“This Lavicius person—does he have a first name?”
The man raised his eyebrows. “You haven’t heard of Ordinal Lavicius?”
“He’s an Ordinal?”
“I suspect he has your mother to thank for that. He was so instrumental in the ‘success’ of the Inquisition at Caprian it catapulted him to prominence at a relatively young age.”
“Yes, but what was his first name?”
“Back then, they called him Barclay.”
Tilly nodded slowly. “And what’s all this nonsense about a baby brother?”
“When I came across your mother in one of the shelters, she’d been badly beaten, despite being very expectant.”
“The Inquisition again?”
“I doubt it. The wounds had none of the hallmarks of the Inquisitors’ favored implements. I tried to find out what had happened, but she wouldn’t speak, so we tended to her wounds as best we could and let her get some sleep. That night, she went into labor. I went to fetch the midwife myself. After my failure to get her to talk, I assumed she needed to see a familiar face. I told the midwife to let her know Lavicius would be there for her in the morning—that I would spend all night finding him if I had to.”
“And did you find him?”
“Yes, but he declined to come back with me—said he was too busy. He did ask me to convey his best wishes though.”
“And how did she react when you told her that?”
“I never got the chance. It was morning by the time I got back. The child had been born with little trouble despite your mother’s injuries. The midwife had left her to rest. When I went to check on them, your mother was gone.”
“And the baby?”
“Left behind.”
“I don’t believe any of this. My mother would never have abandoned her child.”
“I’m not sure she had a choice.”
“What do you mean?”
“Later that morning the shelter was raided without warning. Fortunately, the midwife had taken the child to find a wet nurse.”
“So, your father went back on his word?”
“No, my father had nothing to do with it. But I think I know who did.”
“Barclay.”
He nodded. “He was the only one out of the ordinary who knew. I have since acquired a healthy distrust of Ordinal Lavicius.”
“And what about the baby?”
“I told Lavicius it was stillborn. Then I took the child secretly away and placed him in my mother’s care. When, after a year or so, I finally despaired of ever finding your mother again, I formally adopted him. You can imagine my shock when I recognized your mother’s remains.”
“You could still recognize her? Even after all these years, and the fire?”
“It was actually her ring I recognized. And then, when I found out you owned the building, it all made sense.”
“Why do you even care? Nanna’s dead. Your son no doubt has his own life to live, and we have ours. What possible good could it do to bring this all up now?”
“Because of the way she died.”
“The Sacrifice? Is it really so strange to think that someone like her would choose that way to go? You said yourself that Caprian had a bunch of them.”
“Trifienne has recently had quite a few as well. Unfortunately, there have been several examples where the Sacrificer seems to have escaped unharmed. That suggests to me someone has learned to incinerate from a nice safe distance.”
“Are you saying you think someone else may have done this to Nanna?”
“I don’t know—that’s why I wanted to talk to you. Do you know what happened here?”
“Isn’t it obvious from the Constable’s corpse collection and all the devastation? The Inquisition cornered her at the end of the hallway behind you, and rather than risk another round of torture at their hands, she decided to end it all.”
He nodded. “That’s consistent with the evidence, but it leaves out one very important component.”
“What’s that?”
“Motive. Why were they interested in your mother in the first place?”
“You’re the one with all the fancy Church connections. Why don’t you just ask?”
“Oh, I intend to, but it’s easier to get a truthful answer when you already know the truth before you ask the question.”
“Out of curiosity, whom are you planning to ask?”
“My son.”
“What? You mean the same one who’s supposed to be my brother?”
“He’s the only one I’ve got.”
“Why would he know?”
“Because, according to the Constable, he ordered the attack.”
“Wait a minute. What did you say you named him again?”
“Who?”
“Your son.”
“I didn’t say, but his name is Thurman.”
“But that means that you must be—”
“Monsignor Armand Goodkin. A pleasure to finally meet you.”
“I thought you walked with a cane?”
The Monsignor reached past the frame of the door and retrieved a sturdy walking stick. “I do, but given the fates of the previous Inquisitors, I wanted to talk with you before you knew who I was. I find the cane sometimes gives me away.”
Tilly felt something snap. “Well, you’re quite the piece of work, Mister. Your precious Church murdered my father, destroyed my mother, and left my brother and me to cobble together a meager living out of the ashes. Fully aware of all of this, you waltz in here with some ridiculous story about raising a long-lost brother I’ve never even heard of, and now you want me to tell you what could possibly have possessed him to send Inquisitors to chase down his own mother. Well that’s just fine by me—one good turn deserves another, they always say. So, next time you two are having one of those little father-son chats, why don’t you just go ahead and ask him how that little grave-robbing project of his is going. While you’re at it, you can point out that, thanks to him, he can now add his own mother’s bones to the list of potential lootables.”
The Monsignor took a step back. “Perhaps it was insensitive of me to show up like this.”
“You’re damned right it was. Get out.”
The Monsignor shook his head. “Please understand I only came with the best of intentions.”
“Now.”
