“Such a suspect would be politically sensitive, I take it?”
“So sensitive, in fact, that if something were to go wrong, there must be no evidence to suggest any Church involvement.”
“Which means that if something were to go wrong, the Church would disclaim all knowledge.”
“Precisely.”
“And the rewards would be commensurate with the risks?”
Cartier leaned back and put his feet up. “Of course.”
“In that case, I think I know a suitable someone. Is there any reason to believe this suspect might actually be a heretic?”
“Oh yes. That’s the beauty of it.”
“And, does this heretic have a name?”
“She does—she goes by Marguerite Serrola.”
. . . . .
“They’ve agreed to what?” Reston asked. Confinement to the lavishly appointed tent was beginning to chafe, and his frustration showed.
“I have no reason to doubt the veracity of my sources,” Michlos said. “The Inquisitors will be leaving, starting this afternoon.”
“But that makes no sense. Why send those Inquisitors all this way only to send them right back again?”
Michlos shrugged. “Perhaps breaching the University gates made their position untenable, or maybe they didn’t expect such an immediate response from the Crown.”
“Or they got what they came for,” Reston said. “Has there been any news of Alexi or Miss Merinne?”
“Nothing.”
“You realize if they’re captured, the repercussions will be unthinkable.”
“I am well aware—what would you have me do?”
“Set up a checkpoint at the gates. Search everyone who leaves.”
“And what would the Crown’s justification be for that?”
“He’s the Crown. They trespassed. Does he need a better reason?”
“If the Inquisitors haven’t already discovered something, the longer they stay, the greater their chances. I’m afraid the Crown will hesitate to jeopardize this concession without very good reason.”
“The University is in disarray. You could always spin it as looter deterrence.”
“Publicly accusing the Church of looting would not be viewed as a viable option.”
“What I meant was, you’d use it to discourage looting. You wouldn’t have to actually accuse anyone.”
“And if we find Alexi or Miss Merinne is in their custody? What then? Technically, they do have the right to arrest suspected heretics.”
“Then, you let me deal with that.” Reston said.
“Just to be clear, you would not have the backing of the Crown.”
Jonas took a heavy drag on his pipe. “I’d help.”
“I would too,” Tilly said.
Jonas turned to Amberton. “What about you, stick man?”
Amberton’s glare could have peeled paint. “Well, I can’t imagine why you’d need me, but of course I’d do what I could.”
“Splendid,” Michlos said. “I’ll see what I can arrange.”
. . . . .
Brent took a deep breath and stepped onto the coffin lid. For a second time, he read through the instructions emblazoned across the altar, correlating the text with the implements. Next, he turned his attention to two of the altar’s three containers. One was quite large, the second comparatively tiny, and the third, broad and flat. All three had hinged lids. First, he opened the small one, which appeared to be a jewelry box. Inside, nestled in black velvet, was a striking gold ring set with a large crimson stone. He put the small box aside. Next, he flipped back the lid of the larger box. From its depths, a gentle glow lit his face. Reaching inside, he reverently lifted out a cage, complete with a glowing, floating skull, and set it on the altar. He glanced over his shoulder—he was still alone.
After several minutes of fussing, he discovered the trick of the cage. He tugged the lynchpin rod, and the cage flew apart. Component rods clattered in all directions. The skull dropped to the altar.
The Monsignor’s voice echoed down the stairwell. “Are you all right down there?”
“Fine,” Brent called back. “I’m just a little clumsy is all.”
“Should we come down?”
“No—I’m not done yet.”
Brent next arranged the wands on the altar in a specific order. Bracing himself, he picked up the first wand and applied the tip to the skull. When nothing happened, he breathed a sigh of relief. He then took up the second wand and touched that to the skull. The skull shuddered and flattened, taking on a metallic sheen. Brent compared the result to the golden skull mask embedded in the altar—it had become an exact match, though, unlike the altar’s skull mask, the new mask still glowed. All was proceeding as expected.
