When Alexi nodded off in the middle of the argument, they woke him long enough to have him refresh the light and agreed to let him rest until the Bursar regained consciousness. The pain from Alexi’s swollen ankle and the intense mental effort required for working his heresies were taking their toll, and he was central to every option they could think of.
In the quiet they provided for Alexi, it wasn’t long before the Monsignor began to nod as well, but Alphonse showed no sign of fatigue. His eye never left their prisoner, and his hand never strayed far from his blade. The set of his jaw made it clear he had no intention of letting them down again, and when the Bursar finally stirred, it was the sound of Alphonse drawing his blade that gave warning.
“Alphonse, please,” the Monsignor said. “There’s no need for that.”
He lowered the blade but did not sheath it.
Brent sat up. “You’re still here?”
“We’d like to discuss your truce,” the Monsignor said.
“Where’s the journal?”
The Monsignor nodded to Dona. “Give it to him. It’s no use to you.”
She balked. “But you know some Tep’Chuan. You might be able to piece it together.”
The Monsignor shook his head. “For a truce to have any chance of working, it will require good faith on both sides.”
“That’s assuming it has any chance of working, period. This man held a sword to my back—”
“Which is precisely what makes returning the journal such an exemplary show of good faith.”
Dona turned to Alexi for support, but he simply stared at her expectantly, as though waiting for her to comply.
Fuming, she tossed the journal to the Bursar. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“There, now,” the Monsignor said. “I propose we accept Mr. Brent’s offer of cooperation. I think it’s obvious that we’ll all be better off if we can set aside our differences and work together toward the common goal of getting out of here alive.”
“Just a moment, Monsignor,” the Bursar said, peering over his glasses. “There are conditions.”
The Monsignor’s eyebrows raised. “There are?”
“First, you must all swear that you won’t breathe a word about the existence of this Ossarium to anyone.”
The Monsignor shifted uncomfortably. “Mr. Brent, I’m sure you can appreciate that as a representative of the Church, I—”
“Ever,” Brent said.
Dona eyed the Monsignor sidelong. “It would be an exemplary show of good faith to agree, don’t you think?”
The Monsignor sighed. “I asked for that, didn’t I? Very well, I agree.”
“Make it reciprocal,” Alexi said. “You can’t tell a soul about anything we did here either.”
The Bursar shrugged. “Your heresies, you mean? They don’t concern me, and so long as you stop using them on me, I’ll happily agree—but you may want to exact the same promise from your Monsignor friend while you still have the chance.”
“That’s between the Monsignor and me.”
The Bursar shrugged. “Suit yourself. Second, I get custody of the Morgatuan.”
The Monsignor hesitated.
“The Monsignor needs it to get around,” Dona said, “but if your help turns out to be essential for getting us out of this place, I think that would be a small price to pay. If not, we keep it.”
The Bursar stepped aside and gestured toward the side passage. “Fair enough. This way, then.”
“You first,” Alphonse said.
“Whatever you say.” The Bursar stepped into the darkness of the passage, with Alphonse on his heels.
Dona offered Alexi an arm for support. “He doesn’t waste any time, does he?”
The Monsignor steeled himself and followed Alphonse. “Let’s pray his enthusiasm stems from his shared desire to escape. I’d just as soon not contemplate the alternative.”
. . . . .
The two guards stationed at the rectory entrance bowed politely. “Good evening, Curator,” one of them said.
The Curator scowled. “Well this is new. When did His Primacy decide he needed round-the-clock surveillance?”
“Ordinal Laitrech’s orders. Rumor has it His Primacy is not well.”
“So I’ve heard. Be that as it may, I need to see him right away.”
“I’m sorry, Curator. No one can see his Primacy without Ordinal Laitrech’s say so.”
The Curator pushed forward. “I’m sure his Ordinence did not intend to bar access to His Primacy’s trusted advisors.”
The two guards stepped together to block the old man’s passage. “Our orders are clear—no one is allowed in without the express approval of His Ordinence.”
“And what if an Ordinal needed to see His Primacy?”
The guard shook his head. “We can’t let anyone in without approval, Ordinal or no. We’d have to turn away his own mother if she didn’t carry the right papers.”
“I see,” the Curator said.
“Nothing personal.”
“On the contrary. Loyalty is a virtue. I just hope it isn’t misplaced in this instance. No matter. It seems a little visit with His Ordinence is in order. I’ll be back.”
“I’m sorry.” The guard’s apology echoed down the hallway as the Curator stalked away, but no response echoed back.
. . . . .
As they progressed deeper into the Ossarium, the brick walls of the passage gave way to a natural cavern. The overwhelming scent of straw mold had lessened, but the air became clammy, and Dona rubbed her shoulders in a futile attempt to stay warm. The Bursar halted abruptly. An ancient brick archway loomed before them, built to conform to the natural walls of the cavern.
“There it is,” Brent said. He strode forward for a better look.
“Slow down,” the Monsignor warned. “The light is pointless if we don’t use it. There’s no telling what we’ll run into down here.”
“What’s the matter, Monsignor? Don’t you trust me?”
“I’d prefer to retain the option of continuing to trust you, if you don’t mind.”
