This Vicious Grace (The Last Finestra #1)(7)
Wishful thinking. He was probably just working late.
Supper smelled like something hearty, simmered for hours, with lamb and red wine. Memories tangled around her. A crowded table, stories repeated so many times they lost all meaning, becoming poetry, children falling asleep in soft laps—
Alessa swiped at her eyes and moved on.
She might never be a normal girl who clipped rosemary for supper again, but they had to survive.
The alleys narrowed as she descended, until buildings butted into each other, and the island made its presence known with wildflowers pushing through cracks in the cobblestones and vines creeping up walls.
Alessa pulled up her hood as she passed the guards who manned the city gates, but they paid her no mind. They were there to watch for incoming threats, not girls running off to the docks, where folk stayed up late getting into trouble.
On Saverio, criminals were marked with tattoos for their crimes, and those who’d committed irredeemable offenses were banished to the continent, where they’d perish in the next Divorando without any protection from the Duo Divino and their army. The rest were merely forced to wear their shame, but when Saverians barricaded themselves inside the Fortezza, those with marks were left outside to fend for themselves. Past curfew, no one marked was permitted inside the city walls without an official pass from the Cittadella.
There was no one else on the dirt road to the docks, but the night sounds expanded to fill the emptiness, with tiny creatures scurrying and invisible wings thrumming in the grass.
The whine of insects succumbed to the creak of ships as the road widened and became clogged with people and vendor tents. If the city was a four-course meal for the senses, the docks were a hearty stew. The din of myriad languages was intoxicating, and the crush of bodies made one girl in a cloak practically invisible.
As the largest of the four original sanctuary islands, Saverio had drawn the widest array of people from nearby regions before the first Divorando, and even now, almost a millenium after Crollo’s first siege had stripped the continents to bones and dirt, Saverians boasted of being the entire world in miniature. An exaggeration, to be sure, but there was no one left to dispute the claim.
Alessa slowed at the sound of chanting as a dozen cloaked figures emerged from an alley, their white robes stark against a backdrop that was dark and grimy. She squinted to make out the crimson words embroidered on their backs. Fratellanza della Verità.
Passersby gathered, captivated by the spectacle. It wasn’t hard to see why. The group’s barely audible humming raised the hair on Alessa’s arms, and the hoods shadowing their faces lent an air of unearthly anonymity.
Fear tightened her scalp as one figure disengaged from the rest, pushing his hood back to reveal a striking face and prematurely silver hair. He smiled benevolently and a few people began clapping, though he hadn’t said a word.
Strategically veiled in the glow of a streetlamp, he held a large book aloft. Not an official copy of the Holy Verità—she of all people could spot the difference between the genuine article and a fake—but the glyphs on the cover bore a close enough resemblance to fool most people.
Women at the front of the crowd jostled for position, gazing at him with rapt devotion, and Alessa finally caught the whispered name. Ivini.
“Our gods tell us to have faith,” he said in a low, hypnotic voice. “That we are blessed with holy saviors.”
A savior you nearly got killed today.
“But we’ve grown complacent. Trusting. Naive.” His features softened with carefully crafted sadness, but his sharp eyes gauged the crowd’s response. “I ask you, are you sure our esteemed Finestra will save us, or do you, too, wonder if the gods are testing us?”
A child in a stained dress worked her way through the growing crowd. She held out a beggar’s hat, but most ignored her, clutching their purses and avoiding eye contact.
Ivini dropped to an ominous monotone, and the crowd went silent. “The lost texts warn of a day when a false Finestra shall rise. One whom the faithful shall recognize on sight.”
His eyes raked across the crowd, but his all-knowing gaze spent no more time on Alessa’s face than anyone else’s. So much for that theory. He was a convincing liar, though. Shaking his head as if regretting what he had to say next, he pressed a hand over his heart. “There she sits, in our Cittadella, slaughtering our precious Fontes, coddled despite her wickedness. Sent by Dea? So they tell us. But would Dea send a murderer to save us? I think not. No, this bears the mark of Crollo.”
A young man with tousled dark hair and sun-bronzed skin shot a disdainful glance at the crowd as he strode past, and Alessa’s shoulders relaxed. At least someone wasn’t buying what the holy man was selling.
“I ask you,” Ivini said, his gaze sharpening, “when the demons descend to devour every living thing on Saverio, will our dear Finestra even pretend to fight or will she simply laugh while our brave soldiers are massacred? Will she cheer for the creatures as they gnaw at the gates of the Fortezza, or will she open them herself? And who will die first? Who will suffer most, but those of you who will be locked outside?”
The beggar girl tripped, spilling her coins across the ground. Her high cry cut through Ivini’s speech, and he stopped with a loud sigh, motioning one of his robed minions toward the girl.
Alessa couldn’t push through to help the poor child, but at least someone was going to.