by Cory Barclay
Lord Inquisitor Adalbert leaped from his seat, both hands gripping the arms of his chair. “Wait! Hold that torch!” he screamed, but his voice wasn’t loud enough through his mask to pierce the roar of the crowd.
The dry twigs and hay and wood burned and hissed black smoke as the structure exploded in a blaze, instantly surrounding the woman and the cross.
Hugo clutched the arms of his chair, his mouth open in shock as the flames licked at the old woman’s feet.
When she caught fire, she did not scream.
Not at first. Not until the flames reached her long white hair.
And then she howled.
So intensely, so enduringly, with such acute agony, it completely hushed the crowd.
The cross blazed like a beacon. The old woman’s blood-curdling cries lingered for an eternity, then faded into the smoke. The woman’s body crumpled as it transformed into a glowing, hideous skeleton, frozen forever in a silent scream.
Hugo and Tomas exchanged a look, both wide-eyed and confused.
“W-what in God’s name just happened?” Hugo asked in a low voice. “Where’s Sybil?”
Tomas was focused elsewhere. “I’m not sure, but someone isn’t pleased with the outcome . . .” he nudged his chin over his shoulder.
Hugo looked past Tomas. The center chair on the dais was empty.
The lord inquisitor of Trier was gone.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
GUSTAV
Gustav’s mouth dropped open when the veil came off, revealing an elderly woman he didn’t recognize. Then he remembered. He had seen her before. The previous day, while leading Sybil to the dungeons.
As the crowd pushed into him, he tried to get away but was boxed in tightly. He elbowed a man in the head, eager to escape the violent show.
No one else had seen what Gustav saw. Everyone else had been focused on the roiling flames as they engulfed the woman’s melting body.
But Gustav had seen Lord Inquisitor Adalbert jump from his seat, retreat from the dais, and run down the stairs.
Something was terribly wrong.
Gustav had no idea what it was, what was going on, how Sybil had been replaced with this old woman burning before him, and why the lord inquisitor had taken off.
All he knew was that he had to get away.
He raised his arms and spun the other way—the lone man in the crowd pushing against the grain. He reached out, roughly shouldering others aside. Finally, he was out of the madness.
As he moved farther away, a terrible premonition inched up his spine.
He headed for the nearby inn, next to which he’d stowed his stolen horse. Hedda would be at the inn. She didn’t have the stomach to watch another human burn.
He hurried down the cobblestone road, picking up speed as he went, the unmistakable stench of burning wood and flesh wafting in the air. He turned a corner and cut through an alley, looking over his shoulder every few seconds. He felt like he was being watched. But that was impossible.
He came to the inn and burst through the door, startling the front desk clerk.
“Back so soon, sir?” the clerk said, but Gustav surged past and hurried up the stairs, two at a time. He rushed to the door and burst in, the sudden breach nearly knocking Hedda out of her chair. She’d been writing something on a piece of paper.
Probably a report to my father. Gustav grimaced.
“I could hear the screams from the window,” Hedda said, repositioning herself on the chair. “Why are you not out celebrating with the rest of the townsfolk?” she asked, her tone condescending.
He reached into his tunic, found his bottle, and finished off the rest of the liquid.
Hedda shook her head in disgust. “That stuff will be the death of you.”
“It calms my nerves, woman.”
“It changes you, Gustav. It has changed you.”
Gustav growled and swept past her. He’d purchased a new set of clothes prior to the execution. He started throwing his possessions in a bag.
“What are you doing?”
Stumbling against the edge of the bed, he hit his shin and groaned. The drug had already taken hold. He couldn’t find the right words. “We have to go—have to get out of here. My father will never give me the things I deserve. Not until he’s dead and buried.”
Hedda tilted her head, watching him move in a frenzy. “You’re paranoid, Gustav. Another side effect of that terrible—”
“Enough, woman!” Gustav thrust his finger at her. “I said we have to quit this place. Let’s go. Pack your things.”
