A girl stood breathless at the mouth of the alley. She seemed Magdalynn’s age and of the same fair and freckled complexion of the far-north of Nuw Gard. Her hair was red as sunset and grown passed her waist. Her clothes were silk robes the color of clover, patterned with pink and white flower petals. Yet her feet showed bare, rough and dirty—her eyes, wild and wide with fear. They were a green as deep as her breaths were shallow. Adnihilo took a single step toward her, without a thought, and she was gone.
The half-blood had to know who she was, where she’d come from, what she’d been running from when she stumbled into the alley and where it was she’d be running to. She could be my lead out of here, he thought, his legs pumping, his good arm clutching the other as he bulled through the crowds of pedestrians. “Wait!” he yelled, but she only ran faster, out of the alley and into a market. It was midday and the traffic thicker now in the inner city streets. The girl nearly vanished among the vendors and patrons before ducking under a pavilion too cramped for him to chase her. Adnihilo’s heart sank, but his legs carried him on, over a stack of crates beside the arched gate and onto the gabled rooftops. It was a madness he couldn’t stop, like a dog on the hunt. His feet slammed the tiles till the roof came to a sudden end. Below him lay an open courtyard, a garden with hundreds of loungers about pools, ponds, moss rocks, and trim grass. Like pigeons, they scattered as he flung himself among them, crashing their nest, hardly aware of their shouts as he landed, staring back toward the crowded pavilion. He waited, his knees aching, but the girl never came.
Defeated, the half-blood looked away and was rudely awakened to the scathing around him. A hundred Gautaman citizens were muttering, shouting, pointing, and scowling. Some looked scared, but others had rocks in their hands. A few wore swords. Adnihilo turned and turned again. There was no opening, just the same disgusted, flaxen faces. Slowly, they closed in, raving their queer language. Then he heard a familiar slur—felt a stone strike between his shoulder blades. Preferring panic to hesitation, he drew his sabre and slashed at the air in front and back till an elderly man dared to enter the human circle.
His eyebrows were white as his cotton robes, his beard wispy, his mustache in two pieces hanging at either side of his frown, and his eyes were hard, all around wrinkled. He made a kind of barking laugh that inflamed Adnihilo’s anger, even taunted him with flick of his fingers. A challenge, but when the half-blood lunged, he found himself tumbling backwards with a foot-shaped bruise forming on his chest. The elder laughed again, flicked his beard as if to mock him. Then the crowd joined in, and another stone was thrown, but the witch’s son was already charging, blind and desperate. He wouldn’t be beaten by an old man.
The blow struck before Adnihilo could swing—a finger solid as iron cracking one of his ribs and taking his legs from under him. He collapsed, awake but paralyzed by pain and made senseless save for the elder’s barking laughter.
After what felt like hours and hours of torture, Adnihilo came to in strange room with no clue as to how he arrived. All he knew was the ceiling above him, open rafters painted red, and a tapestry behind. Cautiously, he tilted his head to examine the banner: a tiger and leopard circling one another—one white with black stripes, the other black with white spots. And there was smoke wafting in front of the cloth, burning incense, pungent and portentous. Breathing the aroma felt like a knife. His back itched against a straw mat, his knees throbbed from the fall, and the muscles in his left arm squeezed as if they were trying to tear themselves apart. It took him a moment to grasp the significance of that last sensation, yet when he did, he gasped. “My arm!” His body gave a jerk, and the shock struck him like a bolt of lightning. The room went white, then slowly it retuned. His every nerve felt to be on fire.
He spent the next minute tilting his head toward his arm, sipping the air, excited and terrified at what he might find. When he saw, he loosed a sigh of relief. The limb looked intact as far as he could see, albeit bruised and burned in places, and riddled with dozens of long, slender needles. Adnihilo grinned. He could feel them, the stinging and ache of small, round burns, and the pressure of the needles puncturing. But can I move it? the half-blood wondered. Part of him was afraid to try, but the other parts couldn’t help themselves. He pinched—finger to thumb, thumb to finger—spread open his hand, then made a fist. Pain came with each movement, but it was a pain he could tolerate. He bit his tongue to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. Only once he was certain he wasn’t asleep did he let himself believe, It’s real.
