Chapter Eleven
Eleven
There are certain things that you need to learn. Things that aren’t entirely pleasant.
—PRIOR PETRONILLA
I HONESTLY EXPECTED MORE FROM a palace, even one whose finest days have past. It’s fancy, for sure, but there’s a worn feel to everything, a cobwebby cling of decline.
Still, I eye every cracked sconce and chipped sculpture, delightfully garish compared to the severity of the Dawn Cloister.
And oddly charming compared to Lumeris’s stark luxury.
Nolan doesn’t seem to share my interest, keeping his gaze straight ahead, on Caius, who stops us at the kind of door that clearly has something important behind it, judging by the pair of guards that stand outside.
They are a far cry from the ones we chatted up outside.
There is a stern, rigid discipline in their stance, and their heavy green-gray armor appears as if it would turn a direct sword thrust into a tickle.
Every instinct tells me these aren’t the sort to fuck with.
But one gesture from Caius, and they step aside.
Our escort doesn’t bother to knock.
Inside the chamber, an old man in a cassock sits at a massive desk, drooping over an open ledger.
When he looks up, a murky stare locks me in place, magnified by the thick glasses that assist in his readings.
There’s no mistaking Arbiter Gottschalk this time.
Pale wisps of gray hair cling to a spotted scalp above a thin line of a mouth that looks like its primary activity is sucking on sour candy.
He emanates a sense of fading power, complementing the castle nicely.
Still, I know better than to think him weak.
There are blades in those Arbiter eyes, still sharp enough to cut.
Caius closes the door. “May I introduce Gottschalk, Arbiter of the Third Stratum, divine Chosen of—”
“Yes, yes,” Gottschalk interjects. He brandishes the letter in one gnarled hand. “This is an interesting bit of paper. Am I to understand that our blood mother sent you, a pair of mere Potentiates, to interrogate a heretic who has already been interrogated?”
Matter of fact and to the point. Okay, I can do that too.
“That’s the gist of it.” I point to myself. “Lys, Dawn Cloister. Nolan, Dusk.”
“Here to do the Goddess’s will,” Nolan adds, exasperated by my trite introduction.
“As I said,” Arbiter Gottschalk says, sounding a bit imposed upon himself. “The heretic has been interrogated. Quite thoroughly. Arbiter Caius oversaw to that personally.”
Nolan dips his head respectfully. “Of course. But following the tragic events at the Cathedral, which Lys and I witnessed, the Goddess feels there might be something more to be gleaned about the location of the heretic cell that—”
“I do not question the Goddess’s will or wisdom,” Gottschalk says curtly. “Not even when they send me a pair of children to do what has already been done. Caius, take them to the heretic.”
Dismissed.
“He’s charming,” I say when we are well away from Gottschalk’s study. “Must be fun at your Order’s parties.”
Nolan gapes at my insolence, but a faint smile spreads on Caius’s lips.
“Gottschalk is a paragon among our path,” he says with careful respect, “but not known for diplomacy. Even when it comes to our blood brethren.” Despite our cover story, he doesn’t lower his voice.
“Don’t worry, this castle is more like a mausoleum whose occupants haven’t quite figured out they’re dead yet.
” Sourness tinges his words, making me wonder how much he cares for his current position.
“And what ears are here to listen know to keep their secrets well.”
“You mean those cheerful fellows outside Arbiter Gottschalk’s chamber?”
Caius shoots me a wry look. “Belspire’s lofted Thorn Guard. An interesting quirk of the city’s history. They were the royal lines’ elite bodyguard for centuries even before the gods arrived, trained to be loyal, impenetrable, and deadly. Not unlike our ilk in many ways.”
“And now?” Nolan inquires.
“They still serve, though they’ve persisted to the point of far outshining the charges they were created to protect.”
The way he says it, it’s clear the royals aren’t the ones calling the shots for their bodyguards these days.
But even though Bellators are the only ones who command legions, it’s not unusual for Priors, Arbiters, or even Clerics to have a few blade-swinging minions. Someone has to do the dirty work.
“Must be a handy perk to being positioned here. How long have you been in Belspire?”
Caius’s mouth thins. “Long enough.”
“Seems nice. I hope I get as fancy an assignment as this.”
He scoffs quietly. “You might aspire higher than this bitter weed of a city. Though we all serve where the Goddess wills, don’t we?”
