“No, sir,” Aisa replied, wishing her resolve was as firm as her voice. Da no longer loomed over her, perhaps, but he looked the same as ever. He laid stones for a living, and his top half seemed twice the size of his bottom. As he approached the throne, Aisa drew her knife, clenching it in a fist that was suddenly wet with perspiration.
The Mace beckoned Kibb and murmured, “Make sure Andalie doesn’t come in here.”
Da was not alone, Aisa saw now; he had emerged from the crowd with a priest beside him. The priest wore the white robes of the Arvath, but the hood was pulled low over his brow and Aisa could not see his face. After a glance in her direction—a single, sharp look that Aisa could not read—Da ignored her, focusing all of his attention on the Mace.
“You again, Borwen?” the Mace asked in a tired voice. “What’s on the menu today?”
Da looked as though he meant to speak, but then the priest moved forward and pushed his hood back. Aisa heard the low hiss of the Mace’s breath, and she drew her knife automatically as Elston jumped forward. The rest of the Guard quickly moved to surround the foot of the dais, and Aisa went with them, jumping up two risers to tuck herself behind Cae and Kibb.
“Your Holiness,” the Mace said slowly. “What an honor to have you here. The last time was thrilling.”
The Holy Father himself! Aisa tried not to stare, but she couldn’t help it. She had thought that the Holy Father would be old, but he was much younger even than Father Tyler, his hair still nearly black, his face traced with only the lightest of lines. The Mace said that the Holy Father never went anywhere unguarded, but Aisa didn’t see any guards in the crowd around him. Still, she took her cue from the men around her, who had ranged themselves in a defensive posture around the Mace.
“I come to demand justice from the Queen’s government,” the Holy Father announced in a deep, carrying voice, and now Aisa noticed his eyes: blank, almost reptilian, betraying no emotion. “Our brother parishioner, Borwen, came to us with a grievance some weeks ago. The Queen has denied him his parental rights.”
“Has she now?” The Mace leaned back in his armchair. “And why would she do that?”
“For gain. She wished to keep Borwen’s wife as her servant.”
The Mace pinned Borwen with a long stare. “This is your tale of the week? It’s a foolish one. Andalie is no one’s servant.”
“I am confident in the truth of Borwen’s tale,” the Holy Father replied. “Borwen has been a good member of Father Dean’s parish for some years, and—”
“You didn’t come here to plead a case for this nonce. What do you want?”
The Holy Father hesitated, but only for a moment. “I also come to personally demand the return of the Apostate.”
“As I have told you perhaps ten times now, we don’t have him.”
“I believe otherwise.”
“Well, this wouldn’t be the first time you believed something without evidence, would it?” The Mace’s tone was mocking, but a large vein had begun to pulse in his forehead. “We don’t have Father Tyler, and I will not discuss the subject further.”
The Holy Father smiled blandly. “Then what of Borwen’s case?”
“Borwen is a pedophile. Do you really wish to tie the Arvath to his cause?”
“That is slanderous,” the Holy Father replied calmly, though Aisa noted that his smile had momentarily slipped. Perhaps they had believed that the Mace would not raise the subject in a public audience. Aisa didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed that he had.
“Borwen lives the life of a good Christian. Each morning he attends dawn services. At night he donates his time to—”
“Borwen has no choice but to be a good Christian,” the Mace growled. “Because he knows that for the past six months, I have had a New London constable on him like glue. I understand his neighbors are greatly relieved.”
This took Aisa by surprise. She wouldn’t have thought the Mace would take an interest in anything that didn’t directly affect the Queen. She wondered if Maman knew. Da was certainly no good parishioner; their family had attended church only a few times a year.
“Borwen has repented sincerely for all of his past acts,” the Holy Father replied. “He has reformed, and now he wants only to be with his wife and children.”
“Reformed,” the Mace sneered. “Tell whatever story you like, Borwen. Sooner or later, we both know that the sickness inside you will have its way, and when we catch you in the act, I will put you away for good.”
“My children belong to me!” Da bellowed. “You have no right to keep them from me!”
“You gave up your children the moment you laid a hand on them. On their mother.”