At once, his thoughts went to Adam. He had to show him this place, whatever it was. Then it struck him: the events in the garden, the fleeing girl, and the old man with white eyebrows and fingers of iron. How long had he been out, he wondered. The room was light and warm. Evening, he guessed. I have to get back. I have to show him. But every time the half-blood tried, the pain laid him flat. A hundred attempts and at last he surrendered, let his head slouch to the other side and discover a wispy pair of white eyebrows glaring down on him. The old man barked his laughter, and Adnihilo flushed a deeper red.
He’d been there the whole time, mocking the half-blood’s struggle, a brass cup in one hand and a flaming swab in the other. The flush receded from Adnihilo’s face. The elder placed the burning cotton in the cup, snatched it out, then stuck the brass onto his victim’s chest. Then came popping and crunching and pain like Adnihilo’s heart might break through his ribcage. Back arched, teeth gritted, and fists clenched, he endured White Eyebrows laughing till he could take no more—he bolted upright, seized the cup, hurled it into the rafters. Only after the brass had clanged on the floor did he realize that the pain had gone.
It took another half hour before the elder’s treatment was done and twice as long to return to the docks. Adnihilo walked the streets with his eyes to the west, to the sun setting over the Gautaman mountains. On the harbor, he looked south over the ocean, over the tangle of anchored ships and piers. And as he came upon the chapel, he held out his healed arm to the east. Dawn was calling him, he could feel its warmth, even as he crossed the threshold.
“Adam,” he started, but inside the church was vacant, cold. Adnihilo listened for signs of life and heard murmurs from up the stairs. He must be talking with Ba’al, the half-blood presumed. He arranged a bed of pillows and lay facing the roof. To Hell with him, siding with the bishop. But then his curiosity welled. What lie was his friend being fed? He had to know.
Adnihilo crept onto the bottom stair. He could hear them talking but couldn’t understand, so he climbed a step higher. The wood creaked underfoot. He stood frozen, listened. It seemed they didn’t notice, so he started again, took a step further until there were no more stairs between him and the door. He could hear them clearly now, Ba’al and someone else.
“My deepest regret for the delay. There was trouble with the delivery. My mule nearly lost her. Had to chase her through the streets.”
The stranger answered in a queer accent unlike anything the witch’s son had heard before. “Please, bishop, there is no need. She’s here now, and even a Gaut’s eyes could see that she is worth the wait.”
“I’m overjoyed to hear you say so,” Ba’al replied. “Two years is a long delay, and I’d hate to keep you any longer. If you have the silver we discussed…”
“Ah, of course. Two hundred and eighty-six florns in Mephistine coin.” There was a sound of a heavy purse hitting the floor. “I’m pleased to have done business with you. Hamza Azra Hashim will not forget to spread word of the good bishop.” The stranger paused, and Adnihilo thought he heard a girl whimper. “Come now, my flower. It is a long way to Najmah Janoob, and even longer to Mephisto. You’ll see, Hamza is not so bad.”
The half-blood staggered back from the door, their footsteps drawing closer, but his toes missed the step below, and he found himself groping the air as he fell. It was a short tumble, nothing compared to the blow he received earlier, though it was not injury which worried him. It was Ba’al glaring down on him from atop
of the stairs—beside him, a fat, tanned man in orange robe and turban with a beard of black curls. And beside him was the girl with hair red as a sunset, her pale face terrified.
“Who is this?” the stranger asked.
“Don’t mind the Imp. He’s just one of my servants—Adnihilo,” he called down the stairs, “Get up here and help me sort out this coin—would you mind seeing yourself out?”
The Tsaazaari man smiled, said, “Not at all, my friend,” and led the child out the chapel door. They met eyes as they passed, Adnihilo and the girl, as they had that instant together in the alley. Gone was the fear he had witnessed before, and in its wake lay a hollowness. There would be no escape, not for either of them.
He watched them go then rose from the floor trudged up the stairs to where Ba’al awaited. The door shut behind him.