Again, the Monsignor interrupted. “Are you sure you’re all right down there?”
“I’ve begun the procedure, but there are several steps to go. When I’m done, I’ll let you know.”
Setting the new mask aside, Brent removed the ring from its velvet repository and laid it on the altar. When its position satisfied him, he took up the third wand and applied its tip to the ring. A brisk whirlwind swirled his hair and stirred the dust blanketing the room. On the altar, a man now rested, his chest rising and falling rhythmically. The ring was the only thing he wore.
This time, the Monsignor’s voice brimmed with concern. “What was that?”
“I’m fine,” Brent yelled. “Almost done.”
Brent grabbed the fourth wand and touched it to the body, without apparent effect.
The Monsignor’s concern became alarm. “I’m coming down there.”
“Not just yet. Only one more to go.”
Brent set the wand aside and snatched up the mask. Gently he laid it over the face of the man on the altar. Just as the Monsignor appeared in the doorway, he touched the final wand to the masked man.
The Monsignor roared in horror. “Brent, NO!”
The glow from the mask seeped into the man’s body, filling it with light. He reached up, lifted the mask from his face and set it aside. As he withdrew his hand, the mask’s light winked out.
Brent was exultant. “True,” he cried. “The scriptures, Chervil’s Promise, all true. My sacrifice was not in vain.”
Behind the Monsignor, the others crowded into the chamber.
“Get back,” the Monsignor cried.
The man on the altar sat up and faced the Monsignor. “You have something that belongs to me.” Although his accent was strange, his words were clearly understandable. He lowered himself onto the dais.
Brent opened the third box and retrieved a black cloak, which he threw over the man’s shoulders.
“What do you think of your specious little faith now, Monsignor?” Brent sneered.
The Monsignor didn’t take his eyes from the cloaked figure. “I don’t know what you think you’ve accomplished here, Brent, but your complicity in creating this demon is unlikely to shake my faith.”
The daemon took a step toward the Monsignor. “The Morgatuan. It is mine.”
Brent bowed obsequiously. “He doesn’t understand, Vismort.”
The daemon turned on Brent. “What is there to understand? He holds my property in my domain.”
The Monsignor paled. “You demonized a Vismort?”
“Yes,” Brent hissed. “As we agreed. He’s our only hope of getting out. Now, give him the bloody scepter.”
The Monsignor backed against the wall as the daemon approached him, but Brent’s logic proved inescapable. Reluctantly, he placed the Morgatuan into the outstretched palm of its rightful owner.
Next the daemon turned to Dona, who was watching wide-eyed from the doorway. “Mistress, I would have words with you in private. The rest of you, begone.”
“Regarding that,” Brent interjected. “The hallway pit is open and blocks our exit.”
The Vismort shrugged. “A small matter.” With a swirl of his cloak, he strode past the Monsignor and the others into
the stairwell and up the steps, followed closely by the Bursar. The others waited nervously for the Monsignor’s guidance. He hesitated only a moment, and then, with Alphonse’s assistance, he hobbled after Brent.
When they reached the top of the stairs, the daemon turned again to Dona, who was assisting Alexi. “Mistress, if you would be so kind as to await me in the chamber, I shall meet you there presently.”
Dona froze.
The Monsignor attempted a diversion. “Perhaps the Mistress would prefer to witness first-hand the wonders of this installation’s defenses.”
The daemon rounded on the Monsignor. “I expect the Mistress is well enough familiar with the defenses she designed and implemented.”
“My apologies, Vismort. Still, it can be quite satisfying for a skilled craftsperson to witness her handiwork in action.”
The daemon’s eyes flashed. He shouted something incomprehensible—the Bursar cringed at the sound of it. The Monsignor’s features tinged blue, and he sank to the floor, twitching violently.
“My apologies, Mistress,” the daemon said. “Please, wait below. I shall not be long.”
Terrified, Dona retreated down the stairway.
