A Season of Rendings Page 17

  "I don't want her deciding everything. She's not king."

  "Well neither are you, Brother! It's your first time out on the ice. It's all right to lean on her a little bit." Isaic started shaking his head. "Learn the basics, let her hold the reins . . ."

  "I do that now, I'll be doing it forever."

  "Oh, take a breath. Father has many long years left. You act as if this is your life now. It's not. It's practice. And you keep pushing away the one person who's supposed to be your foundation."

  "That's just it, Jan. I don't want her as my foundation. When I'm king, I intend to rule—not let the Church handle every hard question like some . . . spineless . . ." His headache surged, killing the sentence before he could figure out the rest of it.

  Jan's jaw dropped. "You're talking about pissing on the Gregors' Pact."

  "Oh, I'm not pissing on it, for summer's love. Calm down."

  "I'm sure Angelica wouldn't agree. Why do you think she was so upset about these little trials of yours?"

  "I checked the Pact before I started. Everything I'm doing is legal. I specifically only hear cases on the periphery of the agreement."

  "And this winter? I don't recall the Pact saying anything about ordering the Church to heal redwarts."

  "It was everywhere, Jan. You saw it. The whole city would've been diseased if they'd waited."

  "That still doesn't give you the right to command the Church."

  "I didn't command them to do anything. I offered to pay for it so the peasants wouldn't have to."

  "And then conveniently neglected to do so, leaving all of Darnoth with the impression that the Church answers to you."

  Isaic slapped his mouth shut. Jan had struck awfully close to the mark.

  "Look, pussyfoot around it with Angelica if you want. But we're both men here. You all but called Father a sniveling rodent."

  "Oh, what of it?" Isaic threw back. "Isn't that exactly what he is?"

  "I'll tell him you said that," Jan teased.

  "Go ahead. Won't be news to him."

  Again, Jan's smile drained away. Isaic was glad to see it go; he wasn't in the mood for games. "Father," Jan said, suddenly serious, "abides by the terms of the Gregors' Pact, just like his father did, and his father, and every one of them all the way back to the founding of the Church—just like he expects you to." He scoffed. "And you accuse me of not paying attention."

  Isaic's headache was a monster now, pounding at the walls of his skull and roaring.

  Jan cocked his head, eyes narrowed. "Where is all this coming from?"

  Oh, sehk, here it comes. Isaic shook his head. "Forget it. I have a lot to do, Jan, I―"

  "You're still on about Mother, aren't you?"

  Yes. The terrible thing is that you're not. He looked away at first, then changed his mind and seized Jan's gaze instead.

  "Unreal," Jan breathed. "Isaic, I don't know how many times you need to hear this. Angelica didn't kill her."

  "No, just left her to die of an injury she could've healed."

  "She arrived too late! We've been over this! There were witnesses!"

  "Yes, all of whom have been conveniently relocated to Tal'aden. Open your eyes, Jan. Mother was a threat to them. Despite what you think, I have no intentions to rip up the Pact—I know we need it as much as they do. But Mother . . ." He shook his head. "She was too much for them. Too loud, too . . ."

  "Revolutionary," Jan conceded. "She was at that. I know I was young when she died, but I remember." He stared into the past, just over Isaic's shoulder. "She was a tiger." A muted laugh. "Even at that age, I could tell Father had his hands full with her. It was a miracle they ever let him marry her."

  "They didn't. Remember? She told us—she talked him into it." He gave a resigned sigh. "It was the only time Father ever stood up to them. No one ever admits it now, but it happened. Melakai remembers."

  Jan came back to the present, his face clouded with concern. "Look. You're the regent. I understand that. Just be careful, will you? One day―"

  Harad cut him off, his voice like a tumbling boulder. "Someone's here." He crossed to the door and waited for Isaic's nod before opening it.

  "Your Highness." The guard from the throne room—the one who had never drawn his weapon—bowed. "You wished to speak with me?"

  Isaic stood and clapped his brother on the shoulder. "Thank you for coming, Jan. It was good to talk with you." His brother might have been insufferable, but he shared Isaic's childhood. He understood, even if he didn't always agree. "Nothing we said can leave the room."

