by Bobby Adair
Instead, he found Fitzgerald.
Franklin gasped. He hesitated. For a moment, he feared he had walked into the wrong chambers, and that he was about to get a scolding. The familiar bed sheets and belongings assured him he was in the right place.
"Fitz?" he managed, still not able to believe he wasn't dreaming.
She walked toward him. Franklin held up his hands, preparing for a slap or a tirade. He was surprised when she embraced him. Franklin buried himself in Fitz's hair, taking in smells that he thought he'd never inhale again.
"Where have you been?" he asked, tears in his eyes. "I've missed you so much."
She leaned back, studying him. "I needed some time to think things over."
Franklin paused, afraid to say something that might send her away again. "I know you must hate me. I—"
"I don't want to hear it, Franklin." She put her finger to his lips, silencing him. "Not that I don't want to, but I can't hear it. Do you understand?"
Franklin nodded gravely. "I understand."
"We need to move past all of this. I can't think of death and suffering anymore. Winthrop is gone. That's what's important. It's the only thing that has allowed me to sleep these past few days."
"I know. I've been telling myself the same thing."
They embraced for several seconds. Franklin felt a rightness in holding her, a desire to forego his duties and devote all his time to her. Father Nelson's screams seemed to disappear as they hugged. Composing himself, he smiled.
She pinched the folds of his robe. "Where'd you get this?"
"It was Bishop Garrett's. It doesn't quite fit. I was going to have it tailored."
"You look silly," she said, batting at the folds.
Franklin nodded and smiled. "I'm getting used to it."
"I assume you're getting used to a lot of things." Fitzgerald beckoned around the room. "Like this new bed. Do you like your new quarters?"
"It's a lot bigger than a novice's room."
"It seems comfortable." Fitz smiled coyly.
"It is. I haven't been doing much sleeping, though. I was too busy worrying about you."
"It looks like you've been putting together some notes for your sermon."
"I have mass coming," Franklin confirmed, nodding. "I've been studying the reference books that Bishop Garrett left to Winthrop. I don't think Winthrop ever touched them. I found them in his closet."
"Winthrop can't read, can he?"
"No. Even if he could, he wouldn't look at them. Winthrop can't imagine anything in a book that isn't already in his head."
"We won't have to worry about him anymore."
"I hope." Franklin smiled, feeling a vindictive happiness at the thought of Winthrop in the wild. He motioned to his desk, which was littered with papers and notes. "I've picked a lot of passages from these reference books. I'm thinking of incorporating some of them in my sermon. But I'm having trouble putting all of it together. It's a lot harder than it looks."
"I can help, if you'll read them to me," Fitz said. "This will be your first mass since Winthrop left. I know it'll be important."
"That would be great."
"First I have duties to attend to."
Fitz headed for the door.
"Wait!" Franklin said, not realizing how loudly he'd spoken. "Where are you going? I haven't seen you in days."
"I have beds to make, floors to clean. I'm behind on all of them."
"You don't need to do that anymore, now that I'm Bishop."
"Of course, I do. I can't just relax in your quarters all day." Fitz smiled.
"That doesn't matter anymore, with Winthrop gone," Franklin said. "I won't treat you like he did."
"Now that you're in charge?"
Franklin blushed, still not used to that fact. "Stay with me for a while longer?"
Fitz bit her lip. "I suppose I could."
"You can help me with my sermon."
Fitz smiled as she walked back toward him. He took her by the waist and pulled her onto the bed.
"I think you want me to help you with other things."
**
Franklin lay next to Fitz, staring at the ceiling. The anxiety and fear of the past few weeks seemed to have melted with his reunion with Fitz.
"It's hard to believe so many people are gone," Fitz said, clutching Franklin's hand. "The streets seem just as full, with so many people from other townships and villages. But I know they won't be here forever."
"Some of them are already sneaking back to their villages, with Blackthorn gone. Even though there is no military outside of Brighton to protect them."