Hedda shrugged. “I have nothing to pack.”
Gustav dismissed her with a wave of his hand.
“And I’m not going with you.”
Without pausing or turning, he said, “And why is that?”
“You know why. I must report to your father.”
“And what will you tell him?” His hands were clenched, buried in the sheets of the bed.
“Only of the last few weeks I’ve traveled with you. Nothing that will come as a shock to you, Gustav.”
He returned to the bag he was packing. “Will you tell him about Norfolk? About the taxman and our false identities?”
A long pause followed. He recalled that time in England. If she mentions the taxman in her report, she’ll have to add how she struck the man with a shovel. I never asked her to do that. She killed Timothy Davis. I only poisoned him.
But I can’t let my father learn those things.
He felt his eyes grow large, the drug piercing through his body stronger than ever before. Everything began to spin around him. He slapped himself, trying to shake the murderous rage from his mind.
Reaching into his waistband, he pulled out his knife and turned toward Hedda.
“I can’t let you do that,” he said, his face twisting into a manic snarl.
But Hedda was gone.
He’d been so focused on his own escape plan, he’d lost track of everything and now she’d vanished from the room like a ghost.
“That bitch,” Gustav growled, running for the door. He raced to the stairs and peered down. The front door of the inn stood wide open.
“Where’d she go?” Gustav yelled down to the innkeeper.
“Out the door, sir. In a hurry.”
Gustav punched his knife into the railing of the staircase, struggled to free it, then ran back to his room.
I’ll get that bitch before she destroys my legitimacy! But for now, I must get out of here.
He closed his bag and dashed out of the inn, flicking a coin to the clerk on his way out. He headed for the stable, eager to leave the memory of Trier behind.
Gustav kicked the haunches of his mount and leaned into its neck, gripping the reins tightly. He’d left the northern gates of Trier just as night fell, the moon already bright in the sky.
As he’d left the city, he’d heard people talking. Of the strange trial, of a witch morphing from young to old as she burned.
It had all happened so quickly. After the woman turned to ash, the archbishop dismissed the swelling crowd back to their homes, announcing the execution was over, then had descended the stairs and vanished.
It left a sour taste in the mouths of the townsfolk. People were confused. This was not like the executions they were accustomed to. There had been no post-burning celebrations. No long-winded, religious proclamations from those on the dais.
Gossip and doubt spread fast.
“The inquisitors are losing their edge and power.”
“The inquisitors have lost the faith of the people.”
“They kill for no reason—surely not for God.”
“We’re sick and tired of this. They rope us in with the entertainment, but all the while our crops are confiscated and our vineyards neglected.”
“They wish to take everything from us. We’re more destitute now than we were a year ago.”
Things quickly snowballed and general upheaval took hold.
Gustav left town before
things got too rebellious. He rode in the darkness, alone, down the main northern road on his way back to Bergheim, his home.
He’d be safe there.
As he rounded a curve, he slowed his horse to a trot. Trees started to close in on the road. Before long the canopies would block out the moonlight and stars.
He noticed something ahead. He blinked several times to make sure it was real. A carriage was blocking his path, sitting crossway in the middle of the road.
He debated whether to veer off and head into the woods, but knew it was just the drugs making him paranoid. It was only a carriage. He lightened his breathing and reined his horse to a stop.
Two guards came from around the side and approached Gustav.
“Name, sir?” one of them asked. He wore a leather jerkin, a helmet covering his eyes, and had an arquebus stuck in the dirt at his side.
“What’s going on here?” Gustav asked.
“The Daughter of the Beast has escaped town. We’re checking all roads leading out. So, what is your name, sir?”
Gustav straightened his back and puffed his chest out proudly. “I am Gustav Koehler, son of Baron Ludwig von Bergheim.”
The guard shared a look with his comrade.
