Salt, Sand, and Blood

by MarQuese Liddle

  “My apologies,” started one of the nurses, rushing to greet her at the door. The other was staring from across the room. It took a moment for Jael to recognize her sapphire eyes and homely face beneath the hood of the Religious Sisters. “Jael, sweetling!” gasped Sarah Purwynn. Leonhardt excused herself passed the first of the nurses to meet her friend in the middle of the room. They kissed one another on either cheeks, then Sarah continued, “What are you doing here? And all in armour—you must have made it in.”

  “I did, and I’m even serving as squire for the captain.”

  “Oh, that one?” Sarah uttered, “Yes, I’ve heard enough about him. He’s all the novitiates talk about, Trey Gildmane and Holland King. It makes me wish you’d have been meant for the Sisters, dearest. Then I’d at least have pleasing company.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t look for you sooner,” Jael winced, ashamed of her negligence, a feeling worsened by her urge to hurry before the paladin discovered she was gone. “And I’m sorry to be so brief, but I’m actually here on an investigation. There’s been an accusation made against the bishop.”

  Purwynn’s smile soured at once. “This isn’t the first,” she whispered, “I hear rumors all the time about that pig. But before we talk about that,” she glanced toward her tiny wards gathered around, chattering like birds. “Listen everyone. I want you to meet a friend of mine. Her name is Lady Jael Leonhardt.”

  “Ha! I knew she ain’t Camilla,” said the boy in red.

  “Nicholas!” Purwynn chided him.

  Jael knelt level with the children. “It’s alright, Sarah.” She beckoned the boy in red and the boy in yellow. “So you’re Nicholas. And what’s your name?”

  “Giovanni,” the boy answered.

  “You two like that story, huh? The Purge of Babylon. It’s my favorite too.”

  “Are you a knight or something?” blurted Nicholas.

  Purwynn scowled. “Rude child. You’re lucky his grace doesn’t allow us to cane you.” She leaned and whispered in Jael’s ear, “We can talk outside.”

  Leonhardt stood and bowed to the children, answering them, “A knight? not yet, but someday I will be.”

  Outside the atrium, the sister and squire spoke in hushed voices, pacing between pillars and pausing whenever a pair of ears drew too close. What Sarah knew was not much, but it confirmed all of Jael’s nightmares. She’d heard rumors from parents and from other sisters who worked in the Compassionate’s Cathedral: there were old chambers hidden within the church, long forgotten since the days of inquisition. Words have spread describing such places, words always from the mouths of little boy children. Accusations almost always followed, yet this was the first time Purwynn heard of an investigation.

  “Can I talk with the children?” Jael asked.

  “We’ve tried, but either they don’t know or they’re too afraid to say.” There was a shout from the atrium, bickering from the sounds of it. Sarah frowned. “I’m sorry dear, but I must get back. If I hear anything else, I’ll make sure word gets to you.”

  “And I’ll be sure to come see you again soon. God bless you,” said Leonhardt as they parted ways. She watched her friend go, then began circling the corridor in contemplation on how to proceed. She didn’t make it far. Before Jael had crossed three pillars, a grubby hand was pulling at her surcoat. She turned and found the two boys smiling up at her—bold, red Nicholas and skittish, yellow Giovanni.

  “We are just going to the privies,” said the latter boy.

  “Don’t listen to him,” interjected the former, “we want to see your sword.”

  Sneaky Imps, Jael thought, thumbing the pummel. Then a revelation hit her. “If I agree to show you my sword, do you think you’d be willing to help me?”

  The two boys huddled together, muttered, then turned back to her. “That depends,” said Nicholas, “what you want,” finished Giovanni.

  She scanned the corridor to ensure it was empty. “I’m looking for someplace scary and old inside the church. Do you know anyone who might know where that is?”

  “You mean the—ouch!”

  “Shut your mouth, Giovanni,” said Nicholas, pounding his hand with his fist. Then he said to Jael, “We might know someplace. If we take you there, do you swear to God on your grandmother’s grave that you’ll show us your sword if we do?”

  “In the Lord’s name, I swear I’ll show you.”

  “I said on your grandmother’s grave.”

