Aelia had to remind herself to breathe, so enraptured she found herself by what was happening to the church.

The spires were being swallowed back into the great structure’s stomach, lowered down by some unseen mechanism — at least, unseen from Aelia’s position. But she could hear it working, could hear the twisted screeching of metal and cogs, could see the first plumes of thick gray smoke spiraling out from somewhere at the Church’s rear. The stained glass windows that dotted the lower floor like spider’s eyes were starting to glow, bright enough to be visible even in the daylight, a burnt orange far deeper than the sun.

The double doors at the church’s front gusted open and, for just a second, Aelia thought the Stone God himself might stride out.

Instead though, a series of robed figures walked solemnly out in two rows, their heads tilted down and buried in the shadows of their brown cowls. Whether they were men or women, Aelia couldn’t tell, but there were two dozen of them total.

“The Forgotten Monks,” the boy behind her whispered.

Her lips curled up agitated. She knew who they were. Or at least, what they were. They were the custodians of the church. The most fervent of the Stone God’s worshippers, handpicked by Him. Each custodian had, long ago, had their tongue pulled out so that words could not be formed, only the sounds of worship. Their faces too, it was said, had been scraped away until each monk’s features became indistinct from the next. There was no room in the church for vanity.

“More powerful than paladins,” came that voice behind.

That she hadn’t heard. They didn’t look like warriors to her. They were slow and looked almost as bent as a tree branch under heavy snow. Surely no match for a paladin.

The monks spread out into a semicircle, about twenty feet away from the church’s entrance. Then they turned to face the great building, each falling to one knee. So began their chanting, a sustained “Omm” that quickly grew louder than it had any right to from only twenty-four individuals. The chant seemed to come from all around her, and at one point Aelia even turned to make sure the blond boy hadn’t joined in. But his lips were sealed. It was the voices of the tongueless monks that had somehow surrounded them.

The spires weren’t just falling now, but they were changing too. Folding in on themselves, thinning and twisting. And the church’s great arched roof had peeled back. Bricks in the walls were being sucked in and in their place new bricks were pushed out. Black bricks. The whole scene was as surreal as it was entrancing.

Then, after the final spires had lowered, a single tower rose up from the center of church, as the roof closed around it.

The church was not arched any longer, but had become a huge angled dome.

There were groans behind her and the occasional “shh!” and Aelia thought the crowd sounded displeased.

The church’s new tower was black and gold, every brick seeming to alternate in color. The very top of the tower had opened up like a mouth on each side, becoming hollow, and in the middle of this newly created chamber hung a huge black bell that was shaped… shaped a little like a bird.

It took her a moment to remember from the tales her father used to tell her about the church and all its blessings, anything about a bird. When the raven nests above the city, it is looking far beyond, to the planes of battle, keeping watch over all those who have been brave.

Yes. That was it. The tower of the raven.

This was the battle blessing.

The transformation every knight and paladin and archer and every other brave soul would have been praying for.

The raven-bell rang once, although it was so high above her that she couldn’t see if anyone was in the tower to ring it. A deep deafening chime that ended the monks’ chanting. The screeching of metal, too, died away as the church’s transformation was complete.

Above the church the smoke from its unseen bowels had smogged the sky and darkened the sun, and now hung there like a gray demon leering over the town.

A shiver skated down Aelia’s back.

The monks got to their feet and fell back into their two lines as they returned to the church, pulling the great doors shut behind them.

The crowd was already dispersing, unlike the thick cloud above.

There were more moans and complaints as the peasants left. Why? It was the battle blessing! Why weren’t they celebrating? This might be a week they recapture stolen land. Or perhaps even take new land from their enemies.

She saw the blond boy walking away and hurried after him, putting a hand on his arm. “I don’t understand,” she said. “Why does everyone seem so dispirited?”

The boy turned, looked first at the hand on his arm, and then at her. “Funny we should bump into each other again. I thought after you paid me you were done talking to me?”

She ignored him. “Why though? Isn’t this thought of as a high blessing?”

He laughed. “Oh, you’re so young and naive.”

She scowled in response.

“It’s a great blessing for the warriors and the generals, sure — and it might be good for the kingdom as a whole, too. But for the everyday man and woman, it mostly means taxes are doubled this week.”

“Doubled?”

“Doubled. There will be little to no profit for most. Hell, many will lose money. It’s not a good week to be a farmer or a tavern owner, or anything in between.”

Her dad had never told her that part. And after he’d gone, her mother had continued to speak well of the Raven’s blessing. Surely she couldn’t have been harboring this heavy secret? Every week their farm had been struggling to stay head above water — let alone on a week where taxes were double.

And yet, all the faces around her were grey. Some looked positively angry, other's long and drawn.

“Mother never told me,” she said, half to herself as the realization sunk in.

“I suppose your family was wealthy enough to not need to worry about one week’s lost earnings.”

Her cold toes protested his words, the thin layer of leather offering no insulation from the ground. She’d spent the last two winters in her attic room whilst the wind invited snow into the open corners where the wood had rotted away, hidden herself beneath layers of lamb’s wool, often lying awake waiting for the warmer breath of morning to arrive. “No,” she said. “We weren’t well off at all.”

He just nodded, maybe seeing the truth in her face. “Then perhaps your parents just didn’t want to lumber you with more worries than you already had.”