The Bursar was too busy inspecting an inscription over the archway to answer. He scratched his head and consulted his journal several times as he puzzled over the Tep’Chuan symbols.
“What’s wrong?” Alexi asked.
“Probably nothing.”
“Probably?” Dona asked.
The Bursar drew himself up in indignation. “If you would prefer to do this, be my guest.”
“I’m sure she meant no disrespect,” the Monsignor said, “and I’m sure we would all like to know what has you so puzzled.”
“The inscription doesn’t match. It translates roughly: ‘…and where the faithless find perdition, the faithful shall find life anew.’”
“What’s it supposed to say?” Alexi asked.
The Bursar frowned. “According to the journal, it should say something to the effect of ‘…and the faithful shall abide in joyous repose.’”
“Are we in the right passage?” Dona asked.
The Bursar bristled. “The archway is here as described, and these are both common scriptural references. The journalist probably just misremembered the specific verse. It’s not like they would have had time to jot it down while they were fleeing.”
“I was merely asking.”
Alexi held up his blade to illuminate the space beyond the archway. “Where do we go from here, then? This looks like a dead end.”
The Bursar smiled. “For that, I’ll need the Morgatuan.”
“Not yet,” Dona said. “We had an agreement.”
The Bursar shrugged. “If our good Monsignor would prefer to handle this next part, I have no objections.”
The Monsignor placed his hand on Dona’s shoulder. “We must learn to trust.” He handed the Morgatuan to the Bursar.
Dona’s eyes narrowed, but she held her tongue.
The Bursar carefully read and reread several pages of the journal before he con
tinued. Then he turned one of the rings on the Morgatuan, and the flickering light in the eye sockets winked out.
“All right. Everyone stay close.” Starting at the arch, the Bursar paced his way into the darkness beyond, counting quietly. The others followed in a tight cluster, and though Dona didn’t trust a word the Bursar said, she was careful to follow directions.
The Bursar held up his hand. “Far enough.” Ahead, the passage ended in a natural cave wall.
“But this is a dead end,” Dona said.
“Observe,” the Bursar said. He held the Morgatuan aloft and clicked the errant ring back into position.
The eyes flickered back to life. A swirling burst of dust and debris buffeted them. Dona instinctively covered her face, but still ended up with a mouthful of grit. It took several seconds for the pressure to equalize.
Dona spat several times into her kerchief. “Was that really necessary?”
“See for yourself,” the Bursar said.
The floor before them had disappeared, revealing a stairway leading down into darkness.
“All that drama for a stairway?” Dona asked. Next time can we just approach it the normal way?”
“If you like,” the Bursar said. His enigmatic smile only annoyed her more.
Alexi tapped her on the shoulder. “Um, Dona…don’t step back.”
Mere inches from where her heels were planted, the floor had ceased to be. But instead of a stairway, there was only a pit, and even when Alexi held his blade over it, they still could see no bottom.
Dona gulped. Coloring only a little, she smiled sweetly and addressed the Bursar.
“Well, then, Mr. Brent. What did you say our next move was?”
. . . . .
Laitrech looked up from the stack of scrolls he’d pulled. He could have sworn he’d heard footsteps. Only rarely did any of the other Ordinals venture here, and certainly not at this late hour. There must be some emergency.
“Who’s there?”
The door to the Chapel Ordinalis creaked open.
“I’m sorry to bother Your Ordinence…”
“Albert? Is that you?”
The Curator stepped into the Chapel. “In the flesh.”
“What are you doing here? Who let you past the Bastion?”
“I just let myself in. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Don’t be absurd. Only an Ordinal can bypass the Bastion.”
“I don’t know what to tell you. As you can see, I am alone.”
“Impossible,” Laitrech said. Then he raised an eyebrow. “Unless…you didn’t, by chance, bring any Profanities with you?”
“As a matter of fact, I did.”
Laitrech smirked as he considered the potential implications. “Excellent. Bring it to me.”
“If you insist.”
“Which one is it? Do you have any records detailing its manufacture?”
“It’s a simple ring,” the Curator said, removing it from his finger. “I’m afraid we don’t know much about it.”
“Let me see.”
“As you wish.” The Curator pressed the ring into Laitrech’s outstretched palm.
Confusion spread across the Ordinal’s face. Then he stiffened and collapsed across the desk.
“As simple as that,” the Curator said. From his vestments, he produced an oddly shaped two-handled wand and touched it to the back of the Ordinal’s hand.
. . . . .
Without hesitation, the Bursar strode down the stairs and threw open the door. The warm glow of a lighted chamber spilled into the stairwell. The others followed, but tentatively, with Dona assisting Alexi, and the Monsignor leaning heavily against the wall for support.
The chamber’s peculiar walls soared to a vaulted ceiling and were honeycombed, top to bottom, with hundreds of alcoves, most of which were lit by a faint radiance. The combined effect rendered the light from Alexi’s blade unnecessary. In the chamber’s center, a stone structure—perhaps an altar—rested on a raised dais. Grinning skulls decorated its edges, and various unidentifiable implements and containers lay scattered across its surface. Two stone effigies flanked the altar, their impassive expressions giving no clue as to their identity or significance. Several stone sarcophagi occupied places of prominence, one of which lay open, its lid resting against its side.
