Tilly eyed Jonas disapprovingly where he lay snoring against the stack of pillows. “It depends on the day. But for the time being at least, it seems we have no other choice.”
Chapter Eight
Poetic Justice
Verone peered over the artist’s shoulder. “I’m shocked the oils aren’t rock solid at this temperature.”
The hills of the Artists’ Colony provided many splendid vistas of the river below, and Verone’s brother Thad had staked out a spot that afforded a stunning view of a particularly gorgeous fall-scape.
“Verone—I didn’t see you there.”
“That, I assumed after the first ten minutes.”
“You’ve been standing here for ten minutes?”
“Of course not—just checking to see if you were still as gullible as you used to be.”
“It’s what makes me so insufferably cute. Even you can’t resist plying me with offerings. Now, what did you bring me?”
She held up a woven basket. “Lunch. Do you have time to eat, or will your light change too much?”
“Do I look like I can afford to worry about the light?”
She smoothed his tattered, paint-stained smock. “I’d like to be able to say you look like you can afford something, but that’s about the only thing I can think of.”
“I’d love to exchange ‘cheap’ shots with you all day, but I smell baked apples. As much as I love taking verbal abuse, I love baked apples even more—nothing personal.”
“Apple pie, to be precise. I stopped by the Church on my way here. I also brought some sandwiches and a bottle of wine, just in case the pie isn’t quite filling enough.”
Down the hill they found a bench, and Verone threw a towel over it. Next, she arranged place settings and brought out the sandwiches. Finally, she set out the pie and poured two glasses of wine, offering him one.
“You spoil me.”
“I know.”
“But only when you want something. So, tell me—if I accept the bribe, what have I agreed to?”
“‘Bribe’ is such a nasty word. I prefer ‘incentive.’ Now, should I pretend you aren’t going to eat half the pie at once and cut it into wedges, or just draw the knife across the middle and call it good?”
“Just draw the knife across it. We should keep it as sharp as possible. I’ll probably need it for putting myself out of my misery, when, in a moment of confectionary weakness, I end up taking whatever deal you’re offering.”
“Stop being so suspicious—this one’s right up your alley. You’ll probably even enjoy it.”
“If that were true, I wouldn’t need the bribe.”
“Oh, good point.” She reached for the pie.
“All right. Whatever it is, I accept.”
“You always were a hard sell, but this time you got a good deal—I just want your interpretation of a little bit of prophecy.”
“Prophecy? I didn’t think you went in for that stuff.”
“I don’t, but a self-styled seer gave this to me specifically. I found the document wholly inscrutable, but if there’s any chance he touched on something important, I’d hate to miss out. Here—let’s see if you actually learned anything useful in all those poetry classes.” She handed him a piece of folded parchment.
He opened it and read aloud:
The echoes of her empty heart grow still,
The phoenix embers die a final time.
The cold resolve that’s left cannot fulfill
The soul that longs to bask in love sublime
Strategically she plucks the skeins of fate
Defiant rage begets a cunning mind
So focused on the just it’s just innate
Reflecting back what she was dealt in kind
The seeds of discontent take root and grow
Though twisted things of thorns and bile unfold
Their magic lies in that which none yet know
Their flower is a wonder to behold
When healing blooms and embers re-ignite
Remember fondly he who claimed the sight.
“Hmm, interesting.”
Verone leaned forward. “Yes? Is there something I missed?”
“Just who is this seer, anyway?”
“Someone I met doing charity work. Why?”
“Charity work? Since when do you do charity work?”
“Don’t sound so shocked. I was helping Mum’s church group.”
“So, what made you think there might be predictions in this?”
“Not much, really, just little things he said.”
“Like what?”
“Like warning me to be careful of all the Inquisitors right before a whole bunch of them showed up.”
“You mean at the University? What were you doing up there?”
“I told you—charity work. We were searching for the seer’s missing niece.”
“If he’s really a seer, what did he need you for?”
“Well, he wasn’t really the one looking. We were there helping the girl’s mother.”
“While he stood by and watched with that ‘knowing’ look in his eye?”
“That’s the interesting part. He maintained all along that she wasn’t really lost, which turned out to be true.”
“But he didn’t deign to tell you where she was?”
“Look, are you going to tell me if there’s anything in there, or not?”
“Oh, there’s clearly something here, but it’s probably not what you expect.”
“If you ever want to see this pie again, now would be a good time.”
“All right, all right. It has a rhyme scheme of abab cdcd efef gg, and the meter is iambic pentameter.”
“What does that tell you?”
“That this prophecy is not so much a prophecy as a sonnet, and it looks like he’s pegged you pretty well. If I didn’t know better, I’d say our seer has fallen for you.”
“What?” She ripped the parchment from her brother’s hands. She scanned the document again, mouthing the words as she went. Finally, she crumpled the parchment into a ball and tossed it over her shoulder. “You’ve got to be kidding me. What a waste of pie.”
“You got one thing right, though. I really did enjoy that.”
“Oh, knock it off.”
“If I write you a sestina, will you bring me a trifle? Or maybe a limerick for a cookie?”