The carriage door opened and a man stepped down. He was tall and wore a white mask. Gustav’s face paled.
“Ah, Herr Koehler,” Lord Inquisitor Adalbert said through his mask. “Why are you leaving Trier?”
Gustav’s heart hammered. He gulped and said, “Er, family matters I must attend to in Bergheim. I’m sure you understand.”
Adalbert nodded. The mask on his face shifted awkwardly as his head moved. “Quite,” he said, stepping forward. Gustav’s horse snorted and took a step back.
After a momentary pause, Gustav said, “If that is all, my lord, I will be on my way. I ride in urgency.”
Adalbert put his hand on the neck of Gustav’s horse. “Before you do, I’ll need to ask a few questions of you, Herr Koehler.”
“Why is that?”
“Because you brought Sybil Griswold to this town. You were with her for the week prior to her arrival.”
“And?”
“You might have information about her whereabouts.”
“I swear I do not.”
“You might know things about her that you don’t realize, Herr Koehler. Please, join me in my carriage. It will only take a few moments.”
Gustav swallowed hard.
What do I have to fear? I’m a nobleman of a respectable house. This man is a mercenary-for-hire. A sell-sword going from city to city acting like he owns the world.
He shook the fear from his mind.
“We will tether your horse to our carriage. You will be on your way expeditiously,” Adalbert said, gesturing toward the carriage.
“Very well.” Gustav dismounted and followed the inquisitor into the black coach.
Inside, they stared silently at each other, though Gustav could see little more than a phantom behind the mask. As much as he tried to appear confident, staring at that lifeless mask unnerved him. He couldn’t tell whether the man inside was smiling, frowning, or plotting.
The wheels squeaked as the carriage began moving.
“W-where are we going?” Gustav stammered, looking frantically to his side. But curtains covered the windows.
“To my scribe, sir,” Adalbert answered, folding his hands in his lap.
They traveled a short distance before the coach began bumping roughly. Gustav realized they’d driven off the road.
They continued a while further. Then the carriage stopped.
Adalbert stepped out and held his hand out for Gustav.
“Why must we go outside? We’ll catch a chill,” Gustav said.
Adalbert chuckled. “Please, follow me, Herr Koehler. It will only take a moment.”
So Gustav followed. As casually as possible he eased his hand to the back of his waist and felt the comforting wood of his knife’s hilt.
They were somewhere in the woods—surely far from civilization. The blooming trees overhead blocked the moon, save for a few tendrils of murky white. Finally, they came to a clearing. Gustav breathed easier.
The clearing rose to a small hill. At the top of the hill stood a lone tree. An odd-looking tree, leafless, with gnarled limbs and twisted branches. As they climbed the hill, Gustav’s stomach sank.
A bird cawed in the distance. Gustav glanced up. The black outline of a large crow circled the tree.
Lord Inquisitor Adalbert stopped at the base of the tree. The crow landed on an upper branch.
Adalbert reached to his face and removed his mask. It fell to the ground.
Lord Inquisitor Adalbert was a black-haired, middle-aged man with a gaunt face and sunken cheeks. His wispy black mustache twitched in the breeze, his eyes gray and piercing.
“You don’t know me, Herr Koehler,” the man said, his voice much firmer without the mask. “But I am a friend of your father’s.” He ran his fingers over his mustache. “We did a bit of business in Bedburg together, when I was chief investigator for a time.”
Gustav tilted his head. He reached behind him and gripped the knife in his belt. His eyes shot to his left, then his right as something rustled in the bushes.
Forms appeared, close to the ground—one, then two, then maybe more—blacker than the night sky or the crow in the tree.
What started as a soft buzzing noise grew to low growls. Small yellow dots shined from the black forms. Gustav pulled his knife from his belt.
The unmasked man’s thin smile turned to a frown. His face hardened around the edges, and the years seemed to show.
“It is your fault she died,” the man said. “You took the one thing I cared for in this world. If you’d never brought Sybil Griswold to this forsaken place, Odela would still be alive.”
