Ilyan continued to move down the street, his pace slow, but somehow more focused than it was before.
We reached the end of the street, the large cathedral now towering over us. Ilyan dragged me over to where another street vendor was selling empanadas, but my eyes never left the cathedral. The large church was raised up above the street level. Smoothly cut stone formed delicate arches that surrounded the beautiful stained glass window that sat directly above the door. It was breathtaking.
“The Cathedral Basilica of St. Francis of Assisi,” Ilyan said as he placed a hot pastry in my free hand.
“It was built in the late 1860s. Back then, this city was made up of the Palace of the Governors and a handful of adobe homes. Seeing it like this makes me long for the old.”
I knew I shouldn’t be surprised, but I still was. Ilyan was being more open about his past than usual and it still disturbed me to be reminded of how old he was.
“So you lived here then?” I tried to keep my voice level.
“No, not here. But I did live in the church that was here before they built the cathedral. La Parroquia. It was more like a fortress than a church, but I still loved it.”
I turned and looked at him, his gaze never deviating from the large building in front of us. The picture of him in some religious get up did not fit in my eyes, but he had now mentioned living in a monastery when Ovailia was born, a church in France, and a cathedral in New Mexico.
“You and churches, I am beginning to see a theme. I would not have pegged you for the religious type.” I had seen the look in his eyes when he faced a fight, I doubted he could live without that for long.
“I’m not.” His answer was firm. He turned his head a bit to look at me.
“Then why all the churches?”
Ilyan looked away from me. He wasn’t happy or sad, simply distant.
“Have you ever been around very pious people, Joclyn?” I almost laughed at the thought, but kept it inside. The tone of his voice was far too serious for laughter.
“We stopped going to church after my dad left. He always insisted we go together. After he was gone, my mom didn’t want to go anymore. So we didn’t.”
Ilyan smiled a bit. His expression was almost understanding.
“I don’t remember a lot,” I finished, wishing he would look away from me.
“Pious people, those who are truly religious, are amazing creatures. I am almost convinced they are humans at their best. Now, mind you, I have seen some terrible things happen in the name of a God. Wars, conquests, sacrifices. But on the whole, at its very base, religion makes people better.”
“So, you believe in God then?” I asked.
“I believe in something. I am not sure if it’s God though. The stories of where I come from differ from yours. There is no Adam and Eve in my past.”
I turned toward Ilyan, taking a bite of the pastry he had given me. I hadn’t heard this story before and I was content to hear him tell it from the beginning. I gestured my pastry hand toward him, prompting him to continue.
“My kind, the Sk?ítek, guard the wells of magic. There is a place, deep inside the earth under Prague, where magic bubbles up in what can only be described as mud. We call these the wells of Imdalind.”
“Wait, what?” I asked, interrupting him. “That’s the name of Ryland’s family’s company.”
“Now you know where Edmund got the name,” he smiled. “It is Edmunds greatest desire to take control of the wells of Imdalind again.”
“Why? What would he do with them?” I asked, although I already knew it would be nothing good.
“Create a new race, destroy the world, stop the existence of magic, the possibilities within Imdalind are endless. Which is why those that are left of my kind are sworn to protect the wells of mud with our lives.”
“What has the mud done before? Besides hold magic I mean?”
“It was through this mud that the first of every kind was bred. We do not know where they came from, only that they woke with their legs in the mud, their lungs stinging with their first breath. They walked out of the mountain, and as each bonded with a mortal it awoke something inside of the mortals, their own magic. It is from the wells of Imdalind that all magic begins and ends.”
“How do you know that that’s what really happened?” I asked, holding in a laugh. The story sounded more like a legend than a history.
“Because we know who was there. The first of each of the holders of magic. The first of the Drak, the first of the Vil?s, the first of the Trpaslíks and the first of the Sk?íteks – my Grandmother, Frain.”
“Your Grandmother?” Would there ever be anything about Ilyan that wouldn’t surprise me?