"That's dangerous. Hopefully, they'll survive the journey. At least we don't have to worry about the famine. Those that remain here will be in Brighton for a while. Then they'll return to their own villages and use their own food stores. Blackthorn's army will feed themselves in the wild."
"That's true." Franklin bit his lip, thinking about the coincidence of that fact. "It's funny how that worked out."
Fitz propped herself up one elbow to look at Franklin. "We should probably get dressed so you can get back to your sermon. You don't want the clergy to think you lay with women all day, do you?"
"I could stare at you all day," Franklin mused.
"I know you could, but you shouldn't."
"You're right," Franklin admitted. "You always are, Fitz." He sat up next to her and located his robe on the floor.
"I still say that robe looks silly."
"Oliver told me that, too." Having mentioned Oliver by accident, Franklin averted his eyes.
"Where is Oliver, anyway? I haven't seen him in a while." Fitz looked around the room as if Oliver might be hiding somewhere.
"He's not here."
"What do you mean?" Fitz's brow furrowed as she studied Franklin. "Not at the Sanctuary?"
"No. He's not in Brighton."
"Where is he?"
"He went out with the army."
"The army?" Fitz gasped, covering her mouth in shock. "What is he doing with them?"
Franklin paused as he tried to figure out the best way to explain things to her. Ever since Oliver had left, Franklin had fought the desire to chase him down, to force him back to the Sanctuary. The only thing stopping him was the promise he'd made to Oliver. He needed to be his friend for once.
I've hurt him enough.
With a sigh, he launched into his explanation.
"He practically begged me to let him go out with the army," Franklin said. "He hates it here."
"I know, but Winthrop is with the army!" Fitz said, shaking her head. "Why would he go with Winthrop, when he hates him? He could've been safe, especially with you as the Bishop!"
"That's the thing. He wants to…" Franklin looked around as if saying the words might be a betrayal. He stared at the thick wooden door on his quarters. "I don't know how to say this."
"Tell me, Franklin." Fitz stared at him with accusatory eyes.
"He wants to kill Father Winthrop."
Fitz sat up straight, the revelation sending her into panic. "Kill him? And you let him go? What were you thinking?"
"He wanted to leave, Fitz. I tried everything to stop him."
"You could've ordered him to stay! He's a novice—your novice—now that you have Father Winthrop's position!"
"He was determined. You should've seen his eyes, Fitz."
"All the beatings you and Father Winthrop have given him have tormented him, Franklin. He needs protection, not to be sent out in the wild!"
"That's the thing, Fitz," Franklin said, his lips trembling. "I could've forced him to stay. The person I was a few days ago might've done that. But after seeing Oliver's face, I know he would've hated me. He would've lived the rest of his life resenting me."
Fitzgerald shook her head, her face filled with concern. "Resenting you is better than dying. He'll be killed out there!"
"I'm not so sure," Franklin said, trying to put his mixed feelings into words. "He's…changed, Fitz. He bough
t himself weapons and some armor I've never seen before."
"Armor?"
"Some kind of strange metal shirt. It will protect against the demon bite. One of the blacksmiths made it for him."
"Where did he get the coin for that?"
"I'm not sure. He's resourceful. This is a strange thing to say, but I think he might succeed in killing Father Winthrop."
"Succeed?" Fitz shook her head. "My God. Then what? What becomes of him? We have to stop him, Franklin. We have to find a way to get him back to the Sanctuary. I hate Winthrop as much as you do, but Oliver must be stopped."
"Even if I could stop him, I wouldn't," Franklin said. "I promised."
Fitz stood from the bed, anger written on her face. She grabbed her dress. "If you won't go get him, then I will."
"Fitz, please!" Franklin jumped from the bed, taking her arm. He pulled her toward him. "I can't lose you, too. As much as I fear what might happen to him, I've accepted that Oliver needs to make his own choices. I promised him that, as his friend."
"I don't—"
"Trust me." Franklin put all his resolve into a stare.
