In that moment, Jael desired nothing more than to squirm out of the duchess’s sight, to shrink small enough to hide beneath the table as she had that first time she’d asked after the dress her mother had promised. Was I so much smaller, then? She thought, unable to budge with Trey’s arm around her. Had her father not done the same? Had he held her close till the nightmare passed?
A new feeling emerged between the now and her memory—like a sickness born in the bowels, boring up through the belly, bleeding her heart dry and then her face. The duchess must have noticed.
“Forgive me, Lady Leonhardt, for asking things so frivolous. It matters not how the past had been. You’re free now to show the whole of Nuw Gard what they’ve been without.”
“Yes,” Trey added, his face a mask half worry, half agitation. He whispered to either lady out of the sides of his mouth, “Carry on, Jael. Just a little longer and we can quit this stuffy hall, fetch some fresh air.” His voice redoubled. “About that, Auntie. I think it’s time we enlighten our guests—What do you think, Duke Stoltz? Might we have the rabble corralled?”
A porcelain grin slashed the duke’s jowls. He’d been waiting for this, some signal Leonhardt had missed among the banter now accumulating into motion spanning the length of the great hall. For when the Duke rose from his throne raising his arms in the air, the chatter contracted till even the furthest sounds from the lowliest benches hushed themselves. Then all was still, expectant and silent, the crackle of hearths either side of the hall suddenly thunderous—their undulating flames licking long across banners and tablecloths, mingling with the glow of candelabras on the nobles’ faces—orange and yellow—their smirks like fire, their eyes like coals. A cold air set between Jael’s shoulders where the back of her gown splay open. Duke Stoltz upturned his palms. The guests at once abandoned their benches, servants swarmed, and the tables vanished in a matter of moments as a space was cleared at the center of the hall. The dance, Jael thought. She glanced at her cup; it was full. She emptied it in a single gulp and stood with the others—would have lost her legs without Trey to lean on.
“Come, quickly, before we’re missed,” was all he said as he led his squire from the swaying hall into an interior passage behind Stoltz’s throne. An attendant was waiting on them, solemn yet with happy lines about his eyes and cheeks. He shut the castle door behind them just as the duke began to speak. Jael caught not a word but only the muffled sounds of singers and strings that smuggled into the dim corridor.
“Where are we going?” She heard herself speak, her tongue sluggish.
Gildmane ignored her question, half-carrying her now, his feet flying beneath him through strips of light and pools of shadow. They twisted and turned down stairs wells, doubled back, then again descended to where the air grew bitter and stale with the chill. The only light was that of sparse lit candles ensconced upon the wooden supports. They were in the basement, she realized. Looking up, she saw the gleam of copper privy pipes, heard the trickle of water above and below and from their destination ahead: a chamber radiant, its door hanging ajar.
Trey stopped at the mouth of the castle bath. Leonhardt squinted, so bright was it; but even as her eyes adjusted, the room looked nigh unrecognizable to her. Absent was the warmth and white of a steaming cauldron and the sweet scent of lavender salts. Instead, balsam and myrrh were what flooded her nostrils, emanating not from the bath, but from seven gilded braziers brought from the Aestas parish and set alight inside room. And the man who had brought them stood aside from the tub. Jael recognized him at once: the duchy priest, Father Pozchtok, and with him a quarter dozen Religious Sisters. They were dressed like washer women, only the priest donned in his holy attire—white sash and black cassock, and a flax-yellow smile as greasy as the blonde forelock tucked behind his ear.
“What’s going on?”
No one answered. A hand from behind guided her toward Pozchtok, and she staggered the few steps between him and the captain. The priest scowled and shook his head. “Can’t one of you Summerlanders hold your wine?” He took Jael by the arm and led her to where the pipes joined to the castle ducts. There was a hatch affixed atop the stone basin. Without a moment’s hesitation, he unfastened the latch and shoved her head over. The odor hit her like a lance to the gut. Just as fast, Leonhardt retched into the duct, and then Pozchtok pulled her back and handed her to the sisters.
At once, they began to strip her of her gown; but Jael’s head was clearer now. She grabbed one of the women by the hands, and the others backed off, and Trey guffawed from the chamber entrance. “That did the trick, then? I was worried you’d had too much.”
“What’s going on?”
“You haven’t figured it out? I didn’t want to spoil the surprise, but I suppose we’re past that now.” He paused and glanced toward the ceiling. “Come on, Leonhardt. Why don’t you tell me?”
She studied Trey’s mien, sober and excited. Father Pozchtok was a man she could not read, but she listened as he murmured blessings over the cauldron, then she noticed the bundle in one of the sisters’ arms: a white tunic and black hose.
She spoke the words slowly, “This is a baptismal wash.”
†††
To become a knight, a man must offer his body in service to his lord. Likewise, a holy knight—whether of the Temple Guard or the Saint’s Cross—must devote his flesh to God. Thus the purpose of the baptismal wash: to make pure one’s offering. Only, isn’t it odd, thought Gildmane during his return to the great hall, for a
