Salt, Sand, and Blood

by MarQuese Liddle

Ogdon lifted his chin to look the elder in the eyes. They were steel, his vestments white, a woolen cowl covering his shoulders—peaking beneath it, another Eye. “I’m with the Saint’s Cross, why?” replied the squire, too much hostility in his voice.

  The elder replied in kind, his hand solid as iron as it closed on the throat of Ogdon’s cloak. “Because my job here is to root out the snakes. The Cross is already inside. Lie to me again, boy, and I’ll brain you like a pagan.”

  “Come now, Thomas, there’s no need for violence,” interjected the second elder—a man taller and softer. He blanketed his companion’s hand with his own, yet the iron grip lingered, like a velvet hammer pressed against the squire’s throat, like the ones hanging from their belts. The second man continued, “My apologies, young man, for such a brusque greeting. I am senior Alphonse. This is my brother—”

  “Thomas,” the stout man grumbled, releasing Ogdon’s cloak.

  Sylvertre glared back and forth. “You’re clerics then?”

  “Used to be.”

  “What my brother means to say,” started Alphonse, “is that once the pagans raids stopped, the people didn’t see a need for our order anymore. Nor did Saint Lucius. So we took new oaths and new homes. That was almost thirty years ago. We’re all that’s left, Thomas and I.”

  Ogdon yawned. “Thanks for the history lesson, but I need to get inside.”

  “Not a chance,” answered the stout.

  “Certainly,” said the other

  Thomas turned red, then turned to his companion, but the elder was prepared.

  He said, “Why not? Services are done, and alms have been given. Who is present for him to harm?” addressing Ogdon, “You’re with the Cross, you said? Your fellow knights arrived a short while ago. You’ll find them on the tenth floor. Be mindful on your way. There have been alterations made over the years. It is easy to become lost, and there have been…incidents.”

  “Abductions, he means. We’ll know by tomorrow morning if you’ve lied to us, boy. That’s reason enough to suspect you’re involved. Don’t think I’ll hesitate.”

  “I won’t,” the squire replied, hobbling inside fast as he could.

  A velvet-soft hand stopped him on the threshold. “You need not fear but for a guilty conscience.”

  The only guilty conscience here is Gildmane’s, he thought once they were inside and the doors safely shut—as if the entrance were a portal to his soul through which the clerics might hear. More foolishness, he knew. They weren’t from the capital; what would they care of a disloyal squire? That gave him pause, the thought of himself as a traitor. His eyes flitted about the room and found nothing of interest, only boxes and barrels, an undecorated slab of a door, and sacks of flour and grain stacked high as the low ceiling. They cramped what otherwise would have been a wide, open space, restricting Ogdon from escaping the feeling of being lost. though his journey had yet begun.

  “This is the store,” said Elder Alphonse, “Go on up the stairs. Our guest chambers are on the fifth floor.”

  “What’s behind that door?”

  Thomas’s brows reared like angry caterpillars, but it was his partner who answered, “That would be the service entry for Father Angelo. It opens directly into the ambulatory, but heed it no mind. There is no way to the upper floors through there.”

  “So it leads into the church?”

  The elder nodded.

  Ogdon squeezed through the narrow path left open for the priest. He hoped to chance upon Jael in the parish alone, though what he said, jerking the iron door ring, was, “I’ve got a few questions for God that are passed due answering.”

  His words were only half deceit, not that he believed he’d receive answers, regardless of whether or not he prayed—especially in this place—this strange vault of contradiction. It was a weald slain and slaved, stained dark and polished bright as hoar frosted windows, cobwebs of crossbeams and faded tapestries. He could see only a few at first, those hanging directly above the ambulatory, like the painted dome in the Obedient’s Cathedral. But that was where the similarities came to an end. Rounding the chancel, he saw more clearly the woven images overhead. Histories never uttered by his home bishop Radsev of men in red tabards clutching swords and torches, a castle of ice, a great black dragon—not the kind Jael slew, but like the one described in the scriptures of revelation. It was the only bit of the holy book that Ogdon had ever read—solely for its fantasy. A golden dragon descending inferno; his harbinger, the Anarch Prince; the false prophet; the rule of darkness; the messiah’s coming; and war with the damned. He had felt the same then as when he stared up at this tapestry of the Messaii battling their demon atop its icy Hell. At the bottom along its fringe, it read, Against the Tides of Winter, for God and the King.

