“You most certainly should not go anywhere!” My anger rose so high that I walked straight out onto the cobbled street, stepped over the pile of dung, and crossed to the horse. “Why do you have my horse? Are you some sort of thief?”
The horse boy looked down, flinching again. His expression took an almost mystified set.
This close, I realized the boy was about my age. I had thought him younger. Sweaty chunks of dirty-blond hair stuck around a sun-darkened face. He had a laborer look about him, like a field or dock worker—thick, dirty, and roughened by labor. Though filthy, his shirt and pants looked more to be part of some uniform than a casual shirt. The boy appeared like any dirty grounds-servant.
The thief just shook his head and shifted in the saddle as I grabbed the reins and yanked it. “Climb down from there at once!”
The boy refused to release the reins, though his grip didn’t look to be too tight either. As he just continued to sit there, I began to think that the boy was dim-witted as well as a thief. Or mayhap he was not within his mind, as he kept flinching and mumbling.
The boy spoke, his voice as rough as his appearance, “I work for you, Lord Klein. I didn’t steal this horse; it spooked and ran all the way down to Hopesworth before I could calm him. I let him take me where he wanted to go, hoping to calm him, and we were about to head to Hope Manor.” The boy didn’t quite look at me as he talked, looking more over my shoulder, his expression screaming of tension.
I glared. “A horse spooked all the way down into the city where you just take it wondering about? You must think I am a complete idiot! Well, I tell you I am not! Climb down from that horse, so I can hand you over to the monks!”
When the boy just stared behind me, I yelled, “Someone whip him until he dismounts from my horse!” I spun to find that my servants and the lordlings in my company had hurried out of the way. All the commoners, too, had hurried to huddle in a quivering mass at the furthest reaches of the stairs. A path cut straight through the crowd where two templum monks were now walking down.
Their crimson cloaks fluttered, trailing behind them and contrasting with the stone at their feet. Two sets of black eyes fastened on the scene I stood central in. Without my consent, my sweaty grip slackened on the leather reins.
Even after months of traveling from templum to templum, paying respect to the monastic sects of each god, my stomach churned every time the monks approached. Being in their presence was akin to swallowing rotten fruit served by a lord I didn’t dare offend. For some reason, this time it felt like I’d eaten an entire rotten fruit pie.
A hush fell around us, and though I knew it was obvious I was in the right, I wanted to back away from the monks’ attention all the same. When the monks were but a few paces away and I knew it was time to voice my accusation, the words dried in my throat.
They stopped feet away, looking over my head to the rider. Two waxen faces sat central in an expanse of crimson. They said nothing as small smiles crept onto their lipless mouths. “The horse will be taken by us,” the two monks said in perfect synch.
I coughed, and then sputtered. “This is my horse. This boy claims he works for me and the horse spooked, or some odd assertion. But it’s my horse… he’s a thief.” Breath left me by the end of the speech, leaving the last word a whisper.
They did not look down, just continued looking toward the boy who somehow seemed to have grown in the last few moments. One monk said, “He is no thief; it is as the boy claimed.”
Then the other said, “We watched the horse spook, and it was only by incredible horsemanship the boy did not lose his seat. The horse is a menace. We will take it off your hands.”
“I’d be happy to take the horse to the manor. He needs rest. He will be right after some rest,” the horse thief said, addressing the comment over my head as well.
Underneath their heavy hoods, the lipless mouths slipped open, bearing yellow smiles. Spasms traveled down my arms and through my tired body. The idea of running flashed through my mind—running from the monks, the horse, all of it.
But, damn it, that was my horse. I wanted him; he was, for some odd reason, important to me. And at the very least, I had a right to be acknowledged in this transaction.
“This is over, Dylan Miller,” one of the monks said.
The other continued with, “The time has come to give her to us.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the horse boy—presumably of the name Dylan—said.
My shoulders came up. “Perhaps… perhaps you’re thinking of the wrong horse; Marc is a ‘he’.” I gestured to the horse. “I really believe I should keep him… or be the one spoken to in the tithing… if you don’t mind to include me.”
Like the horse boy, the monks ignored me. Their bug-like gazes fixed on the boy. One of the monk’s gaunt white hands reached into a fold in his crimson robe and pulled out a red, velvet bag. With a flick of its wrist, the monk threw the bag to clang down the steps. “Imagine what you could buy with thirty pieces of gold, Dylan Miller. You could buy yourself several horses.”
The horse boy looked to the bag, his jaw set in a rigid line. “I thank you for the offer, but I have nothing to sell you.”
“This isn’t his horse! It’s my horse!” I sputtered. “If anyone should be compensated, it’s me.”
Behind the monks, my servants and friends backed all the way to the steps; some of them had even climbed a few steps—worthless cowards the lot of them. The crowd of commoners around them huddled in a craven mass of bedraggled bodies.
Perhaps I should give up the horse. I’d never even remembered riding the beast, and why should I feel such a strange sentimentality for the creature? I wasn’t even sure why I did. I’d never felt especially attached to any animal, so why should this creature be any different?
Clearing my throat, I declared, “I’ll take the payment for the horse. Dismount, thief, I’m willing to sell.”
