Jostling Thurman aside and sweeping off his hat, he dropped to one knee.
“It is I, Your Primacy, Thoren Theratigan, Demon Hunter Extraordinaire. Now and ever, at your service.”
“Oh, give me a break,” Thurman muttered.
Theratigan’s head snapped toward Thurman, his visible eye skewering him with a look of intense suspicion. He rose to his feet and replaced his hat.
“If I may be so bold, Your Primacy, just who might this be?”
The Primal eye twinkled. “May I present my nephew, Father Thurman Goodkin.”
“Nephew, eh? We’ll see about that.” Theratigan produced a jar, removed the lid, and held it out, but when Thurman reached for it, he drew it back. “Don’t touch.” He presented the jar a second time “Spit, please.”
Thurman stepped back. “What?”
With barely concealed amusement, his uncle mouthed the words “humor him.”
As Theratigan’s polished toe tapped impatiently, Thurman felt every eye in the room fix squarely on him. Shaking with indignation, he felt his mouth go suddenly dry. “I’d rather not.”
Theratigan turned sharply back to the Primal. “In that case, Your Primacy, I cannot rule him out as a suspect. Guards, take him.”
Everyone started whispering at once. The guards flanking the Primal exchanged glances, as though uncertain whether to comply.
The Primal held up his hand. “Quiet.”
Silence fell.
“Thurman,” he said, no longer smiling, “might I prevail upon you to reconsider?”
Thurman’s cheeks colored. This ridiculous little man was going to succeed at subjecting him to this gross public indignity, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He spoke between clenched teeth. “If that is your wish, Your Primacy.”
Theratigan thrust the jar at him once again. “Spit, please.”
After several intensely embarrassing moments, Thurman managed to hack out a small driblet of spittle, which caught on his chin on the way out. It hung there for an eternity before, finally, falling free.
The disgusting little man caught it deftly in his jar. After a moment’s examination, Theratigan clicked his heels and faced the Primal. “He passed. He’s not a demon.”
The whispering resumed at once, and Thurman couldn’t shake the feeling that everyone in the room was laughing at him. The thought of it made him physically ill. Even though his business with his uncle was far from over, he bowed stiffly and fled the chamber.
. . . . .
The old priest padded softly down the long marble corridor until, just ahead, in the sputtering lamplight, an ancient metal-bound door loomed. Intent listening revealed only silence. The key felt leaden, but it still turned the lock, and the door creaked inward. A few swift, silent steps and the door clicked back into place against the frame. Each step grew more reluctant—and rightfully so. Murder was grim business—one never got used to it. The dust-laden corridor stretched ahead into darkness, the unseen Bastion an oppressive reminder of the sanctity of this ancient place and of the enormity of the impending deed. Other than its effect on the conscience, the Bastion offered up no resistance this night. Step by agonizing step, the old priest moved forward, half wishing the ward had failed and the way had been barred.
Every imaginable scenario lacking this single critical act had played out with disastrous outcomes. Yet, doubt circled, vulturelike. Could Laitrech himself have been duped? Was it possible he was unaware of the taint in his concoctions? Doubtful, of course—Laitrech was no rube. And yet, how easily he had fallen prey to the Curator trick. But then, what of his diagnosis? Could he possibly have gotten it so drastically wrong by accident? What if his only sin was misrepresenting his skills?
And there stood the final door, an arm’s-length away. The old priest breathed deeply, banishing all distraction and uncertainty. No use in dithering—there was, quite simply, no other way. The door flew wide and the old priest, wearing an expression both bleak and terrible, stepped inside—only to gape in surprise.
The desk, where by all calculations Laitrech should still lie sleeping, was empty.
. . . . .
“Young Goodkin, if I could beg a moment of your time?”
Fresh from his mortifying encounter with Theratigan, Thurman was in no mood to chat. But scion of a house of Primals and Ordinals though he was, even he thought twice before refusing an Ordinal’s overture.
“Of course, Your Ordinence,” Thurman said. “How can I be of assistance?”
Ordinal Lavicius smiled expansively, putting Thurman instantly on his guard. Tall and trim, with glittering eyes and a touch of grey at the temples, Lavicius had a charm about him that most found difficult to resist. It was a trait he exploited ruthlessly.
“Walk with me,” he said. “What’s the news from Trifienne?”
Thurman struggled to keep up with the Ordinal’s brisk stride. “The heresy investigation continues.”
“I understand you were instrumental in extracting a confession.”
“It was a team effort.”
“That’s not what I heard.”
“I’m just a cog in the great machine of justice,” Thurman said.
“Come now—no need ply me with false modesty. You hail from extraordinary stock and are destined to do great things. The sooner people realize that, the sooner they can get out of your way. Take credit where it’s due.”
Thurman blushed. “You are too kind.”
“Nonsense, I call things as I see them. I’ve been privileged to know quite a number of great men in my time. Do you know what sets apart those who attain their dreams from those who merely show potential?”
“I really haven’t given it much thought.”
“It’s the company of other great men.”
“I suppose that makes sense.”
