Chapter 17 #2
I am not the only one who has prepared himself.
Around the circle of the ruins, the others carry their various bundles and packs.
Hefertus has tied his hair back as though he expects trouble.
The Majester is carrying a helm and the Inquisitor has tied a strip of cloth across his brow.
Even the High Saint is freshly scrubbed and looking wary.
He whispers frantically into the ear of Sir Kodelai, eyes darting in every direction, gestures emphatic.
“Brothers.” Sir Kodelai interrupts the High Saint to speak to us from where he stands by the gate. “Listen now to the will of the God.”
I always wonder about fellow clerics and paladins who claim to know the will of the God.
Do they really speak for him? It feels like a risky thing to claim if they don’t.
And the satisfaction in Sir Kodelai’s eye tells me he likes this.
He is this. It’s harder to trust someone who is enjoying the power so much.
By all accounts, Sir Kodelai is the most upstanding, most honorable living paladin.
He has served the Aspect of the Vengeful God in the most exemplary manner since renouncing his land and crown and giving himself to his Aspect.
But this gleam in his eye — this is new to me.
This is worrying. I seal my lips shut and try to watch everyone at once.
The early morning breeze ruffles hair and nips cheeks pink. Eyes are bright, feet restless. I sense nothing else — no malice or subterfuge. There’s anxiety rolling off the High Saint, but there’s always a little of that with him.
If there is a threat near, I do not see it.
Sir Kodelai’s voice booms through my observations. “We will go down together into the monastery again. We will gather up the Seer to be laid to rest. And I will speak to you of guilt and justice.”
He’s carrying his wood case. The one with his incense and other accoutrements of the Vengeful Aspect.
“Please set down your worldly goods. They will not aid us today.”
“Unless we’re locked in there,” Hefertus says. “Then we’ll be glad we have tools and food.”
“The door will not lock,” Sir Kodelai says. “See? I have removed it from the hinges.”
So he has. Interesting. It does not prove his argument.
“You all know that in matters of justice, you must yield to me. Please put down your packs.”
We are none of us excited to obey his orders, but we do. The consequences, should we ignore him, are too grave.
“We discuss life and death today. And a murder most grim,” he says, and his beautiful face has an expression of reverence.
He’s dressed in finery, I realize. A nice black velvet coat is under his tabard.
He’s dressed his hair and oiled his beard.
This is sacred to him. And it must, then, be sacred to us.
“Who here can never say they have committed murder, whether in the name of the God or otherwise?”
I meet the High Saint’s eye by accident. It’s burning with holy reverence as he nods. Nothing wakes a High Saint up like reminding them that we are all sinners in the hands of the Merciful God. It’s like wine to them and they’ll drink it to the dregs.
“So it is and always is,” he intones gravely.
Sir Kodelai shoots him a quelling look and it’s hard not to laugh at how the piety of the one has ruined the performance of the other’s piety.
“Which is why I bid you each to confess that sin as we enter the door today,” he says firmly, cutting off discussion.
I feel a chill of unease. That’s an odd request. It feels almost unreasonable, and yet I cannot think of an argument for why I should confess one sin and not another. Nor can I think of an argument for why we must all confess as he bids us. If he’s thought of a reason, he doesn’t share it with us.
“You want each of us to leave our possessions here and follow you into the monastery, confessing at the door that we are murderers and the lowest of worms?” The High Saint looks like he might start worshipping Sir Kodelai if he isn’t reined in.
It takes all my self-control not to roll my eyes.
When I accidentally catch a glimpse of the Beggar Paladin, she’s making a face like she bit into something sour.
I catch Sir Owalan watching her and biting his lip with amusement.
You grow inured to this nonsense over time …
but it takes time, and the Vagabond hasn’t had that time yet.
Her reaction — and how adeptly it mirrors my own, though I disguise it — is like a breath of fresh air after being in a sick house.
Sir Kodelai claps Sir Joran on the shoulder. “Actually, High Saint, I was hoping you would lead the way and I will bring up the rear, bearing in mind that all gathered here are under my authority.”
He gives us all a grim look to remind us that if we so much as flinch from his outrageous demands, we’ll be flayed alive in public — wonderful stuff — and then he turns back to the High Saint, who wastes no time in intoning his next words.
