Solomon shot them both an exasperated look. Exasperated, maybe a little bit of a glare, and with undertones of disconcert which he didn't know were there. "Hardly," he said. "All I really did was be delirious all over her while she was tending my injuries after Tenebrae was done with me."
Her and the other nurse. Solomon wondered what had happened to him.
"Just because she's leaving," he continued, "doesn't mean she's converting to anything. Just that she's smart and open-minded enough to listen to alternative reasons."
The sigils were bright, bright enough to obscure some of the lifestream's movement outside the door. It was still impossible to miss the way the light pulled inward and darkened, as if a living shadow moved through it. Or like black food-dye in water, billowing this way and that due to the currents. It was thin around the edges. Blurring, as if the dye was slowly dissolving into the water, and if diluted enough it would all disappear. Remaining, in some form, as a past event--but no longer influential. The blurriness wavered--uncertainty.
"Your appointment, Elder Wreath," Tipstaff said from the doorway, and then withdrew without a word. He was, Solomon thought, adjusting really rather well to the eccentricities of his new Council.
"Appointment?" Dexter asked. "Where can I get an appointment like you? I mean, come on, Sol, you've got China. You don't need another one. Can I have her?"
"If she wants to leash you, Vex, she can be my guest," Solomon said tolerantly, but glad the man had chosen to be ... well, himself. The billow of dye in the nurse's soul was made of surprise, but the wavering of that uncertain fear had the potential to make his eyes ache. Dexter's immaturities at least had a tendency to set people at ease.
"Why, speaking from experience? Is this something all the Necromancer ladies specialise in? Should I get out my notebook again?"
"Well, if paper's all y'need, man ..." Raphael grinned and Dexter let out a surprised laugh.
"Have I mentioned that I like you?"
"Hey hey, don't make your new girlfriend jealous now."
Aha. That glimmer, that shine of light through water on the warm stone beneath. Light and warmth always equalled humour. It was faint, and startled--but it was there. Good. That would make this easier.
"Don't mind the children," Solomon said mildly. "They haven't quite grown up yet. Please, take a seat. Assuming--" He glanced toward Erskine, amused and with a raised eyebrow. "Assuming there's actually one in here, seeing as the Reveller has a tendency to sit on the desk."
"How can you tell?" Dexter asked.
"A chair rattles. A desk thuds."
Oops. The nurse sat, but in response to his words the dye drew in and darkened at the centre, in a way that didn't create more of it but just deepened what was there. Shame. "Cl--Elder--S- sir?"
Her voice was small. A voice Solomon knew, now he wasn't drugged up with pain. Not someone who was an equal--probably one of the many acolytes he mentored. Back before he started seriously looking for the Death Bringer. Back before he took on single apprentices.
He wracked his brain for a name. A nurse, but not a Necromancer; no true healer in the Temple had come from the outside because they needed to be properly indoctrinated, without the active use of Necromancy. Solomon had always vaguely wondered why that was. Now he knew. Without Necromancy's addictive hold, indoctrination was the only way the High Priest had of keeping the healers and the Sensitives in check.
There weren't many true healers in the Temple, though. Not since Pierce had proven that Necromancy could be used for surgery--not that there ever had been, really.
"Call me whatever you want, Saffron," he said, and was rewarded with a leap of dual surprise and pleasure.
"Yes ... Sir. I, um. Where do Necromancers' souls go?" She blurted out the last words in the manner of someone who wasn't sure they wanted an answer but couldn't resist the lure of it either.
"Why does it matter?" he asked. "You're not a Necromancer."
"No, but ..." She hesitated, and if she did anything or looked anywhere he couldn't tell.
"But?" Gabe said softly and encouragingly, giving her that devastatingly gentle smile even Solomon hadn't really been able to resist. Someone like Saffron Sweetgrass, a true healer, didn't have a chance. She, and others like her, were the nearest things to gentle the Necromancers had. Most of the others called them 'weak', too weak to take the measures necessary to even keep themselves alive. Too weak to murder.
"But I live there," she whispered. "If something happens to Necromancers' souls, something other than what they believe, why wouldn't it happen to mine too?"
I live there, present tense, and yet they believe, a distancing phrasing. That was very interesting.
"And?" Solomon prompted her this time. "Do the others know you're here?"
"No. No one's been allowed to leave the Temple except on business vetted by the High Priest or Cleric Quiver."
Aha. Solomon smiled and saw Gabe grin broadly out of the corner of his eye. If Quiver was turning it would all but cripple Tenebrae's powerbase. Good. "Quiver sent you out on business, didn't he?"
"He said Cleric Solus said we needed medical supplies," Saffron said softly. Even though we didn't, went so completely unsaid that it was almost audible. It was certainly visible, so much so that Solomon almost raised his hand against the reverberations between them and in the room.
"And yet here you are," Solomon observed softly. "Why?"
