She sifted through what was left on the desk. There were two, one sealed with a yellow lion signet, the other with dingy candle wax. She cracked the lion-seal. It was a letter of acceptance of an exceptional offer signed at the bottom by Sir Brandr Harpe, Aestas First Lance. Brandon was being invited back to take the Cross’s oaths.
Leonhardt gushed, “It’s from Sir Brandr. He says he accepts—Trey, why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t know he’d stayed for the Fair until after our incident with Harold. It’s unprecedented, letting him in like this, but he would have been admitted to begin with if Whitehand wasn’t looking for a puppet.” Gildmane drained the bottom of his cup and returned to the window, his gaze locked on the Temple Rock. “They’re fools, Jael, to think they can keep me from taking what I want.” He turned to her again. “What’s the last one?”
She broke the dingy seal and unrolled an equally meager parchment. The writing was rough to read and heavy handed. She skimmed to the bottom, and there, found a pair of signatures. It was a letter addressed to her, signed by Ricard and by Zach. Jael snatched the parchment to her chest without reading another word, guilt-ridden, as if the captain could read her mind if she were to know what they wrote—as if Zach would know that she’d forgotten him in the depths of her heart.
“It’s for me,” she answered after a breath pressing the letter to her chest, “from my father, is all. But I think it’s time I get to sleep. I have a duties to prepare for tomorrow.”
But Jael hardly slept at all that night. She lay abed, turning back and forth between reading the letter and burning it to forget her past and her girlish promises. She couldn’t do it, so by breakfast she sat at the paladins’ table with the parchment tucked against her breast, protected by linen and maille and surcoat. Ogdon was there as well, seated next to Corvin whose face betrayed nothing as Trey gave them their briefing.
The three of them were to ride to the Dim, a strip of land on the fringe of the Sky District named for the constant shadow cast by Ward Aureus. There, they would question the accuser, Dante, as well as Bishop Vaufnar of the Compassionate’s Cathedral. No action was to be taken, and they were to return with whatever information they could collect.
Ogdon grimaced at the mention of the Dim and again as they rode for their first destination. Whitewashed stone complexes changed before their eyes into dilapidated hovels of wattle and daub. Here, the paved streets gave way to ancient cobbles long since crumbled into gravel and dust. So too had the people decayed. They were putrid and toothless, dressed in nothing more than linen sacks, begging on street corners. Sylvertre, could not bare to look at them. He leaned in his saddle and whispered to Jael to be careful in this section of the city, that the derelicts were dangerous. “I’ve heard stories,” he said, “that the plebeians eat their own babes in the winter, and that they’re so desperate for money that they’ll kidnap noble ladies and sell them to Tsaazaari traders in the harbor.” Leonhardt rolled her eyes. He was no better than a child—in his speech, his appearance, his persistence—grinning with pink cheeks and a pointy, naked chin. “There’s no need for you to worry, though. I’ve watched you in the yard, and Father has written saying your sword play is the rave among the gentry. Is it true that you lopped that pig’s head off? He deserved it. Those western oafs don’t know anything about how to treat a lady.”
“I didn’t lop off anything,” she replied.
Corvin’s horse ambled to a stop. “Ogdon,” he said.
The squires reined in, and Sylvertre reported, “Yes, Sir?”
“Shut up.”
Jael had to bite her tongue to keep from laughing, watching Ogdon’s body sag like a sack in his saddle. It was almost enough to warm her to the Paladin. She smiled in his direction, and he shot her down as well.
“You think you’re better, don’t you? Make no mistake, Leonhardt, you’re nothing more than an arrogant child, looking down on the others when you’re the one relying on someone else’s name. To me, a name is nothing. I’m not interested in whatever political games you’re a pawn in.” He dismounted his horse and signaled for Sylvertre to do the same. “Now, if you’re done acting like a girl, go find somewhere to tie up the horses. The accuser’s home should be around here.”