  Jan rolled his eyes. "Of course." The man in the doorway stepped aside to let him leave.

  "Timothy, is it?" Isaic asked him as Jan vanished down the hallway.

  "Yes, Your Highness."

  "Enter," Isaic ordered. He still wasn't sure having the man brought here had been a good idea. Timothy had to be punished, he knew that much, but he wasn't sure he trusted himself to administer that punishment evenly.

  Timothy stepped in. Harad closed the door behind him and resumed his position near Isaic—who kept his silence, debating what to say while he let the man writhe. Timothy maintained his composure, though, hands clasped behind his back and eyes low on the far wall while he waited.

  "You know why I called you here," Isaic finally said.

  "Yes, Your Highness." Still staring intently at nothing.

  "Why did you disobey me?"

  "I . . . didn't, Your Highness."

  Isaic fought to keep his jaw from dropping. Timothy sensed his incredulity and hurried on: "You said they weren't to leave the room. They didn't leave."

  It was the wrong answer. A smoldering rage ignited in Isaic's temples, pumping like a bellows. "I ask you a direct question and you answer like that? Do you think I'm too stupid to know dissembling when I hear it?"

  "Of—of course not, Your Highness."

  This was exactly what Mother had always warned about, he realized: that the throne was an illusion of power only, the king nothing but an emissary for the Fatherlord. If they won't obey you, he'd overheard her say to Father once, you may as well bring the crown to Tal'aden.

  "I could hang you for treason for what you did today. Do you understand that?"

  Silence. The man was trembling now; Isaic could see it in his neck.

  "You did disobey me—in spirit, if not in deed. I saw the doubt in your eyes. I saw you look at her—at her, as if she were the one with final authority. You are a Crownwarden. You are part of the royal guard. I trust you daily with the lives and safety of everyone in this palace. You have no business feeling doubt.

  "I'm asking again, and this time you will answer. Why?"

  The man finally lifted his eyes, sick with misery. You know why, they begged. Please. You must know.

  Isaic ignored them. Finally, Timothy sputtered: "She's a holy woman."

  "And I am your ruler!" Isaic snapped. "You've sworn an oath to me—your family is fed by my coin!"

  "Yes, Your Highness, of course, but―" He stammered, the weight of that word—but—nearly too great for his tongue. "But . . . I've sworn oaths to the Church as well. There is no . . ."

  He trailed off, and Isaic left him to flounder in the silence. When he grew tired of waiting, he prodded him. "I said you will answer."

  "I can't lay a hand on a cleric any more than I can lay a hand on you, Your Highness. If I did, they would . . ." His mouth worked, his eyes desperate for empathy. "My family . . ."

  "You fear what the Church would do to you if you disobey them. Did you ever consider what I would do if you disobeyed me?"

  "Of course, but . . ." Wretchedly, he whispered: "You're just a man, in the end."

  If Isaic had less discipline, he might have assaulted him. "Get out," he commanded.

  As the man started bowing and scraping his way toward the door, though, Isaic found he wasn't finished. "Get out of my palace," he snarled. "Get out of my city. Get out of my kingdom. You are exiled." He heard himself spiraling into a dangerous
crescendo. "I will send men to your home in the morning, and if you're there when they arrive, they will execute you for treason!"

  Timothy nearly tripped into the doorframe in his haste. Obeying this time, aren't you? Isaic thought savagely. As he watched the ex-Crownwarden vanish around the corner, he felt Harad's eyes on his back. He turned to face his Preserver. "Do you have something to say?"

  Harad returned his impassive gaze to the door. "Never."

  Isaic sank back into his chair, his rage slowly dissipating. Would Mother have been proud of that? Or are you coming apart under the pressure before it's even begun? He had no way to know; his mother had been dead for years, and his time with her had been brief. Is that the kind of ruler you're going to be? Throwing around murder threats at the first hint of trouble?

  He stowed the questions and stood back up. Then, with finality, he strode to the door.

