Traian walked with measured paces through the city. The evening had dispersed the crowds, leaving the streets hollow and full of settling dust. A bank of clouds rose in the west, making him squint at the desperate brightness of the sunset, as though the sun feared early onset of night.
Once again, his mind turned toward Jair. It always did. He tried instead to concentrate on the pain in his shoulder, where the tattoo had just been finished. Each strand represented his loyalty to the Magnuroc. They employed him with authority, he must trust in them. Who else could so effectively stop the Hrithmore rebellion? Their beliefs were more than mere differences of opinion, and heresy was not merely an excuse to rid the city of their outcries against the church.
Traian had obeyed dutifully, order by order, strand by strand, but one of those strands was Jair, and Maridel would never forgive Traian for murdering her brother, even if she did find Jair’s missing journals.
Ahead lay the bridge toward the black basilica.