"Because you're here," Saffron admitted. "Souls are important. The Temple taught us that. If they weren't, we wouldn't be so afraid of what happens to them. So if Solomon Wreath leaves because of something he discovered about what really happens to them, then--"
Dexter was laughing. Solomon threw him a look very much like the one he'd thrown to Erskine and Skulduggery. "Why, Prophet Wreath," Rafe said innocently and with a huge grin, "you have a fan."
"Rafe," Merlin said mildly from where he was still examining the walls, though Solomon could see in his soul the attention he was still peripherally paying to the conversation. "Shut up."
"And don't call me prophet," Solomon muttered, not exactly feeling embarrassed but rather awkward by the title in front of a woman who had left everything she'd ever known just because he'd done it first. In spite of all the teasing, he'd, well ... it had been teasing. He hadn't taken it seriously. At all.
And he still didn't want to. He was a crippled man taking on far more than he could possibly handle for reasons beyond him, seeing as it apparently wasn't helping protect him from assassination attempts. The very last thing he needed was for people to actually start expecting some kind of spiritual protection from him as well as physical leadership. He'd spoken to this woman directly, encouraged her to think past the Temple's teachings while in the middle of a pained stupor. That was the only reason he felt any obligation to her at all.
"Morwenna Crow left the Temple without much trouble," he said a little sourly, still refraining from actually scowling at Rafe. (He frowned, though.) "You aren't actually a Necromancer. You'll be fine."
Saffron said nothing, but her soul ... did something. It didn't darken, but it pulled together, condensing and withdrawing. Gabe's light reached out in response. Solomon sighed before the Archangel could say anything, but Rafe cut in before he could speak up himself.
"Tenny's takin' Sol's leaving pretty bad, ain't he? You'd think he was jealous."
Saffron giggled a quiet, startled giggle that cut off into equally startled silence. As if she'd just done something taboo. Which, in the Temple, she had. Tenebrae took himself too seriously for that.
"Not really," she said self-consciously. "I mean, no leaving the Temple except on business. I thought--I was afraid--I mean, Dragonclaw ..."
"Tenebrae," Solomon said, "has a long history of disliking being crossed."
"But you did it."
"I'm a masochist." He wished she wouldn't keep making excuses for him. He didn't want her respect. He certainly didn't want what he suspected was coming remarkably close to hero-worship.
"I saw you fight Lord Vile." The words were so abrupt, more abrupt even than her beginning, and their unexpectedness made Solomon stiffen. After a beat Saffron continued more hesitantly. "I was there. When the High Priest made you duel. You were the only one to survive. If you can ... I mean, Lord Vile ... and then stand up to the High Priest ..."
Dammit. He wasn't going to get out of actually investing in helping her, was he?
no subject
Her and the other nurse. Solomon wondered what had happened to him.
"Just because she's leaving," he continued, "doesn't mean she's converting to anything. Just that she's smart and open-minded enough to listen to alternative reasons."
The sigils were bright, bright enough to obscure some of the lifestream's movement outside the door. It was still impossible to miss the way the light pulled inward and darkened, as if a living shadow moved through it. Or like black food-dye in water, billowing this way and that due to the currents. It was thin around the edges. Blurring, as if the dye was slowly dissolving into the water, and if diluted enough it would all disappear. Remaining, in some form, as a past event--but no longer influential. The blurriness wavered--uncertainty.
"Your appointment, Elder Wreath," Tipstaff said from the doorway, and then withdrew without a word. He was, Solomon thought, adjusting really rather well to the eccentricities of his new Council.
"Appointment?" Dexter asked. "Where can I get an appointment like you? I mean, come on, Sol, you've got China. You don't need another one. Can I have her?"
"If she wants to leash you, Vex, she can be my guest," Solomon said tolerantly, but glad the man had chosen to be ... well, himself. The billow of dye in the nurse's soul was made of surprise, but the wavering of that uncertain fear had the potential to make his eyes ache. Dexter's immaturities at least had a tendency to set people at ease.
"Why, speaking from experience? Is this something all the Necromancer ladies specialise in? Should I get out my notebook again?"
"Well, if paper's all y'need, man ..." Raphael grinned and Dexter let out a surprised laugh.
"Have I mentioned that I like you?"
"Hey hey, don't make your new girlfriend jealous now."
Aha. That glimmer, that shine of light through water on the warm stone beneath. Light and warmth always equalled humour. It was faint, and startled--but it was there. Good. That would make this easier.
"Don't mind the children," Solomon said mildly. "They haven't quite grown up yet. Please, take a seat. Assuming--" He glanced toward Erskine, amused and with a raised eyebrow. "Assuming there's actually one in here, seeing as the Reveller has a tendency to sit on the desk."
"How can you tell?" Dexter asked.
"A chair rattles. A desk thuds."
Oops. The nurse sat, but in response to his words the dye drew in and darkened at the centre, in a way that didn't create more of it but just deepened what was there. Shame. "Cl--Elder--S- sir?"