  Breathless, he ventured into the sanctuary, among its rows of empty benches, and witnessed as the images became familiar scenes. There was the folly at Crusaders’ Canyon—volcanic ash descending on soldiers doomed to be devoured by a monstrous wolf. Forget Not Justice for the Fallen, for the False King and His Beast. Following that, a likeness of the sea—a battle atop an isle between clerics wearing the trinity-eye and a chimeric demon. Soil Clean of the Blood of Heathens. Then the last tapestry, its history still vivid even in Sylvertre’s memory—the Purge of Babylon of its Impii corruption, of their red demon king, seven heroes woven gloriously in shining silver thread. From the Tyrant, Blood. From the Lord, Mercy.

  That struck a chord within Ogdon, one of devious pitch and foul inflection. He took a seat at the end of a bench, scanned the hall, forgetting his original intention. In whispers, he thought, It’s all so arbitrary, who’s right and who’s wrong. The truth unveiled that life and death were determined not by God, but by the will of men. Mercy and justice were whatever best suited their gratuitous desires. Even words like Messaii and pagan were but tools to their ends, a way to distinguish vassal from quarry. Like a game of Frapugna—no, his second thought was of those red and blue figures, if it were like that, you could at least tell them apart. God’s designations were never so clear. Ogdon recalled the Hibernis shipmaster and his black-skinned thralls—less Messaii bodied than the western pagans, less than others who were sentenced to die. Blackheart. For the first time, it occurred to the squire that Harold might not have deserved execution. Ogdon wasn’t even sure of his crime, only that it involved Jael and the captain and something to do with Harpe being denied—or so the others gossiped. Sylvertre had assumed those rumors false at the time, but now, no amount of incredulity could keep him from his new conclusion. They were right. Brandon could only take his place because Harold Blackheart died—murdered—Because the captain chose Jael? No, he realized in a rush of conscience. She would have passed regardless. Truly, it was because Father chose me.

  It was as though a blindfold fell from Sylvertre’s eyes and he could see now that which had lied but a hair’s breadth in front of his face. It was his own complicity staring back at an heir to sin no different than the rest of them. “Then I’m no better, and it’s just every man out for himself?” the questions came tumbling, “then what does it matter that I swore an oath if loyalties mean nothing, if this whole thing just a farce?” He glowered beyond the tapestries, forced himself to his feet, and began hobbling toward the altar—a triangular table—more pagan artifice. Atop it, a candelabra, three candles unlit. He lifted one and rolled it betwixt his fingers, plucked the wick, then snapped it in fragments. Small acts of sacrilege, yet he performed them with the greatest catharsis. “Come on, then. Strike me down if I’m wrong, if there is such thing as God and justice.” Smashing the wax, he thrust it overhead. “Come on,” he hissed.

  Nothing.

  That’s what I thought. Ogdon tossed the ruined candle aside and felt a chill nibble his ankle. Like a whisper, the swivel of oiled hinges tickled his senses, and for a moment, the church began to lean. Then all at once whirred the slipping of knots; the lames came undone, and the squire’s crutch clattered to the floor in pieces. Immed
iately he followed, falling belly first trying to catch himself, but the ground came up faster. The wind fled his lungs like a blow from Troy’s lance. He wanted to curse, but had not the air. So there he lay, bearing it till his breath returned, till he could grumble over reassembling his shoddy work.

  But there was something calming about the cool, polished wood on his bruising cheek—like the lapping of the ocean and a breeze from the sea. He pressed his ear more firmly against the floor. It wasn’t like the ocean, it was. Somewhere deep underneath, he swore he could hear it. Ogdon climbed to his knees, crawled, listening for the rhythm and feeling for the chill when he found the hinge hidden in a crevice no wider than a knife. Without a thought, the squire went to work, his fingernails scratching the surface searching for cuts between the boards. It wasn’t long before he’d traced the outline of the trapdoor. No handle, yet he felt sure there should be a lever or switch somewhere—just like beneath the Compassionate’s Cathedral. Another scandal right under the church’s nose.