Distant movement caught Aisa’s eye: Maman, standing at the mouth of the hallway, her arms folded. Kibb had not noticed her—or was pretending not to—and Aisa said nothing either. How could the Mace know about Maman? Had she told him about those days? It seemed unlikely. They didn’t get on at all.
“My daughter stands there!” Da snapped. “Ask her! Ask her how badly she was treated!”
Aisa froze, for all eyes in the room were suddenly upon her.
“Your daughter works for me,” the Mace replied quickly, and Aisa could tell that he had not been prepared for this turn of the conversation. “She speaks on my command, not yours.”
Aisa met Da’s gaze and found triumph there. Da still knew her well. This was a well-calculated gamble he took, that she would not want to reveal her own misery, their terrible past. To tell her shame to strangers, so many of them staring at her now . . . how could she do that and then go on? Even if they believed her, how could she go through the rest of her life, knowing that this was the first thing everyone would know about her: that she had endured these things? Who could do that?
The Queen, her mind answered suddenly. The Queen would speak and face whatever came afterward.
But Aisa couldn’t.
“Aisa has been through enough,” the Mace said. “And no true Christian would force her to recount the tale here.”
“Indeed, God loves children,” the Holy Father replied, nodding. “Except the liars.”
“Watch yourself, Father.” The Mace’s voice had dropped a note, a danger signal to those who knew him, but the Holy Father didn’t seem to care. Aisa wondered whether the priest meant to get himself beaten here, or arrested; that would surely be a useful event for the Arvath. The Mace was too smart to oblige him . . . or so Aisa hoped. This low, quiet anger was much worse than when he yelled. She felt Da’s eyes on her again, and resisted the urge to meet his gaze.
“Surely if the child had an accusation to make, she would make it,” the Holy Father remarked, his voice dismissive. “These baseless charges against Borwen are meant to obscure the fact that the Queen’s laws are arbitrary, designed to serve her own needs. All men of God should defend him.”
“Her own needs. When the Mort came, the Queen opened the Keep to over ten thousand refugees. How many refugees did the Arvath take in?”
“The Arvath is sacred,” the Holy Father replied, but Aisa saw, relieved, that the Mace had broken his rhythm again. “No layman may enter God’s house without the Holy Father’s permission.”
“How convenient for both God and Your Holiness. And what does Christ say about taking in the homeless?”
“I would like to return to the Apostate, Lord Regent,” the Holy Father said quickly. Aisa stole a glance at the crowd, but she could not say whether they had noticed the man’s quick retreat. Most of them merely stared at the dais with open mouths.
“What about Father Tyler?”
“If he is not handed over by noon on Friday, the Church will excommunicate all employees of the Crown.”
“I see. When all else fails, blackmail.”
“Not at all. But God is disappointed in the Crown’s failure to address sin in the Tearling. With the Queen gone, we had hoped that you would take this opportunity to criminalize unnatural acts.”
Elst
on twitched beside her; Aisa sensed rather than saw it. But when she looked up at him, he looked the same as ever, his face blank and eyes pinned on the crowd.
“How’s the money for that property tax payment coming?” the Mace asked suddenly. “Going to be ready for the new year?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” the Holy Father replied, but his tone was uneasy.
The Mace burst out laughing, and at the sound, Aisa relaxed a bit, the tension easing from her shoulders. She stole another glance across the room and found Maman’s eyes pinned on the Mace, a tiny smile curving Maman’s lips.
“You know, Anders,” the Mace said, “for a few minutes, I wasn’t sure what you were doing here. But now I see perfectly. Let me take this opportunity to tell you plain: come hell and vengeance, that tax payment will be due on February first.”
“This is not about money, Lord Regent.”
“Everything is about money, always. You impose a tithe on the Tear and then seek to keep it all, pouring money into luxury, feeding off the credulous and the starving. You profit.”
“People give freely for a holy cause.”
“Do they now?” The Mace’s face broke into an ugly grin. “But I know exactly where the money goes. We picked up two of your enforcers last week. You’ve been doing business in the Creche.”
At this, a ripple went through the crowd, and the Holy Father’s smile slipped a notch before he recovered.
“Baseless accusations!” he cried. “I am God’s messenger—”
“Then your God is a trafficker in child flesh.”
