49. The High Listener (Gadarien)¶
In Gadarien’s opinion, the appearance of the Tementeira was a perfect match for their buffoonish beliefs. They considered bare throats vulgar and heretical, so the men grew long beards beneath their chins, leaving their faces bare, and the women wore heavy neck-scarves even in the stifling heat. Many had converted as adults, and thus still bore traditional Cantereian throat tattoos, their purpose now defeated. Gadarien hadn’t quite worked out what that metaphor signified, but he knew it was stupid.
He chewed on his distaste as the Tementeira prodded him through the streets at spear point, unconcerned by the murmuring onlookers. A passing Sarmalan patrol glanced at their party and quickly looked away. Gadarien wondered how much their complicity had cost, both in silver and in national dignity. When he asked his captors where they were going, he was rewarded with a punch to the solar plexus that left him coughing and struggling to breathe. But their destination soon became clear anyway.
The Sagradhão loomed above the other buildings, the stylized tree atop its dome forming the city’s highest point. He hadn’t visited the sacred temple since childhood. His family had never been particularly religious, and had only attended Harmony on occasional holy days, but he remembered the building well: the graceful curves of the walls, designed to channel and enhance the sound of the congregation; the intricate, interwoven patterns of the tile floors; the gorgeous Altarpiece of Formation, which depicted the founding of the Feiçeira.
The current state of the Sagradhão was a disgrace. The iridescent tile facade was gray with water stains, obscuring the design. The steps leading up to the polished stonewood doors were covered in dirt and bird droppings. A pair of bearded Tementeira had made a fire on the landing, as though the temple were their private campground. They didn’t even have the grace to look ashamed, meeting Gadarien’s disapproval with an expression of bovine hostility.
The interior of the building had at least been spared from the ravages of weather and wildlife. In the entry hall, their captors issued them all checkered scarves, including Gadarien. “Really?” he asked, pinching the cloth with disdain.
“I’m not sure you could grow a beard if you wanted to, boy,” the attendant sneered, stroking his own simian mane, “but you can’t walk around in here with a bare throat. This isn’t Sarmala.”
Gadarien scowled as he tied the itchy fabric around his neck, Vaye and Adranaya following suit. The self-important attendant wandered off, confiscating their gear to be searched and cataloged. The guards made them kneel on the hard tile and wait in silence. Gadarien ached to move, to get up and do something, but he had no plan, no options. His mind replayed his mistakes like a child repeating a meaningless question.
Just when he was about to get up and rush the guards, consequences be damned, the attendant returned to lead them through the processional chambers along the outer edge of the building. The hallway curved inward like a shell, designed to channel sound from the nave. When Harmony was in session, the reflected song created an effect of ascending into another world, the rapturous sound growing as each new voice was added. Today, though, the hall was eerily quiet. The scrape of their footsteps turned to whispering echoes, making the building seem haunted. Cold daylight filtered in from innumerable tiny holes in the ceiling, illuminating the ornate woodwork, which featured scenes from Cantereian scripture: a bird with a long tail chasing two frog-like creatures through the trees, followed by a fox-headed goddess fighting off a dozen demonic monkeys. Without the waves of song washing over them, the carvings felt grim and dead.
At last they came to a large stonewood archway shaped to resemble the inner curves of an ear. “The Ouvintero will hear you now,” said one of their captors, ushering them into the nave.
The room was circular, dominated by a massive central pillar shaped like a tree trunk, which continued through the dome to form the iconic sculpture outside. The inner surface of the dome was filigreed with silver leaf and pierced by holes, letting in sharp spears of light. The wind passing through the holes generated fluttering, swooping sounds reminiscent of chirping birds and rustling leaves. Around the walls, polished wooden balconies looked down on the interior.
While Vaye and Adranaya gawked at scale of the colossal chamber, Gadarien’s eyes were drawn to the large alcove in the opposite wall, its ceiling tiled and faceted like a geode. The Altarpiece of Formation was the Sagradhão’s crown jewel, the pinnacle of Cantereian art. Measuring dozens of paces across, it had been woven together from the living roots of numerous species of trees over the course of many years, trained to form a tapestry depicting the early history of Cantereian unification.
The hole where the Altarpiece should have been stared back at him like an empty eye socket. In its place, a man stood alone, looking up at the ceiling.