Once she was out of sight, the daemon reached above the keystone over the stairway entrance. Again, the gritty blast of air assailed them, and when it died down, the pit and the stairway were gone—the corridor appeared exactly as it had before they had activated the Morgatuan.
The Monsignor continued to convulse but instead of rushing to help, Alexi stood immobile, his glare fixed on the Vismort, his jaw working silently.
The daemon waved dismissively. “See to it this one troubles me no more.”
Alphonse dropped to his knees at the Monsignor’s side. “I think he’s dying.”
Brent feebly attempted to drag the Monsignor by his shirt. “Don’t just sit there, help me.”
“We can’t move him like this. Please Vismort, sir, can’t you help him?”
The daemon sighed. “Oh, very well. Anything to expedite his miserable departure.”
He barked something in his strange tongue, and the Monsignor’s torments ceased.
At that instant, the daemon wavered, his jaw slackened, and he collapsed.
Alexi beamed in triumph. “Take that, you monster. You’re not the only one with the wherewithal to work a spell.”
Chapter Twelve
Visitations
Thurman sat bolt upright on his pallet as the door to the one-room cottage burst open. His initial terror gave way to recognition as a lone figure entered and latched the door.
“Where have you been?” Thurman said. “I’ve been waiting here for hours, and what I have to say can’t wait.”
The figure threw back an oversized hood revealing an ancient face and close-cropped white hair. Thurman’s hackles rose as the figure ignored him to peer out through each of the shutters, careful not to be visible to anyone who might be outside.
“What are you doing?”
“Making sure I wasn’t followed.
“Who would follow you?” Fixed by a look that combined condescension, pity, and indignation in equal measure, Thurman felt color creep into his cheeks. “That didn’t come out right.”
“Clearly.”
“I’m sorry.”
The old priest threw off the cloak, revealing the Ordinal vestments beneath.
Thurman’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. “Promotion?” His voice held a note of sarcasm.
“Long story. Now, tell me, what are you doing here? Where is your father?”
“He’s still in Trifienne. Isrulian accused him of heresy and took him into custody. I came as soon as I could.”
“Isrulian? Are you sure?”
“I was there. We have to tell Darron right away.”
“That may be difficult under the circumstances.”
“You don’t mean…”
“No, he still lives, but only barely. Laitrech has taken over in all but name.”
Thurman shuddered. “If it’s gotten this serious, can you convince Laitrech to give you access in advance of payment?”
“Is there some reason we can’t pay him now?”
Thurman colored again. “I was in the middle of completing the deal when we were interrupted by heretics, or I would have it by now, I swear.”
“Heretics? What nonsense is this?”
“Powerful. One of them killed five men with a wave of his hand. Another set the whole building ablaze with her locket and blinded everyone with darkness. I barely escaped.”
“Phrendonic Heretics? Is that what you mean? Be clear.”
Thurman nodded.
“Hmmm. It would appear our friendly neighborhood spirits merchant is not the innocent nouncer he pretends to be. Isrulian doesn’t know, does he?”
“Not about the heretics at the restaurant, or at least I don’t think he does. Of course, he does know we were investigating allegations of Phrendonic Heresy at the University. There was no concealing that.”
“What was Isrulian doing there in the first place?”
“I presume Laitrech sent him. I had written that I would be closing the deal shortly, and all of a sudden Isrulian arrived, wanting to confirm the goods, which, of course, I still didn’t have.”
“So, you showed him a fake?”
Thurman gulped. “I had to. I couldn’t very well tell him the deal had been interrupted by the merchant’s heretic friends. I even tried to track down the merchant. We had him cornered at a brothel, but when our men went in to apprehend him, there was another fire. Several Inquisitors were killed.”
“A Sacrificer?”
Thurman shook his head. “I wasn’t there, I can’t say for sure. Say, shouldn’t we be coming up with a way to get you access to the rectory before it’s too late?”
