Chapter 59 – The Night of Martyrs

  The Night of Martyrs was the third night of All Saint’s Day. Honoring all of those who died for the faith, the main event was a grand procession of all the faithful who marched throughout the city.

  The procession was a long, quiet affair. Everybody in the city—both living and dead—were expected to join, though there was nothing beyond local peer pressure which actually enforced that. In smaller villages they could round everyone up with ease, but in a city as large as Firozzi getting hundreds of thousands of people all in a single line was an impossible affair.

  The clergy did give it an honest try, though.

  Palmira kept her eyes forward, walking shoulder to shoulder with her guildmates. She sheltered a small candle between her palms, a flickering violet light burning brightly at its tip. As they walked a trail of wax followed in their wake, staining the weathered cobblestones the color of marble. Unable to see over the mass of bodies, it was impossible to tell where they were or how far they had gone, the act of movement itself perpetually propelled by the sea of people surrounding her.

  She knew how it was all organized, if only because ósma had drilled it into her head on the way here. At the head of the procession were the monks and nuns, the clergy who had dedicated themselves wholly to the faith. It was their duty to lead the rest of them from start to end, as shepherds leading their flock to the light. Just behind them was the Cardinal of Firozzi himself along with twelve ghostly figures, each a previous Cardinal who had returned for a single night to renew their oaths even in death.

  Following right behind were—surprisingly—the Gennarelli, the third great power in Firozzi and the only one who hadn’t been outwardly affected by the previous day’s attack. With the Ambrosi still reeling and the Capparelli pulling back to their castle for some reason, it left the foreigners to claim the spot of honor right behind the head of the procession.

  Though not without struggle. Dante—drained and exhausted as he was—had fought against the placement, arguing that their own guild going above and beyond during the crisis to organize a response showed they deserved such a position, compared to the Gennarelli who simply hid away in their glass towers.

  He hadn’t succeeded, but he’d at least managed to get them just behind. The Rosa Dominae Guild came third, its members in various states of drunken cheer as they desperately tried to reign themselves in for the solemn affair. The rest of the adventurer guilds came behind them, as guards to fight off any who’d try to attack the holy parade.

  The other guilds came in behind them, order determined through political jockeying and importance. The Bankers, the Lawyers, the Silkweavers, the Dyemakers, the Pharmacists, and the Wool Guilds, all representing the Arti Maggiori of the Council of Ancients. Then came the Blacksmiths and Shoemakers, the Mercenaries and Taxidermists, the Stonemasons and Woodcarvers, and the Butchers and Fur Guilds, all representing the Arti Meidane. Beyond even them were the Inkeepers, the Locksmiths, the Toolmakers, the Stablemasters, the Armorers and Swordsmiths, the Carpenters, the New Citizens, and the Olive Oil and Vintage Guilds, making up the Arti Minori, the largest yet weakest portion of the Council.

  Following all those important people were the Holy Orders, such as the Holy Hospitaller and the Silver Spearmaidens. Unlike the others their position was secured through long tradition, the center belonging alone to those who fought and died for the Goddess. They were the only group allowed in full armor and weapons besides the adventurers, something they clearly took great pride in.

  And finally, taking up the back half was the rest of the city. The people, the great and no-so-great alike who were not part of the guilds or clergy trailed behind in a disorganized mob, little more than faith to bind them all together. Fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters, parents and children, everyone capable of such trailed from their homes to join the procession as it passed. In years past it had been where she’d normally found herself on this day.

  Now she found herself near the head. When she was younger she’d wondered what it would be like to walk where she is now. She was disappointed to find it wasn’t all that different.

  A chill passed through her elbow, and Palmira glanced to the side, catching a trailing ghost as it disappeared into the crowd. Draped in all black and carrying the same violet flames, even the long dead joined them on their holy progress.

  Ghosts and spirits flickered throughout in even greater numbers than before, the veil between life and death growing ever thinner come the middle of the week. It would only further weaken until tomorrow night, after which it would rapidly sew itself back shut and the city would return to normal.

  When she was a child back in her little village she’d once asked the local priest why the dead had to stay dead. Why couldn’t everyone just live forever?

  ‘It was the Goddess’ Will’ had been the answer. At the time that hadn’t satisfied her, but she understood that was adult-speak for ‘I don’t know.’

  Now, with everything she knew about the gods and history, she wondered how much control the Goddess truly had over Life and Death in the first place.

  Palmira squeezed her eyes shut, banishing those blasphemous thoughts. Even if they were correct, tonight was not the time to think them.

  Nearly missing a step in her self-chastisement she took a moment to fall back into rhythm. Nobody spoke aloud as they marched, some joining in the faint humming of holy songs led by the choir, while others kept a solemn silence. She kept to the later, organizing her thoughts as she considered the revelations she had learned just an hour earlier.

