The Priest's Assassin

by V. C. Willis

  “This is your fault.” I hid my grin under my arm, heart racing, body and urges satisfied. Perhaps Red Wine is right. This hunger is more in-tune with injuries after all.

  John scrambled to pull his pants on, disregarding fastening them to rush to pick up the fallen items. “I will need to bathe now before dinner. I feel like a whore.”

  “It was your idea to use the oil,” I countered, buttoning my shirt and putting myself back into order.

  “You’re the one who smuggled it into a church,” he scoffed, a twinkle in his eyes. “Don’t take too long. Bishop Montgomery is a short napper and will be serving dinner soon enough. Then afterward, come by my—”

  “No. You got what you wanted,” I mused as his face flushed. “Besides, we’re too loud to be in close quarters next to a monk’s room.”

  John twisted away, hiding his expression from me. I chuckled, reaching for Ashton’s diary. I suppose we both have a knack for goading one another’s emotions to a frustrating peak. And now, to see how this one ends. This page says he was heading here, and that means he had the diary on him the day he was ambushed. So, did Frank hide these before abandoning this place? Why not burn them?

  Chapter 30

  The Town Criers Have Spoken

  John snorted at me from where he read a book, feet propped on the table. I came out in full armor, something I had done on occasion to train. We had been stale and cooped up away from civilization for a few months by this point. To say I didn’t miss the burning of my muscles for training on a daily basis was an understatement. Little communication had reached us or even news of Bishop Montgomery visiting The Church. No signs of the Guild, no word of Fallen Arbor, and nothing from the Royal Guard and Valiente. The only news had reported that the search for the Princess was called off, notice of Falco’s death at last reaching this far, and the fall of the Berserk Brigade was creating a mixture of alarm and relief in many of the ranks of priests and monks who came down to gossip to Father Montgomery.

  “This again,” drawled John, flipping a page.

  “Yes, this again,” I scoffed. “Come on. Get off your ass and spar with me.”

  Puffing out his cheeks, he slid a falcon feather between the pages. “Do I have to dress up, too?”

  “Yes,” I demanded. “We don’t know when Fallen Arbor might decide to make a move.” I furrowed my brow as he stretched and yawned in annoyance. “And it’s not like I can spar Bishop Montgomery or the other priests, now can I?”

  John laughed, dropping the book on the table. “Fine. I’ll be nice and put on the full regalia … if,” he shot me a side glance and smirk, “you move tables out of the way, so we can have a real sparring session.”

  “Deal.” I winked, starting to shove the table with one hand between two shelves.

  By the time John came out chatting alongside Bishop Montgomery, I had moved several tables and shifted braziers to open the center of the library for us to train. It revealed a ring mosaic with the symbol of the Fates, something unheard of this far south and certainly in a Church that put the Divine Father above all else. Looking at it, it looked fitting as a fighting ring. John paused, grimacing to see it, adding to his disdain to train. With a sigh, he began rolling up his sleeves, cursing my name under his breath. Bishop Montgomery pulled up a chair, a twinkle in his eyes.

  “I must say, I didn’t realize how studious you are to keep in shape, Prince Ashton.” The old monk grinned wide. “And the idea Father John can even keep up! My word!”

  John scoffed. “I think Ashton intends to put me through my paces today. He’s been going easy for weeks, Bishop.”

  “Really?” he marveled with excitement. “I do enjoy watching. I once dreamed of being a knight, but alas, I had a higher calling.”

  “Come on, John.” I twirled the heavy wooden sword in my hand. “It’s only sparring sticks.”

  “No offense. You can break bones with your strength,” John jeered, circling the center of the space with me.

  “Must you always roll up your sleeves?” I teased, stepping forward to strike, and he blocked.

  “Sleeves are too stifling to do swordplay with,” John answered. “Must you fight with the claymore strapped to your back?”

  A few strikes exchanged between us before I pushed him out of the circle’s edge. “It’s to your advantage. A means of slowing me down.”