“Things have changed—I no longer need access to the rectory. Your Uncle isn’t sick.”
“I thought you said he was barely alive?”
“Poison will do that to a person.”
“Poison? I knew it. Was it Laitrech?”
“You have a better candidate?”
“But can you be sure?”
The old priest patted Laitrech’s Relic. “Let’s just say I had to resort to extreme measures, but yes, I’m sure.”
“Does Darron know?”
“He was warned, but given Laitrech’s hold on him, I doubt he’ll believe it.”
“Where is Laitrech now?”
“When I last saw him, he was napping in the Chapel.”
“You took his clothes and just left him there?”
“I didn’t know about the poison at that point.”
“So, when he wakes up and finds out someone is on to him, what’s to stop him from finishing the job?”
“The Bastion of Bethany, for one. He needs his Relic to get out, but that still may not give us much time. When Laitrech is missed, you can bet someone will look there. Once that happens, I doubt your uncle is long for this world.”
“Couldn’t you just go to him and warn him?”
“Given our history?”
“I could go.”
“And tell him what? That Laitrech is poisoning him? And when he asks how you know, what will you tell him?”
“The truth,” Thurman said.
“No offense, but Laitrech would almost certainly be able to convince him that you had simply been duped. It’s not so much a matter of truth—the problem is Laitrech's considerable influence. In retrospect. he’s done a marvelous job both of isolating your uncle and making himself indispensable. I can’t believe I didn’t see this coming.”
“We can’t just stand by and let this happen.”
“No, we can’t. But the only person I can think of with sufficient sway to counter Laitrech’s influence is your father.
Thurman gasped as the rationale for Isrulian’s bizarre behavior in Trifienne finally sank in. Isrulian was in on Laitrech’s plot, which meant he would try to keep Armand and Darron separated
at all costs—at least until the poison did its work. “What do we do, then?”
The priest collapsed wearily into a nearby chair. “That’s a very good question.”
. . . . .
The thunderheads began building early in the morning, and it didn’t take a seer to predict there would be weather. In the face of nature’s gathering wrath, Princess Celeste’s subjects were scrambling to put the scant remaining moments of sunshine to good use. They scuttled about, securing ships, shuttering shops, and bustling to shelter that which could not survive wind or water. Not one to miss an opportunity, the Princess secured an easel to the parapet atop the north tower and, with energetic strokes, was committing it all to canvas. From her vantage, she couldn’t miss the lone horsewoman winding her way up the long road to Ranselard Keep. An almost-imperceptible lifting of an eyebrow accompanied recognition of the incipient visitor. She made no move to set aside her brush.
When at last the plumes of Newcomb’s hat made an appearance at the trapdoor, she surveyed her artistic progress and sighed in resignation. “Such a pity—it might have been magnificent.”
“Yes, Highness,” Newcomb said dutifully.
“Please, show Miss Nevinander in—” Then her eyes glinted mischief. “Or rather, up.”
“You mean…up to the battlement?”
“If you would, please.”
“As your Highness wishes.”
The Princess resumed her art with a vengeance. Although she did her best to put the additional time to good use, it was clear it would not be enough. Indeed, only minutes passed before she heard footsteps in the chamber below.
“I don’t understand,” Verone said. “Is this some sort of joke? Where is the Princess?”
“The Princess has requested that you join her on the battlements,” Newcomb replied.
Verone’s voice rose nearly an octave. “Where?”
“I’m up here,” the Princess said.
“You mean, up this ladder?”
“You won’t regret it—the view is amazing.”
After a momentary pause, Verone started up the ladder. Almost immediately, her dress boot slid forward until the rung caught her heel. She would have fallen had Newcomb not steadied her. She set her jaw and continued without further mishap until her head popped through the opening. After several moments’ consideration, she placed her leather case to one side and twisted sideways to seat herself on the roof. She then rolled away from the hole and struggled to her feet with as much remaining dignity as she could muster.
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