by Bobby Adair
The gust died down and Oliver and Beck stared. The trio wasn't more than a hundred yards away. The smallest of the three got up off the ground. Her hood had blown off, sending her long hair flying in the wind.
"Definitely a girl," said Oliver. "Men don't wear their hair that long."
Beck didn't respond. He stared as if stunned.
"What?" asked Oliver, looking harder at the three.
"The tall one," said Beck, "I think that's Ivory, Muldoon's son."
"You know him?" Oliver asked. "From the army?"
"No," said Beck. "He didn't go out with the army. I'm sure that's him."
"Is he your friend?" Oliver asked. "Or—"
"Yes, he's a friend," said Beck, standing up and leaning out the window. He hollered, "Over here!"
Chapter 63: Franklin
Franklin drank his full cup of water and set the empty cup on the table with a thunk. He stammered through a handful of syllables before he managed to put together an intelligible word. "Forgiveness?"
Tenbrook turned to face the fire, some of his confidence seeming to drain away. "This woman, Fitzgerald, the girl you keep in the Temple, you two are lovers?"
Franklin's guard was back up, and he was ready to fight. "Why do you ask?"
"Oh," said Tenbrook, raising his palms, "I don't mean to offend. Many men and women enter into relationships prior to marriage. I don't judge. I simply mention your relationship because it is the reason my betrayal exists."
Franklin was confused again.
"I apologize," said Tenbrook, "but I fear I have bedded your woman."
Franklin shook his head. He knew better than anyone what Fitz had to do when she was in The House of Barren Women. He'd accepted it long ago. That knowledge sparked an anger in him that he kept to himself because he knew what she'd done wasn't her choice. It was Brighton's policy to make her do those things. Everyone had unpleasant duties. That was the way of life. But now she was his, and his alone. He loved her, and she loved him. Her past at The House of Barren Women—and especially her past as Father Winthrop's plaything—was not important.
Tenbrook gently patted the antique table. "I had her right here the first time. Then upstairs in the general's bed. She even stayed with me in the house for a time. I'm sorry, I didn't know that you two were lovers then."
"You're lying." It was an instinctual reaction. Tenbrook had to be lying. There was no other explanation. At the same time, Fitz had disappeared for those days before Franklin had been forced to burn Father Nelson, and before the cavalry and the militia had marched out of Brighton. She'd never said where she'd been. And she'd grown angry when Franklin had pushed her for an answer.
In the end, he'd found out nothing.
In truth, he was still suspicious.
"I do not lie, I'm afraid to say." Tenbrook caressed the wooden table with his fingers, as if touching a woman's skin. "If you choose not to believe it, I'll respect that. I only bring it up so that the issue does not arise later and cause a rift between Brighton's two remaining ministers." Tenbrook heaved a pained sigh that seemed fake. "And I seek your forgiveness."
Franklin watched Tenbrook's fingers slide gently across the fine wood, and he thought of the times in the dark when he'd run his fingers down the curve of Fitzgerald's hip.
"I do not wish to," Tenbrook started and then swallowed, as if nervous, "but if you require me to verify my story, as it's obvious that you don't believe me, I can provide details such as the placement of a mole or a freckle in an intimate place. I have an eye for such details, and I have an impeccable memory. Shall I tell you what I remember?"
Franklin shook his head. Fitz did have a mole—more than one, actually, but at least one that only a lover would see.
If what Tenbrook was saying was true, then it had happened not when Fitz was a Barren Woman, but after she'd whispered her promises to him.
"I must also say that I am envious. You are a lucky man to have such a woman to share your bed. Though I ask your forgiveness once again, I do ask you to accept the compliment, as well."
How could Fitz be in love if she was spending days and nights in Tenbrook's bed? And right there on the table, where anybody, a guard, a maid, General Blackthorn himself could have walked in and seen what had happened?
What if a maid had seen them? The rumor of the tryst would be all over Brighton by now.