The audience gasped.
“And you!” The Mace turned to Borwen. “I wasn’t sure what you were doing here either, but now I see you plain. You thought that you would have a better shot at your ridiculous argument with a man on the throne. If you ever try to come near your wife and children again, I will—”
“What? Kill me?” Borwen shouted. “What threat is that? I am already dead, my children lost to me, and hounded wherever I go! Why not just kill me now?”
“I will not kill you,” the Mace said quietly, his dark eyes cold. “I will take you into custody and allow your wife to decide your fate.”
Da turned white.
The Mace descended the steps, focusing his attention on the Holy Father. “You will not blackmail me with threats, nor will you distract me from the Queen’s agenda. Don’t send any more of this nonsense to my door. The next priest to set foot in here may not fare so well. And you, Borwen . . . you never want to be in my sight again.”
Aisa felt as though her heart would burst. Maman and Wen had always defended her from Da when they could, but it was different to have someone outside their family do so. If it had been permissible to hug the Mace, she would have done, for she loved him suddenly, with the sort of fierce love she had never felt for anyone but her mother.
“Come, Brother Borwen,” the Holy Father commanded. “It’s just as I have always said: the Glynn crown drowns in its own pride. God knows of this injustice, but we will take your case to the public courts also, and expose this place for what it is.”
“You may try,” the Mace replied evenly. “But beware, Your Holiness. Borwen’s children are hardly his only accusers.”
“No one has accused him of anything, Lord Regent.”
“I accuse him.”
The words were out of Aisa’s mouth before she could stop them. The eyes of the crowd were on her, and she wished, more than anything, that she could take it back.
“Did you say something, child?” the Holy Father asked. His voice was honey-sweet, but his eyes glared. Strangely, this forced Aisa to speak again. She thought that each word would be worse than the last, but once started she found, relieved, that the opposite was true: the first words had been the hardest to say, and everything afterward came easier, as though a dam had broken inside her throat.
“I was three or four years when you started.” She fought hard to meet Da’s eyes, but could only focus on his chin. “You went after Morryn at the same age. We finally had to hide under the floor to get away from you.” Aisa heard her own voice rising in distress, but now it was like running down a hill, arms spinning like pinwheels. She couldn’t stop. “Always pushing, Da, that’s you, and you wouldn’t leave us alone, that’s what I remember best—”
“Lies!” the Holy Father snapped.
“It’s not!” she screamed. “It’s true, and you just don’t want to hear it!”
“Hellcat,” the Mace said gently, and she stopped, drawing a thick, angry breath.
“You’re not in trouble, child. But I want you to go, now. Coryn, take her to her mother.”
Coryn tugged gently at her arm, and after a moment, Aisa went with him. She snuck a last look back and found an ocean of eyes still upon her. Da remained beside the Holy Father, his face red with anger.
“Are you all right?” Coryn asked her in a low voice.
Aisa didn’t know how to answer. She felt sick. Behind her, she heard the Mace tell the two men to get out.
“Aisa?” Coryn asked.
“I embarrassed the Captain.”
“No, you didn’t,” he replied, and she was grateful to hear his businesslike tone. “You did a useful thing. The Arvath won’t dare put your father in front of a public judge now. Too many people were here.”
Everyone will know. The thought seemed to scald Aisa.
“The Caden won’t care,” Coryn remarked casually, and Aisa halted.
“Why do you say that?”
“I saw your face, girl. I know we’re going to lose you one day. But grey cloak or red, do yourself a favor: don’t let your past govern your future.”
“Is it that easy?”
“No. Even the Captain struggles with it, every day.”
A killer of children, Aisa remembered. Maman was there suddenly, her arms open, and everything inside Aisa seemed to mercifully collapse. She had been ready to kill Da, ready for years, but now she was amazed to find that she had done something even more difficult: she had spoken aloud.
Tyler did not believe in hell. He had decided, long ago, that if God wanted to punish them, there was infinite opportunity right here; hell would be superfluous.
But if there was a hell on earth, Tyler had certainly found it.