“Of course it does. Great ideas are synergistic, and so are the efforts of those who think them. That’s why my heart goes out to the gifted man who struggles to make a name in isolation. I’ve made it a mission of sorts to help such men if ever I should happen across them. Thurman—may I call you Thurman?”
Thurman nodded.
“I think you are just such a man.”
“I…I don’t know what to say.”
Lavicius displayed one of his glittering smiles. “Humble to the bitter end. Have you by chance heard of the Accipitrine Order?”
“Wasn’t that one of the heretical groups ordered to disband during the Caprian Inquisition?”
Lavicius frowned. “Yes, well, those were dark days, and people are always suspicious of what they don’t understand. Fortunately, the Order survived in spite of that little misunderstanding. Anyway, I’d like to invite you to attend one of our meetings. I think you will find membership has much to commend it.”
Thurman saw no way to politely decline. “I would be honored.”
The Ordinal picked up on his hesitation. “I know you’re wondering what a humble young priest such as yourself would have to offer such an august group.”
“Well, actually—”
Lavicius held up his hand. “Say no more. While a little humility can be an endearing trait, until you are better established, you are going to have to fight that urge. After all, not only do you have a remarkable pedigree, you also have a swift and definitive Phrendonic Heretic’s confession to your credit. Combined with the fruits of your recent efforts to recreate an Ordinal’s Relic, I’m sure you would be a shoe-in for membership.”
Thurman’s jaw dropped. “Who told you about that?”
Lavicius took a step back. “My apologies if I’ve somehow violated a confidence. I presumed it was common knowledge.”
“It isn’t,” Thurman said. “Or at least, it shouldn’t be. Who else knows?”
Lavicius shrugged. “Who can say? These things have a way of getting around. Now that it has, the real question is what do you plan to do with the information? If you haven’t already sold it to Laitrech, I’m sure I could arrange a more attract
ive offer, including, should you require it, the protection of the Accipitrines. I assure you, their good will is vastly preferable to their animus. Besides, given Laitrech’s unfortunate disappearance, what guarantee do you have that he will be able to fulfill any promises he may have made?”
“I appreciate your kind offer, Your Ordinence, but there’s one small problem. I haven’t succeeded, so as of right now, there isn’t anything to sell.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I do hope, however, that you will keep me in mind if you succeed. The Accipitrines would no doubt be very disappointed if they discover they were overlooked as potential purchasers for this information, should it become available.”
“Thanks for letting me know.”
Lavicius flashed another smile. “I’m already looking forward to our next meeting. I do hope you’ll make it sooner rather than later.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Lavicius patted Thurman’s arm affirmingly. “I know you will.”
As the Ordinal wandered off to engage another potential victim, Thurman was left with the distinct impression he would have been better off had he stayed put in Trifienne.
. . . . .
It seemed like forever since Alphonse had pulled up the bridge and dragged it through the doorway. Dona was beginning to second-guess her impulsive sacrifice. The non-stop chattering of her teeth made it impossible to concentrate and devise a way back across the gorge. After her harrowing experience at the balcony, she wasn’t about to try climbing hand-over-hand, and forging her way alone in total darkness through treacherous caverns was unthinkable.
The glowing locket suddenly appeared across the water.
Dona had to shout to be heard over the rushing cataract. “How’s it going over there?”
“We’ve made progress,” Alphonse called back. “Alexi found some flint, and we’re trying to start a fire. We split some of the slats for kindling, and we tore up the stuffed toy to catch the sparks. I think it’s going to work.”
Dona groaned. “You’re starting a fire without me?”
“The Monsignor thinks it might be the only way to save Brent. Have you thought of a way to get back?”
“Not yet.”
“Well, when the Monsignor brought the Morgatuan up onto the balcony, it opened another passage. He thinks it leads back into the Ossarium. The sooner you get back here, the sooner we can get out of here.”
“Don’t tell me we have to start over?”
Alexi joined Alphonse on the outcrop. “We got a fire started. The Monsignor is trying to revive Brent. You and Alphonse saved our lives.”
Dona hugged herself for warmth. “Now if only I could save my own. It’s freezing over here.”
Alexi nudged Alphonse, who raised the locket in Dona’s direction. “I can’t do anything about that, but…hold still.”
By now she should have expected it, but she was still startled when her cloak began to glow.
“There,” Alexi said. “At least you don’t have to plan in the dark.”
“It’s not a warm bath,” Dona said, “but it’s still a big improvement. Thank you.”
Alexi bowed. “It’s the least I could do for the woman who saved my life.”
“Yes, and you’re not off the hook until you return the favor, so start thinking. In the meantime, as long as I have light, I’m going to see where this ledge leads. Someone built that bridge for a reason.”
“No, stay where you are,” Alexi said. “The light will only last for an hour, and you could get lost. All these tunnels look the same.”
“I’m just going along the ledge a little ways. I’ll be back in twenty minutes, tops.”
“Dona, come back here.”
She glanced over her shoulder. “Twenty minutes.”
Alphonse shrugged at Alexi, as if to say I told you so.
Alexi pointedly ignored him.
. . . . .
