Renda rode ahead of the others with her hand resting on her sword hilt, a warning if not an outright threat to the villagers and farmers who had once fought under her banner. Her gaze traveled over their sullen expressions. The only thing keeping them at bay was the promise of the approaching cardinal.
A rotting tomato thudded against her breastplate, and a gasp traveled through both the knights and the villagers. Murmurs of disbelief and fear rose to her ears, and behind her, she heard the knights hands go to their swords. Her own hands were still at her reins, but she felt the villagers’ worried glances. Maddock had thrown it at her, she was sure. Maddock or Botrain, the self-proclaimed leaders against Brannagh. Nothing would suit them better than to provoke an attack from the knights.
“What are you thinking, man?” One of the farmers pushed Botrain and almost knocked him into the dirt. “You provoke the knights, and we’ll not live to see our cure.”
“Remember Chatka’s words?” Botrain’s voice boomed over the crowd. “See the red on her breast, and the blue, yonder?” He spat. “It’s as Chatka foretold. We’ll see no cure, mark my words.”
Renda frowned worriedly behind her visor and nudged Alandro faster. What was it Brada had said? Prophecy, such a delicate thing. Renda brushed the disgusting red pulp from her armor as she rode, ignoring the angry whispers around her. Red on the Lioness’s breast, it was, but surely Chatka had meant blood or treachery or some such, not something as insipid as a tomato.
Had Botrain not thrown the tomato at her, had he not forced that part of the prophecy, the blue of the cardinal’s robes might have gone unmarked by the rest. In any case, Botrain had fulfilled only part of Chatka’s prophecy, the part under his control; the rest was under the sheriff’s control, and he would simply prove their worries false. Then, with the plague cured and the prophecies made false, the witch’s hold over them might finally be broken, and the sheriff could open negotiations with Maddock and Botrain. All might not be lost.
The Hadrian slowed his horse at Renda’s approach, and his elaborate blue-tasseled canopy bobbled dangerously. His pale eyes scanned her, stopped on the tomato stain on her armor, looked over her retinue. Satisfied, he bowed his head.
“I am called Valmerous, Cardinal of Vilkadnazor the Unshod.”
“Lady Renda of Brannagh,” she said, squinting at him from behind her visor. Unlike other Hadrians she had seen, his eyes were not quite colorless; they seemed to draw a tiny amount of color from his coarse blue cassock, lending them a shade that other Hadrians might find unsettling. To her surprise, the cardinal’s feet were quite bare. “Welcome to Castle Brannagh, Eminence.”
“Renda of Brannagh herself,” he said with a gentle smile. His Syonese was surprisingly clean with only a mild clip on some of his words, as if he’d spent quite a lot of time away from the Hodrache Range. “She who defeated Kadak? An honor, my lady.”
Aye, Kadak and his Hadrian allies besides. But she bowed her head graciously, hiding her impatience at the formalities. “The honor is mine, Eminence.” To her relief, she saw about him none of the bishop’s wispy black veils, only a merry unwavering blue aura, the blessing of his god. She cast a quick glance along the road lined with angry villagers. “But we must hurry.”
“Yes, of course,” he said, clucking to his horse to move forward. “Lead on.”
“Eminence!” A ragged woman stumbled along the road toward the cardinal and reached up gratefully to clutch at the blue homespun of his robes, trying to slow him, trying to lay but one finger of her hand upon him, hoping to carry some of his strength away with her.
But the cardinal only smiled down at her and released himself from her clutches. “Patience,” he soothed, looking into the woman’s wild eyes. “We must to the castle first.” He looked up at Renda, and his eyes twinkled. “I confess, I had thought us too late when we saw the burnt and abandoned houses. Faith, no one drew water from wells, no one drove animals along the roads. I despaired when I saw no children dodging and scrambling about the streets. I am surprised and grateful that so many remain, even outside the castle walls.”
“Please,” the woman sobbed and coughed, at last falling back as he kicked his horse up into a pleasant trot. “He’s dying, please, I beg of you, help him!”
