Trial of Fire (17 page)

*

‘Sire, the Guilde Proctor has requested an audience with you this morning.’

Kenrick looked up from his bath. Forb’ez had changed his clothes since they had returned last night, but at this distance, in this light, he looked
exactly as he had when he had worked for Kenrick’s father, his white hair cropped, and his fair eyebrows not breaking the absence of colour on his face. He held himself like the warrior that he was, as though there were no secrets he was hiding.

‘Tell him to go away,’ Kenrick grunted, turning back to the sheaf of papers he held above the water, but the moment he did he lost all interest and handed them to one of his serving men. The bath had felt warm and relaxing when he’d first sunk into it, but now the water was cooling and there was an itch to be up and at the day.

He had things to do.

He stood, dripping water all over the place, and was handed towels warmed from the blazing fire in the south corner of the room. Refreshed, he stepped out onto more towels and instantly, his men brought forth the clothes he had chosen earlier. He hadn’t yet worked out how he would get out, but ultimately, that was irrelevant.

Forb’ez was still waiting by the door, yet not dismissed. As Kenrick thrust his arm into the worn jacket, he clenched his jaw and asked the question he’d been avoiding since his return last night. ‘And Nash? Has he been back to court yet? Has he sent any message? Is there any word of when he will return, or when he plans to?’ Each word fell out of him reluctantly. His stomach churned. It was a good thing he had yet to have breakfast.

‘Of Nash I can discover nothing, Sire.’ Forb’ez took a step further into the small room, his hands clasped before him. ‘He departed, as you know, the day we left for Maitland, and has not been seen in the city since. But …’

‘But what?’

‘Most of those who worked with him seem to have left the city also.’

The Malachi? Gone? Then Nash had gone to fight Robert Douglas – and he’d not thought to tell Kenrick. Was this the battle they were to fight?
Now?

No, it couldn’t be, not without warning, not without a moment’s preparation. Though he could barely trust Nash to tell him if the sun was shining, they were, for the moment, still allies.

So where in Serin’s name was he?

Kenrick shrugged his serving men away and attended to buttoning up his own jacket. ‘You said you overheard some men talking, when you heard of the fight at Maitland.’

‘Yes, Sire.’ Forb’ez might have looked surprised, but on that face, it was hard to discern.

‘Where were you?’

‘A tavern in the city. A place called the Two Feathers.’

Kenrick smoothed down the ordinary clothes he was wearing and took the dusty cloak handed to him. ‘Good, you can take me there.’

‘Now, Sire?’ This time the surprise was visible.

‘Yes, now. Come, let’s go.’

*

Godfrey dipped the pen into the jar of ink, once, twice. Then he lifted it out, holding it above the jar to ensure no rogue droplet would fall upon the desk, or the pile of letters and documents he’d already signed. Content the pen was safe, he brought it across to the bottom of the next page and, slowly and deliberately, he scrawled his name: Godfrey Mawnus, Bishop of Lusara.

He sat at his desk, surrounded by an air of determined activity, both quiet and undisturbing in its intensity. Even as his eyes swept over each line of carefully scribed letters, he could feel the currents in the air as a small group of monks removed his heavy winter curtains and replaced them with lighter sets, ready for summer – should it ever arrive, should this long, long, dismal, cold, unfriendly, terrifying, soulless winter ever end …

Godfrey paused mid-signature, took in a deep breath and held it as he re-dipped his pen, using the moment to gather himself. He would
not
do this, and especially not when surrounded by men who looked up to him. He couldn’t afford the luxury.

His pen made its way back to the paper, his title appearing once more before his eyes, an ever-present and beloved reminder of what he was, what he would never be, and of what he had done.

His private study was a comely room, and well-suited to his purpose. At the very least, it was a room his predecessor, Brome, had disdained. The walls were all of the same rose-gold sandstone, and vaulted, with each arm folded and folded again, to form each fan arch in the roof above. There were three graceful pillars along the centre line of the room; his desk stood against one of them.

