster,” he said, his voice
cold, distant, like a lonely old man speaking to his wife’s headstone. “I have not seen you in a while.”
Derrik bowed his head.
“What is the purpose of your visit, Guildmaster?” The corpse tilted his head sideways, and the sound of
grinding bones chilled her blood.
I lied! I dread the dead! Get me out of here! Before she could voice her protests, Ella felt Derrik’s hand at her
back pushing her forward.
“This young lady requests admittance to the Pool Cave.”
The Guardian clasped his bony hands. “Is this so, my child?”
She nodded, her tongue limp in her mouth.
“Then come forth.”
The Guardian waved over the table before him. In a blink of an eye, the dust and the cobwebs vanished.
Torches filled the room with light. The shelves no longer carried remnants of the past, but sharp blades,
polished armor and eastern silks. Gems overflowed from ivory and mahogany boxes, and the best artifacts lay
before the Guardian. On a table now covered with purple velvet, Ella saw three items: a gilded box filled with
jewels, a silver-plated dagger with an ivory serpent-shaped hilt and a blue silk pouch, embroidered with
pearls, full of gold coins.
“Three items I offer—and a riddle.” His voice echoed of distant thunder. “Choose wisely, my child, and cross
the door behind me with the item of your choice. Make a fool’s choice and die.” He fixed his empty sockets on
her. “Do you wish to proceed?”
Ella gulped and nodded. She had never been good at riddles.
“So hear my riddle, and make its answer your choice.” The Guardian waved over the items before him.
“Relieve the merchant from his gold, the abbot from his jewels.
May locks be toys in your hands, may darkness be your ally.
The glitter fades, gold flies away. No true friends a thief has.
To live and steal another day, you need this one to trust.”
Ella shifted her weight from one leg to another. The Guardian’s words slipped her mind as soon as he had
spoken them. Despite her attempts to focus, she could not recall even one line of what had sounded like a
nursery rhyme for thieves’ babes.
Taking a cautious step forward, she approached the table. They expected her to choose one of the three
items, right? The radiant jewels drew her fingers first. She browsed through the sapphires and the rubies, the
rings and the bracelets. Her heart longed to view her reflection in a mirror wearing their sparkle, but her brow
furrowed at the thought of her plain hair and freckles shaming their splendor. Should she choose those,
where could she show them? In the laundry room, washing the sweat off the priests’ undershirts? Or while
scrubbing the sparrows’ droppings from the main hall?
She shook her head. She could neither wear them nor sell them—no local merchant could afford those.
Perhaps then, she should take the gold. Her fingers felt the soft fabric of the pouch, finer than any cloth she
had ever seen. She could use it to buy new shoes, better food and throw the duster to Brother Amnos’ face—
and leave the Temple for good. But how far would she go carrying that much gold? How far until someone
hurt her—killed her—for her hoard?
What about the dagger, then? Carefully, Ella picked it up. It felt light and effortless to handle, and easy to
hide inside the folds of her clothes. She tried its tip with her thumb and a crimson droplet stained her skin.
Sucking her finger, she recalled the sacks of potatoes she had to clean before the various Temple feasts.
Sharp as this was, it would make her chore a game. She raised the dagger at eye level and faced the
Guardian.
“I’ll take this.” In the long silence that followed, her shoulders slumped. Had she made the wrong choice?
“So be it.” The Guardian waved a pattern in the air and dispelled the illusion, reinstating the dominance of
dust.
A click from the far wall lifted the burden from her heart.
“Wise choice,” the Guardian said. “A sensible thief does not steal more than he can carry. A sharp blade can
make the difference between life and death. You can go forth.”
Unsure of how to thank him, Ella simply bowed her head.
“Farewell, sire,” said Derrik behind her and took her arm. “Good call, lass,” he whispered in her ear, as they
crossed the door to a narrow passage.
Ella just nodded and slipped the dagger in the side pocket of her skirt. She had a feeling he wouldn’t approve
of her intended use for it.
“Behind this door lies the third and last Guardian: Honor. Are you ready for his test?” Derrik placed his palm
on a simple, wooden door, much like any other door in the aboveground temple, save for the sign of the
Sparrow God on its surface.
“Do I have a choice?”
He chuckled and pushed the door open.
Ella followed his steps and entered another round, dusty room, this too was lined with niches carved in the
walls. No table or seated Guardian awaited her inside—only a large sarcophagus. Twilight shone upon its
stone surface, coming from an opening somewhere on the domed ceiling above. Strange carvings adorned its
sides, carvings of people and birds entangled in a joyous dance. All words stuck in her throat in the thick
silence of that sacred place.
