21 #2
Emeric rounds Slade to join Ceri on the sofa, unbothered by the blood there.
He really is astonishingly handsome, his face good-natured even when set in solemnity.
“We suspect it’s a test. A way for the Regiment to gauge how the public responds to the Apostles’ rigid belief system.
” He examines Ceri’s slim hand as he speaks.
I wince when he frowns at the injury I inflicted, but already it’s mostly healed over.
All that remains are thin smears of dark blood.
Emeric intertwines their fingers before saying, “We think they’re secretly trying to legitimize the cult.
Then, once the Apostles’ ideals have become more mainstream, the Regiment will adopt them as law. ”
Slade gives a slow nod, as if this makes perfect sense to him, but I’m not following.
“Why couldn’t the Regiment just do that now?”
“They need to convince the public it’s what they want.” Slade’s voice is scornful as he answers for Emeric. “Otherwise the great Prophet risks people turning against him.”
“Right.” Emeric nods.
I force myself to swallow past the rising nausea. “And the sash?”
He exchanges a look with Ceri. When he replies, he addresses Slade, not me. “I found it hidden in one of the temples shortly after you left. I’ve kept it ever since.”
“So you think members of the Regiment are in the cult?” Slade’s arms tighten around me, and I’m abruptly cognizant of our strange position.
“Let me go,” I mutter. To my relief, he lets me extricate myself, though my heart rate doesn’t slow.
“I wouldn’t be shocked,” Emeric says before turning back to me. “The sash is the only proof I have. After Slade disappeared, I mainly focused on trying to figure out what had happened to him.” His tone is dry but not malicious.
Regardless, Slade doesn’t appear to be listening; his attention bores into the side of my face, and I know he’s going to speak before he does.
“Why that reaction, little sinner?” he asks quietly, as if we’re the only two people in the room. “You asked me about the Apostles the night we met too. What is it about them that upsets you so much?”
I let my gun drop, pressing my hand to my arm to stem the flow of blood. Three pairs of eyes are on me. I feel like I might be sick. But after what I did, I suppose I owe them an explanation.
“I was one,” I say, the words low enough that Ceri and Emeric are forced to lean forward. “Or at least, my parents were. We lived with the Apostles for seven years. I was nineteen when the temple burned down—the only survivor, actually.”
Silence falls heavy on the room. Even Slade looks stunned.
“Your family…?” Ceri begins, tentatively.
“Dead. All of them.”
Her face pinches. “I remember reading the newspaper after. The descriptions of Regiment agents carrying children out of the forest… Dozens of them, all orphaned at once. Horrifying.”
“The real horror was the way those children were treated by the people who were supposed to protect them,” I grind out, unable to help myself.
The room is quiet for a beat. Ceri doesn’t ask me to elaborate, which is a relief.
I have no desire to explain that the Apostles’ primary rule was to put the Savior first. That people saw Vicar Johannes as His mouthpiece in the community, which meant they never questioned him—not even when piety was achieved through force and dependence.
When Johannes told someone their child was in the devil’s grasp, they believed it.
You were supposed to protect her, I remember telling my parents, shortly after we learned Ilse was pregnant with another of the Vicar’s offspring. It was the first and only time I’d been close to tears.
I’m relieved when Slade breaks the silence. “You were a sinner in their midst. And they were not kind to you, were they?”
I shake my head, not trusting myself to respond out loud. I can’t believe I’ve just divulged my past to two strangers and a man I can hardly stand. I remember what Slade said to me the other night: I didn’t die when I should have.
“How did you survive?” Emeric asks, then grimaces as Ceri elbows him in the ribs.
“I don’t mind,” I tell her. Then, to Emeric: “Sheer luck. I was always sneaking out of services during prayer, so I wasn’t inside when the temple ignited.”
“Sounds like the Savior spared you.” He winks.
I can’t help a snort of derisive laughter. Desperate to get the attention off me, I ask him, “How does a diabolist end up a Regiment chaplain? Surely there must be easier ways to collect information.”
In my periphery I see Slade retreat to the wall and lean against it, as if settling in for a tale he’s already familiar with.
Emeric gives me an apprehensive smile. “I was already training to be a chaplain by the time I realized I was a diabolist. Until then, I simply figured I hadn’t done anything to warrant the Bloodrot. I was always a good boy.” A dimple pops in one of his cheeks.
“Still are,” Ceri puts in, her expression indulgent.
Emeric winks at her before elaborating. “I’d sinned, of course, but never much in the way of violence.
In hindsight, the signs were all there. I was a healthy child, but by the time I was a teen, I had become terribly weak.
Sickly. I had always wanted to be a Regiment agent—I know,” he says as my brows shoot up, “but I was young. It seemed an exciting career. As my health failed, though, I began seeking the Savior. I decided my illness was His way of showing me I was meant to be a chaplain, so I joined the Regiment right out of school. I learned fast and had a knack for connecting with people. Then, a few weeks in, something happened while I was giving private counsel.”
My nose wrinkles. The chaplain at my childhood school had offered private counsel. As far as I could tell, it involved listening to someone’s problems in exchange for blessings or empty reassurances that it was all part of the Savior’s plan.