Synod in Shadows

Elmiyra remembered the last time she had sat in this room. It was over three hundred years ago, just after her arrival in the Capitol, when the city reeked of burned silk and flesh from the imperial purges. She had barely settled into her role as High Priestess before she was summoned, no, commanded, to attend a conclave of the high priests in the bowels of the old city. The Synod, as they called it, gathered to discuss “the state of divine affairs,” which in those days translated to: who had vanished, and who might be next. The air was thick with the stench of candles made from rendered tallow, the ancient stones sweating with secrets. Elmiyra, still unused to the formalities, found herself sitting at the lowest end of the table, shivering, as the old priests whispered war stories and barbed condolences to one another.

Tonight, as she entered the secret chamber beneath the Temple District, it was as if the centuries had not passed at all. The room was identical, a narrow, vault-ceilinged crypt, lined with lead to thwart eavesdropping, the round table at its center pitted with the gouges of a hundred arguments. She took her seat, now with more rank and less patience, and surveyed the others as they arrived.

First was Jonah, High Priest of Pelor, a broad-shouldered human who wore his vestments like a yoke and his regrets like an amulet. He nodded at Elmiyra but said nothing, his mouth drawn so tight it could have been sewn shut. Next came Pavel, the head of Adastreia’s temple, whose hair was so white it matched his clerical robes. His eyes darted around the room as if expecting a crossbow bolt from the ceiling at any moment.

The Llira twins, Dusk and Dawn, arrived together; impossibly tall and thin, their faces lacquered in bright, complementary makeup. They sat so close their elbows touched, and whispered to each other in a sing-song counterpoint that was both charming and insidious. Devry, the matron of Torm’s order, entered last, her gray bun sharp enough to draw blood, her ceremonial armor immaculate. She sat with the authority of someone who had spent a lifetime reminding others that the god of law and order did not, in fact, suffer fools.

Theobolt of Kord, already present, occupied the chair nearest the only exit. He was the only one who appeared genuinely comfortable, his ruddy face split by a fierce grin, fingers drumming a martial cadence on the armrest. When he caught Elmiyra’s gaze, he nodded once, a greeting and a challenge, all in one.

For several minutes, they sat in a silence dense with accusation. The only sound was the faint drip of condensation from the stones above.

It was Elmiyra who broke the quiet, her voice deliberately soft. “This reminds me of the bad old days.”

Jonah grimaced. “It’s not the same, Reaper. In the old days, we knew who was coming for us.”

Dawn giggled, the sound knife-bright in the gloom. “Now we just have to guess which mask the devil wears.”

Pavel smoothed his robe. “I thought we’d left this kind of skulking behind with the Empire. Yet here we are.”

“Here we are,” Elmiyra echoed, her tone flat. “Though the Empire is gone, the darkness remains.”

It had been Pavel who called the meeting, in defiance of every directive handed down from the Watch. He’d sent word by the old system: a strip of black linen, tied to the wrist of a Temple orphan, delivered by nightfall and to be burned upon receipt. No paper, no records, just tradition and a touch of paranoia.

None of the others complained. If anything, it was a comfort.

Devry set her jaw. “I’ll skip the preamble. If we’re discovered down here, we’re all dead.” She leveled her gaze at each of them in turn. “The Watch is out in force. I’ve never seen so many in the Temple District. It’s as though they expect a war.”

“They do,” said Theobolt, his voice booming in the tiny space. “And not just from us. The city’s tense, the air is off. You feel it, don’t you?”

Dusk and Dawn, in unison, nodded. “The revelers are all afraid. Even the drunks can sense it.”

Jonah cleared his throat. “If you’re implying that we should take up arms—”

“I’m implying,” Theobolt cut in, “that if we do not prepare, we’ll be slaughtered in our own sanctuaries. Did you not see the flyers?”

Dusk slapped a brightly manicured hand on the table. “We saw them. We danced around collecting a pile of them for an hour this morning, while the Watch rounded up half the neighborhood for questioning.” He dumped a satchel of papers carelessly, wanted posters and martial law notices slid across the table.