  Sylvertre snatched a pent from inside his purse and wedged it in the slit opposite the hinge. Delicately, he levered the bit of copper hoping to pry the ledge high enough for his fingertips to grasp; yet as softly as he pressed, the coin took on a bend. So he tried again, and again, and again, so many times that he worried he’d leave wear marks in the wood. Then at last he got it trying a schill he’d received from the Hibernis slaver. It was stiff as iron, debased down to a silver plating so thin it scratched just lifting the trap an inch off the floor. Ogdon chuckled at his fortune—being exploited by a band of foreigners. Gildmane’s loss to my gain; and if this counterfeit coin is anything to go on, mayhap they’ll seek a reward for turning in those treasonous letters. I won’t even have to get my hands dirty. He rebound his dismantled crutch, giddy at the thought, and stole through the hidden door.

  The trap shut like a sun plunging under the earth—into the underworld this passage delved, black and narrow, cut right into the rocky soil and reinforced with mortar. A leviathan’s gullet, every step and groping touch of the walls came away wet with cold and salt, every breath with the rank of spoiled fish. Sylvertre shut his useless eyes and pinched his nose. He listened, the lapping sounds echoing louder below ground, and sought after them, prodding along with his crutch like a cane.

  Not a hundred steps in, the black passage faded gray, then around a bend became brighter still at the fork: one path back to darkness, the other to a cove twilit by day. It was an ancient place, Ogdon surmised, a low, costal overhang hollowed out but for sand and dirt. Squinting, he could just make out the black flux of the tide and the outline of a wood-rotted pier. Most of the structure had sunk into the ocean, and what remained intact had doubtless been replaced. A cargo port? No, the passage was too small, and why would they need a secret door? The squire ventured further into the cove. Indeed, part of the pier had been recently replaced, and there was even a boat tied and readied for departure. A smuggler’s vessel, Ogdon noted. Both body and sails were black as midnight, invisible against the ocean in the dark and from a distance—but up close, Sylvertre could see the chains and ropes and pitched tarpaulin awaiting cargo to detain on the deep deck of the boat.

  Curious, he surveyed the rest of the cove for clue as to what was being smuggled and found rust-stuffed holes at regular intervals along a wall. And like the pier, a few of those spots had been restored with steel rings and collars and manacles, all oiled and glistening. Ogdon could hardly believe his fortune; he had to clasp his mouth to keep from laughing too loudly. A transgression on par with that of Bishop Vaufnar’s—and it was he who uncovered it, the secret of the abductions. Now, what do I do? The possibilities were too many for the squire to sort through on an empty stomach and in the cold of the cove. He couldn’t hear himself think over the throbbing in his ankle, and it occurred to him that he’d yet to venture the second corridor.

  The unexplored tunnel proved shorter than the first and ended with a trapdoor identical to that in the parish. It opened into the storeroom, hidden inside an empty barrel among half a dozen others full of dry mortar. Sylvertre squatted inside until he felt sure the chamber was vacant, then clambered up the stairs as fast as a cripple could.

  He survived the rest of the evening without anyone asking where he’d been or what he’d been doing. Truly, no one spoke a word to him, even at supper with the other members of the Cross; Father Angelo; his deacon, Asmund; and Elder Alphonse. The three of them seemed a matching set to the squire, amicable, wrinkled, and shades of snowy gray cloud. “Molded from the same soft clay,” Angelo japed, explaining Thomas’s absence. “But that man was cut from stiffer mud. He has always been welcome to join us, but prefers to take his meals alone in his cell—and only after a nightly patrol. God bless his diligence,” and on and on the priest talked, his companions beaming; the knight’s nodding half-heartedly while the other squires stared solemnly at half-finished plates. Ogdon took this time to study their faces, their gestures, their ages and strengths—whether he thought any of them capable of taking slaves. They seemed too soft to him, too old and frail. But that didn’t stop Vaufnar, he mulled over the thought, but what if it’s Thomas? He could be doing anything down there with no one around. And if it’s all of them? How do I accuse them without proof that they knew? I’ll have to go back for more evidence, Sylvertre realized, keeping in mind that a former cleric might be lurking about those tunnels now, a heavy velvet mace hanging from his belt.