"A friend?" Fitz sat on the edge of the bed, smearing worried tears from her eyes. "And if he dies? What will you do then?"
"He has what he needs to succeed in his mission. I believe he will succeed." Franklin kept his eyes on Fitzgerald's. "I've been thinking about it. If Oliver is successful, this will be the last thing solidifying what we've worked for, Fitz. This could be our guarantee that the Bishop's seat will stay with me."
Fitz watched him with tears in her eyes. "You would trade his life to secure your position."
"If I send for him, it'd be more suspicious than letting him go," Franklin said. "Please. You have to trust me on this, Fitz. I have faith in him. I know he'll be back."
"I-I want to trust you." She reached over and took his hand, giving it a squeeze. "I just want Oliver to be safe."
"So do I, Fitz. So do I."
Chapter 28: Oliver
Oliver marched down the pass with the army for most of the afternoon. The road they followed had been there since the days when the Ancients wielded Tech Magic to shape the world. In places, the ancient stone was flat, smooth, and wide enough for a dozen horses to walk abreast. In other places, the only evidence of the road were the ruins of structures scattered solitarily and in clumps at inexplicable intervals along a muddy path.
When the march was ordered to halt for the day, it was immediately clear to Oliver that the army would not be camping together, but would be spread out in small meadows along the road and river. Worse still, most of the army had passed a bald hill and were setting up camp in a part of the canyon far away and around a bend. That seemed to Oliver like a wall dividing the army.
Demon howls had been echoing off the rock faces throughout the day. And though no demons had attacked during that day's march, the old men and the women kept looking over their shoulders, thinking about what had happened the day before. The pigs and sheep bolted and ran ahead whenever the howls grew too loud. The only thing that kept everyone from running ahead of their slower comrades was the knowledge that two cohorts of militia—a thousand men—were at the rear of the column, there to protect the camp followers should the pursuing demons decide to come.
Adding to the tension of the demons up the valley, a new rumor was spreading among the camp followers. A supply train of a few hundred draft animals and soldiers bringing supplies from Davenport was supposed to have met the army along the road earlier that day. The stores were intended to make up for the obviously insufficient stock of food the army brought with them. The supply train didn't show up, and no one knew where they were. The prospect of empty bellies and a north wind growing colder by the hour had everyone griping.
Rather than camp in a small meadow among camp followers, Oliver decided he'd be better off spending his night as far from the tail end of the army as was possible. He left the company of the women he'd walked near all day and followed the road through a dense stand of pines, looking for the next clearing.
He came out of the trees to find himself among the men he'd been among the night before, those who'd huddled around Winthrop's fire, those with bloody handprints on their chests. Most of them were busy strutting and puffing their chests, displaying spattered demon blood on their faces and arms, and bragging of their exploits. They already had a fire burning with flames reaching twenty feet high. They were adding logs to it and others were in the trees nearby, chopping. They were preparing for another night of killing monsters.
When a cheer rose up among the men, Oliver spotted Winthrop ambling up the road followed by the dozen women from the night before, all with Winthrop's bloody handprints on their faces. That's when Oliver realized that the number men in the meadow had grown significantly. Four or five hundred men, Oliver guessed, had deserted General Blackthorn's cohorts and chosen to band together under Winthrop.
Even Oliver knew that was a new problem in the making for Blackthorn's control over the army.
Winthrop, burdened by the fatigue of night upon night of little or no sleep, made his way to the fire. The men spread apart to open a reverent path for him. Once at the fire, Winthrop dropped to his knees and stared at the flames. His lips moved, but none of his senseless rants found their way to Oliver's ear. The bloody priestesses lined up in a semicircle behind Winthrop. Most of the militiamen gathered around. Camp followers came down the road and took spots around the fire. Unmarked men from other cohorts came to see Winthrop's bonfire-temple. A rumor of Winthrop's spiritual power was running through the army, and the lie of invincibility was tempting.