He and Seth were tucked into an alcove, a hidden recess deep within a tunnel, buried in the bowels of the earth. They had squeezed in here through a tiny crevice in the stonework. The floor and walls, lit only by the tiny, flickering match in Tyler’s fingers, were covered with mold. In the last moment before the match died, Tyler saw that Seth was looking worse than ever today, his cheeks hectic with fever and corneas yellowed with infection. Tyler had not looked at Seth’s wound in several days, but if he did, he knew that he would see the red streaks climbing up Seth’s belly toward his chest. When they had first escaped the Arvath, Tyler had taken Seth to a doctor, using most of the money he had saved. But the man was not a real doctor, and though he had given Seth something to ease his pain for a few days, he had not been able to stop the progress of the infection.
The match guttered, and not a moment too soon, for now Tyler heard the sound of running footsteps, several pairs, in the tunnel outside.
“The east branch!” a man panted. “To the east branch, and we can meet up in the road.”
“They’re Caden, I know it,” another man said, his voice weak with fear. “They’re coming.”
“What would Caden want down here? There’s no money for them.”
“All of you, the east branch, quickly!”
The footsteps took off running again. Tyler leaned back against the wall of the recess, his heart pounding. He and Seth were already in a great deal of trouble, but if there really were Caden down here, their problems would multiply. In the early days of their flight, Tyler had gone up to the surface several times, to trade coin for food and clean water, and it had not taken long to hear the news: the Arvath had placed bounties on them both. Tyler and Seth had long
since discarded their Arvath robes, but even in layman’s clothes, they no longer felt safe above ground. Tyler had not been out of the tunnels for more than two weeks, and their food supply was nearly gone.
“Ty?” Seth asked in a whisper. “Do you think they’ve come for us?”
“I don’t know,” Tyler replied. He had thought they were safe down here, but that safety brought its own price. In his trips through the tunnels, Tyler had seen many things, and as he came to understand what this labyrinth really was, he had begun to lapse back into the spiritual darkness that had gripped him during his final few weeks in the Arvath.
God, why do you allow this? This world is yours. Why do you suffer these people to remain?
Not surprisingly, he received no answer.
He knew he must get Seth out of here, and soon. He had been looking for a subterranean route to the Keep; surely the Mace must have used such a route to slip in and out of the Arvath unnoticed for his reading lessons. But Tyler was afraid to venture too far from the safety of their crevice. The price on Seth was only a thousand, but on Tyler’s last trip topside, the bounty on his own head had stood at five thousand pounds. No Caden would allow such an opportunity to slip through his fingers. From the gossip Tyler had picked up in a shadowy pub, he knew that his bounty also included his possessions, and this told Tyler that while the Holy Father surely wanted them both dead—and would pay good money to be able to send Tyler to judgment himself—his primary interest was not Tyler or Seth, but the polished cherrywood box that Tyler kept in his satchel. Tyler longed to take it out and open it again, but they could not afford to waste any more matches; they were down to their last packet. All the same, he could not help holding the satchel close, feeling the comforting edges of the box inside.
After several weeks in the tunnels, Tyler had pieced together some of this business. The Tear crown had not been seen since Queen Elyssa died. She must have gifted it to the Church—an odd move for a monarch who did not attend services more than once a year, but Elyssa would not be the first to have found Jesus at her deathbed. Tyler had never met the Glynn Queen’s mother, but she was accounted the sort of woman who might attempt to buy her way into heaven. The crown was undoubtedly valuable, made of solid silver and sapphire, but its value to Tyler went far beyond money. This crown had sat on the heads of every ruler since Jonathan Tear, and had anchored many bloody battles of succession. It was rumored to have magical properties as well, though Tyler thought that was little more than fancy. To him, the crown was an artifact, a witness to the wild, brawling, extraordinary history of the Tear, and Tyler could no more be careless with such an artifact than he could leave Seth behind. Besides, he had a promise to keep. The thought of the woman, Maya, nearly wrenched him in half. She had given him the crown, and he had left her there, sitting in front of the table of drugs. He could not have taken her with him, or the game would have been up; he knew this, but the knowledge brought him no peace. Anders was not one to spare the rod, and Tyler could not imagine what fate had befallen Maya after his escape. If nothing else, he meant to keep his promise and deliver the crown to the Queen. But he could hardly do that down here.
The Fate of the Tearling Page 14