  Jael bit her lip, this time to keep from laughing. “Alright. I swear on my grandmother’s grave” Where ever that is.

  “Alright,” he replied, “but you can’t tell anybody. Come on.”

  The two boys moved like a pair of thieves, sneaking from pillar to pillar, their feet silent in hemp-sandals on the stone floor as they darted passed open doors, unseen by the servants inside. Leonhardt observed them out of the corner of her eye, walking out in the open and slowly to give them time to slip into place. It was a short way to where they were going—the kitchens—and within, they disappeared behind another door. Jael followed, explaining to the cooks that she was on official church business, that she was not to be disturbed while inspecting…“the wine cellar,” one of the servants told her, “you’re free to look around, but it is empty, milady. We haven’t had any wine since His Grace was anointed.”

  She thanked the man for his help and descended, blind in the pitch dark as the door shut behind her. And in the sudden dankness, she found a new appreciation for the beauty of the cathedral, for the warmth, lightness, and brightness of its air. For down there, down the spiral of black stairs reaching deeper than a mere wine cellar ought to reach, there was only cold and damp and the odor of mold and a grubby hand to grab her shirt as she gasped.

  “It’s her,” she heard Giovanni’s voice, then the scratching of pinions—a flicker—and a lantern ignited. It was dim light, yellow and smoky, and in it the children smiled like shadow clad demons. “You promised,” Nicholas said. “You swore to God. If you break your promise now, then you and your grandma’s souls will go straight to Hell.”

  “A sword cuts both ways,” she replied, squinting over the cellar and its army of vacant wine racks, its stacks of barrels spilling over with flour. She took a step and felt stale crumbs crunch under her boot. “Is this basement all you swore to show me? Surely, you brave boys don’t find this place frightening.”

  Nicholas’s grin split his face. He scurried to the far corner where a row of racks traced behind some barrels. “It’s here,” he said, pointing overhead to the a single bottle left on the rack. Or was it, Jael thought of the dull shape half hidden in the dark. The boy leapt and grabbed its neck; the false bottle shifted. There was a clunking of wood and iron, then a whine of ancient hinges, then the boy—still hanging from the lever—drifted midair where the wall swung open. Giovanni held the lantern to the horror. Jael drew her sword.

  “God save me,” she whispered. There were tables littered with all shapes of razors-sharp implements, chairs and posts fitted with ropes and rusted manacles, wooden horses stained black by old blood, and a dried-up waterwheel with a trough full with dust and rat bones. She’d uncovered what she sought, evidence of Vaufnar’s guilt. Now, she thought, the hard part. She’d need to convince Corvin to come down to the basement.

  She found him and Ogdon waiting in the vestibule, worry on the squire’s face, irritation on the paladin’s. And they were not alone. She was happy to see that Vaufnar had lingered with them, that after all her work and abuse she’d suffered, that she would get to see his soft-leathery face when she laid her accusation. He was the first to notice her, Bishop Vaufnar, and he welcomed her with an ardor to match his glowing sanctuary.

  “You must be the ardent lady Sir Brandon is looking for. Jael Leonhardt, it is my honour to meet you.”

  “Your Grace.” She bowed politely, tasting bile as she did, then turned to face Corvin’s wrath.

  He turned his back instead. “I’ve wasted enough time on you today, girl
. Let’s go.”

  “They were telling the truth,” Jael said as quickly as she could find words that didn’t give away their purpose to the bishop. “Those poor people, I found what they were describing, what we were looking for. It’s down in the basement.”

  The paladin started out the portal, but Ogdon stayed. “Wait, Sir. We’ve come all this way. I think we should at least—” Corvin twisted and pierced Sylvertre with a stare. The squire stuttered, “we should, we should at least see what she found.” Then he said to Jael, his voice high and wavering, “I’m with you.”

  “Good,” declared Leonhardt, “we can do this ourselves.”

  The bishop glanced aghast at each member of the Cross. Corvin whipped around, blood boiling now, thick as it pulsed through his bulging arteries. But they were already leading the clergyman to where Jael had been, beneath the façade of compassion and piety. Seething, the paladin followed them down to the cellar where the lantern glowed dim over barrels and wine racks.