  Morte, her staff and longest companion, was a Demon. He was also the Hero who saved the world.

  The Hero was a Demon, and she was carrying his skull on her back right now.

  Actually, thinking on that…

  Palmira glanced behind her, meeting the gaze of Uomo—the Guild’s Shadow Mage—who up until that point had been locked in a staring contest with the Hero’s skull.

  “Hah!” Morte scoffed smugly. “I win!”

  She turned her head back forward, ignoring the byplay.

  Instead she continued her own contemplations, though not much came of it. Despite herself, she just kept circling back to the same point. Morte, Hero, Demon.

  The three of those things should not have been able to coexist in one person.

  Yet they did. For as much as Morte did so love being a cryptic asshole he rarely lied. If anything, he enjoyed telling the truth—or perhaps more accurately, he enjoyed the sharing of secrets known only to a few.

  And this… she felt in her gut that it wasn’t a lie. Too much lined up, too much made sense for it to be a lie.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  How was it that the truth was so much more unbelievable?

  The procession slowed suddenly, nearly causing her to topple into the person in front of her. The tide of people then split, and—not knowing what else to do—she followed with it.

  She realized after a bit that they had entered one of the many piazzas of the city, one near its southern end. The smell told her they were near the river, and as the crowd slowly thinned a glance she took down a nearby alleyway confirmed that.

  As they came to a stop she finally realized where they were. The Piazza dell’Eroe, the Piazza of the Hero. Built on the edge of the New Quarter and dominated by the still-unfinished Cattedrale del Santo della Speranza, it was one of the newest piazzas in the city.

  And in its center was a grand statue of the five great Heroes.

  Her eyes locked with Morte’s own stone ones, and in that moment she felt an emotion she didn’t think she’d ever be able to explain. Melancholy, grief, hope—all three and none at all. All she knew is that the feeling left her unsteady, as though she were about to fall over despite standing still.

  “Well,” ósma rumbled quietly, his voice just barely audible over the humming of the choir. “It is certainly a telling choice that the Cardinal has decided to end the night here of all places.”

  “…Yes,” the guildmaster grit out. “Yes, it is.”

  Palmira forced herself to look away from the statue, instead turning to her other mentor. “What do you mean?”

  The two of them shared a glance, before the old orc nodded slightly and turned back to her. “To the average person, this seems as fine a place as any to end a holy procession,” he told her quietly. “A new cathedral built in honor of the Hero, which sits on the border of the Caparelli and Ambrosi territories. Some might even take it as a declaration of neutrality, given recent events.”

  “Except,” the guildmaster hissed between clenched teeth, “that the construction of the Cattedrale del Santo della Speranza is being funded entirely by the Gennarelli.”

  It took a moment for the dots to connect. “You think the clergy is siding with the—?”

  ósma covered her mouth with his remaining hand, shaking his head. “Not here,” he told her softly. “Not now.”

  That was that. They spoke no more of it that night, not with the Gennarelli so close.

  Instead the procession proceeded to disperse after a short sermon by the Cardinal which she could barely hear. Everybody marched up to the steps of the Cathedral to place their candle, which would burn until the sun once again rose. Those whose candles burned the longest were said to have been especially blessed by the Goddess this year.

  As was her own personal tradition, Palmira cheated a bit. Weakening the heat while strengthening the flame, her own candle would burn an hour longer than it otherwise should have, outlasting most others and proving herself the most blessed of them all.

  Hey, nobody had called her out on it yet.

  The night was not yet over, of course, as a midnight festival would soon spring into existence. As was tradition, with the act of mourning death over, the celebration of life could now begin.

  Almost as though a switch was flipped the city burst into liveliness. Stalls and restaurants seemed to spawn out of the ether as merchants scrambled to put their goods on display before everyone got too far away. Led by an old man and his ghostly wife Couples spontaneously started dancing in the streets, while the choir changed from religious hymns to more upbeat tunes. Old friends who hadn’t spoken in years—both living and dead—sat to the side and mingled, the gathering of the whole city enough to melt the awkwardness of distance and class and even death, if only for the night.

  Still, it was more subdued than last year. There was an air of grief and wariness that she didn’t remember ever witnessing before. Nobody left the sight of an adventurer or guard, bunching up in groups of friends and family while avoiding the alleyways which had never before seemed so dark.

  She didn’t like it. When she was younger she might have enjoyed the silence more, but today it felt nothing more than stifling.

  Walking around the Piazza, she found herself for the first time not needing to beg for scraps or steal food from distracted vendors. Her belly was full, she was surrounded by friends, and despite everything she wasn’t worried for what tomorrow would bring.