No one moved and no one spoke. The boy on the horse just sat there, tense as anything, staring down at the monks.
“Is it a name and title you’d like?” the monk asked. “There is a vacancy. You can have Hope Manor and all its possessions.”
“What?” My voice came out shrill. What in the red god’s fiery ass was this? They would give away my manor to a horse-thief commoner? “I–I…” I sputtered, not even sure what I could say in this ludicrous situation. I would not give up Hope Manor. I could not give it up. In perhaps a fit of madness, I declared, “I would rather give over Hope Glen; it is a much more valued seat.”
“It doesn’t matter… I have nothing to trade, either,” the boy said in a harsh whisper. “I am sorry that I cannot help you. I wish I could.”
The monks stood unmoving and silent for a time, before they both nodded. “That is fine, Dylan. You have helped us enough for today. There is another who can finish what you have started,” the monks said in unison, turning as one toward the road.
The boy on the horse flinched. He rocked back and forth in his seat, looking like he might bolt.
“Do not help her escape now, Dylan Miller. You are precious to us. Dismount from the horse and give her to us.”
“I do not have her.”
“We shall see.”
I scanned the area, having no clue what they were talking about. It might have taken me a moment, distracted as I was by the strangeness of the situation I found myself in, but I didn’t think that they were speaking about the horse.
The two monks turned their heads in unison, their sights setting on the bend where the winding street the Templum of Weire hulked over, turned out of sight. Within a moment of me looking, two monks turned the corner. A woman stood dwarfed between their golden-cloaked forms. The woman, a servant from her dress, clutched her arms around her chest like the summer heat wasn’t sufficient warmth for her. Her eyes roved the street, brimming with a wild, tortured madness. Red hair sprouted out from her head in all directions.
Behind her, monks followed, tu
rning the corner in rows of ten. The street, which had before subsisted of a gawking crowd locked in a stagnant stillness around them, moved suddenly. Pedestrian and horseman alike rushed for the bend at the far end of the street away from the ranks of monks descending on us.
The woman shook, hugging herself at her waist as if she were holding herself up.
Cold fear dripped through my chest. My hand fell from the reins. Swallowing, I backed away from the boy on the horse. “You—you can have the horse, of course.” My foot squished into a pile of dung, sending up an acrid aroma, but I kept backing away. Turning, I stumbled once before catching my balance and pacing the distance up to my servants.
“Move,” I said at the front of the crowd. When the other lordlings and my servants parted, I paced to the rear of the group and turned around.
“I’ll need my boot cleaned,” I muttered to the servant beside me.
He turned, looking at me through his painted face that was beginning to drip in the heat. He was one of the new ones who had applied when I let half of my staff go before my pilgrimage. It had been a mistake; I was almost certain these high-fashion servants were all treacherous. At the very least, they sold information about my household, of that I was certain.
The servant’s whole body shook as he stared up at me. “Right now, sir?”
“No.” I swallowed and shook my head. “Well, yes. But there’s no need to fetch a new pair. I’ll wear your shoes while you clean these.”
When he bent to remove my shoes, I shook my head. “I’ve changed my mind. Not now, in a moment.”
“Very good, sir.” The servant nodded.
“She’s not on the horse!” a woman yelled.
My gaze snapped to the scene around the boy on the horse. The boy had not moved. His dirty face had a fierceness I had not noticed from the ground. He looked as if he were tensing before a blow, but at the same time, challenging the monks to swing.
His expression verged on defiant, a look I’d never dream of making in front of a monk, let alone the hundreds who were now filling the space and forming a wide circle around the boy.
It was a shame the boy would likely die at the end of this display. I found I rather enjoyed his nerve, even if he was somewhat of an idiot and likely a thief as well. He held himself on the horse as a lord would, and though their looks were nothing alike, I pictured Collin Stewart in the boy’s place, surrounded in rings of monks tightening around him. The image turned my stomach. Squeezing my eyes shut, I scrubbed the image from my thoughts.
No. I would not think of that Congregation lickspittle. He was far away from me, and that was what I wanted. So much so that I had my butler write to him requesting he didn’t come—or so my former butler had told me the next day. According to him, I’d had the letter sent by courier that night.
Collin wasn’t coming—more than likely, he was taking his place in the House of Lords with the other bootlicker lords by now. I forced my gaze to the boy who truly looked nothing like Collin. From my elevated position, I watched as what looked like hundreds of monks tightened their positions, encircling the boy in tighter and tighter circles.
The mad woman ran around the circles. “She’s not here; she’s gone!” She wailed a high keening sound.
The boy held out his dirty hands, his gaze looking down on the same two monks. “I have nothing. I have no one. I would not lie to you.”
“Where is she?” several of the monks said in unison.
The boy on the horse looked from face to face. “I swear to you that I do not know what you’re talking about.”
One of the monks shook its head. “Do not swear a lie, Dylan Miller, not to us. There are many crimes we will overlook from you, but not this one.”
The boy did not reply, watching with knuckles white around the reins as the monks circled in bands of crimson, gold, black, and white around him and my brown horse.
“Where has she gone?” they asked him.
The boy shook his head. “I don’t know.”