Dawn leaned in, voice lower: “It’s a coup, is it not?”

Elmiyra closed her eyes, remembering the moment she realized something was wrong. Brynne had come to her in the morning, eyes wild and bearing an illusory disguise, Nimueh trailing behind, both with the look of people who’d just glimpsed the world’s ending. The story tumbled out: assassins at the Saelmere Ball, a demon in the shape of Commander Lowshade, the Council nearly wiped out, the Watch mobilized before dawn. By breakfast, the streets were papered with wanted posters for several runners and Iliyria herself. By noon, all the city’s leylines felt jittery, as if something immense and invisible stalked the world beneath the cobbles.

When Brynne finished, Elmiyra had said, “This will not end until all of them are dead, or the city itself is.” Then she had gone to the crypt and waited.

Now, she relayed the essentials to the Synod. “It’s worse than a coup. There’s a demon in charge. The Watch does its bidding, and they have convinced the city that our best are traitors.”

Devry had picked out Barret’s wanted poster from the pile, eyes narrowing as she read the reward for the capture of her nephew; dead or alive. Her mouth curled with a mixture of anger and skepticism. “Demons? The old stories?”

Pavel’s face was pale, the color had drained from his cheeks. “The Archives have records of such things. If the demon has taken a high position, then we must act.”

Jonah snorted. “We must act, but we must also be certain. What if this is just another factional spat? The city thrives on these stories. Every year, someone claims to have found evil in high places.”

Elmiyra’s voice cracked like ice. “Brynne would not lie to me. And I have known Iliyria for longer than any of you have drawn breath. She would never work with demons.”

“Unless,” said Dusk, grinning, “they’re possessed. It happens.”

Dawn shook her head. “If Dingus had been possessed, we’d have noticed. He’s not exactly subtle.”

Jonah considered. “I am concerned for Adan, of course, but we still need proof that the Watch is acting against the city.”

Pavel glared at him. “They are acting against us. Against every temple. Haven’t you seen the streets, haven’t you seen the Archives?”

Devry raised a hand. “Let’s keep to the facts. We have the city in chaos, a possible demon at the top, and our own temples under surveillance. What do we do?”

Theobolt answered, the force of his words flattening any resistance. “We do what we always do. We shield the city. Bolt came to me this morning, and we fought. It was a hard fight, by the end she was bruised and bleeding, but determined. She won. Kord chose her, and Kord does not choose poorly. I am here now as her proxy. If she says a demon is in command, I believe her.”

The silence that followed was not of dissent, but of grim acceptance.

Dusk, who had been toying with a ring, piped up, “We could run. That’s always an option.”

Dawn batted his hand. “Don’t listen to him. He gets like this when he’s nervous.”

“We could fight, too,” added Dusk, “but that seems like a lot of work.”

Elmiyra, for her part, felt the old, familiar chill settle in her spine. “They will come for us, whether we fight or not. The city’s history is clear on that point.”

Before any could respond, a new sound clattered from the tunnel; fast, uneven footsteps, the breathless strain of someone unused to running. Every priest reached for a weapon, even Jonah, who slid a brass knuckle from his sleeve with a quickness that would have surprised his own congregation.

The door burst open, and in stumbled Vi, Deliah Beroe’s halfling secretary. Her spectacles were fogged, her hair askew, and she clutched a battered satchel to her chest like a wounded animal.

“Vi?” Elmiyra said, rising. “Where is Deliah?”

Vi’s voice was a shivering high note. “They took her. The Watch. Came this morning, right after breakfast. She stopped them when they attacked two runners that came to visit, a high elf and a dragonborn. The runners got away, but...” here the woman faltered, and her voice trembled, “the Watch took Deliah. Bashed her over the head and carried her out in a burlap sack. It was horrible.”

The entire room went deathly silent, the only sound the faint dripping of water from the stone ceiling.

Jonah frowned. “Who is in charge of the Watch now?”

Vi gulped. “Lowshade, they said. But he wasn’t there. The men were—” She shook her head, “I was lucky I was able to make it here, there are dozens of Watchmen in the Archives, and we’ve not been allowed to leave.”

