“To Hell with you,” uttered the bishop, a devilish engine in his hands, steel and smoking as he finished, “For the King.”
Tenth Verse
“Wake up, Leonhardt.”
Jael’s body flung upright before she could open her eyes. Her head was pounding—loudly as horse hooves—she remembered the sword, the white knight, her whirling helmet, the ground. “The Struggle!” Her voice carried, echoing on stone walls and tall vaulted ceilings. Then there was silence, then the sounds of glass clinking and soft footfalls, a mutter in the distance. She shivered, cold, no longer in her armour—or even in the same clothes. Her eyes opened. “Where am I?”
Sir Trey Gildmane sat across from her on an empty cot with an eased look on his face. In the candle light, his eyes sparkled like emeralds, and his blonde hair glowed like it was spun gold. “You’re in the vaults of the Temple Rock, the friars’ quarters. That was quite a blow you took. I was afraid Troy had broken your neck.”
The friars, she thought. I’ve failed if they sent me here. Jael glanced about at the dimly lit laboratory. She was in a sickbed, tucked away in a corner and separated by screens, though she could see a few of the tables covered with mortars, alembics, and dried ingredients. So this is it, then. I’ll be making medicine for the rest of my life. It was as if she never left Herbstfield, only now Gavin, her father, and Zach were all gone.
“I need to send a letter,” she said before the tears could come.
That sent Gildmane to smiling. “So soon? Don’t you want to hear the results?”
She did. After suffering through that whole ordeal, she was curious who’d managed to unseat the knight paladin. “Did anyone make it?”
“You mean beat Troy? No, but I didn’t expect anyone to. We pick three aspirants, even if they’re all invalidated. Each judge has his choice.”
Leonhardt turned to face the captain, her legs slipping from beneath the thin blanket to hang bare over the edge of the cot. The chill air pricked her skin with gooseflesh. Embarrassed, she pulled the thin cloth over her lap and asked, hoping he hadn’t noticed, “Who did you pick?”
“Do you mean me personally, or all of the judges?”
So, you’re ‘that’ kind of man who thinks sarcasm makes you witty? thought Jael, though she didn’t dare make the same mistake as with King. She settled with, “You know what I mean,” adding, “Sir,” at the end. He couldn’t say she hadn’t been respectful.
Gildmane seemed to be enjoying himself. Smiling as he said, “All three then? I hope you’re ready. They were Sylvertre, Blackheart, and...” He pointed a finger dead-set at her heart, “you.”
“Me? And Sylvertre and Harold, and not Harpe?” Of them all, she thought Brandon the most deserving of the honour. “How could those dullards be accepted? And me, you said? Then why am I here?” Trey smoothed the breast of his black, embroidered doublet. He was no longer in armour, Leonhardt noted. She asked, “How long have I been out?”
“A day and a half. The other aspirants were worried you’re dead. Sylvertre has been crying since the pronouncement—God damned milksop. His lord father is the only reason we let him in. Whitehand picked Harold.” His eyes flashed about the room; his voice thinned to a whisper. “He thinks the clergy can control him. Church influence is strong in the west. They’ve still got pagans on the northern shores and along the rivers, and Duskhall sits right on the Serpent’s Head.”
“So why me? Brandon is twice the knight that I’d ever be.”
Trey scanned the hall and waited as a pair of men passed by the sickbeds—friars, each with a white hand sewn on the chest of his robe. They meandered close, discussing a discourse one had given that morning to the dimfolk at Vaufnar’s cathedral. At the mention of the bishop’s name, the captain’s mien darkened, and it did not restore until the strangers drifted far out of earshot. “That’s a good question, Leonhardt. I’ve been asking that since I saw your name on the list. Why is it the saint allowed you to join the Struggle?”
“Because I asked him.”
“You think so?” Gildmane smirked. “There is a mountain of requests awaiting the saint’s approval for heirless sons to join the Cross. You can see them for yourself, piled high on the chamberlain’s desk. Paul will never glimpse any of them. Tell me, what makes you so special?”
Jael didn’t have answer to that one. She thought for a moment, then admitted, “I don’t know.”
“Neither do I, but I aim to find out. And besides. I want to know what a Leonhardt is made from.”
Flesh and blood, like everyone else. She thought of Brandon, of how she stole his place because of her name. “That’s it, isn’t it? That’s why it was me instead of Harpe. Because I’m a ‘Leonhardt.’” She slumped back onto the cot, despondent.
Gildmane grinned. “Get used
