Parabolis by Eddie Han Read Free Book Online Page B

she said, “If I were born a man, I could’ve been a templar.”
    “Aye. A fine one at that.”
    Then she looked at Alaric.
    “And had you been born a lass, what kind of cleric would you have been? I wonder.”
    Again, Alaric huffed.
    “I would’ve been far too pretty to be a cleric.”
    Selah smiled. But the smile faded as quickly as it had appeared. She looked over at this old man and her thoughts drifted into a distant past when she knew Alaric only as her mother’s friend. A past when her smiles were more frequent.
    The carriage pulled into the West Gate of the temple grounds. At its center was one of four temples in the entire world, ornately decorated with reliefs carved into its whitewashed façade, and skyscraping spires guarded by gargoyles perching on every corner. Flanking it on either side was the College of Sisters for the clerics and the barracks of the Vail Templar.
    Serving as monuments of the Benesanti’s vast global influence, each temple had been erected in four select cities in each of the four corners of Parabolis. This one, in Carnaval City, represented the whole of Groveland.
    “There are rumors,” said Selah, unmoved by the architectural marvel.
    “What kind of rumors?”
    “I’ve heard that Duke Thalian is preparing for an invasion. Is this true?”
    “I don’t know,” Alaric replied. “But pray that it is not.”

CH 09
     

HOME
     
    The city teemed with traders, sidewalk musicians, street performers. A prophet stood on his soapbox. And in the shadows lurked the swindlers and strangers. Progress had changed the backdrop; the buildings were newer, taller, shinier. Most of the street vendors had given way to rows of storefronts. But the feel of Carnaval City endured. Dale hailed a cabriolet and took it to the waterfront, hoping to find his bearings in more familiar surroundings. As he rode into the old neighborhood, Dale saw that it too had transformed under the hand of progress. There was now a large cannery where there once was an outdoor market. Beyond the wharf was the monument of modern progress known as the Spegen. It was a contraction of “Steam Powered Electric Generator,” or the “S.P.E. Gen,” a smaller counterpart to the massive thermal power plant in Pharundelle. Its steady hum, and not the crashing waves of the bay, had become the new ubiquitous sound of the waterfront.
    The familiar smell of freshly baked baguettes drew Dale into the old bakery. It was smaller than he remembered. A little rusty bell rang as he entered. There was a young woman wiping down the counter, her fingernails painted dark purple. She had a delicate frame and a porcelain-sculpted face. Her ears were poking out of her dark brown hair that fell short of her shoulders and naturally curled up just below the jaw line.
    “Mo?”
    “Excuse me?” she asked, startled.
    Her voice was soft as a song. Her eyes lit up. Though nineteen years old, Mosaic Shawl still had the face of a child with full triangle lips. Her large doe eyes were kind and curious.
    “Dale? Dale! Papa, it’s Dale!” she yelled as she ran around the counter.
    Before he knew it, there was an onslaught of hugs and kisses. And questions. Finally, Uncle Turkish burst out. “Okay, hey, let’s give the boy some room.” With that he led Dale to their table in the corner and placed a plate of fresh bread in front of him. “It’s damn good to see you, boy.”
    “You too, Uncle.”
    “How was the trip?”
    “Nice.”
    “Long, I imagine.”
    “Long, but nice.”
    “How about some port to wet your beak?”
    “You got anything lighter?”
    “Sure, we’ve got some white wine and I think I’ve got some bottled ale in the back.”
    “Actually, could I get some chocolate milk?”
    “Heh! Did you hear that, love?”
    Turkish poured himself a glass of port while Cora Tess prepared a cold glass of creamy chocolate milk for Dale.
    “Just the way you like it,” she said, setting it down in front of him.
    She watched with satisfaction