Dona gaped in wonder. “What are all the lights?”
The Monsignor’s eyes flicked nervously about the chamber. “I believe they are called ‘vigil lights.’ Only the most wealthy or powerful Chervillians were accorded such honors. Am I correct, Mr. Brent?”
The Bursar, who was frantically flipping pages in his journal and shaking his head, ignored the question.
Dona was beginning to suspect he had overstated the journal’s value. “What is it this time?”
The Bursar continued to flip pages. “This isn’t right. There’s no mention of this place anywhere.”
“So we took the wrong passage after all?”
“No matter,” Alexi said. “Can’t we just backtrack and start again in a different passage?”
“We could—if a bottomless pit didn’t block our way.”
“Well, doesn’t the journal say anything about getting past the pit?”
“No. In the journal, they only went one way.”
Alexi frowned in thought. “Can we use something to span the pit?”
Dona put her fists on her hips. “Just how do you expect to hobble across a rickety makeshift bridge with that ankle? And what about the Monsignor? How do you expect him to get across?”
Alexi stared blankly for a moment, then shrugged. “I’m too tired to think straight.”
“And how much time do we have left on the light?”
“I don’t know. A few more minutes, maybe.”
“We can’t do this tonight. Alexi, you need to rest.”
The Monsignor shook his head. “I’m not so sure this is a good place for a rest. In theory, the most prominent will also be the best protected.”
“It’s also got light. Alexi is in pain and can barely keep his eyes open. Once that sword goes out, he’s not going to have the wherewithal to light it again, and I, for one, would rather face the rest of the night here where I can see, instead of someplace else in pitch darkness.”
The Monsignor eyed his surroundings uneasily. “Very well, let’s make ourselves as comfortable as we can here, then. Mr. Brent, if I might trouble you for my cane, please?”
Sullenly, the Bursar returned the scepter. “In this place, of all places, you would do well to keep your blasphemies to yourself, Monsignor.”
“I’ll keep an eye on him,” Alphonse said.
The Monsignor regarded Alphonse for a moment and nodded.
Dona and Alexi huddled together for warmth, and the Monsignor settled down nearby. The Bursar found a spot some distance away, while Alphonse, his sword still unsheathed, hunkered between him and the others. A few moments later, the light from Alexi’s sword finally winked out, leaving only the vigil lights and the flickering eyes of the Morgatuan to illumine their uneasy dreams.
. . . . .
The guard snapped to attention. “Good evening, Your Ordinence.” The second guard, who had been resting against the wall with his eyes closed, heard his partner’s greeting and jumped into position.
“Gentlemen,” Laitrech said with a nod. He hesitated, and when the guards did not react, he reached for the door. “Carry on,” he said. Then he stepped into the rectory and closed the door behind him.
The room was dark, except for the moonlight streaming through the high windows of the hall. Finally satisfied that nothing was amiss, he cracked open the door to the gardens. There was no sign of life, other than the rasping of crickets in denial that summer had left them. On the desk, he found a candlestick in a brass holder and set it alight. Careful not to douse the fragile flame, he climbed the steps to the room where his Primal lay in fitful slumber.
The Ordinal gazed at the Primal for a long moment, a tender sm
ile playing at the corners of his mouth. Then, he shook his head, as if clearing away the remnants of an unwelcome memory, and strode to the nightstand. He picked up a goblet and sniffed intently at its dregs. Puzzled, he rubbed the rim with his little finger and touched it to his tongue. He wrinkled his nose at the taste and placed the goblet back on the nightstand.
At last, he rolled up his vestments’ oversized sleeves, clutched the silver snake pendant on the cord around his neck, and began mouthing prayers. At one point, the Primal stirred and changed position, causing the Ordinal to freeze mid-stanza, but when the Primal showed no further sign of movement, the silent recitation continued. The prayers ended, and the Ordinal closed his eyes in silent meditation. Suddenly, he gasped. Outrage flared across his face. His eyes narrowed and his jaw set, his expression now one of grim determination.
“What is it my friend?” the Primal wheezed.
Laitrech started at the words but retained his composure. “How do you feel?”
The Primal’s smile was pained. “I’ve been better. I am always so tired now, and with so much still to be done. Has Armand returned?”
“Not yet.”
The Primal’s eyes welled. “I could have handled that better, couldn’t I?”
“I suppose so. Do you think you can walk?”
“The vertigo makes that difficult. Walk where? What time is it anyway?”
“It’s late, but I may have found a new treatment. There is no time to lose.”
“What kind of treatment?”
“There isn’t time to explain.”
“Why can’t you just bring it here?”
“If that were possible, don’t you think I would have?”
The Primal’s eyes widened. “Mind whom you address, Ordinal.” In a milder tone, he added. “Are you all right?”
“I’m sorry. I just don’t want us to be too late.”
“Very well. Help me up.” Once they had him sitting on the edge of the bed, he continued.” I’ll need my vestments.”
After a brief search, Laitrech located some hanging in an armoire.
A House of Cards Page 13
