I hoped it would be the latter. The prospect of living in a world where Aer allowed the wicked a free hand in corrupting His plan bothered me more than a little. From somewhere in my past, before I’d been diminished by war and the duties of a reeve, came a prayer for the lost. I recited it even as questions of its intention swirled in my mind. Just who was I praying for? Myself? The Vigil? Serius or Gehata? In the end, I couldn’t decide. It occurred to me that any of us met the requirements.
I stood, my hand tracing its way up the damp stone of my prison. Since I had no intention of trying to measure my cell as precisely as Volsk had done in Bunard—I was weak in the mathematicum anyway—I gave myself to thoughts of escape.
Gael and Rory had fled, and it was barely possible that they might find a way to sneak into the prisons of the cathedral and free me. Possible, but unlikely in the extreme. My best chance of escape lay along one of two different paths, both only slightly less unlikely. First, I could try to deceive Gehata into believing I was more valuable alive. Chuckles welled up in me at the thought. In my entire life I’d been able to deliver a successful lie less than a handful of times. I was that bad at it. Even if I told Gehata the truth of how the gift of domere had come to me, of how Elwin had refused Iselle’s touch so that he could give the gift to me, I doubted I would be believed.
My other option lay in attacking him from an unexpected direction. Bishop Gehata meant to kill me slowly enough to allow my gift to pass into him or one of his choosing, but the bishop would almost surely have Mirren delve me first. He’d already tried, and his hunger for power implied an equally voracious appetite for knowledge.
After Elwin had been killed, I’d managed to deceive Laewan into thinking my mind was empty by locking my memories away. It had been a gamble I probably should have lost, and I’d survived by the slimmest of margins. Attempting the same ruse here would only get me killed that much quicker. If Gehata thought my mind was empty, he would open an artery in my arm or leg or throat and wait for the gift to flee my dying body.
I needed another way. In my mind I replayed the steps I’d taken to my captivity and tried to determine in which direction the Everwood Forest lay. It probably didn’t matter, but I turned a slow circle with my eyes closed, hoping to feel some tug within me when I faced it. After a moment, I stopped.
“Ealdor,” I called. “I need you.” A moment passed, and I had the opportunity to compare the cadence of my heartbeat to the dripping of water in my cell. “Please. No one’s here to teach me.” I looked around. Perhaps with enough imagination my cell would transform itself into a church. It shouldn’t be too hard. It was dark, and Gehata had entombed me in the bottom of the Merum cathedral.
I lifted my hands and began the Exordium.
Chapter 33
As I finished the Exordium I waited . . . in silence.
“Gehata means to kill me, Ealdor. Please.”
Desperation sharpened my voice to an edge. “You’re fairly capricious about when you choose to honor your vows.” But even as I said it I knew I wasn’t being fair. He had come to me several times when it wasn’t within the rules. Doing so had resulted in his diminishment. He no longer inhabited the physical world. My friend had been reduced to nothing more than a wounded shadow.
Grief snuffed my anger like a chill wind extinguishing a candle. “Forgive me, my friend,” I said to no one, “for asking for more than you could give.”
I made my way to the door of my cell, my feet splashing the puddle of water, and peered through the bars. Not the slightest hint of light intruded upon the darkness. I concentrated on blinking a few times to ensure my eyes were open. In the silence of my cell it occurred to me that I had seen Ealdor for the last time, either by his death or mine.
A fresh tide of mourning, with its brackish taste, poured through me. Desperate, I almost laughed. Hope had died, and I would probably follow in short order. Here at the end, like those I’d accompanied in the house of passing, I would beg Aer for my life.
I raised my hands and began the antidon, the words familiar through long practice. “Aer, Iosa, and Gaoithe, we commend your servant, Willet Dura—me—into your care, and pray that you would bring him into the company of those that have passed before. From darkness, let him pass into light. From death, let him pass into life.”
I stopped, the rest of the prayer turning to ashes on my lips. Aer knew the antidon better than I possibly could. He’d heard it more times than I could reckon. “Aer, I need to live. Help me to find a way to beat Gehata and the forest. Please.”
I can’t say I felt joy, but an odd reassurance stole over me. I had done what I could. My life and that of my friends and countrymen were in the hands of all-powerful Aer, but He had given me the mind of a reeve so that I could have some hand in the fight.
In the tales, the heroes never have to sit around and wait for very long. My story should have swept to its thrilling conclusion, the hero fighting and winning against insurmountable odds. Water dripped behind me, the plop of each little splash mocking my imprisonment.
“Stupid fables,” I said, but it was just as well I had to wait. I needed a way
