With the cracking sound of a drumstick in the jaws of a hound, the chair gave way and cosp filled the room, but when they saw Hradian standing there, they stopped, momentarily confused.
Bishop Gehata, standing behind a row of gifted soldiers, snapped his fingers in our direction. “Take them, all of them.” He pointed at me. “Take care with that one. Don’t harm him, but don’t allow him to touch you.”
“Arms up,” one of the soldiers in front gestured with his weapon.
Hradian shook himself like a dog coming up out of the water. “I came here.” He nodded. “Something had happened to . . .” He turned to Bishop Gehata. “You did something.”
“Take the lieutenant as well.” Gehata pointed at Hradian. “His mind has been corrupted somehow. Perhaps we can heal him.”
Rough hands relieved me of my sword and daggers, even the one I kept hidden in my boot. I tried to think of some way of getting my hands onto one of Gehata’s men, but the bishop kept his gaze fixed on them, as if they might turn into vipers any second. One of the guards unbuckled Bolt’s sword and pulled a foot and a half of the steel from the scabbard, his gaze appreciative.
Bolt leaned forward, his expression flat. “Be mindful of that. I’m going to want it back.”
Gehata nodded. “Who knows, Errant? Perhaps you will find yourself in a position to use it again.” He backed toward the door. “I think it would be better if we continued this discussion in a more private location.” He spared a glance for Bishop Serius, still at his desk staring blankly at the scene before him in incomprehension. “We wouldn’t want to disturb the bishop from his contemplations.”
I sucked air to make a retort, but Bolt stepped on my foot and shook his head. The cosp took us to a set of stairs at the southern end of the cathedral. They must have sent runners ahead to clear the way, because we didn’t see a soul on the way down.
We descended until we were below ground level, the passageways growing progressively damper with each descent. Lieutenant Hradian was the first to be interred, and then we descended down another level and the guards stopped in front of a cell. Gehata pointed at me, and a quartet of sword points came to rest against my chest.
“I have far too much respect for your abilities, Errant Consto, to allow you any heroics.” He nodded toward the cell. “In you go.”
I saw my friend consider for a moment, and I knew he would be calculating speed and distance for each man he would need to kill and how much damage he could take to himself and still succeed. At the last, with a small indifferent shrug, he entered the cell, but his gaze held threats and promises for Gehata.
We resumed our trek, descending yet another flight of stairs into the bowels of the cathedral. “May I lower my arms?” I asked. “My shoulders are getting tired.”
Gehata laughed. “How very civil of you, Lord Dura.” He gave me a fluttering wave, and the guards put a circle of naked steel around me. “And here I’d been led to believe you were brash, ruthless, and defiant, even to your own detriment.”
I gestured to the halls of monolithic stone surrounding us. “Putting each of us on a different level of the cathedral prison seems a bit extreme.”
Gehata shrugged, but in the flickering torchlight I could see his self-indulgent smile. “There’s no point in allowing you to confer if I can prevent it. I’m a cautious man. The cathedral contains nine levels to serve as places of interment for those the church considered dangerous, a holdover from the Order Wars.”
“Am I dangerous, then?”
Gehata smiled, but his eyes no longer held the pleasure of a moment before. “Immeasurably so, Lord Dura. You surely must realize by now that I’m aware of your gift.”
I nodded. “It seems strange that you would take me prisoner, given the church’s tradition of allowing autonomy for us.”
His smile grew until it became predatory. “The church has made many mistakes concerning your kind, as well as in other matters—mistakes that I intend to rectify.”
At his signal we stopped at the threshold of a cell with a puddle on the floor in front of its door. “My mistake,” I said. “I thought you were ambitious. Now I discover you’re insane.”
He laughed at me with something akin to genuine mirth. “Me? You accuse me of being insane? Why, Lord Dura, you’ve found a jest to lighten my heart. Almost I’m tempted to spare you and keep you by my side to ease the burden of rule.”
One of the cosp unlocked the door, and the sword points around me shifted position to force me into the empty cell. “Lovely accommodations,” I said, “but you forgot the rats.”
Evidently, Bishop Gehata’s need for conversation had run dry. The heavy timbers with their barred window slammed shut with the booming echo of a drum. Gehata’s light receded until the cell and the corridor turned to pitch. I waited for my eyes to adjust, but the Merum prison was utterly lightless.
I walked my cell, too far below any food source to harbor rats or spiders or other vermin, and obviously beneath some portion of Cynestol’s water table. Over half my steps created a soft splash. The farthest corner from the door must have been slightly elevated. While not dry, it didn’t hold water the way the rest of the cell did. I huddled to preserve my warmth and gave myself to contemplation of Gehata’s threat.
He’d mentioned sparing me, but the context said plainly that he had no intention of doing so. I laughed softly. Even a village idiot could have figured out what Gehata intended. It might not work. I didn’t know enough about the seventh gift, the gift of domere, to know whether it would pass on to whomever was closest at my