“Don’t you have a painting to finish?”
“I might. If only I had the proper—what’s that word again? Oh, yes—incentive.”
Verone glared.
He waved his finger at her sandwich. “Speaking of which, are you going to eat that?”
“Take it—and go.”
He gathered up the rest of the pie and both sandwiches, but it got to be quite a lot to carry. “Are you going to need that basket?”
Her eyes narrowed.
“Never mind, I can manage.”
He trudged back up the hill toward his easel. At the top, he turned to look back. “Thanks again for lunch. Oh, and give my fond regards to your boyfriend, assuming, of course, he doesn’t already know.”
She lingered on the bench, alternately sipping her wine and shaking her head, until her glass was empty. Then she shot a glance up the hill. Satisfied her brother was truly gone, she approached the crumpled parchment where it lay on the grass. She stared at it for a long time before finally picking it up. Returning to the bench, she smoothed the parchment on the towel, pressing out the wrinkles as best she could. When she had read through it one more time, she folded it and slipped it back into her leather case. Then, she gathered her things and headed toward the bridge back to Trifienne.
. . . . .
Even with all the desks pushed against the wall, the classroom was cramped and ancient. The rough-hewn stone of the walls radiated a chill that would have made Dona shiver under the best of circumstances. Next to her, Alexi rubbed his swollen ankle. Dona was sure his trek from the gate had been agonizing, but he had protested little. O
f course, the crossbows had provided ample discouragement. Unfortunately, some Inquisitors’ faith seemed to have survived the test of Tilly’s plague. Two of them had held fast in their determination to bring her to justice, even as many of their brethren slipped quietly out through the fallen gates.
The man seated next to Dona couldn’t seem to stop staring, though he looked away every time she caught him at it. Finally, she could stand it no longer. “Can I help you?”
“I’m sorry Sister, I couldn’t help wondering what threat the Inquisition might think one such as you would pose. Did they arrest all your patients as well, or just this one?”
“Believe me,” Dona said. “They’re trying all my patience.”
The man looked horrified until he caught the joke—then he chuckled nervously. “You’re like no Sister of Solace I’ve ever met.”
“You’ve got that right.”
“I’m Professor Garamon. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He extended his hand, but the movement dislodged his cane, which had been resting against his chair. He dove from his seat to catch it.
“Are you all right?”
“Fine, fine,” he said, brushing himself off. “How clumsy of me.”
“That’s one elaborate walking stick.”
Garamon eyed the door as he returned the cane to its spot against his chair. “Yes, I suppose it is. Gaudy old thing, really. I probably should get a new one.”
Dona took a closer look. “Actually, it’s fascinating.” The bottom of the cane had a metal tip, perhaps gold or polished brass. The wood was dark and very smooth, suggestive of lacquered ebony. Along half its length were a series of rings crafted from the same metal as the tip, graven with symbols. The top of the cane was covered with a makeshift leather pouch, presumably for a more comfortable grip.
“What do the symbols mean?”
“I don’t know. Decoration, perhaps. What did you say you were in for?”
“I didn’t, and I’m not really sure.”
“As I understand it, they are rounding up everyone at the University for questioning. Those who are considered high risk end up here.”
“Why are you here, then?”
“The same reason as many of the others—I’m a Hathaway scholar, and this mess apparently started over in the Hathaway compound.”
The door flew open, and two Inquisitors shoved another man into the room. He stumbled and fell heavily to the floor. The Inquisitors slammed the door behind him. Dona rose from her seat to help him, but Garamon caught her arm.
“Careful, Sister. Sharing his burdens may earn you complicity for his sins.”
Dona shook off his grip. “If helping people is a sin, I’m already guilty.” She bent to help the man up and was shocked to find herself staring into the kindly eyes of the Monsignor. He was dressed as a professor, and his head was shaved, but there was no mistaking him. He smiled in recognition, but gave a warning look and a subtle shake of his head when she started to speak.
“Thank you, Sister,” he said.
“You’re welcome, sir. Are you hurt?”
“I’m all right.”
“Have a seat over by us. There’s plenty of room.”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
The wait was awkward. The Monsignor didn’t volunteer anything further, and she didn’t know what she could safely ask. When Alexi finally recognized him, his eyebrows raised quizzically, but she could only shrug in return. Assuming the Monsignor must be a Hathaway Professor, but puzzled that he didn’t recognize him, Garamon tried to engage him in conversation. After the Monsignor politely evaded his efforts several times, he gave up, and the room fell silent.
The door opened again, admitting three Inquisitors. Two younger ones remained by the door, but the older one took a step into the room. He pointed at one of the other prisoners.
“You,” he said. “Come with us.”
The man strode over to the Inquisitors. “It’s about time. I thought you’d never get around to clearing this up.”
One of the younger Inquisitors cuffed the man on the side of the head. “Show respect.” The prisoner’s eyes widened in righteous indignation, but the young Inquisitor’s hand strayed to his sword, and the man blanched.
“My apologies, Inquisitor,” he said, as they escorted him out.
The Monsignor cringed but remained silent.