And there were windows, long, wide windows, which let in much light during the dark winter days, two on each side of the fireplace, and two more behind him, at the end of the room. The other two walls held doors and provided space for bookcases, another, smaller desk, three chairs, a prie-dieu, and a corner garderobe. There was another table in the centre of the room, at which Godfrey ate, when he could get away with eating alone.

And there were other chairs and rugs and a single, brightly coloured tapestry above the fireplace. It hadn’t been there when he’d taken up office. His predecessor had hidden it away, but Godfrey had put it back. Bishop Domnhall had loved it, and he loved it himself. It was a simple scene: a tall, sharp mountain in the background with a cap of creamy snow. In the
middle ground were the sturdy buildings of a small village, surrounded by the lush green of Lusara. Then in the centre, with light gleaming from their faces, were the gods they all worshipped: Serinleth, astride his horse, with his sword of fire illuminating the darkness, and beside him, Mineah, her eyes all-seeing, her palms open to embrace the world, her horse eager to trample evil in its path.

This tapestry was rare, both in its artistry, and in the fact that it did not portray the other god, who stood against all Mineah and Serin represented. For this reason, the tapestry could not be displayed in the Basilica or any other church, for every priest was sworn to acknowledge the evil Broleoch along with the good Mineah and Serinleth. One could never exist without the other.

But in here, for the hours he toiled at this desk, when he was interrupted by the ghosts in his head who rattled their chains and refused him peace, he took comfort from that tapestry, offering up a small prayer each time. Amongst his very great crimes, this was as a breath of air.

He looked up as Archdeacon Francis appeared in the north doorway, hands folded in his sleeves, his cowl up to warm his bald head. Though his gaze met Godfrey’s instantly, he bowed formally before entering the room, then stood aside as the last of the winter curtains, folded and laid over the arms of a puffing monk, made its way out of Godfrey’s study. The new curtains were all hung now and, one by one, each monk passed Francis, bowed towards Godfrey and left.

The silence at their departure was only dispersed by the faint noise of the city outside the windows, all the more audible now the curtains were thinner.

‘Good morning, Your Grace. Do you wish the door closed?’

For a moment, Godfrey longed for even more silence, and almost asked Francis to leave, but he held back the words and nodded. Francis shut the door while Godfrey busied himself with his last signature. When he was done, he found Francis waiting on the other side of his desk, a picture of perfect patience. Francis had been a priest for most of his fifty-odd years. He was able to hide his wily nature when he wanted to.

Godfrey put his pen down and pushed his chair back. As he got to his feet, he grunted at the ache in his hip from sitting still for too many hours.

‘Are you in pain, Your Grace?’

‘No,’ he lied, then wished he hadn’t. But more, he wished Francis would simply call him by his name. But he never would again. No priest ever would. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘Forgive me, Your Grace,’ Francis’s tone was that of friend, rather than secretary, ‘but I was about to ask you the same thing. You have seemed
unwell for these last three weeks. I would be more comfortable if you would agree to seeing a Healer. People are—’

‘What?’ Godfrey snapped, then raised his hand in instant apology. ‘I’m sorry, Father. I am just a little tired. I haven’t been sleeping well.’ Such lies! Sleeping well? Sleep was nothing more than a fond memory. These nights he no sooner closed his eyes than his vision was filled with blood, his dreams replaying over and over again the moment when he plunged a dagger into the heart of that young girl, murdering her, feeling the agony of her death, breaking his own heart even as he sliced hers in two.

And she had died for nothing, he had killed her for nothing. Her blood was on his hands and so was his failure. DeMassey had warned him of the dangers, had begged him to kill the child, but he’d hesitated, needing to be sure for the sake of his own conscience – and in that moment of hesitation, he’d given Nash enough time to arrive, to take the girl’s blood – his own
daughter’s
blood – to do the gods knew what with. But DeMassey had told him. DeMassey had known. Such blood would make Nash stronger than ever before, perhaps even stronger than Robert – and it would also make him immortal.

Dizziness swept over him, as it had done every moment he thought about this. His stomach lurched, threatening to embarrass him, and he reached out to the graceful pillar to steady himself. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t do this – but then, he’d also promised DeMassey he wouldn’t fail. What virtue did any promise have these days – especially those made by a man of the gods, a priest, who was sworn, on the Basilica’s altar, never to use violence of any kind, against anyone, ever.