Renda slowed her mount, expecting the cardinal to answer the poor woman’s pleas, but he rode on without looking back, looking neither left nor right but staring only ahead, along the path to the castle.
“But he’s dying! He can’t wait!”
“Madam,” spoke one of the priests as he passed the woman, “you must understand. We’ve been summoned by the sheriff. We must not stop until we reach the castle.”
Renda looked back, and the red tomato stain on her armor seemed to burn through to her heart. Chatka’s prophecy was coming true in spite of her, in spite of the best intentions of Brannagh to save the farmers. She could order a stop, let the priests save this one dying man, let the villagers take it as a token of good faith.
“The castle?” The village woman laughed incredulously, casting a look of contempt toward the knights. “The sheriff! He’s untouched by this plague! What of the rest of us?”
The rest of them, indeed. The order, the simple motion of raising her hand that would have stopped the horses and let the priests tend this man, died without a twitch. Renda nudged Alandro up into a trot toward the drawbridge, trying to block out the sounds of the woman’s sobs. The villagers would not accept a single token healing, not when each of them had a houseful of plague and dying. Had the priests stopped at every stricken hovel along the way, they would never have reached Brannagh at all. Once inside the castle gates, they would be best equipped to fight the plague for everyone.
“It was he who called for us,” she heard the priest say, and turned to watch him touch the woman’s forehead comfortingly. “I’m sorry.”
“See it now!” The woman clutched at his deep brown habit in desperation. “Come, please, see it in my husband! Then you can cure him, aye?”
But the priest pulled himself from her grip before his horse trotted away. Those behind him gave her a wide berth, riding past without letting themselves meet her eye.
Renda rode on behind the cardinal, shutting out the woman’s cries, shutting out the rage in the villagers’ faces and their distrustful murmurs upon seeing that the priests were all Hadrians. Once inside the castle, the cardinal would prove Chatka wrong. She had to believe that.
Red and blue. Red on the Lioness’s breast and blue at her gates, but not for you, not for any but those who need it not.
“One of you, please,” the woman cried hopelessly, running behind them until she fell to coughing again. When at last she recovered her breath, she watched them ride away over the little rise and down along the road toward the moat of the castle. “It would take but one of you...”
They rested for several hours after taking their midday meal, and then the priests excused themselves to prepare for the evening’s work, to Renda’s frustration. She bit back her impatience and told herself not to begrudge the cardinal and his priests a few hours of rest before they began their work.
An hour before sunset, the cardinal presented himself to Lady Renda and the sheriff in the audience chamber dressed in a fresh blue cassock and with his feet still bare. He held out a small plate with a single gold coin in the center, and his pale eyes twinkled merrily as he watched the sheriff and his daughter exchange perplexed glances.
“A ritual greeting,” he said with a laugh, “no more but so.”
At last the sheriff shook his head. “Forgive our ignorance, Cardinal Valmerous. We are not so familiar with the Hadrian pantheon this far to the south.”
“Ah,” the cardinal nodded, apparently disappointed. Then he set his plate on the sheriff’s broad desk. “I see.” He crossed his hands over his lap. “Vilkadnazor the Unshod is the Hadrian god of charity and social order,” he explained, looking for understanding in their eyes. When he saw none, he went on. “Those who have
are blessed when they give, as are those who have not when they receive.” He glanced sideways at the coin on the plate. “Hence our ritual greeting, to bless and remind each man—or woman, as the case may be—of his proper place.”
Lord Daerwin nodded and immediately put two gold coins into the plate. At once, the sheriff’s coins disappeared leaving only the original. He looked up at Valmerous. “Is this as it should be?”
The cardinal smiled gleefully. “Yes, indeed it is.” He stowed the gold dish inside his robes, and at once, his expression took on a more somber tone. “Your messenger reached us a score of days ago. You mentioned disquiet in the woods and an unconsecrated grave, a corrupt bishop...” He shrugged apologetically. “I had no idea.”