“There was nothing I could do! I didn’t know that would happen!” Gustav shouted, faltering as he tried stepping back.
The forms closed in, snarling and snorting.
Gustav spun around.
“It is your fault she died, Gustav Koehler,” the man repeated.
The black snarling shapes took form.
Wolves.
They leaped onto Gustav with a frenzy, claws and teeth ripping viciously.
Gustav tried to run, tried to swing his knife, but it was futile.
The wolves had no fear. They tore at his clothes and skin.
A giant maw latched onto his arm, driving him to the ground.
With pale, lifeless eyes, the lord inquisitor stared down at him, watching impassively as Gustav writhed and howled like the woman on the cross.
He could hear his own flesh ripping.
The last thing Gustav heard were the wolves howling back—or it might have been the man controlling them.
And then everything went red.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
As the hood was ripped from her head, Sybil sucked in her breath. She blinked a few times to gain her bearing. The night was calm. A soft breeze blew through her sticky hair. Someone was holding her by the elbow, leading her along a roadway.
She turned and there, off in the distance, was the northern gate of Trier.
She turned toward the person leading her and her face lit up.
Rowaine smiled back.
She looked behind her and saw two more familiar faces grinning back at her. One of them was Daxton Wallace.
The other was Georg Sieghart, Rowaine’s father.
“H-how?” was all Sybil could muster.
“My father says he was tailing Frau Odela for some time,” Rowaine said.
Georg put a hand on Rowaine’s shoulder. “You’ve done well, Beele, bringing Odela to Trier. She was a much bigger part of this story than you might realize. I learned of her while recovering in Rolf’s—well, Heinrich’s—estate two years ago.”
“Odela?” Sybil asked. She had no idea the old woman had burned in her stead. “What of her?”
“I was waiting f
or her to lead me to Heinrich,” Georg explained. “She appeared here once before, a few months ago. I didn’t catch her with Heinrich, but I knew she’d be back.” He glanced over his shoulder, making sure they weren’t being followed. The road they were on was dark and winding—cut away from the main thoroughfare. “Keep your legs moving.”
Sybil was still confused, but did as Georg instructed. Memories of Georg played in her mind. He hadn’t changed much. His injured left arm seemed to work again, and he still had the rugged beard and tough look of a seasoned huntsman.
“I became a guard for the dungeons you were placed in, to hide in plain sight, if you will.” He chuckled. “I obviously didn’t plan to see you in those dungeons. Perhaps it was fate. But I found Cat . . .” His lip trembled, his wet eyes glistened in the dark. “I had no idea she was alive. It’s been a blessing ten years coming.”
“You were waiting for Heinrich to play his hand?” Sybil asked.
Georg nodded. “It didn’t take long for me to realize he was the lord inquisitor. How he came to that position, I have no idea. I suspect Archbishop Ernst had something to do with it.”
“But wasn’t Heinrich . . . your friend?”
Georg snorted. “He betrayed my trust and tried to blame me for the murders in Bedburg. Does that sound like a friend? When he vanished, my name remained tarnished.”
“You did kill Uncle Konrad, father,” Rowaine said flatly.
Georg pulled his beard and raised a finger. “True. Your uncle was a vengeful man, Cat. He blamed me for your mother’s death . . . and for yours. He tried to kill me—I had to defend myself. I’m sorry.” Though he didn’t sound terribly sorry.
“When Odela arrived back in Trier, I knew my opportunity to act was soon,” Georg continued. “Then I saw you thrown in the dungeons and figured I should help.” He shrugged. “Catriona talked me into it.”
Rowaine punched him in the shoulder. “He came to us, Beele. Popped out of the shadows, of course.”
“How did you do it?” Sybil asked.
“I tracked Odela, found her in a dark alley, and took her. Then replaced you with the old hag during your execution walk. Simple.”