Gehata shook his head, his smile of condescension plain. “You’ve been misinformed, Lord Dura. There is no proscription against a man joining the priesthood if he’s spilled blood.”
I gave the bishop as direct a look as I dared. “Oh, I don’t doubt the priesthood has its share of murderers.” I paused until the bishop’s eyes widened at my affront before I continued. “It was the burden in my heart at killing, Eminence, that kept me from the priesthood. I felt unclean.”
He nodded in pretend sympathy, forced from my insult by the frank admission. “It doesn’t sound as though you were entering the Absold, Lord Dura.
“No. I never desired any order but the Merum.”
“So you do know the liturgy,” he pressed.
I bowed my head in admission. “I’m more than passingly familiar with it.”
He smiled, but his eyes held all the glittering malice of a viper. “Then you’ve heard it said not to seek the living among the dead.”
I nodded.
He stepped closer, almost close enough for me to touch. “The opposite advice could prove wise as well.”
I turned the proverb over in my mind, but shook my head, feigning ignorance in case I was mistaken. “Your Eminence?”
All expression fell from his face. “Don’t seek the dead.”
The bishop’s gaze darted over my left shoulder for the barest fraction of an instant before he plastered his smile back on his face. “Where are my manners?” he said. “I haven’t introduced you to my cohort.” He nodded toward the man on his right. “This is Lord Forwaithe.”
We exchanged handshakes and I felt the strength of his grip through my glove, grinding my knuckles into butter.
“And this is his betrothed,” the bishop said with a dip of his head. “Lady Mirren.”
She extended her hand toward me, her long delicate fingers reaching. A weight hit me from the side, not hard enough to knock me down, but I was propelled away from the bishop and through his ring of guards.
“Begging your pardon, Eminence,” Rory called as he pushed me toward the dais and Bolt, “but Errant Consto demands Lord Dura’s immediate presence.” Without waiting for a reply, the scrawny little thief pushed me toward my guard so hard I almost fell. Gael had no choice but to follow.
“When we get to the dais,” Rory muttered in my ear, “talk to Bolt as if you’re being reprimanded.”
“What?” I asked. “Why?”
“Brilliant, yah?” Rory hissed. “I’ll explain later.”
I gave up on trying to resist and instead walked ahead of Rory fast enough to keep him from shoving me. More than a few nobles were laughing at the sight of a skinny adolescent pushing a grown man around. Stopping to insist he explain wouldn’t have helped much.
We joined Bolt on the dais, where he sat listening to the petition of a woman clothed in a revealing orange dress. She looked like a half-peeled piece of fruit. I kept my gaze in place, just.
“Lord Dura,” Bolt said, “may I present the most recent supplicant to the throne of Cynestol? This is Duchess Naranha.”
I reached out to take the proffered hand as Rory slid into view over the Duchess’s shoulder, his gaze intent on mine. A moment later I fell through Naranha’s light brown-eyed gaze and into her thoughts. Reaching into the stream of memories, I lived the most recent parts of her life, tracing each event back in time until just before Queen Chora had been murdered. Other than a divorce and marriage within the last week, neither of which created memories of strong color, nothing in her mind suggested the duchess had come into the gift of kings.
“It’s my honor to meet you, Duchess Naranha,” I said after I let go of her hand.
“The pleasure is mine,” the duchess said. Turning to Bolt, she nodded. “I trust you will do what is best for Aille, Errant Consto.”
“No matter the cost,” Bolt said. The edge to his voice caught the duchess’s attention for a moment, but when he didn’t bother to elaborate, she turned on one heel and rejoined the crowd.
“Boy,” Bolt said to Rory in a voice that sounded like rocks breaking. “What in the name of all that’s holy would make you show your backside to Bishop Gehata? You’ve just made a very powerful enemy.”
Rory leaned in to whisper his answer, his hands cupped on both sides of his mouth.
“Can you hear them?” I asked Gael.
“No.” She shook her head. “I think that’s the point.”
Bolt’s squint, his usual expression, departed for a moment before I saw him force it back into place.
“Kreppa,” he whispered. He stood to address the rest of the court. “Friends, I hope you’ll excuse me until this evening. There are matters I must attend to.”
Instead of leaving by the main entrance, he guided us out the back, through the kitchens, taking turns at random in the hallways beyond until we found our way to the outer wall. We circled around, back to our quarters. By the time we got there, spots of fatigue danced in front of my eyes. Once we were inside, I collapsed into a chair as Bolt threw the bar on the door.
“Here, Willet,” Gael said handing me a glass of wine and a waterskin. “You need a drink. The loss of blood is making you weak.”
“Among other reasons.” I looked at Bolt and Rory. “Things are worse than I know, aren’t they?”
They both nodded.
“The Archbishop isn’t just sick,” Bolt said. “Rory overheard Gehata speaking to someone before he headed to you. Vyne had a stroke, and he’s not waking up.”
I held out the empty wine glass to Gael. “I think I’m going to need a refill. I can tell by the way they’re looking at me that there’s more.”
“Tell him,” Bolt said to Rory.
“When Gehata came into court, he had six of the cosp with him.”
“I noticed,” I said. “It was kind of hard to miss since the bishop seemed intent on letting everyone know he could ring me with steel if he wanted.” I shook