His words struck Jael like a poisoned arrow, numbing her tongue as she complied in silence. He’s a liar, she told herself while leading the coursers and Sir Brandon’s gray stallion. I never looked down on anyone! She bound the reins to a ruined lantern post and removed the paladin’s quiver from his saddle. It was sleek, black leather with slits for three arrows and a scabbard for Corvin’s ten-stone war bow. Jael slung it on her back and felt her shoulders slump like Ogdon’s had, felt the strap press against her aching heart, against the letter on her breast. But then she remembered the fair and what Sylvertre said about the nobles—how she held her own, how they knew her. Then why would Sir Brandon lie like that? she wondered, getting angry now as she thought of all the stories her father had ever told her about Mephistine braggarts, swindlers, and thieves. So it’s in his pagan blood, yet he takes it out on me. The realization made her bitter.
She stormed to where Corvin stood before a row of wood-rotted houses and shoved the quiver into his hands. He frowned but otherwise said nothing. Together, they watched Ogdon going door to door in search for their man.
“Did Trey even tell you what Vaufnar is being accused of?”
Jael gazed ahead. “I suppose you’re going to tell me?”
“Child fondling.”
“That’s disgusting!”
Corvin looked at her sideways, “That’s assuming it’s true.”
She glared back at him in disbelief. “Who would lie about something like that?”
“Arrogant child. You don’t know anything, do you? Look around, what do you see? Any bodies? Anyone starving? No, you don’t; and do you know why? Because Vaufnar spends his entire damned tithe share feeding these ungrateful dogs.”
The paladin’s story made no sense to Jael. “If he takes care of them, then why would they accuse him? They should be on his side.”
“Wrong, girl. It’s because he helps them that they ask for more. Give them your shirt, and they’ll want your shoes next—refuse and you’ll have a mob rushing for your neck. That’s what this is, I’d bet my horse on it. Some beggar is mad that he only got one onion instead of two.”
“Sir!” shouted Ogdon. He had found the accuser’s apartment and was waving them over, a man looming behind him. “Sir, I found the—”
“Yer here! Thank the Lord in Heaven, I was scared you’d not come!” bawled the stranger adjacent Sylvertre. He was hard to see in the twilight of the Dim, so skinny and dirty the stranger was. It wasn’t until Jael and Corvin came closer that they could make out his greasy black hair from his shadowed face. And the hempen rags he wore for clothes did nothing to hide the pox scars on his arms and his neck, and his legs. “Please, milord, I beg you! Bring justice for my poor family! For my son, I beg you! I beg you! I—” the man froze as the paladin’s shadow cast over him.
“You’re Dante, the accuser?” he asked in a tone that made the stranger shiver. A cloud covered overhead, and in the dark, his pale armour made him seem half a ghost. Silent, the poor man nodded. Corvin spoke to his squires, “Sylvertre, you’re with me. We’ll be questioning this lout while Leonhardt talks with the mother—she is inside, yes?”
Again, Dante nodded while Jael objected, “Sir, I can talk to a man just fine. Just because I’m a woman, it doesn’t mean that I’m not able to do the same as the rest of the squires.”
“I agree,” Ogdon jumped in.
Corvin snapped back, “Shut up, Sylvertre. And you, stupid girl, need to get it through your head. I don’t give a damn what you are outside from your oaths—which include obeying your orders. Now get in the house before it’s your head getting chopped off.”
Bastard. No different than King or Westheart, thought Leonhardt, glad to part with the mud-blooded knight and ma
d at her captain for assigning her with someone so…so…The very search for a word built a fury inside her. It must have shown on her face, for the moment she stepped within the accuser’s home, his wife and child both cried out. Jael gasped as well, at the mangy furs and riddled blankets serving as the apartment’s only furnishings—that is, aside from a chipped, clay chamber pot. From the smell, Leonhardt thought it was passed due to be emptied, though she couldn’t be sure of the source of the odor, looking over Dante’s wife.
Sitting, the woman looked short as she was wide. Her hair hung thin and brittle, her skin sallow and pliant; and when she spoke her voice and teeth were like a kind of boar’s. “God save me! You scared us, milady. I nearly wet my hemps!” She snorted her laughter, a boy in her arms and on her lap. Jael thought he looked at least seven years old, black-haired like his father, dirty and dull. He glanced at her with glossy, frightened eyes. She tried to smile.