The monks all froze, and then, in perfect sync, turned toward the crowd on the stairs. Their waxen faces looked up as the people around me shrunk back.
The monks spoke at once. “You are not safe. The iconoclasts have returned. You will not see them. You will not hear them. You will not remember them. But they are here among us. Forsake the iconoclasts and their insidious heresy. They will tempt and beguile you, but your heart must stay strong against their temptations. The act of aiding an iconoclast, whether willingly or unwittingly, carries the gravest of consequences met out by the Congregation itself.” When the monks paused, no one spoke—not a single breath could be heard. The monks continued, “Spread these words, study the parables, and memorize the signs. Help the Congregation destroy what endangers our eternal spirits. If the iconoclasts prevail, Domengrad and its people will end.”
Spoken in so many whispered voices, the words sounded more like a promise than a threat.
At the same moment, they broke apart, falling into lines and filing in two rows up the templum’s steps and past the crowd huddled there. Even when the last monk had stepped through the golden portal, no one moved.
It took a moment for me to notice the stench that had settled around me. Between the heat and sweat of my companions and the excrement on my shoe, a strong, pungent odor had cocooned me in its foul embrace.
I looked to the green sludge coating the sides of my foot, and then to my sweat-drenched servant. “I think it’s time to clean my shoe now.”
The man blinked at me, his entire body shaking.
“My shoe.” I pointed. “I stepped in horse excrement, and I should like it cleaned up.”
The man nodded, sending globs of sweaty makeup around him. “Yes, of course, sir.” Leaning down, he pinched the tops of my shoes as he plucked them off the stone.
“Your shoes?”
“Sorry?” The man stood straight, his lower lip falling slack.
“Your shoes. I need your shoes while you clean mine,” I enunciated.
He swallowed and stepped out of a pair of hideous leather slip-on shoes.
They fit tight on the toes, but I would bear it until he cleaned my shoes, hopefully quickly. “Move,” I called to my party who was huddling so close together they might have fused arms and legs. When there was a space big enough for me to push through, I did so and stormed the rest of the distance down the stairs. The boy on the horse still sat there, his gaze fixed up at the templum.
When I was a few yards from the horse boy and he still hadn’t looked over, I cleared my throat. “It appears to me that they have decided to not take my horse.”
The boy’s blue gaze snapped to mine. It veered away to the steps, and I followed where he looked. The bag of gold was gone.
“Did you want me to take him to the manor or did you want one of your servants there to do it?” The boy’s voice was still rough.
“You work for me?” I asked, even though I already knew that he did. I just wanted it confirmed.
“I suppose I do now, if you’re keeping me on.”
I nodded. “Marc is dear to me.” I leaned forward to stroke the horse’s head, but changed my mind and let my hand drop. “Clean him well, please. He’s filthy.”
The boy nodded.
“You’ll come talk to me when you’re finished,” I said.
“I can’t tonight.” The boy’s square jaw clenched into a firm set.
That wouldn’t work. I wanted answers, ones that could only be obtained behind several sets of heavy doors. “You’ll come tonight or you’ll be dismissed.”
The boy’s shoulders sagged, and he sighed. “All right, then.” He swung down from the saddle.
The boy crossed toward me and I flinched, thinking he might hit me.
He halted before me and held up the reins. “Your horse, sir.”
I waved a hand. “No, you will ride it. I have a mount.”
“If I am to be dismissed, I’d ask that it be now. I am well past my usual quitting h
our and I assume I will not be compensated for this day’s work, either. As yesterday was my pay day, I see no point in bringing Marc in when you have many servants who are capable.” He held out the reins to me.
As we were of a height, I glared straight into his dirty face. “This is intolerable. You’ll do as I say or you won’t find employment again.”
He shrugged, actually shrugged, at that statement, like he couldn’t care less. Lifting a hand further, he held the reins up close to my chin.
I blinked at the reins. “You are impertinent for a servant.”
“You should report me to the monks,” he said.
After a second, I mumbled, “I think not.” I grabbed the reins from his hands, squeezing them in my grip.
“Should I, sir?” someone said from behind me.
Glancing over my shoulder, I found another one of my servants dripping makeup and holding out his manicured hand. I handed the reins to him before brushing off my hands on his arm. When I turned to the boy, he had already moved away.
Clearing my throat once more, I called after him, “I’ve decided to keep you on for the time being. I’ll expect you to be more courteous tomorrow.”
The boy stopped, waiting a second before he glanced back. “Yes, sir.” He nodded once, and then he strode away.
“Good, and I’ll expect you to be cleaner,” I yelled after him, though the boy either didn’t hear or ignored me altogether. His employment would last until he gave me the answers I sought and not a minute more.
8
The Iconoclast
Annabelle
Under the flickering light of a gas lamp, I stared at the stub that had once been my finger.
It wasn’t quite a stub. There was less of a finite end to the finger than a fading to nothing above my first joint. It was almost as if my hand was a vivid drawing, and someone smudged the pastel until it was nothing. The shadowy street distorted through where my finger should be.
The sight sent a bout of nausea roiling through my stomach, and I had to force my gaze away from my hand.
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