  Bishop Vaufnar glowered at the crumbs on the floor. “Thank you for showing me the negligence of my servants, my lady, but I don’t think I understand what this is all about. Sir Brandon mentioned that there were accusations.”

  “My apologies, Your Grace,” answered Corvin. He gestured toward Jael. “This one’s yet to learn the difference between the world and her emotions.”

  Leonhardt ignored him and asked the bishop flatly, “Would you tell me, Your Grace, why it is you have a wine cellar with no wine?”

  “It is poison for the soul, my lady. When I came into office, I had already witnessed the damage drink had done to the poor of Pareo. My priests and deacons spend most of their time helping our members give it up. It would not do to keep a store here when we are trying so hard to fight it.” He paused and wrinkled his deep-creased forehead. “I still fail to see how this relates to what we discussed.”

  “Just like you failed to see this bottle?” Jael placed her hand on the disguised lever and jerked with all her weight—a clunk and whine and the wall shifted. “Or maybe you just didn’t want anyone to find this by accident?”

  There was quiet for a while, no one but frightened rats daring to speak—each squeak a damnation. “God save us,” hissed Ogdon to break the silence. “That’s a God damned torture—”

  “Shut up, Sylvertre,” Corvin groaned, sliding a hand down his face. It seemed to Leonhardt that the mud-blood wanted anything than to be there. Yet there he was. He turned to the bishop, “Do you care to explain this, Your Grace?”

  Vaufnar was gaping, stammering, afraid. “I swear to the Lord, this is the first I’ve seen of, of, of this place. Sir, I swear it.”

  “Liar!” spat Jael, drawing her sword. Ogdon followed her lead.

  “Put those away!” the paladin exploded, but the bishop was already panicking—repeating his innocence, his ignorance—pleading with Corvin not to arrest him, that his spirit was soft, that he’d never survive an inquisition in the Temple dungeon. Nothing the knight said could calm him, and before long, the clergyman bolted—up the stairs and through the kitchens, the corridors, passed pillars and servants, and out the rosewood portal onto the crowded city street. The three of the Cross had no choice but to give chase. The bishop was quick despite his age; they were outside by the time they caught up with him, and by then, Vaufnar was dissolving into the stream of people.

  Corvin stopped in the center of the road. He pulled the black quiver from his back, drew out his bow and nocked an arrow before the squires noticed his absence. They were a ways ahead of him when they finally did, and had to dive aside at the twang of a lifetime of training loosed into a single shot. “Go with God,” uttered Sir Brandon Corvin. And the arrow flew, true and sharp as the bite of a viper. It whistled through the crowd, striking only its target: the thigh of the terrified and fleeing Vaufnar. It was a clean wound—the arrow pierced through and burst out the other side—and the bishop went down. Jael was close enough to see him, curled on the ground, crying, bleeding—too fast. He was getting too pale. The crowd around him was screaming—Corvin cursing—and Leonhardt knew why. Bishop Vaufnar, beloved of the Compassionate’s Cathedral, patron of the poor, had died.

  Thirteenth Verse

  Home.

  Each day she awoke wondering where next she would go, where next she would lie down and fall asleep only to begin again the following morning, following these people she called her family. They weren’t truly, but in these queer eastern lands, Magdalynn had no one else to call her own but Adam, the bishop, and the Impii. And the old lady, she thought as she lugged a bundle of sticks—tinder for their evening host. It was one of several chores she and Adam performed: gathering wood or water or ingredients for supper—rice and fish and all kinds of spices, duck eggs and cabbage, celery and shoots—then there was the wiping of floors and washing of clothes, of pots and pans and bowls after supper, then the clothes came down from drying to be folded. By the time the sunset, Magdalynn was so exhausted that she’d ride on Adam’s shoulders back to the chapel and the Impii and the bishop. Until tomorrow.

  She had just gotten used to the Gautaman sunrise, the peace of its streets in early morning, and the shape of the city when seen from the edge—the swooping roofs, green and golden, and the towers, the statues, the great wooden gates blazing red in the sun. She would say farewell to them all tomorrow—and to the old woman.