“So,” started the bishop. “How is this going to go?”
Adnihilo looked about the room, at the two huge purses of silver, at the bags and boxes of devices and chemicals. He gripped his sword and felt a cold pipe touch the nape of his neck.
“Wrong answer, Imp. Why don’t you try again?”
“What is that thing?”
Ba’al chuckled. “It’s my bow and arrow.”
“You’re a slaver, just like the other one we killed.” Adnihilo turned, and the bishop lowered his weapon.
“Yeah, and what are you going do about it?”
“I’m going to tell Adam.”
“Go ahead, if you think he’ll believe you. He won’t, though; but even if he did, it wouldn’t save that girl or anyone else.” He raised his weapon, this time toward the ceiling in a gesture of might. “It’s time you learn something, Imp. The only thing in this world is strength. You either have the power to make your reality or you don’t—and remember this: the only route to power is to take it. Innocence is weakness, as is guilt. Speaking of, your friend should be rid of that soon. Mayhap you’ve already noticed?”
A shadow cast over Adnihilo’s mien. “Noticed what?”
“So he hasn’t told you. He comes to me to confess his dreams. I thought for certain he would have mentioned something to you. He must not trust you, though you should forgive him that. You’re weak, after all. You wouldn’t understand the desires of the strong.”
“What in Hell does that even mean?”
Ba’al grinned and opened the door.
The half-blood spent the remainder of that evening curled on a pile of cushions on the floor. All the while, he puzzled over the implications of the bishop’s allegations, understood that Adam was being accused of something—he just didn’t know what. But after seeing how much the Messah trusted their captor, it was no stretch to think Ba’al’s indictment partly true. Which parts? He wondered, as Adam and Magdalynn came in for the night, whether to tell them what he saw. Or would the pastor’s son even trust him? And what if he was truly too weak to comprehend? Adnihilo didn’t understand what that meant any better than the rest, but he clung to it regardless. It was a problem he could actually do something about. He’d seek out the power he felt at the iron fingertips of the Gautaman man with the white eyebrows. Till then, he’d keep his mouth shut.
Twelfth Verse
The great doors of the Temple Rock slammed shut behind Jael Leonhardt. She didn’t look back. The gold-panel inlay of the eight ancient patriarchs no longer evoked the same grandeur it had. It seemed almost sinful now, an extravagance. So instead she focused over the moonless Valley where, in the dark, it could have been morning or night. Morning, she decided, walking toward the lodge when she heard the clangor of chains ring out from the portcullis, felt a tide of icy wind cut under the gate. A rider—carrying missives, most likely—more complaints for the captain that she’d have to sort. After my other chores, Jael remembered sorely.
As she entered the lodge, she stripped off her armour still soiled from the Hibernis Fair. It was still early enough. If she hurried, she’d have time to wash what stains she could. But the buckets were nowhere to be found, not near the ducts nor in the kitchens. The last place to check was down the stairs.
Trey was waiting for her in the basement with a bath ready-made, the smell of salts and lavender prominent in the mist. Jael tried to feel grateful, but after a night lamenting in the cloister, she found it impossible to feel anything but weak. Nevertheless, she found the strength to thank him, then undressed and climbed into the bath upon his leave. She watched the steam billow out across the ceiling while the humidity melted the knots beneath her skin. He was kind to her, her captain. She wanted to believe it, but another thought manifested within the mist. “Murderer.” She heard the word leap from her lips—saw the images in the water: Blackheart’s pleading face, the axe, the blood—but who was it that took the squire’s head? “Murderer,” she repeated, sinking to her chin.
“Do you think so?” asked Trey from around the doorway.
Jael leaned her head back till only her face floated above the water. She rubbed her shadowed eyes. “You killed him, didn’t you?”
“You might say he killed himself.”
“I might say that I was the one that killed him.”
Gildmane stepped so his profile showed in the threshold. There was an earnestness to his voice, a seriousness—just as there was when he asked Harold for his last words. One of the wall-lanterns dimmed. Leonhardt shivered in the water. After a pause, he called to her, “Jael…”
“Trey?” she shot back with a mask of sarcasm.
