“What is your business here, paladin? His Holiness has ordered the cloister closed.”
Gildmane breathed two deep breaths of self-collection. “I’m on the search for my squire, Jael Leonhardt. Have you seen her? She comes here often to pray.”
“We’ve seen no one,” Sir Isaiah started, then Rillion interjected.
“Aye, lad. The lassie is inside.”
“How dare you, Pyke? Our orders were—”
The old knight turned and loomed over his companion, dwarfing the thin man in his abundant shadow. “You know, Wright, you’re right,” he said, placing his meaty hands on the other man’s chest, “so why don’t you go tell the captain about it? I’m sure he’d love to know. Go on, now,” finished Rillion, suddenly shoving Sir Isaiah through the gaping cloister door. It was Tristen who’d opened it, and it was Tristen who closed the door again, his back pressed against the polished wood, sliding as he laughed, unable to contain his mirth. He reminded Trey of himself when he was young, carefree as the hills of the north, safe behind the wall of Castle Aestas. They even looked similar, only Newaters’s hair and eyes and complexion were dun compared to Gildmane’s—shades of honey and clover to his emerald and gold.
Trey helped the young knight up, then beamed at Rillion. “You’ve got rocks of steel, old man.”
“Of salt,” he replied. “They only seem hard to you young lads cause you’re all so soft. Just look at this one!” He pointed to giggling Sir Tristen with his thumb. “Like a maiden, that chin. I’ve never seen a peach so soft.”
Newaters began rubbing his jaw, embarrassed, then the three of them let out a fraternal guffaw. The captain could hardly speak without choking on his words. “Salt or steel, I’m impressed. It makes me wish I was knighted two decades earlier. The stories…what I wouldn’t give to have ridden with you.”
Pyke’s entire countenance brightened the room. His eyes sparkled. “Aye, lad, you came to manhood during the wrong reign. Under Lucius you’d have had a true chance to shine. They’d have called you the White Lion.”
“Wasn’t there already a ‘Lion’ back then?”
“And now,” Rillion answered. “Speaking of, how is the little beastie? I haven’t spoken with her since we gained sight of Ward Aureus.”
“Jael is serving quite well, though she struggles with her heart. I’m hoping our campaign out west will bring out her lion’s blood.”
“Taking her hunting, are we? Well, if killing heathens can make a man, no doubt it can turn a lass into a lion. And it will be good to get her away from all the uproar.”
“We heard about what happened in the Dim,” blurted Tristen. “The whole city is talking about it—rumors that the Cross’s lady-squire uncovered Vaufnar’s rape chamber.”
“Believe what you will,” Gildmane replied. Meanwhile, footfalls sounded from behind the cloister door—three pairs, then three men came marching through the threshold. Sir Isaiah appeared first, hunched and scowling, then Saint Paul in his common robes. He looked smaller without his crown and mantle, like any old man, without Æturnum. He moved through the doorway without a pause or so much as a glance at the paladin or anyone else. Sir Holland followed afterward and was just the opposite—fuming, furious and glaring, first at Rillion, then at Trey, and finally at Tristen as he barked their orders to depart with the saint.
“Say hello to my brother for me,” said Pyke, bowing.
Trey watched the Temple Guard round a corner and disappear down a hidden ambulatory. The Saint’s Way, layman called them, secret passages woven like a labyrinth throughout the Rock. Gildmane knew of a few of them, though no more than any church servant. They were the only means of accessing the upper and lower floors. The inner sanctum, the dungeons…Trey would need to learn of more Ways than these before the time came. Thank God, that’s a long way off, he thought, then he remembered Corvin imprisoned beneath his feet. What was it the saint said to Jael, he wondered, storming the cloister, his heart racing.
He found her pacing under the south-side arcade, staring north over the courtyard toward the golden Temple dome. It shone beautifully, though the winds were bitter, it captured the glimmer and glow of the sun and returned Heaven its glory. Only the Messaii cross atop the dome was brighter, shining the silver-white of frosted steel. Trey could see that light reflected in the deep brown of Leonhardt’s eyes, like a quivering flame, dying. She did not face him as he walked beside her, nor as he spoke.
“I saw Sir Rillion just now. He bid me to tell you that he says hello.”
“Wolves,” she said, still staring to the north. “He tried to warn me how bad it was. I thought I understood. You told me it would get worse, but I didn’t know. And it’s not like before. It’s my fault! And now Sir Corvin has been jailed, and all those people!”
“Jael,” started Gildmane, unsure what to say. “You did nothing wrong. You performed exactly how I knew you would. You were brave, and now no more children will be—”
“No,” she spat. Her cheeks flushed deep, and her eyes became a red web of veins. “They’re dead. They found the family’s bodies in the Cathedral more than a day ago. They say the boy was mangled and that Vaufnar was innocent—that the chamber