  What was done was done, and time was short.

  ii. Angelica

  Basica Majesta: a towering pillar of marble, studded in diamonds and bristling with sculptures of angels gilded in gold and silver. Clouds shrouded the sky today, and its beauty could still drive visitors to their knees and give pause to even the most jaded city resident. On clear days, when the sun reached its zenith, the tower's diamond arrays ignited and lined the temple in rainbows, transforming it to a celestial marvel.

  The sight of the place made Angelica ill.

  A beautiful mask, she thought as her bouncing carriage lurched to a halt in front of the broad entry steps. A devil's lair masquerading as heaven's gates.

  She had told herself she would never come back here, and for years now, she'd managed to keep that promise. But with his antics in the throne room this afternoon, Isaic had given her no choice. Word would get back, whether or not she was the one to deliver it—and if she wasn't, Shephatiah would assume the worst. He would begin to move against her.

  Assuming he hasn't already, she thought sourly. Isaic had betrayed her today, more deeply than he knew. That boy will be the death of me.

  "Mother?" Simon asked. He had opened her door and stood with arm outstretched, prepared to help her disembark. Now he prodded her: "Are you ready?"

  She had lost herself again, staring into the distance and trailing away. That happened more often now, along with the dark-of-night trips to the privy and the innumerable aches that no miracle could cure. Another reminder, as if she needed it, of all the summers behind her.

  "Of course." She took his hand, leaning hard on it as she set her weight on the carriage step.

  "Can I help you up the temple stairs?"

  She fought back a glare. By God, it wasn't as if she used a cane to get around. She could manage the temple stairs, thank you very much. "That won't be necessary."

  Her Preserver nodded and fell in behind her.

  In truth the marble stairs were so long that they were more like successive platforms than steps. That helped, but by the time she reached the massive double doors—burnished butterwood with golden handles as long as a man's arm, intricately carved with reliefs of the Church's ordination of the first King Gregor—she was wheezing, and she hated herself for it. He will suggest it's time I retire, she predicted ruefully, and he will probably be right.

  One of the doors stood open, and they passed through it into a towering vestibule, flanked at either end by a giant staircase—a feature common to the architecture of the era. High, narrow windows dotted the wall behind them, filtering blocks of dusty light onto a series of man-sized alcoves on the opposite wall. Each of these housed an intimidating statue of one of Majesta's Keepers over the centuries: Pilate, Graves, Shenerroch. They looked down with disdain as Angelica wondered what would happen if the temple's current Keeper were somehow deemed worthy, upon his death, of co-opting one of the coveted spots. They would either have to take two, she frowned, and merge them to make enough room, or build a statue so thin the real Shephatiah could have eaten it for breakfast.

  Beyond came the soaring chapel: a chamber that seemed to defy the dimensions set for it by the temple's outer wall, stretching endlessly toward the giant altar from which the Keeper gave his sermons. A massive God's Star of pure, shining gold seemed to float far above, supported by a sea of adoring silver-and-marble angels. The clericlight shining from the star lent the impression it was made of flames, but the illumination failed to reach the pews, which were left to languish in gloom.

  "Mother Angelica?"

  She had thought the chamber empty. Surprised, she glanced over to find a young woman with fraying blond hair paused in her work of scrubbing the pews. "Takra! My goodness." Shephatiah often employed the girl as a message-runner to the palace, and Angelica always found her a welcome sight. When Takra had been younger, Angelica had sneaked the child a treat now and then, something special from the palace kitchen. The girl was probably getting too old for that now, Angelica suddenly realized, but she dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper anyway. "If I'd have realized you were going to be here, I would've brought a honey cake."

  Takra blushed and rolled her eyes. "It's a'fin," she said. Then, hopefully: "Next time?"

  Angelica laughed. "Next time," she promised. Never too old for honey cakes, she thought. Suddenly she noticed how thin the girl had become; almost dangerously so. Maybe I'll bring her two. "Is Keeper Shef here?"

  Takra grew pensive; she cast a furtive glance to the far end of the chapel. "He really hates that name, Mother. I told you." The automatic wince, the flutter of fear in her eyes, triggered a realization for Angelica—something she had long suspected but never allowed herself to analyze.

  He is having her. A girl of seventeen.

  Just as he had me.