“Let us pray. Glorious God, from each of us our bounty, to each of us our need, may the Lord of Heaven render that on which our spirits feed.”
There is a ragged “amen” from the group, though this time I accidentally catch Hefertus’s eye roll. The prayer is a mealtime prayer. About as fitting for this occasion as breaking out an aged wine and popping the cork might be.
“Well, lead on then, Saint,” one of the Engineers says, taking a noisy slurp of tea. I wonder idly if he can smuggle in his kettle. It will be a difficult day for the Engineers without the steady stream of tea they ingest. “Go confess to murder like a good knight.”
The High Saint gives him a black look, but he spins sharply on his heel as if he expects to be inspected — by Sir Kodelai, no doubt — and plunges into the door with the heartrending cry of “I confess, I am a murderer!”
I taste iron as I bite into my lip, certain the door will suck the life out of him for that, but to my surprise, he strides through, looks around, and then keeps going as if nothing has happened.
The Majester follows, hot on his heels. He has kept his parchment and pens, though he leaves his pack and extra weapons behind. His face is lined and grim as he states, “Murder,” and strides through the door. Just like the High Saint, nothing seems to happen.
I catch the Vagabond’s eye. Does she see this?
She shrugs.
Hefertus goes next, a calculating look on his face, and I know what he’s planning before he tries it. He says nothing as he steps through, only bending when he’s caught, frozen mid-stride by the door. When he finally confesses “murder” it sounds like a curse.
“No dawdling behind this time, Beggar Knight,” the Hand of the God says pointedly, and the Vagabond’s cheeks are stained bright when she strides stiffly to the door.
Her dog growls at Sir Kodelai as she steps through.
She has kept a thick bearskin cloak by means of wearing it, and who knows what she’s tucked beneath it.
She was a flurry of arranging and sifting through her pack before her name was called.
I suspect she’s stashed all kinds of things on her person.
Survivors and beggars are like that. They keep what they can and will be as devious as necessary to keep it close.
Those who don’t, die fast enough to convince the rest.
I step through quickly after her, and I hate that I feel nothing when I confess I am a murderer — or rather, nothing more than the normal pang of terrible shame that I always feel when I admit to myself or to others that my failures killed a girl still not in adulthood and the poor pale babe she bore.
They’re both on my mind when I almost collide with the scowling Vagabond Paladin.
“Some of us,” she says pointedly, “have far too much power. And some of us enjoy it too much.”
I purposefully misunderstand her, hoping I can cool her temper before the Hand of the God arrives.
“If you mean me, Lady Paladin, then let me confess I am entirely powerless before your charms.”
She laughs, a low snicker-y laugh like she doesn’t believe me, but she relaxes, which was my aim in teasing her.
“Lead on, sir jokester, and I hope we deal with the poor Seer and find the cup quickly. I have the most terrible feeling of visiting my own grave when I come here, and I should like to note that it’s a far grander and far more terrifying grave than I ever expected.”
I could not say why I smile at that, or why I hurry down the stairs so quickly, but I’m not alone.
We are all silent as we descend the endless stairs to the vault below.
Just as before, the absolute scale of the place makes it feel sacred, intimidating, holy.
We are like red ants trailing in a line through a cathedral too small to fully comprehend the glory around us.
Light bathes the white hall in ivory laced with the colors of the triptych, and for a moment I am transported to the Aspect of the Holy God’s church in Saint Rauche’s Citadel. I can almost hear the chanting echoing through the nave as I did when I visited there last.
By the time we reach the mosaic floor — in silence, I might add — those following us are nearly on our heels.
The last ones to have entered other than Sir Kodelai are the Engineers, and I note with a certain degree of approval — despite my general condemnation — that they have found a way to subvert Sir Kodelai’s orders by bringing their golems. The golems carry all their belongings — including, I would like to note, a kettle still steaming and bubbling.
There will be tea. It cannot be stopped any more than the sunrise.
“You can hardly expect us to agree to come down here for your ceremony and leave the golems up there unsupervised, and if they’re coming anyway, then they should carry for us,” Sir Sorken is saying. “We’ve both done as you wished — our hands are empty and we’ve confessed to murder.”