“The Temple Rock needs one of these, don’t you agree?” Jael’s head snapped upright. Her eyes tore open, unadjusted to the lamp light made brighter in the mist. Trey continued, “That will be our first decree once the tyrants are deposed. But enough blasphemy. What did you think of Pyke and the meeting? Not as cordial as his brother, is he? But we’ll need men like him when the time comes.”
“What time is that?” asked Leonhardt, sinking to her chin. She could just make out Gildmane’s silhouette through the mist.
He stirred, she heard by the disturbance of the water. “War,” he said. “Perhaps the last one, but I’ll leave that decision to the bishop. What I’ll say for certain is that this illusion of peace is finally at its end. Nuw Gard is a festering wound, Jael, and you’re about to see that first hand. Are you ready? You never answered my question about the council.”
“I think Elder Frampt was right. They killed a whole village, and all those clerics that died. And they’re pagans besides. It would be justice for them.”
“And for the women and children?”
Leonhardt paused, remembered the Purge of Babylon. “If they surrender and swear to convert, then maybe the other elder’s plan could work too. It’d be like Camilla and the Impii.” Trey laughed, and Jael burst from the water up to her waist. “What’s so funny?”
“My apologies,” offered the captain, “It’s just that…no, I should save that for another day. There’s already too much ahead of us. But pray tell me, Lady Camilla, do you believe their claims about a monster in the fog?”
“Of course not. I’m not a little girl.”
“No,” Trey agreed, “You’re not.”
She heard another shift from his side of the pool, saw that the steam was thinning between them, said, “I think I better go, before someone else comes in while we’re—”
“While we’re bathing in a bathing pool? Stay. No one is coming so late, and I want to make sure you’re prepared.”
“I am,” she affirmed.
“Yeah? Well, I thought the same thing before I killed my first man. Maybe you’ve already heard the story? About Paul’s anointment.” She shook her head. “I guess news never gets around to the country side. You might as well sit back down. I’ve got a story to tell.”
Jael dropped beneath the water. The mist had thinned enough to that they were no longer just silhouettes. She could see clearly the lean, taught flesh, the golden mane shining and unmatted. She did not want to imagine what he had seen.
“I was fourteen,” he started, “When Saint Paul knighted me on the very day of his anointment. I was squiring under Justin Acker, the captain of the Cross at the time, and he somehow convinced the clergy to allow me to take part of the ceremony. Though, looking back now, I suppose it wasn’t such a miracle. He was charged as part of the saint’s honour guard. I don’t think any of us thought we’d be anything but a formality.”
“But isn’t the Temple Guard supposed to protect the saint?”
“They would had there been any. More than half were dead or discharged—you’re familiar—and Paul, Cornelius Dotto at the time, didn’t want to delay his ascension just to pick out his new, household guard. A mistake, as it turned out. The assailant would never have been able to try for the saint’s life had he been more cautious.”
Jael’s thoughts caught on the word, discharged, but that was an old wound. “Did you say assailant? Someone tried to kill the saint?”
“In front of the duke, the count, the clergy, and most of the skylords in Pareo. I thought the secret would have spread more than this, but maybe Paul was able to keep lips shut. He’d want to, given he was betrayed by his own clergyman. Warrior-Priest Normand Armstrong. We had no clue, no reason to suspect him. He was priest at Quiet Harbor as well as the commander of the clerics there. The man’s record was immaculate, but somehow a street rat managed to sniff out his intentions.
“It was bishop Ba’al, though he wasn’t a bishop then, just a vagrant born out of the Dim. He’d stolen inside the Valley Rock and come screaming at the top of his lungs about a poisoned chalice. He never made it passed the first line of soldiers, but Acker though it worth listening to his warning before they took off his head.”
“What did he say?” asked Jael, absorbed.
Trey rested his head back against the stone, sighed, and answered, “He said he saw it in a vision that the chalice was poisoned by the ‘Spirit of Wulfhart.’ He was pointing to Normand when he said it. Of course, no one believed him, but Captain Acker convinced Paul to have his cup bearer taste the wine in case. That was quite a feat—the wine had already been commuted—but eventually the saint agreed. The cup bearer drank, and then he died on the spot choking on his own spittle. Then…” Gildmane hung his head, staring down into the water. Leonhardt crept toward him, just a step. She could feel his heartbreak, hear it in the strain of his voice. “Then Hell loosed itself. It was chaos—everyone screaming a hundred orders at once.