With discipline born of desperation he breathed deeply and looked up to the tapestry.
They
had defeated evil before. This was not the time to abandon hope.

‘Your Grace?’ Francis was at his side, offering a friendship Godfrey could not afford.

‘I’m fine,’ Godfrey said evenly, schooling his features to work with the lie. He turned to face his friend and even managed something akin to a smile. ‘I finished what you left for me. Are there any other documents you wish me to review?’

Francis shrugged, his eyes searching and finding no obvious chink in Godfrey’s armour. He matched the smile. ‘There is so much work that was left undone because of Brome’s long illness, so many things he would not attend to. I am trying to parcel a day’s work up each time, so as not to tire you but …’

‘It will take us until next Caslemas to clear the backlog?’

Again Francis shrugged, refraining from answering. ‘There are also the
courts you will need to hold, on the first day of summer. This year, I’m afraid, you will have to run at least three weeks, just to catch up – and that’s assuming no further complicated cases need your judgment.’

‘Very well,’ Godfrey said, using the brisk efficiency of Francis’s report to harden his own resolve. ‘Let me look at what we have so far, then I can begin my reading.’

‘Are you sure? You’ve already been working all morning.’

‘Yes,’ Godfrey said, heading back to the desk. ‘I’m sure.’ He had failed to stop Nash regenerating, but the Angel of Darkness hadn’t won the war yet. And until he did, Godfrey would work with his tainted hands and his bruised conscience. There was, after all, much more at stake here than just his soul.

*

Moving through the city without pomp and ceremony left Kenrick with an odd feeling of emptiness he couldn’t quite shake. But it was more than that. He’d travelled the streets before without attention to his rank, but this was the first time he had walked in complete anonymity. Not only that, but his only escort was a man who appeared to have betrayed his father.

Kenrick had felt fear before; most of the time he’d spent in Nash’s presence he’d felt it.

Any time Robert Douglas’s name was mentioned he felt it.

But this time the feeling rattled deep into his bones, as though he were risking more than his own life. But what good was his throne if he was dead? If he couldn’t get Tirone to agree to the marriage with his daughter, Kenrick would have no heir to pass it to, so how could there be more to risk than his life?

He thrust his hands into deep pockets in his jacket. Forb’ez strode before him, a cap on his head to give him a little disguise. He paid no attention to where he was, nor the people who walked by him. For Kenrick, the journey was a miniature nightmare. The streets were filthy: rotting straw, dead vermin and the gods knew what else lay in the shallow gutters. Only the cold of the spring day prevented the smells he knew would rise in summer. The buildings Forb’ez took him past were little more than ruins, paint flaking, roofs tilted and falling down, shutters hanging off their hinges.

And the people: they were the worst. They were dirty and, by the gods, they smelled. They held themselves with little regard to dignity, their clothes ragged and caked in filth, as though they spent their time rolling in the streets in which they lived.

Kenrick quickened his pace. No wonder he’d never been through this part of the city before – and he never would again. If these were the people Robert Douglas would free, there hardly seemed any point. The inhabitants
of this city were little more than animals, and deserved to be treated as such.

The smell got worse the further downhill he moved. Marsay was a city on a river island: the water should have taken the filth away. Instead, it festered below the city walls; Kenrick could see it through the archery slits built into the stone.

‘How much further?’ he grunted, hurrying to catch up with Forb’ez.

‘Another corner, S—’

‘Don’t!’ Kenrick hissed. ‘I don’t want these people to know who I am, don’t you understand?’

He could tell from the sideways glance the man gave him that he didn’t. It was on the tip of Kenrick’s tongue to ask him the truth, about himself and his desertion of one King before he had a chance to betray another, but prudence stopped him. For the moment, Forb’ez was helping him, giving him access to something he’d wanted for a long time; this was not the time to be questioning such a gift.

‘Here it is, S— Here it is.’ Forb’ez cut short a gesture towards the inn and paused outside the door, waiting for instruction. The building was unremarkable, though clearly a hostelry of some nature. Above the door was a faded wooden sign, with the outline of two feathers only just visible.