Though he held his head high, it was with a profound air of sadness that he disappeared back down the blackened corridor.
Once she was certain the Monsignor had really left, she rubbed her palms against each other as though brushing off unpleasant grime and went back to considering how best to restore the room. She found concentrating difficult, however, since her mind kept returning to the chest where her mother’s diary lay waiting for her. If there really had been a long-lost brother, wouldn’t there be some mention there? Impatient with her own curiosity, she retrieved the book and paged through it, more to disprove the ridiculous story than anything else. Skipping ahead to the last entry, she read:
We are leaving Caprian. Boothie knows nearly everything now—I couldn’t bear to keep lying to him. I expected anger or rage or even despair, but not this. Now that I’ve given them Lord Amarose, Boothie is convinced they’ll be coming for us all, and just when we need him most, I’ve made him lose the will to fight. He’s considering the Sacrifice, and not just in self-defense. He denies it, but I can tell—and after what I’ve done, I’ve lost all hope of reaching him. Why was I so wicked? If I must be punished, then why not punish me alone? Instead, every time I open my mouth, someone else dies. And now, even the Sacrifice is denied me—I can’t punish an innocent life for my sins. And, after everything else, how am I ever going to tell Boothie that? FRH, April 25, 888.
. . . . .
When Magister Treust arrived at the churchyard gate, it was standing ajar, the lock still dangling open from its chain. He bent to retrieve it, wondering whether he should simply buy time by locking it. A quick examination revealed the lock had su
ffered no damage. Whoever opened it had either picked it or had stolen the key—but that didn’t really tell him much, since neither option was likely to be beyond Vane, or Michlos either for that matter.
“Looking for this?” Vane held up a key as he approached through the graveyard.
“I was, now that you mention it. I wasn’t aware we’d found a replacement for Stuart. When did you start?”
“I borrowed it from Magister Celeric. I was hoping to get a bird’s-eye view of all the changes you’ve made here since I left. He suggested the steeple as the best place for that.”
“Did he also suggest you ring out the joyous tidings of your arrival, or was that your idea?”
Vane pocketed the key. “I apologize for that. Once I got up there, I noticed the mechanism and couldn’t resist trying to figure it out. I’m pretty sure I’ve reset it properly now.”
“Is that so? How did you set it off in the first place?”
“Are you testing me?”
“Sorry. Force of habit—but I am curious.”
“Who could forget the tale of how the wily Michlos Serrola bypassed the Eye of Moravidos to ring the bell?”
“Since when did privileged exam material become a part of the general curriculum?”
“It’s not,” Vane replied. “But students talk.”
“I’ll have to take that into account when I’m designing new tests. Shall we go make sure you didn’t miss anything?”
“It was pretty straightforward—I hardly think that will be necessary.”
“I don’t mind at all. It’s not every day I get the opportunity to show off my handiwork to someone with genuine interest.”
“I’ve already been enough trouble. Besides, I should get this key back to Magister Celeric. Under the circumstances, he’ll probably want to make sure it’s back where it belongs as soon as possible.”
“A few more minutes either way shouldn’t matter. If you’re in a hurry, you can just give the key to me, and I’ll make sure it finds its way back.”
“That’s very kind of you, but I’d just as soon return it myself. I’d rather not risk him thinking I’m any more irresponsible than I must already seem for ringing the bell.”
“Keep the key then. But I’d like you to come with me to check the mechanism in any event—if there’s something amiss I might need your help to fix it. Not only that, but I think I’ve come up with a way to replace your Amulet, and we may as well take this opportunity to discuss it.”
“Why don’t we go return the key first. We can talk on the way.”
“That would be a waste of time. You know very well I can’t run off and leave the gate open—we’d have to turn around and bring the key right back to get through again. Come on, Josephus—I’m trying my best here. I’m not accusing anyone of anything, but if you should happen to need to put something back while we’re inspecting the mechanism—as far as I’m concerned you could, no questions asked.”
Vane rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Before he responded, however, Princess Celeste appeared. She had swept her hair back up under the diadem and managed to look regal despite the stains and the dust.
“The Magister may not have any questions, but I do.”
Magister Treust nodded deferentially. “Your Highness, may I present Josephus Vane. He’s one of our graduates, back for a visit.”
“Princess…Celeste?” Vane asked.
“The same.” She turned to Treust. “Magister, I’ve been renting this land for a pittance to your so-called ‘elite’ academy for eons now, but this is perhaps the first graduate I’ve ever seen. Doesn’t that strike you as strange?”
Treust blinked. “Well, we do try to instill a sense of modesty in our students.”
“Really? By ensuring they remain inconsequential? If that’s your strategy, it seems to be working.” She turned back to Vane. “Mr. Vane, who are you, and why haven’t I heard of you before?”
A sly smile crept across Vane’s face. “In my case, you may not have heard of me because after I graduated, I moved out of the area. I assure you I am well thought of within my circle.”
“And what circle is that, pray tell?”
“I apologize in advance if my answer offends. Your stance on the matter is well known, but I am only here unofficially.”
