“They were telling the truth,” Jael said as quickly as she could find words that didn’t give away their purpose to the bishop. “Those poor people, I found what they were describing, what we were looking for. It’s down in the basement.”
The paladin started out the portal, but Ogdon stayed. “Wait, Sir. We’ve come all this way. I think we should at least—” Corvin twisted and pierced Sylvertre with a stare. The squire stuttered, “we should, we should at least see what she found.” Then he said to Jael, his voice high and wavering, “I’m with you.”
“Good,” declared Leonhardt, “we can do this ourselves.”
The bishop glanced aghast at each member of the Cross. Corvin whipped around, blood boiling now, thick as it pulsed through his bulging arteries. But they were already leading the clergyman to where Jael had been, beneath the façade of compassion and piety. Seething, the paladin followed them down to the cellar where the lantern glowed dim over barrels and wine racks.
Bishop Vaufnar glowered at the crumbs on the floor. “Thank you for showing me the negligence of my servants, my lady, but I don’t think I understand what this is all about. Sir Brandon mentioned that there were accusations.”
“My apologies, Your Grace,” answered Corvin. He gestured toward Jael. “This one’s yet to learn the difference between the world and her emotions.”
Leonhardt ignored him and asked the bishop flatly, “Would you tell me, Your Grace, why it is you have a wine cellar with no wine?”
“It is poison for the soul, my lady. When I came into office, I had already witnessed the damage drink had done to the poor of Pareo. My priests and deacons spend most of their time helping our members give it up. It would not do to keep a store here when we are trying so hard to fight it.” He paused and wrinkled his deep-creased forehead. “I still fail to see how this relates to what we discussed.”
“Just like you failed to see this bottle?” Jael placed her hand on the disguised lever and jerked with all her weight—a clunk and whine and the wall shifted. “Or maybe you just didn’t want anyone to find this by accident?”
There was quiet for a while, no one but frightened rats daring to speak—each squeak a damnation. “God save us,” hissed Ogdon to break the silence. “That’s a God damned torture—”
“Shut up, Sylvertre,” Corvin groaned, sliding a hand down his face. It seemed to Leonhardt that the mud-blood wanted anything than to be there. Yet there he was. He turned to the bishop, “Do you care to explain this, Your Grace?”
Vaufnar was gaping, stammering, afraid. “I swear to the Lord, this is the first I’ve seen of, of, of this place. Sir, I swear it.”
“Liar!” spat Jael, drawing her sword. Ogdon followed her lead.
“Put those away!” the paladin exploded, but the bishop was already panicking—repeating his innocence, his ignorance—pleading with Corvin not to arrest him, that his spirit was soft, that he’d never survive an inquisition in the Temple dungeon. Nothing the knight said could calm him, and before long, the clergyman bolted—up the stairs and through the kitchens, the corridors, passed pillars and servants, and out the rosewood portal onto the crowded city street. The three of the Cross had no choice but to give chase. The bishop was quick despite his age; they were outside by the time they caught up with him, and by then, Vaufnar was dissolving into the stream of people.
Corvin stopped in the center of the road. He pulled the black quiver from his back, drew out his bow and nocked an arrow before the squires noticed his absence. They were a ways ahead of him when they finally did, and had to dive aside at the twang of a lifetime of training loosed into a single shot. “Go with God,” uttered Sir Brandon Corvin. And the arrow flew, true and sharp as the bite of a viper. It whistled through the crowd, striking only its target: the thigh of the terrified and fleeing Vaufnar. It was a clean wound—the arrow pierced through and burst out the other side—and the bishop went down. Jael was close enough to see him, curled on the ground, crying, bleeding—too fast. He was getting too pale. The crowd around him was screaming—Corvin cursing—and Leonhardt knew why. Bishop Vaufnar, beloved of the Compassionate’s Cathedral, patron of the poor, had died.
Thirteenth Verse
Home.
Each day she awoke wondering where next she would go, where next she would lie down and fall asleep only to begin again the following morning, following these people she called her family. They weren’t truly, but in these queer eastern lands, Magdalynn had no one else to call her own but Adam, the bishop, and the Impii. And the old lady, she thought as she lugged a bundle of sticks—tinder for their evening host. It was one of several chores she and Adam performed: gathering wood or water or ingredients for supper—rice and fish and all kinds of spices, duck eggs and cabbage, celery and shoots—then there was the wiping of floors and washing of clothes, of pots and pans and bowls after supper, then the clothes came down from drying to be folded. By the time the sunset, Magdalynn was so exhausted that she’d ride on Adam’s shoulders back to the chapel and the Impii and the bishop. Until tomorrow.
She had just gotten used to the Gautaman sunrise, the peace of its streets in early morning, and the shape of the city when seen from the edge—the swooping roofs, green and golden, and the towers, the statues, the great wooden gates blazing red in the sun. She would say farewell to them all tomorrow—and to the old woman.
“I wish we could stay another month,” she said to Adam.
He smiled at her and pushed his hair from his eyes. “I feel that way sometimes as well, but I made a promise.