  Ogdon rose and excused himself. He knew he’d need to devise a plan, that doing it alone was impossible. He also knew that the only person he dared to tell would never believe him. Then I won’t give her a choice, he decided, aching his way up two floors of steep, spiraled stairs and into the Cross’s borrowed chambers. There wasn’t a second to waste. He stole Trey’s quills, ink, and parchment and left a note for Jael where her sword had been—for he took that with him, along with his own weapon tucked under his cloak. He would sneak to the storeroom before supper was done, and if the elder yet prowled the parish, he’d hide inside the false barrel and catch Leonhardt on her way down. That was how he imagined his plot to proceed, but when he passed through the store and into the sanctuary, he found the whole of the parish empty.

  Jael arrived in short time, her lips livid as the four battle scars at the corners of her face. Her breaths fell stiff and sharp as the stab of a dagger. “Tell me where it is, Ogdon, or I swear to God I’ll break your last leg.”

  “So you read my letter, then?” He glanced over each shoulder, then again to make certain they were alone. “And you didn’t tell anyone anything?”

  “Of course I showed Trey your stupid note.” She stopped to rest in the center of the chancel and starred him down cold as the Serpent’s Head.

  Ogdon’s heart froze, but he tried not to let it show on his face or in his tone as he spoke. “‘Trey,’ huh? Well aren’t you on intimate terms with the captain. Strange, then, that he’s not here if you truly did show him the letter.”

  “He’s not here because I told him not to come. I knew what this was about; thought I’d save you the embarrassment. I can see now that was my mistake.”

  “Not at all,” replied Sylvertre as he limped toward the hidden door, passing within an inch of her, yet his craven eyes held fast to the floor till they spied the subtle notches where he’d forced entry prior. Iron schill in hand, he opened the trap—careful to keep the swords out of view, either obscured by his cloak or behind the altar. “It’s down here,” he said.

  Leonhardt glowered, skeptical.

  Descending, Ogdon jested, “ There are no Brackdragons, I promise.” No one laughed, but the squire was glad enough to hear Jael following after him into the cramped, damp tunnel. “Not much further,” he told her, “it lightens up ahead.” It didn’t; and not until the bend did it occur to him that his earlier visit was during midday, that it was evening now, that without a lantern there would be nothing to show her.

  “Where are we?” she asked.

 
“A cave underneath the tower. It opens onto the ocean. I wanted to show you, but I didn’t think about the light. If you keep going, there’s an old pier and a boat, and there are chains along the wall over there. If you stay close to me, I can find them again and—”

  “That’s not why I followed you. Where is my sword, Ogdon?”

  “Your sword?” he stalled.

  But Leonhardt was done with him. He watched her silhouette turn back for the passage—saw her stop midstride. Together, they recognized the yellow lantern light reaching around the corner, growing brighter, blinding them both while the boots sounded louder on the rough, tunnel floor.

  He spoke before they saw him, his voice stout as his form emerging from the light. “What in Hell are you doing down here? I thought the old dock was sealed up.”

  “It certainly was made to seem that way,” Sylvertre replied.

  Jael glared back and forth between the men. “What is this? What’s going on?”

  Ogdon dropped his crutch and gripped his sword, ready to draw at a moment’s notice. “Look around, Jael: black sails and new fetters; it’s obvious they’re slaving. The only question is whether the others are involved.”

  “Watch your tongue, boy! The first time I’ll take for ignorance, but charge my brother or Father Angelo again and I’ll put you down for blasphemy.”

  “Then what is this place?” asked Leonhardt, the glint of oiled manacles catching her eye.

  “A faster way onto the water. The clerics used it decades ago when there were still pagan raids. Had to catch the bastards before they vanished back to their damned island.”

  Jael glanced again toward the wall. “And the chains?”

  “Inquisition,” was all Thomas said.

  Ogdon remained doubtful. “Does that boat and those cuffs look decades old to you?”

  Thomas squinted, peering through the dark beyond the reach of his lantern. “All I can see are shadows and trespassers. You’re both coming with me to talk with your captain. Then we’ll sort this out during daylight hours.”