Chapter 45: The Mansion

Chapter 45: The Mansion
The next morning, we set out for the West District.

The West District of Aethon lay at the opposite end of the city, separated from The Hollow Reed by the main thoroughfare that cut through the heart of town. If we had taken the direct route, we would have been forced to traverse the most crowded commercial stretches along the main street. But we avoided the main street entirely.

Rendell led me into one of the hidden routes he had mapped out over the past four days with his own footsteps, and we moved through the city's crevices like a pair of rats navigating the gaps between walls. We slipped through several narrow alleys used for garbage disposal, skirting around three areas where guard patrols were particularly dense. Because of the incident I had caused at the temple yesterday, we had no choice but to keep a low profile.

The old priest who had intercepted the guards last night clearly hadn't managed to suppress all the rumors about what had happened. The air was thick with a tense, oppressive atmosphere, and the city's security had tightened even further since yesterday. Foreign merchants could be seen being questioned on the streets from time to time.

Instinctively, I pulled my hood lower, letting the shadow conceal half my face, while my heart hammered restlessly against my ribs.

The Grand Prophet's mansion sat at the center of the West District, like a diamond set into rotting flesh—jarring and ostentatious.

Most of Aethon's buildings were hewn or carved directly from the plateau's native rock, their colors muted and gray, blending seamlessly with the surrounding mountainside in a manner that carried a raw, primitive quality. But this mansion was entirely different. Its exterior walls were constructed from a rare imported stone, yellowish in hue and utterly foreign to Aethon, which reflected an almost golden luster under the sunlight.

The entrance portico was covered in elaborate golden filigree, every line twisted into shapes that screamed of wealth, the excessive ornamentation mocking the city's austere solemnity so brazenly that it was impossible to ignore.

I made myself stop about twenty paces from the mansion, behind a stone pillar, holding my breath as I studied it carefully.

"He wants everyone to see his wealth," I murmured, my tone tinged with disgust.

"Mm." Rendell stood at my side, his gaze sweeping coolly over the golden carvings. "Each sermon session is limited to one hundred attendees. He holds four per month. From what I hear, admission isn't cheap."

"How does a city like Aethon allow this sort of thing?"

"Apparently, it does." Rendell seemed well-versed in such matters. "More precisely, he pays certain people in power enough money to make this sort of thing 'allowable.'"

We emerged from our corner and approached the mansion's main entrance.

Flanking the heavy black iron gates stood two private guards in black uniforms. Their posture was rigid and upright, the result of rigorous military training. The instant they saw us approaching, the guard on the left raised his hand in a perfectly standard halt gesture, the movement crisp and efficient, devoid of any excess emotion.

"The Prophet does not receive strangers."

He delivered the line in a rehearsed, utterly flat tone, like a recording on loop.

"We have urgent business with him," I said, my voice emerging from beneath my hood as I tried to project authority.

"The Prophet does not receive strangers." He repeated the phrase, his eyes not even focusing on us, though his tone had taken on a note of warning. I glanced at the gleaming sword at his waist and subtly signaled Rendell to continue the conversation. A change of speaker might ease the tension—I had no desire whatsoever to start a conflict here.

"Then how might one meet the Grand Prophet?" Rendell picked up where I left off.

Perhaps because Rendell's robes looked more expensive, the guard gave him a longer look.

I rolled my eyes beneath my hood. Of course someone who valued money above all else would judge people by their apparent wealth.

"At the sermon sessions," the guard replied.

"What's the ticket price?" Rendell asked.

"Two hundred gold coins per ticket." The guard announced the astronomical price with complete indifference. "Tickets go on sale tomorrow afternoon."

"Two hundred gold coins?"

"Correct." He repeated mechanically, as if reciting a decree.

I stepped forward again, my mind already racing through whether I should pretend to be an extremely devoted follower or something similar to win over the guard. The other guard was already growing impatient and beginning to shoo us away.

"You two need to leave immediately. Don't interfere with our duties. Otherwise..."

He glanced at the guards patrolling in the distance, the implication clear.

I bit down on my teeth, turned, and retreated to the shadows at a safe distance from the mansion, gesturing for Rendell to follow.

I had almost no money left. My mind began frantically searching for alternatives.

I could go to a pawnshop and mortgage the compass Sevan had given me, even though it was the token she'd left me.

Or I could pawn my sword, but that had been purchased from the most ordinary blacksmith's shop and wouldn't fetch much.

Maybe I could work or sell herbs? The idea was dismissed as soon as it formed. Those activities would require considerable time and the appropriate permits. Aethon's guards were still hunting like hounds for whoever had caused yesterday's temple incident. The longer I stayed in this city, the higher the risk of being recognized, and once I was dragged into an interrogation room, I would never get another chance to see the Grand Prophet.

I was weighing these terrible options, not yet having reached a final decision, when Rendell spoke up, his voice as calm as if he were discussing the weather.

"I have money."

I whipped my head around to look at him, my eyes beneath the hood filled with astonishment.

"I have enough to buy tickets to the sermon session," he said, his tone certain. "Two tickets."

"How do you have that much money?"

After all, when I'd left, the two gold ingots and those silver coins I'd had wouldn't have been worth even one ticket.

"When I left Aldenmere, your father gave me a sum of money." He met my gaze frankly, his fingers lightly pressing against the coin pouch at his waist. "It was operational funding. I've spent some of it along the way, tracking the dark sorcerer's trail. What remains is still enough. Enough for two tickets."

"My God, he actually gave you that much money?"

My tone carried a note of pleasant surprise, though I still felt some concern.

"If we run out of money, what do we do next?"

"We meet the Grand Prophet first," he said, a flicker of determination in his eyes. "Then we assess our next step together. If the dark sorcerer and the curse's trail also point here, then this money will have been well spent."

I looked at him, my throat feeling as if it were stuffed with cotton.

"Damn it, that con artist is getting off easy."

Finally, I nodded, the gesture somewhat heavy.

"Tomorrow afternoon," I said. "We'll buy the tickets."

"We need to arrive early," he repeated, his gaze turning once more toward the resplendent mansion, his expression inscrutable.