Women gossip.
They'd all seen how close Franklin and Fitz were. They all knew the trust that Franklin placed in Fitz, if they hadn't already guessed at the relationship. But they all knew that she'd been Tenbrook's lover, as well. They all knew she'd been a whore in The House of Barren Women, and they'd all known that, as often as she insisted to Franklin that it was only duty that she performed there, she must have liked it; either that, or her ambitions were not to love Franklin, but to use her feminine ways to manipulate him, to make a powerful place for herself in the aftermath of the change in leadership.
Franklin didn't want to believe it, but he couldn't help accepting the truth. Fitz didn't love him. She'd been using him all along, because she was a whore.
Chapter 64: Fitzgerald
After waking up and finding Franklin gone, Fitz spent most of the morning worrying and searching for him. She asked each of the clergymen she came across. She asked Joseph. No one seemed to have any idea where he was. She searched the streets closest to the Sanctuary, braving the rain, thinking he'd taken a walk and neglected to tell her. She even searched Winthrop's old room, thinking he might be looking for some more reference books. All of her efforts proved fruitless.
She was almost in tears when she finally stumbled on Franklin by accident in the Sanctuary, sitting alone in the pews on the fourth row, staring at the stage. He must've arrived when she was searching somewhere else. Franklin's hands were folded in front of him. He sat quiet and despondent.
"Franklin! Where did you go? I thought the soldiers took you!"
Franklin didn't answer. She walked over to the pew and kissed him, but he didn't respond.
"Franklin!" she said again.
He turned, a vacant look in his eyes.
"I was looking all over for you," she said, distraught even though she'd found him.
Finally, he said, "I met with Tenbrook."
"With Tenbrook? Why didn't you tell me?" Fitz's pulse climbed as she looked him over. She was certain she'd find some injury or wound. After running her hands over Franklin's face, arms, and back, she was relieved to find no bumps or blood. Franklin sat in the same position she'd found him in, neither talking nor elaborating.
"What happened? What did he say?"
"Nothing of consequence."
"What does that mean?"
"It was all pointless small talk. Most of my time was spent waiting for Tenbrook to come into the room."
"When did he call you in?"
"Early this morning," was all Franklin said.
"Why didn't you tell someone? Why didn't you tell me?"
Fitz watched Franklin, but he didn't offer anything further. The effect of Tenbrook's games was written on his face. Tenbrook had probably called the meeting and made Franklin wait on purpose, hoping to cement his authority. Fitz was just thankful he hadn't been hurt, or killed. Things could have been much worse.
"I'm just glad you're alive, Franklin. I was so worried."
Franklin said nothing. He didn't respond or look at her. She'd seen Franklin in similar moods before, when Winthrop had forced him into some pointless punishment, or made him feel inferior in front of the other novices or the clergymen. Fitz wanted to be angry, but she knew that an argument wouldn't be good for either of them.
"I know how that meeting must've made you feel, Franklin. But things are better than they seem. We feared much worse would happen. The fact that you're alive means we can continue our plan. It means there's hope that we can keep safe."
She paused for an answer. When it was clear she wasn't getting one, she kissed Franklin on the forehead and decided to lea
ve him alone with his thoughts. Studious men like Franklin often needed time to think.
**
During her walk to the market, Fitz turned Tenbrook's motives over and over in her mind. The rain had let up, but gray clouds still covered the sky.
Tenbrook had to be plotting. He always was.
She was certain that this morning's meeting was a petty demonstration of power over Franklin. It was part of a bigger plan. And given that Tenbrook hadn't put Franklin on the pyre or done away with him covertly meant that to a small but significant degree, he respected the power that Franklin had, which had only come from his sermons. The People responded to Franklin. Everybody who heard Franklin speak and saw the way the crowd fell in love with his voice and his words knew that.
If others saw it, then Fitz was sure that Tenbrook saw it, too. He may have even feared it.