“Indeed,” Renda answered, “we have been in desperate straits. But now that you have arrived…”
Valmerous nodded. “Yes, of course.”
Daerwin nodded and glanced at Renda. “When I sent the message, B’radik’s priests had not yet—”
But Valmerous continued over him. “Had I known your situation was so grave, I would have come at once. Fortunately, however, on the eve of my departure news of your plague reached me. Else I might have come alone.”
The sheriff fell silent and merely nodded.
“A plague that strikes those who serve the gods, even indirectly, and that cannot be cured?” He shook his head gravely. “Unchecked, this could spread over the whole of Syon, and beyond. An irresponsible thing, terribly irresponsible.”
Renda frowned. Irresponsible? Of all the words she might have expected, that was not one. But then Valmerous might not be as fluent in Syonese as he had seemed at first.
“It spreads quickly, yes?”
The sheriff nodded. “Already we have fewer than a score of knights, and only four priests tend the wounded—five, with my granddaughter’s governess.”
“A governess.” The cardinal shook his head sadly. “I see.”
“If you would like to see for yourself—”
“So tell me, Lord Daerwin,” he continued, “How many have died of this plague in the last two and a half, almost three months?”
Lord Daerwin looked down. “Eminence, as you may have noticed, we’ve had a bit of trouble with the farmers since the plague began.”
“Not surprising.” He stroked his chin thoughtfully.
“No, I suppose not. But the villagers keep to themselves now, and today was the first we’ve seen of them all in one place. When the plague began, I had well more than five thousand men, women and children. You saw for yourself how few remain.”
“Yes, yes, I see.” The cardinal nodded. “Yet the House of Brannagh itself remains untouched.”
Renda nodded. “Yes, all save the knights themselves.”
The cardinal cocked his head. “The knights, the servants, those who are Brannagh by marriage. All are subject to this plague?”
Renda looked at her father before answering. “Only the knights. Even the last of the priests seem immune now that they are at Brannagh.”
“Interesting.” He smiled. “And reassuring, I must say.”
Daerwin stood. “If you would like to see the hospice—”
“Yes, yes, by all means,” he said, rising suddenly. “That would seem more urgent a prospect than a grave consecration, at any rate. And perhaps along the way,” he said, following the sheriff outside, “you might be good enough to tell me more about the death of Bishop Cilder.”
Outside the door to the garrison, the cardinal’s forehead broke out in sweat, and he drew from his cassock a blue handkerchief to cover his nose and mouth. “Forgive me,” he said, “but the smell is...overwhelming.”
“Indeed,” answered the sheriff, and his voice held a tone of surprise. “I shudder to think we’ve all grown so used to it.” He knocked at the garrison door. When no immediate answer came, he cleared his throat and knocked again. “Our priests have made great gains in learning to fight this plague; at first, it seemed a man might live a day or two at most ere it killed him. But now, thanks to Arnard and the rest, we have knights and villagers who survive it for up to a tenday ere they succumb.”
“A bitter blessing, that,” spoke the cardinal through his cloth. “If they must die within the tenday, it were better they died forthwith, yes? To spare them the pain?”
“Except that our priests have managed to cure it, as well.” Renda smiled proudly, ignoring the dark look from her father. “Some five of our knights have been saved, praise B’radik.”
“Cured, did you say! Well,” he laughed into his handkerchief, “I suppose you’ve no need of our help, then.”
“On the contrary,” answered the sheriff quietly, “we’ve more need of you now than ever before.” He knocked again, more insistently. “We’ve begun receiving victims from nearby monasteries and convents, as well as the parish churches and temples, all those who serve B’radik. I’ve had no word from Her high temple, however, and I fear the worst.”
“All these are on Brannagh land,” Valmerous noted. It was not a question.
The sheriff nodded. “Our beds are kept full. Any help you might be able to offer,” he said with a glance toward Renda, “would be most welcome. Arnard!” he called and knocked again.