  “I wish we could stay another month,” she said to Adam.

  He smiled at her and pushed his hair from his eyes. “I feel that way sometimes as well, but I made a promise. I’m taking you home.” That’s what he always said when she mentioned staying. There was doubt in his voice toward the beginning, when their clothes were linen rags and he walked barefoot with a makeshift crutch. Now they wore cotton, and he limped of his own power, every step with the confidence of straw sandals on his feet. It was during those moments, in the warming light of the rising sun, that she believed he might truly be her hero.

  But it was hard for the girl to believe—in God and in men. Adam had freed her from Venicci’s grip, but she saw in him that same insatiable thirst. The way he looked as he murdered the smuggler, it gave her nightmares. Those were the times when faith was too great a burden. She thought of Ba’al and Adnihilo, how they had saved her too, yet she knew they were just as bad. All grown-ups are evil, she would conclude in the shadow of the night, then she’d listen to Adam cry in his sleep—in his dreams, like a child—then she would believe in him again, that he was different than the others. He would never hurt me. He loves me just like Darr. She tried to remember her brother, Bernard, but it had been so long since she’d seen him. She could only conjure the pastor’s son’s face.

  By midday, it was cool and humid in the market. They’d dropped off their sticks at the old woman’s estate and were out with a list and a purse of Gautaman copper tails. “Can you read the squiggles yet,” asked Magdalynn as they arrived at their usual stop—a set of open-air stalls.

  Adam shook his head and showed the merchant their list, then traded him a handful of copper for an urn of rice. “I gave that up days ago. I don’t even think the Gauts can read it.” He moved to the next stall and received a jar of yellow spices. He winced. “Looks like it’ll be the yellow rice again.”

  “My poor mouth,” she said, and they laughed together the whole way to the old woman’s home.

  She was waiting for them at the gate when they arrived, smiling her toothless smile. Her thin, crinkled skin reminded Magdalynn of the paint peeling on the wooden arches, and the shape of the arches reminded her of the curve of the woman’s back. Yet old as she was, their host was always ready for their return. Ever since the first day they happened upon her and helped the struggling woman haul home an urn heavy with rice, They’d arrive to a prepared wash basin and set table: four bowls, four cups, and four pairs of eating sticks. This day was no different, and like each of the thirty days before, they scrubbed her robes and wiped her floors till the smell of incense lured them inside for
supper.

  Wordlessly, for they shared no words, they sat together around the low-lying table and prayed over the food and over the empty bowl. As always, they ate in silence. Yet something felt odd to Magdalynn. She watched the old woman and her thin, sad eyes as they flitted from her to Adam, then from the empty bowl to the ink portrait enshrined on the wall behind it. The painting was of a man, happy and bearded with the wispy beard of Gautaman men. The incense smoking before him were burning low. The old woman rose and replaced the smoldering stubs, then she disappeared into another room.

  “Do you think she knows we won’t come back tomorrow?” Magdalynn asked the pastor’s son. He nodded, and Magdalynn wanted to cry. I won’t, she knew, but that didn’t take the stinging from her eyes. “It’s not right to leave her.”

  “We have to. She’ll get along just fine without us.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I don’t,” he admitted, “but I have faith that there is justice in this world.” Justice? The image of Adam’s enraged face flashed before her—grisly with gritted teeth, spattered with the smuggler’s blood. She shivered despite her spice-burned tongue. Then the old woman rejoined them at the table with a present cupped in her tiny hands. She held it for Magdalynn, but the girl hesitated. “Go on,” Adam encouraged her.

  It was a delicate jade comb hewn in the shape of a fish on one side, a pheasant on the other. The detail was impeccable. Every scale and every feather of the carven animals were visible from across the table. In Magdalynn’s hands, they looked even more beautiful, and in her hair bound up in Gautaman buns and braids, she felt like the ladies they passed in the alleys and on the evening streets. It was the first time in more than three years she’d felt this way—like a girl and not a slave. She hugged the old woman to hide the tears in her eyes. But their host only smiled and sent them to their final chores. Then before she knew it, the day was over, and the widow was just an image, a memory—a dream. In the morning, the harbor would join her, as would the chapel and the city.