Devry gestured to a seat, but Vi waved it off, setting the satchel on the table. “She left these. She messaged me while the Watch had her cuffed, told me to hide them, that I should bring them to you. She told me how to get here,” Her hands shook as she spilled the contents: a sheaf of hand-written notes, ink still fresh, the edges fraying where they’d been torn from a larger book.

Pavel snatched the top sheet, eyes scanning. “It’s her visions. From last night.” He handed the page to Elmiyra, who read aloud:

“Darkness gathers, but not from the shadow. From the light, where it should never dwell. The truth walks in borrowed flesh, and wears its enemy’s uniform. The city will be made a tomb for heroes, unless the mask is removed. Trust the old alliances. Trust the ones who remember.”

Dusk whistled. “Dramatic. Was she always so theatrical?”

Vi glared at him, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. “She saw it. She always saw it.”

Elmiyra glanced at the others. “It matches what Brynne said, what the Runners told us. The demon is playing both sides. The Watch is complicit, or at least corrupted.”

Theobolt stood, hands clenched into iron knots. “If Deliah is gone, we can’t wait. The Synod must decide.”

Devry, still skeptical, scanned another sheet. “What is this about the ‘mask?’ Does she mean Lowshade is not Lowshade?”

Vi nodded. “She said she could see the outline, like a heat haze, but not the thing beneath. She thought the real Lowshade might already be dead.”

Jonah exhaled, the sound heavy as stone. “Then the city truly is lost.”

Dawn’s lips twisted into a fragile smile. “Not if we act together.” She cupped her hands, and a small ball of golden light came into being, bobbing and floating around the table, casting a warm light on the gathered clerics.

Elmiyra felt a surge of something old and rare; hope, maybe, or the remembrance of it. “We have to warn others. We need a way to get word out, even under the Watch’s nose.”

Dusk clapped. “A parade! We may as well do it with style.”

Pavel glared at him, but Dawn grinned. “Or, better yet, a festival. It’s Hearthswarming, after all. The district will be crawling with revelers; if we can hide a message in the celebration, we can reach every corner of the city before the Watch catches on.”

Devry, grudgingly impressed, nodded. “It could work. The Runners are resourceful. If we get the word to them, they can do what we can’t.”

Theobolt’s fist crashed onto the table. “Then it’s decided. We will use the festival as cover. We spread the word amongst the faithful: there is a demon in the Watch, and the city’s only hope is to resist. The temples will stand together.”

Pavel spoke up then, “and we wait for word from the Runners. When it's time to fight, we will be ready.”

For a moment, they all sat with the enormity of what they had committed to. Then, one by one, each priest made their mark on Deliah’s note; Jonah with his heavy ring, Devry with a crimson thumbprint, Dusk and Dawn with twin signatures that curled together like smoke. Elmiyra, last, pressed her palm to the page, feeling the jolt of Ioun’s magic pass through her.

Vi wiped her eyes, then looked up, a small, bitter smile returning. “Deliah would have liked this. She always said the only thing stronger than the gods was a committee in a hurry.”

They all laughed, even Jonah, whose laugh sounded like someone breaking kindling. For the first time in hours, Elmiyra felt less alone.

They departed in silence, each retreating through the old tunnels; tunnels built in centuries of occupation and repression, now put to use against a new tyrant. Elmiyra lingered, letting the others vanish before she stood. She packed up the papers, then turned to Vi.

“Did the Watch say what they were planning to do with her?” Elmiyra asked.

Vi shook her head, face hardening. “No. I don’t even know if she is still alive. She hasn’t answered any of our sending attempts.”

Elmiyra squeezed the halfling’s hand, then made her way into the passage, feeling the echo of a thousand frightened feet that had run these halls before. The city above was a maze of lies and violence, but beneath it, the old bones held fast. She let herself hope, just a little, that the temples, these battered, fractious, magnificent institutions, might hold the city together when nothing else could.

She emerged into the crypt of the Raven Queen, the stone as cold as the news she now bore. But there was still work to do, and the night was very far from over.