Bolt pointed at my face. “You’ve got that look again, the one that says you’re considering something foolish.” He turned to Gael. “One of the reasons I agreed to let you help me guard him was because I thought you’d be able to curb impulses like this. You’re a disappointment. Aer have mercy, these ideas of his make my stomach hurt.”
Gael smiled and lifted one eyebrow. “You thought that? I’m a woman, not a miracle worker.”
“You haven’t even heard my idea yet,” I said.
“I don’t have to hear it,” he shot back. “You’ve got that look on your face that says you’re about to take a very large risk and you’ll want our help with it.”
“If he’s going to do it,” Gael said, “it’s probably better for you to know what ‘it’ is.”
“What are the odds Rory is going to track Mirren right back to the cathedral?” I asked.
Bolt shrugged. “Better than half.”
“To put it conservatively,” I added. “And once he gets there, that’s all he’ll learn. All we’ll know is that Gehata has her somewhere under his thumb and so well-guarded we won’t be able to get anywhere near her.”
Bolt nodded, his gaze speculative. “All true. You still haven’t gotten to the part that’s going to give me the flux.”
“We need someone who can walk the halls, all of the halls, of the cathedral with impunity.” I ignored the look on Bolt’s face. “That gives us two choices,” I said. “Bishop Serius or Lieutenant Hradian.”
“Serius,” Gael said. “He practically worships the last Errant.”
“He might already know where Mirren is kept,” I said, rubbing my chin. “All we would have to do is get her out.”
Bolt looked at me with disgust. “When you rub your chin like that it creates the illusion you’ve thought this through. Gehata knows Mirren holds the gift of domere, and he probably learned that from Archbishop Vyne.” He pointed one of his stubby fingers at my chest. “That makes it a pretty safe roll of the bones that he knows you hold the gift as well.” He shook his head. “If we were smart we’d leave Cynestol and let Gehata rule.”
“You jest,” Gael said.
My guard shook his head. “The history of the north covers a long and lurid day, girl. A bad person doesn’t necessarily make a bad king just like a good person won’t necessarily make a good one.” He looked at me. “None of those people in the throne room hold the gift of kings. Court has become a waste of time.”
I nodded, finding fault in nothing he’d said. “Do you think Gehata already knows the person possessing the crown of Aille and is holding them prisoner?”
“It’s a better than good possibility,” Bolt said. “A dwimor didn’t kill Chora. Someone hamstrung her to make her fall. For all we know she might have survived long enough to pass her gift before they finished her off to make it look good. Gehata might have arranged as much.”
Gael took a breath. “She might not have had time to pass on the gift.”
“Even if she didn’t,” I said, “the rightful heir is out there somewhere and you want to run?” I asked Bolt.
He shook his head. “Gehata has the city sewn up tight. He’s got the church and the cosp and the gift of domere under his thumb.”
I nodded. “You’re right. We should leave.” I ignored Gael’s look of disbelief and the subtle shift in Bolt’s countenance that suggested hope. “The only problem is that we can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because whether the dwimor was successful or not, Cesla was trying to kill Chora. Ealdor said we would know how to stop him by what he attacked. What was it about Chora that threatened him?”
“You mean besides commanding the largest army of the northern continent?” Bolt asked.
“Yes, besides that,” I said. “Vyne is the real power here. You said so yourself and Cesla would have known that. He’d already agreed to send the army north.” I waved my arm at what I hoped was a northerly direction. “Their forces were already gone when Chora was attacked. Stopping it couldn’t have been Cesla’s goal.”
“So,” Bolt asked, “what was?”
I sat down. “I don’t know. Something else.”
“If we stay here, sooner or later Bishop Gehata is going to scoop us up in his net and make us disappear,” Bolt said. “The fact that I’m the last Errant won’t save me. If he knows you’re with the Vigil, you’re his biggest threat. Searching for that ‘something else’ sounds like a good way to end up dead.”
“What about finding the rightful heir?” I asked.
“Not my problem anymore,” Bolt said. “My loyalty to the Vigil precedes that request. My job is to keep you alive.”
I nodded. “And what’s my job?”
He opened his mouth to speak, though I already knew what he was about to say. “Curse you,” he muttered. “It’s like you planned the whole conversation to force me to say it. Alright, confound your stupid, stubborn hide, I’ll say it. Your job is to fight the Darkwater.”
“And to do that, we need as many Vigil members as we can get.”
“You can’t do that job if you’re dead!”
“Then let’s persuade Serius to get us into the cathedral,” Gael said.
“You’re supposed to be my apprentice,” Bolt said to her, “not his. You’re picking up bad habits.”
She nodded. “Inevitable, I suppose.”
We returned to court and took our place on the dais next to the empty throne we were trying to fill. For hours we listened to the pleas, impassioned or logical, of nobles vying for Bolt’s blessing to take the throne, and I swam in the thoughts and memories of each, but my own thoughts were west, in the cathedral with Rory. Bolt adjourned court at midnight, and we returned to our rooms.
Rory was waiting for us. “I came here instead of court,” the thief said.
“Why?” I asked.
He smiled at my ignorance. “One way to make sure people notice you’ve been missing is to show up late.”
“Well?” Bolt asked.
Rory shrugged. “Mostly what