That was likely true. After they’d gotten the letter about Father, about his death, her mother had become extra protective of her two children. She thought of the money Mother had stolen into her purse and hated the guilt it carried. What had her mother sold for the money? How were her and Lorelei coping back home right now, without Aelia there to share the labor?

“Did you say this was your first day in Rhodes?”

She nodded.

“Where are you staying?”

It took her a moment to reply. “Old Hill. There’s a family with spare lodgings there that I’ve been communicating with. I’m going to be there while I study at the academy.”

The boy beamed. “I don’t live far from Old Hill — I can give you a ride most of the way. My horse is stabled only a few streets back.”

“Oh. That’s kind,” she said, surprised. “But it’s not necessary. I’ll find my own way.” She paused, remembering her manners. “Thank you, though.”

“It’s an hour's walk from here to Old Hill, and that’s if you know where you’re going.”

She was going to refuse again but her legs throbbed with weariness, her feet with blisters, her mind with lassitude. And getting lost again didn’t appeal right now, regardless of what next wonder she found herself gazing at. What she wanted was to get to her bed.

But she couldn’t afford to spend coin on frivolities. On luxuries.

“I won’t even charge you for it,” he said as if reading her mind.

“I suppose a ride would be useful. But why would you want to give me a ride? It’s not like we’ve gotten off to the best start.”

He shrugged easily. “I’d appreciate the company.” If he was acting, he was good at it. “I can show you some of the city on the way. A tour guide for a tourist.”

“I’m not a tourist!”

“What’s your name, girl who has come to Rhodes to watch the Transformation, but definitely isn’t fourteen and definitely isn’t a tourist?”

“Maybe you’d like it better if I was fourteen,” she said.

He laughed. “You’ve got a bit of snark in you. Come on, what’s your name?” He placed his palm against his chest. “I promise no more fourteen jokes.”

“Aelia. What’s yours?”

“Aelia,” he repeated slowly, as if trying out the syllables on his tongue. He thrust out a hand. “Pleased to meet you, Aelia. I’m Henry.”

Cautiously, she took his hand and they shook.

“Come on,” Henry said. “Let’s make a move. I need to get to bed pretty shortly or I’m going to feel it later.”

“Bed? It’s barely lunch.”

“I work nights. And this has been a very late night for me already.”

She nodded. Aelia hoped it wouldn’t take long or else she’d have to dig out another top from her bag and layer her clothing. She was already in her best top and jacket and didn’t fancy showing Henry her usual class of clothing. But the cold was starting to bite and the sun still hadn’t broken through the smog.

Henry led her through the market square and down a street where a group of pigs were stubbornly resisting a broad man’s best efforts to herd them through a wooden doorway (stained red, she noticed). Then, down another street, quieter, full of thatched homes that each seemed to sink into the next as if they’d topple over without the support.

Eventually, at the end of the street, they came to a group of horses that had been tied up to a wooden fence. There were two half-eaten hay bales in front of the horses, and an old man sweeping up the muck behind them. “Should get a job in a sty,” the man was muttering to himself. “Be a hell of a lot cleaner and I’d be a hell of a lot more appreciated.”

“Ignore him. I’ve already paid.” Henry led her to a horse at the end of the row of beasts. A handsome mottled-gray animal, with a tuft of blonde hair dipping down a little over its eyes.

“Rufus, meet Aelia, Aelia, Rufus.”

The horse let out a little whiny. Aelia noticed it wasn’t saddled. Curious.

“Well?” Henry asked her. “Aren’t you going to say hello?”

Aelia had grown up on a farm and wasn’t the least nervous as she tapped its head and crooned, “Nice to meet you. Who’s a good horse? Rufus is a good horse!”

Henry had gone around the back of the animal and was hitching up some kind of cart to it. Or perhaps cart would be too kind, she considered. It was more like a wide plank of wood with slightly raised edges. There was a bench at the front of it on a higher raised platform, with a crusty looking cushion where Henry presumably sat. The only thing in the back of the cart was a huge cotton-looking blanket.

“You didn’t say you had a cart,” she said, jumping straight into the back and throwing the blanket over her shoulder. Maybe she could get in a quick nap. “Ahhh.” It was heavy and warm and she instantly felt happier.

Until she saw Henry’s face.

He was regarding her with a grimace, his lips peeled up from his teeth. “You… might prefer to ride upfront with me,” he said.

“Why?” she asked, but at that second the smell hit her. Mould? No, it was worse than that. More like sewage or… or what? Her face screwed up and her throat felt acidy. “Ugh, what’s that stink?”

“You didn’t ask me what I do,” Henry said, face still stuck in its grimace.

She really didn’t want to ask now, either. But the question fell out all by itself, “What?”

“Transport the dead. From homes to pits and never back again.”

Oh.

Gods.

She threw the blanket off her as if she’d just found it to have been full of snakes, and jumped out the cart.

The smell.

That’s what it had been.

Gods.

She threw up at the side as the cart as the man with the broom, who’d been brushing the horse manure into piles, yelled at her.

Henry rubbed her back. “It’s ok. I gave the cart a good wash this morning. Soap and everything. A real good scrub. And they don’t think the plague is infectious anyway. Least, not through contact.”

Her hands were still on her knees as she looked up at him, uneasy but hopeful. “And... the blanket?”

Henry whistled innocently.

Aelia threw up a second time.