  Now and then her humanity would surge, threatening to burst the careful dams she had spent decades constructing. It happened now, without warning: a furious desire to pull the girl close and whisper in her ear to be strong, that she was not alone, that she would survive it. All the things no one had done for her.

  As always, she fought it.

  As always, she won.

  She slammed a wall down on the threatening tears and terrible memories, preventing either from reaching her face, and forced her lined face into a grimace of mocking concern. "Of course!" She mimed locking her lips with a key, feigning playfulness while yet another part of her died inside. "He's in the back, then?"

  Takra nodded, and Angelica turned—away from the girl's agony, and toward her own confrontation with the monster who inflicted it.

  A door behind the altar led to a broad hallway. The click of her footsteps vanished as she stepped onto its lush, plum-colored rugs. Normally these halls would be swarming with priests going about their business, but many had left for the Dedication in Tal'aden, leaving the hall empty—they wouldn't be back for months. Small consolation, she mused. Maybe Isaic will have his head on straight again by the time they return, and I may avoid getting transferred to Borkalis after all.

  Keeper Shephatiah's door, just down and to the left, stood closed. She could have taken a moment to brace herself, but she refused. She wanted this done with.

  She strode to the door and knocked. "Father, it's Angelica."

  "Enter." It was the same voice she remembered: nasally, slightly hoarse, as if the man could never quite manage a breath deep enough to fuel his words. She suppressed her reflexive shudder of revulsion and opened the door.

  She took in the Majesta Keeper's office at a glance: larger than most peasants' homes, the walls lined with tapestries, a few small, cluttered tables bearing the odd book, message, or dirty plate. The hallway's generous rugs continued into the room, lending it additional gravitas it hardly needed, and a corner-to-corner window of stained glass adorned the far wall which depicted the temple's first Keeper, Sheote Pilate. Shephatiah's desk crouched before this window, facing the door.

  Blesséd sehk. Look at him.

  Shephatiah had always been large, but he was massive now—a grotesque parody of the man he had been even a few
years ago. His chair was twice the size of any normal desk chair and he still barely fit in it, spilling over the armrests like a marshmallow jammed into a thimble. His smile was that of a gaping fish as she entered, black eyes like two tiny buttons, forehead shining with sweat.

  My God. The room stunk of him. Her gorge bucked, and she barely kept it down. That poor girl.

  "Sister Angelica," he breathed, putting her in her place at once. The Canon required women of the cloth, despite their relative ranks or ages, to refer to their male peers as Father, but men could always refer to women as Sister. It was strictly optional, and not all men did it. Only the ones like him. "It's so good to see you." He pressed his blob-like palms to the desk, snorting as he tried to push to his feet.

  "That's . . . all right." She waved him down, fighting to keep the disgust from her face. "You don't have to stand." He gave her a look of exaggerated appreciation and relaxed, putting an end to the macabre spectacle.

  "Too kind. Too kind." He sounds like a sick sloth, crawling into a cave to die. "How is your new post at the palace, now that your students are all grown up?"

  "Good." Small talk was the last thing she wanted right now. "Father, I have grim news. Benjamin Ashandiel's brought his grievance to the Prince Regent."

  "Ashandiel." Shephatiah's hairless eyebrows furrowed. He snorted a breath through his nose and sucked in another. "I feel I should know the name, but . . ."

  "He's an architect, from Twosides province. Abbot Tellah ordered his entire stretch of road be cleared to make room for a new temple after learning that Baltazar Godson once walked the land there." She circled her heart upon uttering the holy name of the first Fatherlord.

  "Ah yes, of course. I had heard of the new temple in Twosides." He spread his hands. "It's a holy matter, then. Tell the Prince Regent of the error, and have this—Benjamin?—brought here. We're short on clerics at the moment, most have gone to Tal'aden for the Dedication and Convocation, but I can render judgment easily enough."

  I am your senior, Bishop. I was not ordained this morning. If it had been that simple a matter, you really think I would have deigned to soil myself with your stink? "The Prince Regent knows, Father, but agreed to hear the case anyway. When I attempted to intervene, he ordered the Crownwardens―"