Arnard opened the door and stood blinking at the three silhouettes in the doorway, unsure whether he might be imagining the broad tasseled galero on the third figure’s head. “Your Eminence?” he offered weakly.
“Valmerous,” spoke the other, “Cardinal of the Temple of Vilkadnazor the Unshod.”
“I greet you in the name of B’radik,” spoke Arnard, barely concealing his joy, “and will sow your heart with truth and light!” He moved aside at once to let the cardinal enter the hospice.
Renda watched the cardinal stand in the doorway and take in the whole of the old garrison’s bottom floor, the burlap sacks on the floors, the priests kneeling in the sloughed dust of flesh and bone beside the dying, the burning odors of death and vomit that drove out all the air of the place. His face was even more pale behind his blue handkerchief than usual, and his clear eyes were wide.
Renda looked out over the sprawls of burlap mattresses and bodies and wondered when exactly she had become so hardened to the sight of men’s flesh being flensed from their bones. When was the last time she had had the energy to weep for one of her lost knights? She found she could not recall the name of the last victim who had crumbled to dust in her arms.
The cardinal stepped forward a bit hesitantly, stepping through the dust of dying men with his bare feet, careful as he moved not to jar or jostle their mattresses. Renda and the sheriff followed in his wake, each offering a word of comfort or a gentle touch to the men and women who had seen the cardinal and wondered why he passed them by.
A young woman’s voice rang out suddenly in a strangled cry, and Renda ran to her bedside with the cardinal and the sheriff close behind. The young woman, the knight Patrise who had warned them of the villagers’ approach before the attack on Graymonde, lay dying, and some part of Renda’s mind shouted that she was in the wrong part of the hospice to be dying already. She still had a blanket whose lightest pressure on her skin boiled the flesh away. When Renda knelt beside her, the priests were working to lift it from her as gently as they could.
Renda gasped when she saw the extent of the young woman’s disease. Her belly was nearly hollow now, the flesh and gut having sloughed away, and one arm and both legs were now no more than bone. She glanced up at Renda with her one remaining eye and smiled as she could, raising her fingers from the bed in a weak salute. Then suddenly she screamed again, and Renda had the impression of a cliff wall collapsing within her.
Renda touched her fingers gently. “The cardinal is come, Patrise,” she whispered, glancing over her shoulder to look at the old cleric behind her. When she saw that the young woman had seen the cardinal and understood, she smiled. “Be strong.” Renda moved to step away to let the cardinal kneel beside the woman, but he only stood staring down at he
r, his face pale and oily, his sweat cutting ruts in the dust of dying men that covered his face above his handkerchief. He only stared at her and did not move.
“Renda,” whispered the young woman, and a deep fear entered her eyes.
“Shh, do not speak.” She looked up once more at the cardinal, but now he only stood with his eyes closed and his head bowed. “Save your strength,” she murmured, turning her gaze back to her knight. “Once you are well again,” she whispered, willing the tears from her eyes, “once you can ride again, we will go north to your family’s lands, to see how your brother is minding your lands...”
But Renda could see a cloudy gray distance coming into the young woman’s eye. “Patrise,” she called, staring forcefully into that eye, trying to draw her gaze once more. “Patrise, stay. Do not die.” But the next moment, the rest of the young woman’s flesh dissolved away to dust.
Arnard touched Renda’s shoulder and moved to lift the sack, to carry it outside the garrison and dump what little remained of the young woman’s bones into the newest mass grave. They could not afford to mourn, he had told her many times. That must come later, if at all.
“No,” commanded Renda, and at the hard, angry look in her eyes, the priest backed away. She lifted the mattress herself and carried it out, past the cardinal, past the sheriff, not looking up to meet their eyes, afraid of what wrath her gaze might bespeak. “I will see to her.”
When Renda made her way back to the hospice an hour later, her father was standing outside the garrison with Arnard, the cardinal nowhere to be seen. Even from the gate, Renda could see that Arnard was twisting his hands and pacing back and forth. She had never seen him so upset.
Sword of Hemlock (Lords of Syon Saga Book 1) Page 32