Delay as he may, it was not long before Adam found himself at the aftcastle. There, he lingered on the threshold, emboldening himself with deep breaths and prayers, not for himself but for Magdalynn. Only once the pastor’s son had thoroughly pleaded that there be nothing to fear—had reasoned that it’d been years since any real harm had come to the girl, and that their abuser wouldn’t even be there—did he dare to bring his knuckles to the cabin door. It was soft wood, well preserved despite its age, and it rang like a bell as he gently rapped. Once. Twice. A voice called from the other side. The door swung open.
Adam smiled at the big, blue eyes watching him as he stepped within, and Magdalynn grinned right back. She looked unharmed as far as he could tell, aside from weather burns from the sun and the wind and the ocean. The smuggler had even fitted her in new roughspuns. Or was that the bishop? he wondered. His vision drifted from the girl to the dolorous chamber.
He had expected a nightmare, yet nothing about the cabin seemed the same as it had that evening. The room was awash with light from the star-side window, and half a dozen candles diffused an aroma like rose and jasmine. Had it been like that night, all around him would have been hidden in shadows, a single lamp the only light flickering on the captain’s table, illuminating the stained cot and the ropes hanging over it. But there was none of that: just a little table and a pair of cushioned stools and fresh sheets and two holes bored into the walls where Venicci’s tools for torture had been removed. And the bishop, too. He was sitting on a stool between the table and the cot, hunched over a wide box, huffing his a pipe like he might play a tune. He stopped as soon as he saw Adam.
Ba’al roused to his feet and spread his arms open, looking too much like David in his traveling garb. “Our guest has finally arrived,” he said, gesturing for Magdalynn to fill a couple goblets for them. “No, not water, you silly girl. The good wine. Yes, that’s the one.” They waited while she poured two cups from a bottle branded God’s Fingers Vineyard. The vintage flowed sweetly, white-gold as sunrise, though when Adam brought the pewter to his lips, it tasted to him dry and heavy.
“Sit,” the bishop ordered. The pastor’s son sat, and Magdalynn resumed her place by the door. Ba’al continued, “I’ve been wanting to talk with you for some time, my son. I’ve heard some terrible things from the crew. Is it true, what they’re saying, that you’ve been hurting yourself and thinking sinful things?”
Adam drank till his cup was dry. “If I tell you, will you promise nothing bad will happen to Mags? Or to Adnihilo?”
The bishop gave a glance to Magdalynn, and she filled the Messah’s goblet while he answered. “Of course, I promise. Why would I want to hurt any of you?”
The pastor’s son stared, ice-eyed and incredulous.
Ba’al sighed. “Have some faith. You don’t trust me, I know. And why would you? You’ve witnessed the darkness that possessed me recently. But I beseech you, Adam. We both desire mercy and justice and love. I beg your forgiveness and wish to make amends. Will you heed my proposition?”
Adam nodded, no more trusting the clergyman than he had a second before, but what choice did he have? Would he or one of the others be given to the smuggler if he refused? And what was it he just said? ‘possessed?’ An image of burning Babylon emerged inside his mind, all those Messaii soldiers murdering and pillaging. He takes me for a fool. The whole of the church—no—of the homeland must be possessed, then.
“You think this is trick, don’t you?” asked Ba’al as if he’d heard those words spoken aloud. “We shall remedy that soon.” He tucked his hands under the box atop the table, turned it around so Adam could see inside.
He looked and saw the bishop was right. At first, he did not know what to make of the strange case. The exterior was plain, unfinished wood, probably carved from left-over lumber, yet the interior was lined with plush layers of cotton folded carefully about an odd assortment of contents: hollow steel rods, odd wooden clubs, a pair of scales and measures, paper satchels full of black dust. And there was one object packed beneath the others. Ba’al told him to dig deeper, that it was the bottom most parcel that he wanted to show. Adam unfolded the cloth.
It was his father’s sword, scabbard and all, the blade laid bare, polished and oiled. He’d never seen it in such a state before. The steel almost seemed to have a glow of its own—a white, pure aura—and the hilt had thankfully been left alone. It was the same old leather Adam had known since he was a boy, and it still had the wear-marks where his father’s fingers had been. He wanted terribly to hold the weapon in his hands, but he dared not. To touch it now would be somehow sacrilege.
Again, the bishop answered as if he’d listened to the young Messah’s thoughts, “Go ahead, my son. It belongs to you. Your father wanted you to have it.”
Cautiously, the pastor’s son put a hand into the box, then onto the wood and leather grip, then slowly he retrieved the sword before doing the same with the scabbard. Minutes died during this process, and across that time, Adam felt his heart finally calming, falling into a sense of nostalgic melancholy.
The Messah drained his cup of wine. Ba’al called for another, and Magdalynn, smiling, filled both their goblets.
“Can we tell him now?” she asked before returning to her post.
At that, the bishop grinned so wide his cheeks squished against his glistening, amber eyes.