Fitz decided she'd give Franklin his space for a day or two if needed. He was a sweet and bright boy, but he was also naïve and prone to falling prey to the bluster of powerful men. And why not? He, like everyone else in Brighton, had been victimized by the powerful his whole life. It took an inner spirit of remarkable strength to see oneself as more than a peon, enslaved to other men's wishes, when that was all one had ever known.
Fitz knew she wasn't only a toy or a pet. She was significant. So was Franklin, but he was special. He needed some guidance and some confidence. He didn't understand what he could be.
Fitz quickened her pace as she came to feel like she was seeing the whole picture.
Resolve washed over her. She was on her way to the market to get the daily vegetables, meat, and bread, but she'd spend her time talking with women out of sight of any of Tenbrook's men. She'd continue to build a coalition of women who were looking for a leader to take them toward a better future, women who would understand that Tenbrook was a monster. That shouldn't be hard. Tenbrook's reputation, whispered furtively by every woman in Brighton, made him easy to hate.
Chapter 65: Beck
Beck listened to the people on the lowest floor of the building as they were coming in. After telling Oliver to work on getting the fire going again, he went down what had once been a hallway to wait at the top of the stairs. He waited excitedly for the people to come up. Ivory had some kind of bow, as did the girl. To Beck, that meant food and security. What's more, it suddenly made total sense to him where Ivory had been getting those ancient books.
He'd happened upon a stash in the Ancient City.
That had to be the truth. It explained why Ivory was on this side of the mountains, and also where the books had come from. It also strongly suggested two positives: Ivory knew how to take care of himself in demon country, and he knew how to get back to Brighton.
Things had taken a distinct turn for the better.
When Ivory came around the last sharp turn on the way up the stairs, Beck's optimism withered. He looked down the length of the building, thinking maybe he'd made a mistake. "Stop there."
Ivory did as he was told, coming to a stop with one foot on the landing and one foot on the first step of the last flight up.
"Where are your friends?" Beck asked, still looking around for an ambush he felt sure was coming. At the same time, he couldn't take his eyes of the odd object the boy was carrying. At first, Beck thought it was a bow, but if so, it was like no bow Beck had ever seen. It was complex and magnificent. It looked like Tech Magic. It looked priceless.
"Downstairs," said Ivory.
"Why aren't they with you?" asked Beck.
"They're as cautious as you now seem to be," Ivory answered.
"I'd feel better if I could see them," said Beck.
"How many are up there with you, Minister Beck?"
Beck wasn't sure he should answer honestly. He was starting to have his doubts. "What is that you have in your hand?"
"A compound bow." Ivory raised the bow to show it to Beck.
"A compound bow?" The words sounded odd mixed together like that. "Is that a bow for shooting arrows?"
"Yes," Ivory answered. "Only better. How many are with you?"
Beck pursed his lips and looked down the hall again. He saw Oliver coming his way, the fire burning heartily behind him. Beck raised a hand to bring Oliver to a halt.
Oliver stopped, looked around cautiously, and drew his dagger.
Beck said, "I suppose we may be at a standstill if we can't reach a measure of trust. Why did your friends stay downstairs?"
"We wanted to be sure it was safe before we risked our lives."
"But you came," said Beck.
"I know you," said Ivory. "I also know you're ruthless, and I don't trust you fully. Did you send that big man to follow me when you sent me to get more books for you?"
"I…" Beck tried to look offended. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"A big man, like a bear."
Beck silently shook his head, wondering if Jeremiah was downstairs, but discarded that notion. None of the three he'd seen outside in the rain was near big enough to be Jeremiah.
Suddenly, Oliver was beside Beck, brandishing his dagger, but making it clear that he'd use it. Oliver said, "There are two of us, me and the Minister. Come up if you want, or go away. I don't care. I want to finish eating my meal."
"Okay," said Ivory. "I'm with a girl named Melora, and a man named Jingo."
Beck sighed. "Tell them to come up."