The ledge was wide and flat, and with the light from her cloak, Dona moved quickly. She wanted to make her twenty-minutes count—and a brisk pace might warm her up a little. She only made it five minutes before she stopped—above her loomed an enormous machine. The wheels, chains, and gears reminded her of a clock mechanism, but there was no face. She knew it couldn’t be the guts of the Exidgeon clock tower, since she had seen them once, and they were sensibly deployed within the tower proper, not unaccountably buried in a cave. Perhaps the chains that reached up out of sight were attached to some other less-well-known clock inhabiting one of Exidgeon’s ancient pre-campus buildings. If that was true, it had stopped keeping time, since the mechanism showed no signs of movement.
In a thicket of chains on the far side, she spied a waist-high mound piled high with a small library of moldering books. She was instantly among them, eager to determine whether they held the key to the mystery of the mechanism or a way out of the caves. To her great disappointment, the first book she seized was covered with the inscrutable symbols she had come to recognize as Tep’Chuan. The same was true of the second, and the third.
Aware her time was slipping away, she rummaged through the stacks. With the books that didn’t fall to pieces at her touch, it was the same each time—those maddening unreadable symbols. Since the books in the center of the pile seemed to be in better shape, she tried examining their spines for any sign of a readable language, but they were too closely stacked. She moved some of the crumbling books off the mound but still couldn’t see the spines at the bottom. After wasting precious time removing some of the outer books, she braced her foot and put her hip into trying to slide them apart. When they hit an obstruction, she lost her balance. Books toppled in all directions, raising a great cloud of dust and mildew. Sprawled amongst them, she felt a most unsettling tremor, accompanied by the screech of strained metal and a rattling of chains. The gears of the great contraption hiccupped.
She froze, not breathing until the chains were perfectly still. Then, she struggled to regain her feet, but the chains jerked once more. As eager as she had been to know the machine’s purpose, she had no desire to see it in operation until she was at a much safer distance.
Once the mechanism settled, she rose slowly, careful to avoid any sudden movements. This time the mechanism behaved, but as she tried to step away, her cloak toppled a precariously balanced stack. The machine screeched, the gears whirled, and the chains pulled taut. The floor lurched, and Dona fell again. Only now did she realize she was on a platform, and it was rapidly lifting her into the air.
As she clambered to one side to look down, several volumes tumbled off the edge. She peered over in time to see them swallowed by the raging river below. Terrified, she shrank back from the edge, holding fast as the platform shot upward. Vaguely, she was aware of a large shape passing her in the void and wondered whether it could be some form of counterweight.
With a shudder, the mechanism ground to a halt. The platform swayed gently. Inching back to the edge, Dona could see a bin of rocks suspended just below her. If it was a counterweight, it had stopped in an odd spot—as had she. She could see nothing to suggest she’d reached a destination. With a sinking feeling, she realized the contraption must have gotten stuck.
She rocked the platform—slightly at first, but with effort that increased with her frustration. Whatever was blocking the mechanism held fast. After a few minutes, she stopped, since she was making no headway and was uncomfortable with the thought of the extra strain on the ancient chains. Her eye strayed to the bin of rocks. If she could get rid of some of the rocks, her platform might be heavy enough to reverse direction, but she could think of no way to do that. Her only option was to add to the counterweight—to go forward rather than back. One by one she tossed books toward the bin. With luck, she might change the balance enough to overcome the obstruction.
Unfortunately, the platform wasn’t a very stable place for book-tossing, and she was still chattering from the cold. Even though most of her tosses missed, they still lightened her platform—but the obstruction hel
d. She tried rocking the platform again. At last, terrified the chains would snap, she risked hopping. The mechanism heaved and squealed. Once again, the platform rose.
Dona hugged her knees, relieved she was moving again. She dreaded her destination. Would it be any better than being stuck? Finally, the platform came to rest against the cavern wall. The ceiling at this point was unnaturally flat, perhaps hand hewn, and close enough so she couldn’t stand without hitting her head. Centered above the platform was a pair of oval holes large enough to squirm through. The air was fresher, and she heard the deep rumble of thunder. Upon worming her way through a hole. she found herself in a tiny, oddly familiar room. As she pondered it, the door was wrenched open from the outside.
Dona had nowhere to go. She stood, eyes wide and heart pounding, helpless against this new threat. Then her jaw dropped—there, in the doorway, stood her gangly dormitory nemesis, Arietta Charwick.
In a flash, the pieces fell into place—she’d climbed into the garderobe. Even Arietta’s sour face couldn’t spoil her delight.
Dona’s still-glowing countenance had a vastly different effect on Arietta, however. With an earsplitting shriek, she bolted down the hallway.
Dona poked her head out and watched her flee. And to think they told me Phrendonic Heresy wasn’t useful.
. . . . .
Arerio inclined his head briefly. “The room is prepared.”
Marguerite looked up from her writing. “And our guests?”
“Awaiting your arrival.”
“Well, we mustn’t keep them waiting. And our special guest?”
Aerio kept a respectful pace two steps behind her. “Resting comfortably, as you directed. If you prefer, I could see to it that he rests through the night.”
Marguerite stopped short. “Arerio, did you just make a suggestion?”
Arerio blushed furiously. “Forgive me, I have overstepped.”
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