“That’s it?” Bolt asked.
Rory nodded. “I tracked them around to the south side of the cathedral where they left the carriage and entered through an entrance guarded by a dozen of the cosp. I couldn’t follow, so I came back here.”
“The south side?” Bolt asked. “You’re sure?”
Rory nodded. “Gehata and everyone from his entourage entered, and all the cosp guarding it followed them inside.”
“You saw this?” Bolt asked. “The whole time?”
“I said so, yah?”
Bolt turned to me. “Delve him. It’ll be quicker.”
Rory shrugged and held out his arm. I’d already been through half a dozen sets of memories, and the mental fatigue coupled with my injury made me long for bed, but Bolt’s curiosity fired my own.
I dropped through his eyes and into the memories of his run through the streets of Cynestol, moving forward in time until I came to the point where Gehata’s carriage stopped in front of a pair of heavy double doors at the base of the cathedral and disembarked before entering. Three of the guards, swords bare, hopped down from the top and sides of the carriage, while the other three and the bishop disembarked. I knew what I was seeing, but I traced Rory’s memory back and forth twice, searching for details.
The doors on the south side of the cathedral were heavy, insanely thick, and horizontally banded with iron in half a dozen places. I’d seen their kind before, but not on churches and certainly not on the entrance we’d used upon coming into the city. It seemed a prison more than a place of worship.
I came out of his mind. “Mirren rode in the carriage with Gehata, not on the outside.”
Bolt squinted at me. “What happened when the carriage stopped? Tell me exactly what the guards did.”
“They formed up around Gehata and escorted him inside,” I said.
“Rory?” Bolt asked.
He nodded.
“If Gehata was concerned about her escape,” Bolt said, “wouldn’t they have formed up around her?”
I nodded as I searched Rory’s memories again. “She still had her weapon. Even if she’s not gifted, Gehata wouldn’t have allowed it unless he was sure of her.”
“Which brings us to the question,” Bolt said with a sigh.
“Who is Gehata holding prisoner?” Gael asked.
“It appears we’ll be staying in Cynestol after all,” Bolt said. “Tomorrow, before court opens, we’ll approach Serius and petition him for his aid.”
“Only after I delve him,” I said. “I have no intention of blindly trusting anyone outside of this room.”
Gael favored Bolt with her most winsome smile. “You see. He’s learning discretion already.”
“Humph. Let’s see if it sticks. You know what they say—‘Good habits are hard to keep and bad ones are hard to break.’”
Chapter 31
I woke at the first ray of dawn, sweat drenched and gasping from exertion. I reached up, felt Bolt’s arms pinning me against the sheets. I muttered something uncomplimentary, but the curse wasn’t for Bolt and he knew it. He moved away to stand by the bed.
“It’s a big city, Willet. “There’s bound to be a murder some nights.”
I was winded, but I didn’t feel the bone-numbing exhaustion that came with most of my night-walks. “When did I try to leave?”
“About an hour ago.”
A weight settled into my soul, or maybe I just became aware again of a burden that never left. “I wonder who died,” I said. “What did they find waiting for them on the other side of eternity?”
“I hope we never know,” Bolt said.
When I looked at him in surprise, he held up a hand. “I only meant that I hope it’s a stranger who’s been killed—unrelated to our investigation. We have enough on our plate.”
The door to Gael’s room was still closed, as was Rory’s. I tried to force a measure of levity into my voice. “What shall we do today, Errant Consto?”
He looked at me with all the warmth he might spare for a weevil in his porridge, only southerners didn’t really eat porridge. Perhaps the squint of mild disgust would have been for a fly in his wine.
I didn’t have the opportunity to ask. From the direction of the cathedral across the city, I heard the tolling sound of heavy iron bells. The color drained from Bolt’s face but his reserve never deserted him. Dread hollowed me out from the inside. I knew what the bells meant. “Archbishop Vyne is dead.”
A nod. “Bound to happen. He was old, and old men don’t usually recover from a stroke.”
He didn’t say what we both had to be thinking. “It could be a coincidence,” I said. “In a city this size, it’s almost certain to happen that a murder would happen on any given night. It doesn’t prove someone killed the Archbishop.”
Bolt looked at me without blinking. “I can’t get this picture out of my head of someone—Gehata or one of his cosp—holding a pillow over that poor man’s head. The bishop doesn’t strike me as a patient sort of man.”
I sighed. “They will assemble all of the Merum bishops so the council can choose the next Archbishop. The trip south from Collum and Frayel will take weeks.”
Bolt nodded. “How many of the Archbishops have come from Cynestol?”
He couldn’t help but know, but I answered him anyway. “Most,” I said. “That’s all the more reason to get to Bishop Serius and put an end to this.”
Something that had been bothering me about the events in the throne room the previous evening clicked into place—at least I thought so. I turned to Gael. With her practiced eye, she would have noticed. “Mirren,” I said.
“What about her?” Gael asked.
“Tell me everything you noticed about her in the throne room.”
Gael closed her eyes, and I saw Bolt looking at me with that squint of his that