“I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m Squire Leonhardt of the Saint’s Cross. I’m here to ask you about what happened to your son.”
“I didn’t know they let women be knights,” the wife blurted. “You hear that, Donny? They got women knights now, and she’s going to save us.”
“I’m only here to ask questions,” Jael said again, her stomach turning because of the smell. She held her breath as much as she could. “Can you tell me what happened?”
A glimmer of comprehension showed on the woman’s face. “What happened to my boy? To little Dante?” She began blinking fiercely. Soon her whole expression was pink and wet and puffy. “It was…It was the bishop. He did something to my boy, something horrible! Just look at him. He ain’t right no more! He won’t talk; he won’t even look at me!” The woman pushed her child aside and threw herself at Jael’s feet, clinging and groveling, her pug nose a runny mess. “Please, you have to help us! What are we going to do? If Donny never gets better, there’ll be no one to work when we’re old! And big Dante’s got a bad back! We’ll starve, milady! We need justice! The church has to pay for what they done to my boy!”
Leonhardt felt the wet of snot and slobber seep through her hose, the woman’s shapeless warmth enfolding. The weight was enough to knock her over. She stumbled backwards and crashed into Corvin’s breast plate. He glared down on her, soundlessly as he had entered the room, and behind him stood Ogdon and the cowering husband. The paladin spoke, “Come, Leonhardt. We’re going.”
“But!”
The knight turned and ordered the horses prepared. He would hear no protest. “That is a command,” he made clear. Jael didn’t have a choice. She left the Dim, swearing to herself to not disappoint the poor family—though she knew full well that such a promise was not in her power. So as they road for the cathedral, she pressed Corvin about what they would do.
“Are we going to detain bishop Vaufnar?”
They crossed from soft ground to stone paving, and the clatter of hooves grew doubly loud. The paladin pretended not to hear her. She asked again, and again he pretended. Then Ogdon opened his mouth to repeat her words. Corvin cut him off. “Don’t talk, Sylvertre!” He spat at Jael, “What are our orders?”
“The captain would want us to help them,” she shot back, refusing to let the mud-blood push her around.
“Jael,” interjected Ogdon, “maybe we should calm down. Let’s trust that Sir Brandon knows what he’s doing.”
“Of course he knows. He knows he could help, but he won’t because he’s a goddamned coward. Either that, or he’s taking tithes from the church.”
Corvin raised a hand, and the horses stopped. They had arrived at the Compassionate’s Cathedral. Never was there a less fitting backdrop to the tension in the air: soft pink walls pearl smooth as the doors wrought from rosewood, stained glass in the mandalas and in the sparkling dome at the cathedral’s head. A crowd was pouring out the portals as the Cross alighted from their horses—the former smiling, the paladin scowling, Leonhardt glaring back at him as he marched straight for her. He struck her full in the face without a word. It was an open hand, yet still, it hurt worse than any blow she’d received in the yard—the shame of it in public—the crowd was looking now.
Ogdon hurried to help. She shoved him off.
Corvin loomed dark over her. “I’ve had enough of your mouth. Find a place to tie the horses and stay there until we get back.” He started for the cathedral, paused, then muttered, “How many men need to die before you’ll learn to control yourself?”
The question burned in her heart as she watched the paladin and Sylvertre leave without her. It served only to make her angrier, that he could resurrect her guilt with a false accusation. She had already decided on her innocence, had she not? And for him to do so in broad view of an entire assembly—Trey would have never approved something so damning to the Cross. It was Corvin who was wrong. The more Jael mulled on the thought, the more right it seemed. Yet her feelings betrayed her. She bit her lip to keep the frustration from spilling onto her cheeks, but nothing could staunch the deep pangs of shame bleeding inside her breast. She tried regardless, pressed a hand to her chest and felt parchment crinkle. The letter. She’d forgotten about it in the course of her antagonism with Corvin. Now, though, there was nothing else as close to her heart as this embodiment of turncoat emotions: the longing to read her father’s words, the shame of knowing what her lie had done to someone who truly loved her. Jael scanned the grounds. Neither squire nor paladin were anywhere to be found, only strangers passing by and giving her odd glances. No different than Herbstfield chapel, she realized that she possessed only two real options: suffer their unfair judgement alone or suffer it in the company of loved ones.