When the door finally slammed shut, another of the prisoners stood and faced the rest. “You saw how they treated him. Are we all going to just sit here and let them take us one by one?”
“Sit down,” another said. “They’ll hear you.”
“I know they aren’t likely to punish the whole University, but we have to face facts—they’ve designated us high-risk for a reason. Do you really think they’ll just confirm we are innocent and send us on our way?”
“Shut up,” another prisoner hissed. “You’ll get us all killed.”
“Don’t you see? You’re as good as dead anyway. We need to band together. Fight our way out. It’s our only chance.”
The door burst open, and the two young Inquisitors stepped inside. One of them pointed to the vocal prisoner, who swallowed hard and pointed to himself. The Inquisitor smiled crookedly and nodded.
The prisoner turned to the rest of the prisoners, his eyes pleading, but no one moved a muscle.
At last, the Monsignor struggled to his feet. “Perhaps I could go next, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble?”
The Inquisitor drew his blade. “Sit down, old man.”
The Monsignor gulped and sank into his chair.
The prisoner shot his fellows a final forlorn look as the Inquisitors led him away. “Fools,” he breathed. Then he was gone.
The room’s silence became deafening. At one point a prisoner began tapping his foot but stopped immediately when he realized everyone was staring at him.
The door opened again. This time, the three Inquisitors entered. The eldest pointed to Professor Garamon.
Garamon got to his feet. “It was nice meeting you, Sister.”
Despite the perspiration on his forehead and the trembling in his hands, he put on a brave face. With head held high, he approached the Inquisitors. “Thank you for taking time to speak with me.”
The elder Inquisitor inclined his head to indicate that Garamon should go first, and the three Inquisitors followed.
He’d been gone perhaps three minutes when Dona noticed Garamon’s cane was still leaning against his empty chair. She considered running after him to return it, but then had a better idea—she passed it to the Monsignor, who eyed it in surprise.
“Might this be of use?”
“That’s very kind of you, but I think your friend may need it more.”
“What he needs is a crutch, and this is not that. Ideally, we should get him home and give him a chance to heal, but in the meantime, he can lean on me.”
Silence fell, then grew oppressive. Dona felt herself sweat despite the chill as she dwelt on the fates of those whom the Inquisitors had chosen before her. The twisted landscape of her fears echoed with their agonies. The haunted visage of the prisoner who had urged them to fight tormented her. Her heart pounded. The line between reality and imagination seemed to blur until she was half convinced she could actually hear their cries.
Alexi stirred. “Do you hear that?”
“I do,” the Monsignor said. He hobbled to one of the shuttered windows and listened intently. “And I don’t like the sound of it.”
“What is it? What’s happening?”
The Monsignor’s jaw tightened. “The fools running this Inquisition have gone and caused a riot. The mess they’ve already created will take years to clean up. If they overreact now, the damage could be irreparable.”
The shouting grew louder, punctuated by the occasional crashing of breaking glass. The other prisoners held steadfastly to their seats, though they stole nervous glances toward the shutters.
“It’s getting closer,” Dona said.
; A crash rattled the shutters near the Monsignor, splintering one of the slats. “It would seem they’re here,” he said.
“What do we do?” Alexi asked.
“What can we do? Our hosts—”
The door burst open. Both Dona and Alexi jumped. Even the Monsignor looked startled.
“Alexi? Are you in here?”
“Alphonse? I’m here.”
Alphonse poked his head in. “Oh, there you are. Well, what are you waiting for?”
“What happened to the Inquisitors?”
Alphonse shrugged. “They‘re otherwise occupied. Are you coming, or would you prefer I rescue someone else?”
“I’ll be right there.”
Dona supported Alexi as he limped toward Alphonse. While a few other prisoners took advantage of the opportunity to slip out, most stayed put, torn between the promise of freedom and the potential for a harsher fate if caught.
“Am I ever glad to see you,” Dona said.
Alphonse bowed. “Always a pleasure, my lady.”
The four of them fled down the hallway as fast as Alexi’s injury and the Monsignor’s infirmity would permit. Even so, they were only halfway to the exit when behind them they heard the hiss of drawn steel.
“Hold it right there.” The two younger Inquisitors had returned.
“We can’t outrun them,” Dona said.
Drawing his own blade, Alphonse turned to face the Inquisitors. “Oh, yes you can. Go. Now.”
“You can’t take two at once,” Alexi cried.
“Alas, no. The hallway is too narrow. I shall have to best them one at a time.” He saluted the closest Inquisitor with his blade. “I trust your prayers are up to date?”
“You wouldn’t dare,” the Inquisitor said. “It’s sacrilege to strike the clergy.”
Alphonse advanced a step. “I hope you didn’t skip any fencing classes relying on that nonsense.”
The Inquisitor seemed suddenly less certain. “Drop the weapon.”
Alphonse advanced again. “But I’m not done with it yet.”
The Inquisitor took a step back. “I’m warning you. Drop it.”
“If you insist.” He lowered the tip of his blade until it touched the floor, leaving himself wide open for an attack.
Dona paled. “Alphonse, no!”
A House of Cards Page 9