  John’s face flushed, and his lips twisted. He stepped back in with a swing and came at me with a flurry of stabs. I dodged and blocked until managing to drop down and swing out a leg. He leapt back, air huffing from his nostrils. Sliding forward, I gave a wide upswing. He aimed to block, and I jarred the sword from his hand, sending it skidding to Bishop Montgomery’s feet. The old man clapped his hands gleefully, and John gave him a sour expression.

  “Exactly whose side are you on?” John hissed.

  “It’s amazing how big and agile he can be!” Bishop Montgomery beamed.

  John twisted away from the bishop and locked eyes with me. “Oh, so very agile in and out of battle.”

  “Keep up with those compliments, and I might have to kiss you, Father John.” The red in his face rose, and he lipped his complaint for me to quit. “Exactly what are the parameters of being a priest? What shall thou not doeth?”

  John came at me, swinging hard and heavy. The knocking of the wooden blades cracked loudly through the library, and the skulls of the ossuary watched with wide gazes. Sweat trickled down John’s temple, yet I hadn’t even begun to feel exhaustion or the exertion of my blocks and swings. I let one swing smack my shoulder, twisting my arm to catch his wris,t and lurched him forward.

  “I’ve never thought to ask,” I added.

  John broke from me, biting his lip in contempt.

  “Well, Prince Ashton,” Bishop Montgomery cleared his throat, answering with a serious tone and glare, “a priest has many restrictions and expectations. First off, they either lead a church or congregation; if not, they are sent to work Salvation Road and the battlefields. They have sworn abstinence, to keep body and soul cleansed of temptations of the flesh. More so, they are to follow their bishop’s orders without question and protect the church and those who serve it with their lives. Even though they may carry a sword for protection, they are not to give a killing blow. Ever.”

  My heart skipped a beat, frowning as John jerked out of my grip. Rage-filled swings jarred the wood in my grip, and I tensed. The look in those blue eyes were filled with worry and anger. He would have never answered me on this. We both knew he had sinned when he…

  “As far as their promise to fight back the Madness,” Bishop Montgomery continued as our blows clacked like thunder, “they promise to never allow a bloodeater to feed on them, to never support making new ones, and more importantly, never to serve The House.”

  I broke my gaze to meet Bishop Montgomery’s expression. John’s wooden blade hit across my knuckles, and the sword fell to the floor. John gripped the front of my armor, but I didn’t budge. He whispered pleas, but I ignored his words as I pulled the truth from the bishop.

  “But I am of the House,” I pressed, seeing the dangerous look in the old man’s eyes.

  “Yes, but you aim to bring this to an end, so you cause much conflict among the clergymen. We are divided on you and your brother as of late. You are of the House, but you follow a path to end the Madness like ourselves.” A grim expression filled his face.

  “And the crime for breaking any of these rules of faith?” I demanded.

  “Death,” the bishop answered.

  John landed a punch across my cheek, his own wooden blade bouncing onto the floor at our feet. Gripping the front of his coat, I twisted and pinned him against the shelves behind me. Both our hearts were racing. You fool! What have you done?

  “Don’t say it,” he hissed, veins pulsing at his temple with rage.

  “You fucking broke eve
ry damn rule they gave you, John.” I hissed too low for the words to reach the bishop.

  “I did it for you,” he murmured, his rage slipping into despair.

  Footsteps echoed from the hallway, and I broke away. Bishop Montgomery rose to his feet, and Knight Valiente pushed through the gate. He paused, eyes bouncing between John and me, a deep scowl across his face. Looking over his shoulder, he dismissed the priest and knight who had followed him and shut the gate.

  “What is the purpose of this?” The alarm in the bishop’s voice made my stomach twist.

  “Easy, Bishop.” Valiente came closer, motioning for us to calm down. “Bishop Marquis has the whole city in an uproar this morning. I’m here to help.”