Derrik took a few steps and looked around, his brow furrowed.
“Anything wrong?” His frown was anything but comforting.
“They have brought dead bodies here.” He pointed at the bones resting in the niches. “I had not expected
such nerve from the priests.”
Her gaze darted from Derrik to the skeletons and back. “Why? Is that bad?”
He rubbed his chin. “The priesthood has tried for long to eliminate the connection of the Sparrow God with the
guild, those up-tight, good-for-nothing eunuchs. As if they don’t pocket half the offerings, the hypocrites. And
they call us crooks.” He spat on the ground. “This is nothing less than an insult.”
A shiver ran down her spine. “Will that… Will that affect me?” Inside her front pocket, the cup grew heavier
every minute.
“I don’t think so. We’re almost there.” Derrik flashed her a forced grin and took out a small container from
inside his vest: an urn. No longer smiling, his gaze dark and solemn, he approached the tomb and placed the
urn upon the cover. He took a step backwards and spoke, lowering his face.
“A friend to those who walk alone…” He had barely finished the first line of his prayer, when a deep, inhuman
sigh filled the room. He looked up, his eyes wild. “What devilry is this?”
“There!” Ella pointed at the dead priests lying in their stone beds. No, not lying, but sitting up, their vacant
sockets searching the room. One by one, four corpses came forth, their bones shining in the twilight, dragging
their ragged robes behind them. They approached the sarcophagus, their steps slow but purposeful, their
fleshless hands outstretched like talons.
“Go!” Derrik took out a dagger from his boot and reached for the urn he had left on the sarcophagus.
Ella spun around and ran to the door. She grasped the handle with both hands, but the door wouldn’t open.
Tearful, she struggled to ignore the sounds of metal against bone, the cries and the moans behind her. The
Master Thief could take care of himself. She had to flee.
“Come on!” The harder she shook it, the heavier it seemed to grow. I don’t want to die! She banged the door
with her fists, kicked it, but the door remained solid and unmovable. Defeated, she glanced over her shoulder.
Perhaps there was another way out? What she saw chilled her blood. The undead priests had pinned Derrik
against the sarcophagus, their talons tracing red on his face and chest.
“Leave him alone!” She took out the dagger from the second Guardian’s test and held it up. “I’m warning
you!” Much good that will do me against those fiends. Perhaps it would distract them enough, to let him break
away?
Apparently, it was not her lucky night.
One of the undead straightened up and fixed his empty sockets on her blade. He pointed at the dagger and
chuckled, and his companions joined him.
“You’ve got some nerve, wench, pointing your kitchen knife at us.” His voice was cold—merciless. He waved at
her, and the door behind her clicked. “Go; we have no dispute with you. Our issues are with the guildmaster.”
One of the others pulled Derrik’s hair, stretching his neck outwards. “The thief has disgraced our God’s abode
for the last time.” He reached out and clawed a red line across Derrik’s throat.
Ella’s fingers flexed around the hilt of the dagger. The door behind her had opened. They let her go. Even if
she wanted to help him, she had no skill with blades—just brooms and washcloths. She was just a servant
girl. They could kill her in a blink. Their claws could tear her skin, their jaws could snap her bones before she
got one step closer. More than death, she feared dying—painful, slow dying.
Her grip around the dagger loosened, and she wiped her free hand on her skirt. She paced backwards.
Tracing her steps back to the temple shouldn’t be that hard. And there should be another way to rid herself of
that cup. Cold sweat dripped in her eyes and she blinked it away. Derrik’s twisted face filled her vision. She
would never rid herself of the guilt.
“Leave him alone!” She took a step forward, wielding the dagger before her.
“How dare you?” The skeleton released Derrik, and focused on her. “Flee, fool, while you can. You owe
nothing to this thief, servant!”
She pointed the tip of her dagger at him. “Even servant-girls have honor. Let him go.”
The dead priest’s jaw dropped. “You dare?” He waved at the others, calling them forth.
The hilt of her dagger exploded into a storm of light. A sudden breeze blew Ella’s hair back, and the strangest
of sounds filled the room: the flutter of countless sparrows. The skeletons looked up and shrieked, as a
whirlwind of dust and light overtook them. The sparrows pecked their fleshless heads, tore away strands of
hair, bits of bone, driving their beaks into the dead priests’ skulls. Bone by bone, the undead dissolved to ash
and dust, their shrieks a sigh in the night breezed.