  But her gaze couldn’t help but linger on the statues in the center.

  It was a grand piece. Made of shining marble and inlaid with silver, it showed the five Great Heroes standing triumphant. Two humans, a dwarf, an orc, and a half-elf.

  All of them dead or worse.

  Yet dead didn’t stop them from haunting her, it seemed.

  There was an engraving at the bottom, which read;

  The five Great Heroes who saved the world.

  These statues were carved by Torario Siccia and donated to the City of Firozzi in 2027 P.T.

  She glanced back up at the statue of the Hero, once more meeting his eyes.

  “Now that you know who I am,” Morte’s voice startled her out of her contemplation. “I need to get something off my non-existent chest—it is really weird to see statues of myself everywhere. And not one of them are even accurate, which is the worst part!”

  Palmira huffed, before blinking in realization.

  “That’s right, it doesn’t have a helmet,” she murmured, eyes widening. She took in its human-like features, before glancing back down at the skull in her hands. “I thought you said nobody knew what you looked like?”

  “They didn’t, and they don’t,” he scoffed. “That’s not what I looked like—Hell, that’s not what any of us looked like. See the date, 2027? That was almost sixteen years after I died. The artist probably just used some random noble’s face as a reference for me and called it a day.”

  She couldn’t help but frown at that. “That seems… disrespectful.”

  “Eh, who cares. Come a few centuries nobody would know the difference anyway. Why sweat the small stuff when people are already erecting statues in my honor? It feels a bit petty to nitpick the details of a face nobody’s ever seen, don’t you think?”

  “I guess so,” she murmured, tapping her fingers against his hilt. Then, a thought occurred. “Hey, do you think—”

  Do you think you’ll see your wife and friends again tonight?

  She cut herself off, unwilling to finish the thought. If it didn’t come to pass, it would be unnecessarily cruel to bring up.

  “Hm? Do I think what?”

  “…Nothing,” she shook her head.

  They stood in silence for a while after, sitting beneath the statue of the man whose corpse she wielded. It was not a quiet silence, heavy with unspoken words, but it was companionable. Neither felt the need to break it.

  But not everyone was willing to leave a quiet moment alone.

  “Palmira!” someone shouted, and she only had a moment to brace herself before she was tackle-hugged by a tiny pink girl. “You’re alive! Thank the Goddess!”

  “Tintinnia,” she gasped, flailing to regain her balance. “Yes, I’m alive, thank you for your concern, but personal space, please!”

  The girl jumped back, staring up at her. Heavy goggles covered her starry eyes, and a black mourner’s clock hid most of her form from view. In the dim light she almost looked the part of a normal person.

  Something skirted at the edge of her thoughts. Two points refusing to connect, a realization that painfully clung to the roof of her skull to avoid her brain.

  “I was in the crowd, you know?” she smirked, showing off sharpened teeth. “Sinbad’s been distracted recently, so I was able to sneak out to watch you kick ass! But then right as you were about to beat that prissy half-elf everything exploded! It was like I was seeing triple divided by two! It took me ages to find my way out again, it sucked so much!”

  She was most certainly not winning that fight against Johan, but she appreciated the support from her most unnerving of friends. “Thank you, but are you okay?” she asked, now the one worried. “Things got pretty dangerous yesterday, and I know you can protect yourself but if you were alone…”

  Tintinnia opened her mouth to respond, only to be swiftly beaten by someone far more menacing.

  “She will not be okay once I’m through with her,” Sinbad the Paladin growled lowly, stomping out of the crowd. People turned and stared as he passed, which didn’t do anything to calm his stride. “You snuck out after I explicitly told you how dangerous it was to be alone right now? With her in the city? Do you have a death wish you little…!”

  The small girl’s mouth snapped shut, and despite the surrealness of the people involved in that moment she looked nothing more than a child terrified of getting scolded by their father.

  “And you,” his one-eyed gaze turned to her, before he paused. He glanced at the crowd of revelers around them, who were starting to cotton on to the fact there was a famous adventurer in their midst. “Actually, we’ll speak of this elsewhere. There is something I need to inform you of, but not here—not with so many civilians about. Not with so many prying ears.”

  Palmira frowned. She wasn’t sure she wanted to spend the rest of her night getting chewed out—or whatever else he needed to tell her about—by Sinbad. But then she remembered Morte’s story—remembered S?ońce the orc, now an undead thrall—and she found herself unable to refuse. Because one thing stood out to her about the Paladin above all else.

  He had been Rosalina’s friend, hadn’t he?

  “…Alright,” she sighed. “Lead the way.”

  She’d already gotten some answers. Would it be too greedy, to demand even more?

  Perhaps. But she would try regardless. With the stakes as they were, she could do nothing less.