Oliver knew it was all a lie, people reading something into Winthrop's slip away from sanity. Oliver had been watching it for weeks as Winthrop sat in his room in the temple cowering from ghosts in the shadows. Winthrop had stopped sleeping. He'd stopped eating. And his mind was gone. Perhaps these foolish militiamen would figure it out, too. In the meantime, Oliver guessed empty tents likely lay somewhere up the road, deserted by men with more gullible curiosity than sense. If Winthrop found the stamina to yammer through the night again, Oliver might claim an empty tent and get a full night's sleep.
Chapter 29: Ivory
"I'm sorry about your family," Ivory said to Jingo, feeling a pit in his stomach as he reflected on the story his teacher had told him.
"You don't have to be sorry," Jingo said, lowering his head. "Regardless of my age, the peculiar nature of my infection makes my memories sharper than they would've been. I still have those." He tapped his misshapen head, making Ivory wonder how many other lessons he had stored there.
Hoping to take Jingo's mind in another direction, Ivory asked, "Can you show me how to sail?"
Jingo perked up. He glanced at the water around them, then at the distant shore. In the time they'd been talking, they'd drifted a ways, but Ivory saw the tips of familiar buildings in the background.
"We'll need to watch the sky for storms," Jingo said. "But we should be safe, as long as we keep the coastline in sight. Like I said, I don't want to get too far from land."
Ivory gave a cursory glance at the shore, but saw nothing menacing lurking there. The Ancient City looked quiet and peaceful on the northwestern horizon. If he hadn't known the dangers that lurked within, Ivory might've hesitated to believe them.
"Where should I sit?"
"Over here." Jingo made room, allowing Ivory to scoot over onto a bench with him while he showed him how to work the ropes. He pointed at an object hanging into the water behind them. "That's the tiller. Use it to head in the direction you want to go. But be careful; it works the opposite way you might think it does."
"Okay," Ivory said, his eyes wide. He gingerly took the ropes, asking for guidance when needed.
"We'll use the wind. Going downwind is much easier. On our return to the city, we might need to trim the sail and cut diagonal patterns. I'll explain those terms to you as we go."
Ivory nodded, absorbing Jingo's instr
uctions. His start was precarious, but before long he was relying on Jingo only occasionally. The wind was moderate enough to make learning easy. At the same time, he worried about the strong gusts Jingo had warned him about. According to his teacher, a storm could throw them off course and into a dangerous situation.
As they sailed further from the city, Ivory's wonder grew. It felt like he was riding atop some great ancient horse, cutting over the landscape effortlessly. Several times, he wondered if he might be dreaming, destined to wake up and find himself in Brighton. He recalled what he'd told Jingo earlier. He couldn't imagine returning. Not after this.
They progressed until the towers on the shore grew sparse, and the buildings became shorter ones, covered in weeds. Rubble jutted out of the water, carried away from the shore and battered against the rocks.
"I wonder how long it's been since anyone passed this far south," Ivory called wondrously.
Jingo smiled, cocking his head as he appraised the landscape. "Many of these areas used to be filled with docks and boats, but they've all sunk. People made their living here in ancient times, catching fish from the ocean."
"I think I'd like that," Ivory said, imagining being out on the water all day long. He tilted his head to the sky to take in some of the sun's warmth. Staring at the seemingly never-ending banks, he asked, "How far does the land go?"
"A lot farther than you can imagine," Jingo said. "We could sail for days and still keep sight of it."
"You've told me how large the world is. I guess it was hard to believe until now."
"We'll explore a little further. Then we should probably turn around."
They traveled past the rubble to areas with less evidence of civilization. Ivory envisioned himself in the forest, living a peaceful life among the trees, hunting when needed, building a house away from the unrest of Brighton and the dangers of the Ancient City. That life would be much better than a life with Beck, or even a life as a Scholar. What better way to learn about the world than to explore it with Jingo? Books offered a view of the world, in one way, but exploring it was a different thing.
Movement from the banks distracted him.