“In sight of God and men, I swear by my life,” she said through gritted teeth, every second an agony, “I shalt forever hold faith in God and in His church.”
Superb, thought the captain. From the triad, however, there was no congratulation, no recognition, no pause at all between her and Ogdon, Ogdon and Kornel, nor Byron, Harold, Alexander, or Brandon.
“I shalt observe the commandments of my father, in Heaven and on earth, and shalt remain leal to my lord long as his law lies in piety,” Sylvertre swore.
“For I shalt live in eternal service, in body as well as soul,” continued the baron’s knight’s son.
Half way through and already two were invalided. Trey’s heart ached for poor Kornel. “Both in flesh and in soul,” he should have said. The same pity did not extend to noble Byron. The son of Duskhall forgot his line entirely, and out of shame, Harold spoke two oaths in his brother’s place.
“Never shalt I grace safe haven to heretic, nor allow blasphemy to go unpunished; I shalt become a ward to the weak and an aegis to the frail. My hands are of the Lord and shalt give to his children freely.”
“Can you believe this mockery?” bishop Noblis groaned from the corner of his jowls. His eyes rolled and his mouth frowned, the countenance of a slug. Gildmane wasn’t sure what the fat clergyman had meant: the unprepared aspirants, Harold’s rescue attempt, the mud-blood participant?—it was Alexander’s turn next, and he swore as well and clear as the others.
“I shalt revel in my toil, finding relief only in prayer and never in the pleasures of the flesh.”
Trey feigned a guess. “Not a lover of the Tsaazaari, Whitehand? I didn’t know you were such a purist.”
“Nonsense,” he said, “I adore Mephistine layer cakes. The half-blood is not my concern. It is that traitor’s get. I thought we’d be free of her by now. Persistent pest.”
“It is strange that she was permitted,” replied the captain, playing the bishop’s advocate. “One would think her father’s line had been excommunicated. And a woman in the Cross? But her name was on the list with the saint’s own seal. Why do you think he gave his approval?”
Whitehand stroked his several chins as Brandon Harpe finished the code. “May Lord God judge my soul and forgive me my mortal sins. This I swear before God and man in faith that soon his kingdom come.”
“May soon his kingdom come,” echoed the aspirants, their voices tortured.
“I suppose he must have his reasons. Perhaps he means to use her as a speckling of tarnish, a bit of turpentine, a blemish to keep your image in check. There have been rumors, Captain,” the bishop braced himself on the arms of his cathedra, “that your order has been turning independent from His Holiness and the church, taking payment from the skylords like a band of sellswords.”
“I thought the clergy would be overjoyed to no longer share their tithes with the Cross.”
“Some. Fools like Vaufnar, Cobbler, and Snow. The rest of us know what you’re up to, Gildmane. You and that rat of yours.” Whitehand’s massive chest expanded. He needed every ounce of air his shrunken lungs could hold to heave his twenty-two stone from the throne to his feet. The mountainous man moved, and the whole Valley seemed to quake. “You’ll forgive me, sir, but…” he heaved a dozen shallow breaths, “I have duties to tend to… Aspirants, kneel!”
There was at once a cry of common relief. Happily, the aspirants dropped down from their trestles, happier still to take a knee on the springy field. Lord Austen asked the two invalids kindly to leave, then he returned to his seat, his duties completed. Ogdon had survived the first of the trials, but barely. It was to the skylord’s fortune the next was less demanding.
Whitehand produced a fold of parchment from inside his cassock. He opened it slowly, struggling to coordinate his sausage fingers, and when he did his face went whiter than Jael Leonhardt’s—like he’d seen a ghost, but it was only a lengthy scriptural excerpt. He turned back to Gildmane. “Captain, if you might? I fear I don’t possess the breath for all this, and loath to do injustice to our Lord’s holy scriptures.”
Trey stood and snatched the excerpt from the bishop’s stubby grip. It was sweat stained and smeared, yet it appeared mostly legible. “I understand, Your Grace. You’ve already exerted yourself too much, rising out of a chair. You need your rest.” He said it loud enough for the aspirants to hear. A few sniggered, Harold, Ogdon, Jael—some color had returned to the maiden’s face. She’s prettier when she smiles, Trey strayed from the task at hand then reined in his attention. He said, “Congratulations on not failing the initial trial, but don’t get proud over reciting a few lines. That proves you have as much wit as a Mephistine parrot. The next trial is a contest. I’m going to read you an excerpt from the scriptures, and you’re going to answer my question at the end. We’ll learn just how many of you can’t even comprehend a sermon.” The captain cleared his throat.
It was a scribe’s new translation of the story of the two sons, Asher and Kayin, whose sire was King Joseph from when the Messaii dwelled in the red deserts of the Tsaazaar.
And the first was Asher, born
