Studying the frozen shutters, Trey wondered if Johan ever settled into the high tower chambers, if a foreigner could be bothered climbing a hundred and fifty narrow stairs every evening. He doubted it, and without a hint of light or smoke from the hearth, it seemed neither could Ariel, nor anyone. Every window and every turret slit hung dark against the tower’s white. Dead and abandoned, the titan’s tombstone silent in the night, mere monument.
Out of sight, out of mind—they arrived at Aestas parish to their knightly escorts’ glee. Red nosed and cheeked, the chosen men grunted the necessary prayers, all the while stamping the numbness from their feet. No sense of ceremony. Jael’s nostril’s flared. She glared at them, muttering threats under her breath, yet the men had already turned to depart. Another insult to her honour, though in truth they would’ve done the same to anyone. They were the lowest Aestas had to offer, by arrangement: sloven, dull, craven, and lethargic. That fact made their disdain sting all the worse. Trey recalled the frustration—to know you could take them if only duty weren’t in the way. “On the morrow,” he said.
She leaned into him, her place and oath forgotten. “You promise?”
Pozchtok called for them to hurry.
“Come morning you won’t need consent. Until then…” He led her across the threshold, and the portal doors drew fast behind them.
Inside the vestibule, dark and cold pervaded stronger than without. There was but evanescent moon-glow from frosted windows and a sole hint of kindling smothering in shadow—a lone oil lamp flickering atop the altar residing deep inside the sanctuary ahead. Beside it, shapes of enameled steel glistened with a hue of crimson from folded wool beneath: armour and surcoat. Jael gasped and would’ve made for the altar had Gildmane not kept her.
“Not yet. I’ve got something I want to show you first.” He looked where he thought the priest might be lurking in the dark. “You’re sure we’re clear, Pozchtok?”
A wooden clang rang out from the rear—the clangor of a crossbeam sealing the entrance. “What do you southerner’s take me for? A circus showmen?” Between the priest’s words, the scratch of pinions, then sparks and light gave form to the room. He crept from behind them, his soft shoes silent. Pozchtok smiled and said, “Anyone suspicious enough to come check either left with the duchess or are too pious to step foot here until dawn. And you saw the rest of them. Thin-blooded Summerlanders can’t handle the cold.”
“And the keep?”
The priest licked his yellow teeth, reseated his forelock. “What about the keep? You suddenly decide the guest cell isn’t good enough for you?”
“Are the high quarters still being tended?”
Pozchtok scoffed, “Hell if I know, and Hell if I’m going to stick my neck out if you get caught exploring. Stoltz and me are mostly tolerated, and it doesn’t take ten rich men to send a pair of knives or to get your bloody saint’s attention. ”
“You won’t stop us, then?”
“Do what you want. But when they come asking questions, I fell asleep, and you took off on your own.” He retrieved a flask from under his sash, brandy by the aroma, and stared for the sanctuary. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a vigil to watch.”
At once, Trey went to unfastening his armour, a facile task given the job Johan’s men had done. He’d already removed a vambrace and gauntlet and was working on a pauldron when he felt the tug on his arm.
Jael’s voice in the darkness. “Trey…”
He paused, waited for her to talk.
“I want to stay.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll be back in time.” He slipped one arm out of the armour and started on the opposite side. “Would you mind helping me with this? It’s a trick in the dark.”
Wet footsteps distanced themselves from the captain. “I said I want to stay. I know it’s just a formality, but it’s something you’ve all done—the knights, I mean. I want to feel that I’m the same as the rest of you.”
“It’ll be fine. You heard Pozchtok; no one will know the difference so long as we’re back before morning.”
“I’ll know,” she said, and her words hung between them like an icy veil.
Gildmane freed his other arm and moved on to his cuirass, then his cuisses, his greaves and sabatons, till there were no more straps to be undone, no more noise to fill the void. And in the quiet he realized he’d lived this before, standing blind and vulnerable the night of his own vigil.
It was a bitter, bleeding memory: hours blurred together within the walls of Temple Rock’s great sanctuary. Mathew Gardner had observed in Acker’s place, and a vicar witnessed for the newly anointed saint. Paul had been too busy, they’d explained to him, to be bothered with the traditions that he loved so dearly—like a lord loves his children. In name only, dawn had relieved Trey of his miserable watch. He’d taken his leave at once, intent on grieving by himself beneath the lodge; but before his feet could chance trample the earth, a second rise seized him at the Temple doors. He’d been waiting outside, the new bishop of faith. Prophet Ba’al. His question shot straight through Trey’s breastplate. “Doesn’t satisfy, does it, to play the part of the hero? No…not when it’s you who’s become one already.”
The present
