The girl squinted in the sun, blocking his path. “Are ye a pennywort?”
Thomas nodded, glancing at the little boy, who seemed to struggle for breath. “Yes. And who are you? Are your parents around?”
“Dead.” She took a step closer, her face drawn. “I’m Chloris. Does ye have pennywort simples? My broder, Ayland, ha’ the token.”
He frowned, glancing at Oswald. As if sensing the danger of infection, Meraline took flight, soaring for the rooftops.
Oswald crossed his arms. “She wants to know if you have medicine from the outside world.”
Thomas shook his head, holding out his empty hands. “I don’t have anything.” He inhaled, his chest filled with a hollow sadness. If by some miracle he’d had access to modern antibiotics, this would have been his chance to wash the blood from his hands. But he had nothing.
“Are you coming?” Oswald jerked his head toward a storefront—a narrow building, the color of tobacco-stained teeth, crookedly jammed between two darker buildings.
Chloris’s eyes brightened, and she pointed to the building. “Do they have token simples there? For my broder?
Thomas fiddled with his silver watch. “Yes, but you need…” He looked away. “I’m sorry. I can’t help you.” A lump rose in his throat. This isn’t right. Four-year-olds can’t just die in the streets.
She wrinkled her nose, her eyes shimmering. Judging by the sickly pallor of her skin, she wouldn’t be far behind the boy. She scratched her head contemplatively before turning to wander back to her brother.
Thomas swallowed hard, turning toward the Theurgeon’s temple. Beams of dark wood divided the fa?ade into three stories. A large, circular sign hung above the door, its surface painted with a snake wound around a staff. The Rod of Asclepius—the ancient god of healing. He ran a hand over his chin. The same medical symbol used in my world. “The serpent sheds its skin, bringing new life and death alike. The dual-edged responsibility of a healer.”
“What are you clavering about?” Oswald spat.
Thomas blinked. He’d been staring again. “Sorry.”
Oswald approached the wooden door. A golden lion’s head protruded from the rough wood, holding a ring in its mouth as a knocker. Oswald banged the ring against the door. A few seconds of silence passed before it creaked open.
A young man, barely older than Oswald, stood in a long stone hall, around a hundred feet long and fifty wide, with a vaulted ceiling two stories above their heads. Vertigo washed over Thomas. It wasn’t possible for such an imposing space to fit into a cramped building, but Thomas was beginning to rethink the possible.
The young man before them wore a long black robe and a conical black hat with a live, golden viper writhing around its base. The man’s skin was the color of unbaked bread, and a mere suggestion of a chin curved from below his crowded smile. “Welcome to my temple. I’ve been expecting you.”
Of course. He has to say that. Thomas glanced back into the square before the door shut. He caught a glimpse of the little Tatter girl staring at them. She was still hoping for her medicine.
“You may call me Brother Asmodeus.” The young Theurgeon motioned to a long banquet table in the center of the hall, its lurid red cloth marked by golden threads that formed shifting alchemical symbols, erasing and rewriting themselves in a slow crawl of script.
Colored lanterns floated near the ceiling. Or at least, they seemed to be floating. Thomas couldn’t see any strings. High-backed chairs lined both sides of the table. Around the room, vines swooped down from the ceiling, their leafy tendrils curled tightly around spell books.
Asmodeus gave a slight bow. “Please, follow.”
Thomas and Oswald followed Brother Asmodeus to the other end of the table where two guards in blue and gold uniforms hovered before a dais. Just like those in front of the fortress, they gripped pikes.
The Theurgeon’s heels echoed from the marble flagstones. Around the room, the walls were lined with shelves of colored and bubbling potions. Between the shelves, painted statues stood in alcoves depicting lavishly dressed royals in jeweled clothing. At the base of each statue was a tiny, golden lion head. The Throcknell likenesses.
As he approached the far end of the hall, Thomas surveyed the two grandest statues enthroned on the dais—a crowned king and queen in golden robes. The queen’s platinum hair tumbled over her shoulders, its paleness contrasting with the vibrant red of her lips.
The guards in front of the platform had to be seven feet tall, and their long golden beards gave them the appearance of Viking warriors. They guarded something on the center of the platform—it looked like a small marble bowl on a gold stand.