Her voice was small. A voice Solomon knew, now he wasn't drugged up with pain. Not someone who was an equal--probably one of the many acolytes he mentored. Back before he started seriously looking for the Death Bringer. Back before he took on single apprentices.
He wracked his brain for a name. A nurse, but not a Necromancer; no true healer in the Temple had come from the outside because they needed to be properly indoctrinated, without the active use of Necromancy. Solomon had always vaguely wondered why that was. Now he knew. Without Necromancy's addictive hold, indoctrination was the only way the High Priest had of keeping the healers and the Sensitives in check.
There weren't many true healers in the Temple, though. Not since Pierce had proven that Necromancy could be used for surgery--not that there ever had been, really.
"Call me whatever you want, Saffron," he said, and was rewarded with a leap of dual surprise and pleasure.
"Yes ... Sir. I, um. Where do Necromancers' souls go?" She blurted out the last words in the manner of someone who wasn't sure they wanted an answer but couldn't resist the lure of it either.
"Why does it matter?" he asked. "You're not a Necromancer."
"No, but ..." She hesitated, and if she did anything or looked anywhere he couldn't tell.
"But?" Gabe said softly and encouragingly, giving her that devastatingly gentle smile even Solomon hadn't really been able to resist. Someone like Saffron Sweetgrass, a true healer, didn't have a chance. She, and others like her, were the nearest things to gentle the Necromancers had. Most of the others called them 'weak', too weak to take the measures necessary to even keep themselves alive. Too weak to murder.
"But I live there," she whispered. "If something happens to Necromancers' souls, something other than what they believe, why wouldn't it happen to mine too?"
I live there, present tense, and yet they believe, a distancing phrasing. That was very interesting.
"And?" Solomon prompted her this time. "Do the others know you're here?"
"No. No one's been allowed to leave the Temple except on business vetted by the High Priest or Cleric Quiver."
Aha. Solomon smiled and saw Gabe grin broadly out of the corner of his eye. If Quiver was turning it would all but cripple Tenebrae's powerbase. Good. "Quiver sent you out on business, didn't he?"
"He said Cleric Solus said we needed medical supplies," Saffron said softly. Even though we didn't, went so completely unsaid that it was almost audible. It was certainly visible, so much so that Solomon almost raised his hand against the reverberations between them and in the room.
"And yet here you are," Solomon observed softly. "Why?"
"Because you're here," Saffron admitted. "Souls are important. The Temple taught us that. If they weren't, we wouldn't be so afraid of what happens to them. So if Solomon Wreath leaves because of something he discovered about what really happens to them, then--"
Dexter was laughing. Solomon threw him a look very much like the one he'd thrown to Erskine and Skulduggery. "Why, Prophet Wreath," Rafe said innocently and with a huge grin, "you have a fan."
"Rafe," Merlin said mildly from where he was still examining the walls, though Solomon could see in his soul the attention he was still peripherally paying to the conversation. "Shut up."
"And don't call me prophet," Solomon muttered, not exactly feeling embarrassed but rather awkward by the title in front of a woman who had left everything she'd ever known just because he'd done it first. In spite of all the teasing, he'd, well ... it had been teasing. He hadn't taken it seriously. At all.
And he still didn't want to. He was a crippled man taking on far more than he could possibly handle for reasons beyond him, seeing as it apparently wasn't helping protect him from assassination attempts. The very last thing he needed was for people to actually start expecting some kind of spiritual protection from him as well as physical leadership. He'd spoken to this woman directly, encouraged her to think past the Temple's teachings while in the middle of a pained stupor. That was the only reason he felt any obligation to her at all.
"Morwenna Crow left the Temple without much trouble," he said a little sourly, still refraining from actually scowling at Rafe. (He frowned, though.) "You aren't actually a Necromancer. You'll be fine."
Saffron said nothing, but her soul ... did something. It didn't darken, but it pulled together, condensing and withdrawing. Gabe's light reached out in response. Solomon sighed before the Archangel could say anything, but Rafe cut in before he could speak up himself.
"Tenny's takin' Sol's leaving pretty bad, ain't he? You'd think he was jealous."
Saffron giggled a quiet, startled giggle that cut off into equally startled silence. As if she'd just done something taboo. Which, in the Temple, she had. Tenebrae took himself too seriously for that.
"Not really," she said self-consciously. "I mean, no leaving the Temple except on business. I thought--I was afraid--I mean, Dragonclaw ..."
"Tenebrae," Solomon said, "has a long history of disliking being crossed."
"But you did it."
"I'm a masochist." He wished she wouldn't keep making excuses for him. He didn't want her respect. He certainly didn't want what he suspected was coming remarkably close to hero-worship.
"I saw you fight Lord Vile." The words were so abrupt, more abrupt even than her beginning, and their unexpectedness made Solomon stiffen. After a beat Saffron continued more hesitantly. "I was there. When the High Priest made you duel. You were the only one to survive. If you can ... I mean, Lord Vile ... and then stand up to the High Priest ..."
Dammit. He wasn't going to get out of actually investing in helping her, was he?