Ella licked her lips, surprised at the salty taste. She slipped the dagger back in her pocket and wiped her face,
to find it wet. A few paces away, Derrik grimaced and stood, dusting his clothes. His shirt and vest hung in
shreds, and deep, red scratches marred his face and chest.
“That was…interesting.” He picked up his dagger and sheathed it back inside his boot.
She walked to him. “Were those creatures Guardians?”
He looked up, his eyes wide. “Those? Good God, no! I never expected that.”
“Who’s the last Guardian, then?”
He chewed his lip and looked away. “I am.”
“You?”
He shrugged. “Usually, by this time I have determined whether the guild candidate has honor, but this was
an interesting change, to say the least.” He glanced at his ruined clothes. “Although a bit messy.”
A burden left her heart, now light as a sparrow’s feather. “Then, we can go now? Drop the damned cup in the
pool and go home?”
He turned to her, his smile wide, warm and honest. “In a moment, Ella.” He brushed his fingers against the
urn on the sarcophagus, and spoke the unfinished incantation.
“A friend to those who walk alone,
To those who walk with shadows.
Ashes to feathers, dust to light.
Among thieves only Honor.”
The moonlight thickened around them. It grew brighter, a sparkling mist that danced and swirled, a whirlwind
centered on the urn. The brightness blinded her and she averted her eyes until the strangest of sounds
reached her ears: chirping. The light had dimmed and Ella, bedazzled, gawked at the sparrow flitting on top of
the tomb. With a decisive flap of its wings, the bird flew through the opening above and vanished into the
twilight.
“What just happened?” She pulled Derrik’s sleeve.
“By the grace of the Thief God, this is the thieves’ resting place. A sacred place the priesthood envies, for it’s
forbidden to them who made him a Merchant God. Once one of us has passed away, it’s our duty to carry the
ashes here. The Sparrow God grants the thief the form of one of his avatars, to chirp, fly and steal
breadcrumbs from pigeons.” Derrik sighed. “I’ve brought the ashes of a good friend here tonight.”
“I’m sorry.” Ella looked away, her face burning. I’m lucky none of the Guardians asked how I feel about the
Temple’s sparrows—or, worse, about that cat incident.
“One day, I hope someone will do the same for me.” He fixed his eyes on her.
Ella recalled the trap, the dead, the ghosts and her skin crawled—but how could she refuse him?
“Of course I will.”
She had barely finished her words when the tomb shuddered and a cloud of luminous dust engulfed her,
making her skin tingle. Across the room, a door creaked open.
“Come.” He took her hand.
Together they entered a large cave, its walls sparkling crystals, reflecting the light of the lantern a
thousandfold. A narrow basalt path encircled still waters: the Pool of Starless Night. A few paces to their right,
a steep staircase led upwards.
“What do I do now?”
“Toss the cup in the waters.”
Ella gawked at him. “Just toss it? Shouldn’t I return it?”
“Just toss it, and think of where you want it returned. Trust me, it will suffice.”
Not fully convinced, she took out the cup, careful to touch it as little as possible, in case anything crawled out.
Drawing a deep breath, she gathered her strength. She had almost thrown it, when a plan dawned on her.
Grinning, she focused on one of the Temple cells and a lean, stern figure sleeping on a narrow bed. She
crossed the fingers of her free hand and tossed the cup. As soon as it touched the still waters, a flash of
lightning filled the room. It lasted only a heartbeat and faded away with a long sigh. When her vision cleared,
she saw no sign of the cup. Her tensed muscles relaxed, her lids grew heavy, and wished she could sleep for
a week.
“It’s over. You can go home now.”
Derrik’s words did not comfort her. Home—she had no home. The Temple provided her with a bed and a bowl
of food for her hard work. All her life, she had known little more than scrubbing soiled linen and cleaning floors
and dishes, and Amnos’ relentless scolding—and lustful stares, when he thought she looked elsewhere. She
wanted air. She wanted wings, like that sparrow.
“I’m always interested in new members, Ella.”
She looked at him, studying the shadows on his face. “I am not a thief.” This time, she smiled.
Derrik smiled back and offered her his hand. “Come. Let’s go home.”
Warmth spread through her blood as she took his hand and followed him up the staircase. The steps led to a
hidden passage behind a statue at the Hall of the Azure Altar. As they crossed the inner garden to a side exit,
a wild-eyed man in his nightshirt ran past them screaming, almost knocking them down in his frantic race.
Ella chuckled. Who could have known Brother Amnos had such skinny knees?
That Plague Chalice sure worked better than poison ivy powder.
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| ~*~ Plague Chalice first appeared in the September 2007 issue of Afterburn SF Reprinted with permission of the author |