"You need to know something first," said Ivory. "Jingo isn't like us."
"How so?" Beck asked, his interest piqued.
"He's the smartest man you'll ever meet," said Ivory.
"Doubtful," muttered Beck.
"He's three hundred years old," said Ivory, "and he's a not demon, but he looks like one."
Chapter 66: Bray
Bray woke up cold and wet. He cracked his eyes, sat up, and peered out the window of the building in which he'd slept for who knew how long. The storm clouds from the night before were gone, but a chill remained in the air. He cursed and got to his feet, squeezing some of the remaining water from his clothes, wincing at the pain from his various wounds. He didn't hear any demons or battling men outside. The storm must have driven them to find shelter.
Maybe they died.
He didn't care either way.
He'd barely avoided them and gotten inside the building to seek shelter before the storm had drowned out the noises of fighting. He huffed the air for demon scent, but all he smelled was mud. Some of the rain had puddled in the building. Some had gotten on him. The rainstorm had been one of the worst he'd seen, drenching anything and everything around him. With the storm over, he remembered William, and that made him wonder if the boy was still alive.
He'd find William later.
There was something else he had to do first.
Chapter 67: Bray
Fresh demon corpses littered the road as Bray traveled the remaining streets to the tower. He'd made it halfway before he realized where he was going. He'd had no breakfast. He didn't feel like eating. Not now. Maybe not ever.
He noticed a few fallen, crazed men tangled among the demons, their guts torn out and snaked across the roadway.
He stopped to scavenge several backpacks, but most were empty. He found a soggy demon scalp in one man's pack and ferreted it out, tucking it in with his other wares, barely understanding what he was doing. They were just motions, ingrained in him from a life in the wild.
Soon, he was approaching the tower entrance. He walked into the dank building and stopped. For a moment, he almost turned around. The sickness in his stomach seemed to get worse as he got closer.
He climbed the stairs, his feet operating on muscle memory. He kept his sword out, just in case he encountered something, even though the tower was silent. That silence reminded him of the day before, when Ella, Melora, William, and Ivory had been with him. He swallowed as he considered what that meant.
Rainwater had poured through the holes in the walls and puddled on the stairs. He encountered a few corpses struck
down in the midst of battle, their faces twisted in a deathly grimace.
By the time he reached the roof, his legs were burning from the exertion of the climb. His mind fought with emotions he'd hoped would disappear. Ella's death at his hands was a curse he'd never shake. Some part of him thought he might encounter Ivory, Melora, William, or Jingo, waiting to exact revenge.
He saw no one except Ella.
Bray bit his lip as he walked over to the pale, storm-drenched body. A few birds took flight as he approached. His stomach twisted in knots. Ella's eyes were glazed over; her arms were limp at her sides. The storm had soaked her clothing and washed away some of the blood, but the gaping neck wound was an awful reminder of what he'd done. He put away his sword and knelt down next to her, as if she might come to life and forgive him.
But that would never happen.
I'll never talk to her again.
Bray wiped his eyes. He tucked his arms beneath Ella, cradling her to his chest as he whispered words of apology, barely understanding his own mumblings. The cold touch of her skin on his arms reminded him of how warm she'd felt when they'd kissed. His body felt limp and weak when he thought about it.
He'd never have another memory with her again.
He remained in that position for who knew how long, until the breeze kicked up and the squawking birds reminded him that he was alive and she wasn't.
Wiping the tears from his eyes, he looked around the rooftop. A circling crow reminded him of the scavengers that were waiting for him to finish so they could take a turn.
He needed to bury her.
He wouldn't do it in the streets. She deserved something better than a place among demons and bloodstained, shirtless men. Bray sucked in a pained breath and set her down, looking around the rubble-strewn rooftop. He saw nothing suitable.
He was about to give up when he spotted a rectangle of ancient rocks. Walking over to it, he noticed a three-foot-high foundation encasing several layers of soggy, brown soil.