  “I despise that man.” Crossing my arms, I arched a brow at Valiente. “But that doesn’t explain why you bulldozed your way into the library against code and tradition.”

  “You’re right.” Valiente rubbed the back of his neck, shooting a glance at Bishop Montgomery. “I’m here to take you into custody. You’re being called before the King’s council to question you on Father John’s character and whereabouts.”

  Bishop Montgomery guffawed. “You can’t be serious!”

  “I am, Bishop. It was either the Royal Guard or those ruffians he claims serves the King.” Valiente locked his eyes on John. “Marquis claims to have evidence that not only did you deliver the killing blow to Viceroy Falco, but you worked as an assassin on behalf of the House, therefore breaking your priestly vows.”

  “What evidence do you think he has?” I demanded.

  “No idea. Sonja and I have been fighting against conspirators since we got back within the castle walls. Without the Guild’s help, she and I would be dead from the three assassination attempts. I think it’s been a way to keep us off his heels long enough to get news to the town criers this morning to put a search out on John. Fallen Arbor is trying to draw Dante and Ashton to the surface according to my resources. So, the criers are all informing the people of Father John’s crimes and the bounty on his head along with both blood princes.”

  “He can’t do this!” riled Bishop Montgomery, throwing out his arms. “Father John has done so much for this church! How could Marquis turn on you before even confronting you on these accusations? He was your sponsor and responsible for you ascending to your title!”

  “Because he’s already tried to kill me more than once.” John’s words made us all shuffle uncomfortably. “He conspired with Falco to deliver priests to Glensdale to satisfy his perversion for eating them and then, there’s the other matter, isn’t there?”

  Valiente turned to Bishop Montgomery, his tone deep and stern. “Indeed. Forgive me for questioning you, Bishop, but aren’t you the one in charge of guarding the Iron of the Saints?”

  Bishop Montgomery shot us a baffled expression. “I am too low of rank. That honor goes to the Headmaster of the Church, Hamilton. Why?”

  John began to shuffle off his coat, scowling. “Would you recognize its mark if you saw it on the flesh?”

  “Of course, I would.” The old monk began to tremble, fear rising in his whole being. “Now that I think on it, no one has spoken or seen Hamilton besides Marquis…”

  “Exactly. Neither Sonja or I nor the Guild have been able to reach him for months,” Valiente added, glancing back to the entrance to make sure no prying eyes peeked over the threshold. “Do this in the shelves, John. If it becomes public knowledge, it may work in his favor.”

  “Yes, please do.” I grabbed his coat and shoved John between the shelves, up against the table. “Hurry, chainmail and shirt too.”

  “What is the meaning of this?” Bishop Montgomery followed, leaning on a shelf as his balance wavered under the weight of his distress. “Why do you need me to check now?”

  “I didn’t realize it until Princess Sonja saw it.” John gave a broken-hearted expression. “Didn’t think to question Bishop Marquis or ask you for more detailed information on the iron cross used in the Rite of Priesthood that I would bear.”

  “Child, why would you need to question your bishop?” He gaped.

  John pulled the shirt off and spun, leaning against the table. The horror filling Montgomery’s face only made my own guilt rise in not realizing Marquis would be so bold to go so far. He stumbled forward, muttering prayers under his breath. Bony fingers traced the scar, the branding a magnificent pearly white and raised lines cut through the tanned skin of his back. It was both breathtakingly gorgeous and harrowing. After taking it all in, Montgomery gripped John’s shoulders and rested his head at the cross-section of the flourished symbol.

  “I am so sorry, Father John,” he uttered at last. “This mark was never intended to be worn by the living.”

  “So I’ve been told.” John inhaled deeply, holding in the rage written in his eyes.