The captain laughed, “I warned you, didn’t I, that there would be worse?”
“You didn’t have to kill him.”
“And Acker didn’t have to die, but he did because he couldn’t accept that a knight must do things he isn’t proud of.”
They reminded her of what Ricard had told her when he handed over his sword—things done he wasn’t proud of, the very inverse of what he wanted Jael to be—what it seemed was the captain’s very ideal. “You remind me of my father,” She confessed, “how he claims he used to be.”
“Old Twin Fangs? That’s a Hell of a name to live up to, if the stories are true. Is he like the rumors say?
“I don’t know about any rumors,” she said, reminiscing. “I only know him as he was to me. Just a farmer, kind and—”
“It sounds like you love him.”
“Very much so,” answered Leonhardt. Then, suddenly embarrassed by the intimacy, she turned and suggested that he should go and found him standing wholly in the doorway. Her stomach tied in knots. She hid under the water until the heat became unbearable. When she emerged, Trey shrugged and laughed, yet he turned away as she had asked and started up the stairs. Halfway, he called down to her, “Trust me, Leonhardt. You’ll be happy you learned this lesson soon enough.”
What was the lesson she wondered for the rest of her bath and through breakfast and after, while the other squires performed guard duty for the remaining days of the Hibernis Fair. She was given leave to clean and to practice, every second of which she spent in prayer. Why? she asked the Lord, do I feel this way? He was wrong, wasn’t he? Should I forgive him? Is it me who’s guilty? She pretended they were about Blackheart and not Captain Gildmane—at least for the first day. For the next morning, it haunted her like a ghost.
She awoke flushed and heart racing, unable to catch her breath, unable to remember what it was that she dreamt that left her longing to dream again. Yet it left her with answers: Trey was protecting her. What happened to Blackheart—that was an inevitability. He attacked her, didn’t he? The captain only acted in her defense, and if he hadn’t, she might have killed Harold herself. Or, he might have killed me. It was self-defense. Why should she feel guilty?
“I’m glad he’s gone,” she told Gildmane that evening in his office while sorting the mountain of letters on his desk. There were already dozens of requests for next season’s Struggle and just as many for the following year’s Fair. There were complaints from the clergy, about the clergy, and everything in between. And even com
mander Pyke of the Watcher’s Eye was asking for the captain’s assistance.
“Pagans in the west.” said Gildmane, gazing over the yard, sipping cinnamon wine. “It’s easy to forget they’re still out there, especially when Paul won’t pay them any damned attention. And these Vaufnar accusations, we’ll never see an end to them.” He paced to the corner of his desk where he’d left the flagon. It was still steaming, and Jael could taste the spice of it in the air—warm, soothing. He offered her a cup which she declined, then he filled one for her anyway. She sipped on it while he replenished his own and asked her, “So you’re glad that Blackheart’s dead? What’s happened to my timid, little kitten? She’s turned into a Lioness.”
“She has,” replied Leonhardt, hiding her flushing cheeks behind whatever letter was in her hand. “That was…that was the first time I’d ever seen someone die like that.”
“Not like the stories, is it? But you did well for your first time.” He paused and drank a deep gulp of wine. Jael did the same. “I think you’re ready for a real task now that you’ve tasted some blood. I’m putting you with Corvin tomorrow. I hate to do it to the old bishop, but I want the Cross to investigate these accusations.
Knight Paladin Brandon Corvin. The thought of working under him gave Jael chills. He was never callous to her, though neither was he ever kind. The man was a Tsaazaari half-blood; dark with long, jet hair and beard; and piercing, tawny eyes like those of a hawk. Even at a distance, when he looked upon her, she felt like an arrow loosed from his bow might strike her dead at any moment. “You aren’t coming?” she asked.
“Unfortunately not. I’ve got far too much scribbling to do. It’ll just be you, Corvin, and Ogdon.” Jael’s heart sank, and Trey couldn’t stop from laughing at her miserable face. “I’m not cutting you a break, am I? Speaking of which, are you done with the missives?”
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