“Get to the point, Mr. Vane.”
“I am employed by the Church as an Inquisitor. I’m only here visiting my alma mater, and even though I would certainly understand if you chose to evict me from the premises, I meant no disrespect.”
“So, it appears the elite academy is actually more of an elite seminary. Excellent—that will make for a much gentler adjustment when I reconcile with the Church.”
Magister Treust’s jaw dropped. “Reconcile with the Church?”
“You aren’t questioning my decision, are you?”
“Of course not, Your Highness.”
“Wise. Now, Mr. Vane, if you are as respected as you let on, perhaps you’ll have some suggestions as to how best to broach the subject with the Church.”
Vane cleared his throat. “Typically, one would send an envoy to the Holy City to negotiate the terms of the reconciliation, preferably someone with expertise in Canon law.”
“Someone like an Inquisitor?”
“Possibly, but where a Monarchy is involved, it would more likely be someone of higher rank.”
“With commensurately greater incentive to favor the Church, I presume.”
“I imagine that would depend on whom you chose.”
“What about you, Mr. Vane? What if I were to choose you?”
“Then I would wonder about your motives.”
“My motives are simple. Years of excommunication and interdiction have taken their toll. I can think of no one who remains on my little island with the type of expertise required for these negotiations. But if I recruit an expert from outside, he will probably be beholden to the Church instead of the Island. You may not feel you have sufficient expertise, but at least you have some, and the rest can be learned. What’s more important is your connection to the Island. You’ve lived here. You understand who we are—what it means to be a member of this Colony. That’s not something I’m likely to find anywhere else.”
“I don’t understand—are you asking me to be your envoy?”
“Not yet. We would need to speak at length—I’d need to get a much better idea of the extent of your qualifications and abilities. I merely suggest that you possess some unique qualities that might make you an attractive candidate. Are you interested?”
Vane nodded slowly. “I am.”
“Good. I’ll finish my business here shortly. Once I have, I’d like you to be my guest at Ranselard Keep.”
“I would be honored.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can manage it. Don’t make me wait.”
Vane bowed deeply. “I will head there directly, Your Highness.”
The Princess acknowledged him with a nod.
With an inscrutable smile at Magister Treust, Vane slid out through the gate and headed down the path.
. . . . .
Once Vane was out of earshot, the Princess turned back to Treust. “You might want to call off the posse before he gets wind something is amiss, preferably before he makes it back to the dining hall.”
“Right away, Your Highness.”
As he made to pass her, she put a hand on his arm. “Did he take it?”
Treust nodded. “I’m pretty sure he did.”
“There was blood on his sleeve. Did you see it?”
“I didn’t notice.”
“Have you seen Michlos?”
“No.”
“Bring help.”
Treust nodded again, and she sprinted for the Church. Thistles and grasses tore at her cloak and caught the heels of her dress boots, which were crafted more for marble floors and state occasions. Only when she finally felt the cool curve of the door latch did she hesitate. Based on Michlos’s description, she envisioned th
e space beyond as a seething gantlet of dangerous heresies. She threw the door open but did not step inside.
“Michlos? Are you here?”
Candles flickered in the breeze, and the acrid scent of incense enveloped her.
She called again. “Are you hurt?”
Sunlight flooded through the rose window to create a spectacular display on the floor in front of her, but under the circumstances, it held for her all the charm of a great round target.
“Michlos, are you in here?” She began to second-guess herself. Was there any way he could have missed Vane? Could he still be searching out back of the Church? But her mind’s eye kept returning to the crimson smear across Vane’s sleeve. Squeezing her eyes shut, she took a deliberate step across the threshold into the light. Nothing untoward happened. She opened her eyes and looked both ways to make sure she hadn’t missed anything. Only then did she resume breathing.
“Well, perhaps he exaggerated a bit. He is prone to that, after all.”
She took another tentative step. “Michlos?”
Emboldened by her success, she started to relax.
“If this ends up being some sort of prank—”
She froze mid-step, her foot suspended above the first row of mosaic tiles that lined the aisle between the seats. She’d heard a noise—metal against stone, faint and oddly muffled. It wasn’t coming from ahead of her—it was off to the side.
She took a step back. “Who’s there? Michlos, is that you?”
Cautiously, she advanced toward the stairwell. “Are you there?” Peering down the steps, she could make out a glow reflecting off the open door from somewhere farther in. Unlike lamplight, the glow was strong and steady. It reminded her of the crystals suspended above her paintings—or the buckle of Michlos’s hat.
“Michlos? I’m coming down.”
She took the stairs as quickly as her boots allowed and threw the door open all the way. She’d hoped to see Michlos standing there with his crazy hat and an insouciant grin. Instead, she saw only a glowing rapier. It was lying against one wall, its light casting ominous shadows in the ceiling vaults. She approached cautiously, trying to determine whether it might be something Michlos would have willingly left behind. She’d just leaned over for a closer look when she again heard a faint sound of metal against stone. It was louder here.
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