She tore open the letter like an itching wound and poured over Ricard’s heavy handwriting.
Jael,
It’s been more than a month since you left, and every day without you has been harder than all the days of my life. But it is worth that, knowing you are living the life you want to live. I knew since the day you were born that nothing on this earth could hold you back, and though so many leagues lay between us now, I know that you have succeeded. No matter where you are or what you have decided, remember that you have God on your side, walking with you always, as He walked with me so that I could bring you into being. That was my purpose, and now you are serving yours, and I could not be a prouder father for all you have done, become, and will be.
We miss you, Jael, both myself and your mother. I hope the shade between you two has lessened in your heart during your time away. It has for her. Since you’ve been gone, we have spoken long and hard about the last few years. I confess that I played my part, just as she confessed the same to me. She’s ready for your forgiveness, Jael. We both are. Pray that soon we may see each other again and put the past behind us.
And lastly, before I fill the last of the parchment, Zach sends his prayers. He is a good man, your goatherder. He has agreed to help with the autumn harvest and winter crop since you are gone and Troy is useless. Damned horse. He is lucky we don’t eat him.
You are one to repent for the sins of the world,
Your loving father, Ricard Leonhardt
Zach
Jael folded the letter and wiped the tears from her eyes, whispered a prayer begging the Lord for forgiveness. Her father was right. How else could she have made it this far unless it was God walking with her? The shame was her own doing. She’d allowed herself to lose faith despite the miracle of her journey when to doubt herself was to doubt the Lord—But there would be no more of that, she reassured herself, her prior worries seeming ridiculous now. Corvin and the others could claim all they wanted it has her Leonhardt blood that got her into the Cross. She knew better; a name was not enough to make a lady into a knight, or why else was there but one woman warrior before her? And her guilt about leading Zach to believe there’d be an end to her service abated some knowing he’d discover the truth sooner than later and that’d it’d likely be her father to break the sad news. And this accusation, she thought
, her heart and mind in harmony, that it was obvious that Bishop Vaufnar was guilty. It was a matter of revealing it, but she would have to hurry.
Jael strode at a military march through the portal doors, into the vestibule, and didn’t slow until she happened upon an open room thrice the size of Herbstfield chapel. From every angle, colors filled the chamber, pouring from the dome and stained glass windows onto the maroon marble floor. And though there were no pews nor pulpit, she knew at once that this was the sanctuary. She stepped back, slowly. For at the sanctuary’s center rose a dais; and from the dais, an altar; and before the altar, an old man with a long tail of hair and a white cassock with a gold-fringed sash. He was Bishop Vaufnar, talking with her two companions, seeming an angel in the resplendent light—
—or a demon in Jael’s eyes as she glanced around the vestibule. Only now did she notice the twin corridors which enshrined the sanctuary. They were identical as far as she could see, lined with pearl-white pillars partially hiding passageways to the cathedral’s cells and offices. She counted thirty doors at least—endless possibilities, yet not a single lead. So she prayed for a sign and started down the corridor to her right, ringed the inner sanctuary, and found nothing. Have faith, she told herself, listening closer and circling a second time. Again, only wind revealed itself: the wisp of brooms and of sighing servants, the laughter of children—her heart wrenched.
Jael followed those impish voices to an atrium at the eastern end of the cathedral. Here, the windows and dome were chased in gold, and the polished stone floor shone pastel pink. All the servants wore nurse’s clothes—formless black gowns and white aprons. There were two of them in the room watching two dozen children who in turn were watching Jael as if she was the messiah come down from heaven. The oldest of them, a boy of perhaps eight dressed in a stained yellow tunic, pointed at her with awe on his face as he exclaimed, “Nurse! Nurse! It’s Camilla come again!” Leonhardt didn’t know what to say, but another boy, this one in red and next in age, shouted over the chattering of the others, “Everybody, shut your mouths! That’s not Camilla! She don’t even got a halo!”
Salt, Sand, and Blood Page 19