“Did you know that this alcove was originally designed to be empty?” said the Ouvintero. Although he spoke softly, he sounded as though he were standing right beside them, making Vaye jump. “The tiles are shaped to project a speaker’s voice to all corners of the nave. The Altarpiece was only added three generations ago, after the end of the last Ouvintero’s rule. I was initially against removing it, but my ministers rightly pointed out that it was a distraction. It led the congregation’s thoughts toward politics and away from the spirit. Besides, the alcove works better without it.”
Gadarien ground his teeth, staying silent with great effort. The Altarpiece had not just been a work of art. It had been a representation of Cantereia’s tumultuous escape from autocracy. The early Feiçeira had fought and died to replace the last Ouvintero with an elected council. It was their origin story, the reason for their existence. Although the Council itself had been dissolved by the Sarmalans, the principle of elected rule remained a fierce point of Cantereian pride. Or at least it had, the last time Gadarien had set foot in Rilão.
The Ouvintero’s footsteps echoed as he crossed the nave, his hands clasped behind his back. Up close, Ravásie looked young and bookish, more scholar than dictator. A thick beard hung from his neck to the middle of his chest, obscuring the tattoos that curled around his ears. His only sign of office was a stiff hat fashioned like a stylized tree. “I can see you’re upset about the Altarpiece,” he said, his voice gentle and reasonable. “Change is always difficult. But the sooner we accept it, the sooner we can move forward.”
Gadarien wanted to move his fist forward through Ravásie’s face, but the guards still had their spears leveled at his back. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said instead.
The Ouvintero smiled and nodded as though he approved of Gadarien’s restraint. “You attempted to bribe the guards at the city gates. Bold, but ineffectual, since I had already paid them a bigger bribe.”
“I didn’t want any trouble with the Sarmalans,” Gadarien replied. “We’re just here to visit my family.”
Ravásie frowned, glancing at Vaye and Adranaya. “Is that so? Then why did you meet with a Feiçeira collaborator in Valdeia?”
Gadarien was thankful for his training, which kept him from cursing out loud. One of the villagers had obviously betrayed them, and had somehow gotten that information here before they arrived. “We didn’t know he was a Feiçeira. He had a guesthouse, and we were tired from the road.”
It was only when Ravásie glanced up that Gadarien noticed the woman on the balcony. She wore no scarf, and the witchglass embedded in her throat glittered in the filtered light. So it was true—this Feiçeira had been Silenced, either voluntarily or by force. She shook her head, indicating that Gadarien wasn’t being honest.
Ravásie smiled modestly, like a superior athlete showing grace in victory. It only made Gadarien hate the man more. “Let’s try again,” said the Ouvintero. “Are you a Feiçeira?”
With effort, Gadarien relaxed his shoulders and unclenched his fists before meeting Ravásie’s eye. “Yes.”
The Ouvintero nodded, pleased with himself. “And your companions?”
Gadarien glanced at Vaye, who was doing a decent job of pretending not to understand, and Adranaya, who didn’t have to pretend. He’d have to avoid lying directly, as he’d done while speaking to Jovadão during the Challenge. But this time, the stakes were much higher. “No. I got them into trouble with the Sarmalans, and they came with me to hide. We were just trying to go someplace safe.”
The Silenced Feiçeira verified Gadarien’s statement, but Ravásie frowned. He produced a roll of parchment from behind his back. “Then what were you doing with this? I’m told it’s some kind of Anashi spell.”
Gadarien wasn’t sure what the document was, but it had obviously been in Vaye’s possession. He kept his eyes trained on the Ouvintero, silently willing the Anashi to keep her mouth shut. Which, of course, she did not.
“It’s a religious text,” she said anxiously. “It’s only precious to Anashim.”
Ravásie’s eyebrows went up, and for a moment, Gadarien held out hope that he’d be too surprised at Vaye’s command of Cantereian to wonder whether she was speaking the truth. But then he glanced up.
When Ravásie looked back down, the facade of the genial scholar had started to crack, and behind it, Gadarien saw his own anger reflected back at him. It was a deep, smoldering rage that could never be fully extinguished. He began to understand how Ravásie had come to be the Ouvintero.
“Your presence grows stranger by the moment, but I don’t have the patience to discover your true purpose. Perhaps some cold water will dissolve your lies.” He gestured to the guards. “Put them in the grotto.”
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