  “The fact it does not stray shows the amount of resolve you have for the path you’ve chosen, child.” Tears were falling down the cracks of the old man’s cheeks. “Pack your things. You cannot be found, or surely Marquis will use this against you. I will dare to add fuel to this fire with these next words and pray to the Fates that they bless you on the path you have been given in life.” Sniffling, he stepped back so John could turn and face him. “A saint does not have to follow the path of a priest nor adhere to the vows. You are only ordained as a priest with the proper mark upon your back. May this give you the freedom to protect yourself when the Church has at last failed to protect their own. Marquis has broken his vows with these acts, and I will do what I can to turn the tide and make them question his rash moves to take action to kill another priest and place a bounty on his fellow clergymen.”

  Blinking, some glimmer of hope hit me from his words. “In short, John didn’t break his vows because Marquis didn’t make him a priest.”

  “If you don’t mind, I will relay that information.” Valiente seemed to feel the weight lifted from me and gave a slight smirk and huff. “But I’ll buy you time. You think you can slip out of the cathedral through the catacombs?”

  “I don’t know if I could navigate the catacombs. John, do you think we can slip through the church instead?” Turning, I saw he was pulling his chainmail vest and clothes back on.

  “Yes, I think we may be able to slip past not long after Valiente takes Montgomery. They can serve as a distraction.” Slipping on his coat, he turned to the table. “But what of the books? With Bishop Montgomery gone, no one will be here to guard the library, and I can’t help but feel this is intentional.”

  “By the Fates,” gasped Montgomery. “You are right. Last time this happened, Prince Ashton, you were…”

  “Burn them,” I answered, looking through the stacks. “We’ll take the important ones, but the rest … burn them.”

  “Dante, you—!” John covered his mouth, my name slipping from his lips.

  Silence fell over everyone, and I scowled. “John…” Unwilling to meet the old monk’s gaze, I paid no heed to my name. “I’m serious. Grab the ones on soul weapons, but the rest are about a past that holds no weight on the present or future. We’ve read them all at least twice or more between the two of us. They can’t help us anymore, but they may provide fuel for Fallen Arbor.” Grabbing a few of my father’s journals, I tossed them into the brazier. “Most of these are my own father’s mutterings and would only support the evidence that you or even Montgomery conspired with the House. I think this might be his aim. Fallen Arbor must know what they abandoned in here, and they intend to utilize it.”

  “Grab your things—” Valiente’s words were cut short as Bishop Montgomery gripped my arm, eyes wide with wonder.

  “You look so much like him,” he whispered, but I still couldn’t bear to look at the broken expression wrecking his face. “But you took pity on me, didn’t you, Prince Dante?”

  Swallowing, I spoke with sincerity, “I did. You’ve carried your guilt
for too long. Thank you for your help, Bishop. You’ve been kind to me these few months despite it all.”

  He let go and stood a little taller. “Thank you, Prince Dante. You never shied away from conversation and lent a hand without ever being asked. It’s hard to imagine you are royalty with such a drive for demanding work.”

  I met his face, the resolve in his expression making my chest ache. “You and my brother sacrificed much. It’s a faith in oneself, and may the Fates bless you.”

  “I don’t need their blessings. My failure was your brother, but now I have a chance to do right by you,” he offered, drawing his hand from shoulder to shoulder and bowing as his hand opened in the center, palm up in a Hail of the Fates.

  Snorting, I turned away and shoved two of Ashton’s journals into my coat. “Let’s hope we live to see it through.” John grabbed one of Saint Raphael’s journals, aiming to toss it in the brazier, but I caught his wrist. “Keep those. It may prove helpful. That and the other one from the noble who was blood related. Call it an instinctual notion. Seeing that we have complicated things involving the Saint’s Mark, this may provide a link to you like we spoke on before.”

  “I don’t like this plan of yours. Besides, that’s a lot of books to add to the weight of gear,” John grumbled, dividing the stack. “These are the three that have useful information. The other ten or so here are just accountings and recollections of affairs on the property that no longer stands and align only with your father’s own ramblings.”

  “Fine, the three stay, the rest to the fire, which then leaves…” I grabbed up the three and shoved them in my satchel, “how many in the Old Tongue?”