Oh yeah, someone would definitely prefer to be stationed elsewhere.
I can’t exactly blame him. Belspire isn’t far from the Goddess’s light, but it isn’t exactly close either.
The itch of that lack has already begun, a nagging feeling in the back of my mind, like I’ve forgotten to do something important.
Caius has had time to acclimate, certainly, but this is a middling assignment, at best. And it can’t be fun playing second to a superior who basically amounts to a cranky skeleton.
“You were at the Dusk Cloister,” says Nolan, with obvious intent to change the subject.
Caius glances over, as if sizing Nolan up a second time. “I thought I recognized you. You arrived shortly before I left to begin my apprenticeship.” He pauses meaningfully. “You both witnessed the massacre at the Cathedral. When we received word of what had happened… I can’t imagine.”
“You really can’t,” I say.
Nolan gives me a sharp look. There’s loosening our story a little, and there’s straying too close to the truth of how those hundreds of devoted really ended up dead.
“Awful.” Caius shakes his head. “We must all do what we can to ensure those responsible are brought to justice.”
That’s all the bonding we manage before we descend a series of stairs into the darker, danker corners of the castle.
A stone arch leads into a dim corridor that ends at a thick door.
After removing an iron key from his cassock, Caius opens it, revealing a winding staircase leading down into the earth.
The air around us shifts, carrying a musty scent of damp stone accented by the hostile tang of human suffering.
At the bottom of the stairs, there is a long passage lined with cells.
Belspire’s prisoners are a sorry lot, shivering in the sharp chill of the dungeon air.
I try to ignore the rotten food in the prisoners’ bowls, the human waste in places it shouldn’t be, and the haunted hollowness of the eyes that follow us.
Whatever crimes are being punished here are beyond a penitent’s restitution, and a whole lot of not my business.
Another staircase takes us even deeper into the earth, to a tight, ancient passage with thick spots of mold clinging to its stones.
The light grows almost nonexistent, only a handful of oil lamps barely flickering.
If the cells we passed were a place of punishment, this was a place to throw someone away entirely.
Or at least somewhere no screams will be heard.
A solitary cell sits at the end of the cramped corridor.
It’s so dark here that, even with my eyesight, I think it’s empty at first. Then: a faint movement in one shadowed corner, from what I mistook for a pile of rags.
It’s a person… mostly. There is something off about the shape and hold of her body, and a hint of old blood hanging in the air.
“Heretic.” The pile trembles noticeably at the sound of Caius’s voice.
“You will answer any of the questions these two ask of you.” The Arbiter gestures for us to step forward, something new in his face: anticipation.
Apparently, Caius doesn’t only oversee the interrogations at Belspire—he enjoys the work. “Proceed.”
Nolan steps forward, hands wrapping around the bars of the cell. For a moment I catch something that might be pity, but he’s carefully neutral when he turns back to Caius. “We need to question her in private. Those are our orders.”
Our orders from Tempestra-Innara. That part goes unspoken, and Caius doesn’t question it, though there’s a flicker of disappointment. “Of course. I will return in a while.” He starts to depart, then pauses. “You will not be overheard here.”
“Thank you for your help, Arbiter Caius.” My formal politeness seems to assuage him slightly, and he nods to me before leaving.
Nolan and I wait until his footsteps are long gone, then turn back to the ruined form of the woman in the cell.
There were many facets to our studies at the Cloisters. Swing a blade, read a book, say your prayers—those were the easy parts. But there were special lessons too, ones that were as much tests of our nerve as they were additions to our education.
I can tell at once that the woman has been badly tortured.
She relaxes slightly after Caius is gone, limbs loosening in the bloodied scraps that remain of her clothing.
Her light skin is a mess of bruises and open wounds, a few of which have begun to fester.
Even if she wasn’t being executed tomorrow, she wouldn’t survive another week, at least not without immediate medical attention and a shitload of luck.
I trace the paths of her injuries, noting size and shape and location, a picture forming of what Caius did, or had done to her.
After all, we both received the same education.
It’s surprising how tough a body can be, though. Even those not divinely blessed don’t die nearly as easily as one would think.
“What’s your name?” Nolan says, as if coaxing a scared puppy.
Her cracked lips move, but no sound comes out. She tries again: “Magda.”
“Well”—there’s a sour taste in my mouth—“at least Caius didn’t cut her tongue out.”