“Gotthard, No!” the mother warned.
Headless, the father jumped to his feet. “You don’t have to do this, son! Don’t let this devil take you from me!”
Dead silence hung over the assembly like flecks of black soot floating in the stained-glass light, turned the splendid colors harsh as the dread in their hearts and in the faces of the Temple Guard—aloof, despite their thumbs rubbing the ends of their pummels and their sideways glances toward the saint.
Immediately, the deacon went to whispering in the archbishop’s ear, but all that resulted was a single gesture, an open hand that could only mean one thing. Death. It was clear as the braziers’ inscriptions, as the glistening tears on Gotthilf’s pale cheeks, as the deacon’s reluctant tilt of Æturnum into Saint Paul’s hands—the white steel singing as the blade crossed brass.
Jael bolted upright like lightning, so fast the backs of her knees crashed against the pews. “What is wrong with you!” she shouted, pointing out the blasphemers. “Don’t you know what a blessing this is? How long I’ve waited for—how long we’ve waited for something like this? You should be thanking the Lord! You… should… be…”
They were all staring at her, waiting for her next words, for the apothecary’s retort, or for the saint’s judgement; but it was the boy who spoke first. His nose leaking and knees teetering, he slurred some closing prayers—ones unfit for the ecclesiastical oaths—then stood looking to his toes as Æturnum bore gently on his shoulder.
“You knelt before me a boy, the son of an apothecary, and layman of the town of Herbstfield,” Saint Paul announced without so much as acknowledging the outcry; and in turn for the subtle act of mercy, no one questioned why such a knightly gesture as a sword on the shoulder was performed during an ecclesiastic rite. “Now rise before God a man, a servant of His church, and a friar of His great Temple of Pareo.” Arcing Æturnum’s silver-white blade overhead, he called for more faithful souls to offer themselves to the Lord.
Jael watched, amazed and disturbed as devotees rose one after the other, none deterred by the apothecaries weeping into one another’s shirts. It was a queer mix of emotions, relief and unease, made all the stranger by Saint Paul’s glances which seemed to fall on her more than the soon-to-be scribes and missionaries. Each glare lasted longer than the last, and with every one came an unshakable guilt, like she was standing before a lord’s court; the saint, her judge; the new adherents, her jurors. Five had been recruited by the end, all lettered young men, including Acolyte Gareth, though none seemed to pay her any mind—save for the saint.
His eyes rested on her as he addressed the assembly. “May the seven choirs sing the praises of these young men, and of their families, and of the deacon devoted to this arduous, pious road. For their suffering and sacrifice, Herbstfield chapel and each of their families shall be pardoned five years’ tithes to the Temple Rock—a small mercy for the gifts your wonderous village has bestowed. Indeed, it is my sorrow to quit such a good and amiable place, yet my pilgrimage must return me south to my proper seat… But before we depart, is there not another in this assembly whose place is truly with the Lord?”
Jael’s back stiffened, and in the spasm, the sounds escaped her mouth, “I, uh, I—”
“There she is,” the archbishop seized his opportunity. “Our very own Camilla. Rise, my lady. Tell us your name.”
“Jael,” she uttered, hardly able to overcome the moths roiling her stomach.
Paul glanced toward Gavin and made a private jest while putting Æturnum to rest in its crosier-scabbard. “It seems the children of Herbstfield all bare blessed names. Yes, I believe there is a place for you among the Sisterhood, Jael, if you wish to learn the source of your namesake.”
“Oh, I already know that. She was King Asher’s wife. I’ve read that story a hundred times,” blurted Leonhardt. “She slew the Dissident King Joseph in his sleep after he defeated her husband’s army and took her for his wife. After that, she…” Jael ceased, remembering too late to whom she was speaking, as if he didn’t know the story himself. To her shock, however, the saint did not take offense.
“You truly have read the scriptures. Perhaps I ought take pilgrimage more often. I was under the impression that it was rare for the laity to teach their girls to read and write. Might your mother be in attendance that I may praise your education?”
Leonhardt shook her head. “No, Your Holiness, it’s only me. But, it was my father who taught me to read.”
“Was it now? Blessings to him as well. You’ll be of great use to the Lord. And with devotion enough to study the scriptures—at your age, of your own volition—perhaps special arrangements can be made with the Brothers Scribes. I’d hate to see such a bright mind waste away with the Sisterhood. Tell me your father’s name so I may summon him to explain the matter before taking you with us.”
“Ricard Leonhardt,” answered Jael, “but I—”
Suddenly, Paul’s whole countenance grew dark. “Leonhardt, you said? I did not think I would hear that name again.”
“You know my father, Your Holiness?”
The saint’s gaze panned across the high corners of the hall. “I knew of him. He served on Saint Lucius’s Temple Guard. For a time.” His eyes relaxed back to Jael. “Yes, I’m certain a special position can be made for you among the Scribes, or perhaps the Redeemers.”
“What about the Cross?” Jael asked. She made her voice as serious as she could. This was her chance to serve in her father’s footsteps. She needed Saint Paul to believe her request was genuine.
“The Knights of the Saint’s Cross?” Paul cocked an eyebrow as if he did not hear her quite right. “My lady, Pareo’s holy knights have no place for maidens in their ranks. Their service
