She ignored Reynard and went to John’s side. She took his hand as she knelt to kiss his ring of office. “Forgive me, your Eminence.”
His hand lingered on top of her head. Though he tried to keep his face impassive, she saw his revulsion at what she’d become. Worse than his disgust was the disappointment in his eyes over her failure to master the Wyrm. John released her and gave her leave to rise with a wave of his hand. “Don’t let it happen again.”
Taking a deep breath, she pasted a smile on her face and turned to greet Reynard.
“Judge Boucher.” He reached out to her. “We were becoming concerned.”
Rachael braced herself for the contact and didn’t resist him when Reynard took her shoulders and kissed her left cheek, then her right. He cupped her face, his hands remaining a second too long, and the Wyrm rose briefly, whether to feed on her hate or Reynard’s, she didn’t know. The demon fell back to the recesses of her mind when Reynard released her. He said, “The Lord be with you, Judge Boucher.”
“And with your spirit, my Lord Inquisitor.” She responded with a slight tilt of her head. She didn’t take his proffered hand. As John’s heir, she wasn’t required to submit herself to Reynard’s authority. She bent her knee before the Inquisitor only during the most formal ceremonies when John allowed no breach of etiquette.
Reynard’s fingers curled but didn’t close.
“Sit down, Rachael.” John indicated the chair across from his desk. “I’m sure Constable Aldridge has briefed you.”
“He has.” She didn’t like the way Reynard positioned himself just behind John’s right shoulder. The entire scene was reminiscent of when she had to answer for her actions in Lucian’s crime. John spared her a public trial, but the inquisition by John and Reynard had been intense nonetheless.
“What kept you?” John asked.
“There was a foundling.”
“Was?” Reynard raised an eyebrow.
Rachael stilled her nervous fingers and met John’s gaze. “He was dying when I found him. His name was Peter Richardson, he was fourteen and from the early twenty-first century. He died this morning just before dawn. Victor is bringing him.”
“What killed him?” When she didn’t answer, John prompted, “Jackals?”
“I believe so.”
“You believe?” Reynard shook his head.
“I never saw the Veil,” she said to her boots.
John leaned forward. “So you don’t know if he was attacked within the Veil?”
“No.”
“Did the jackals cross over and attack him in Woerld?” Reynard snapped.
“I don’t know.”
John threw his pen into the stack of papers, and the nib spurted ink across several pages in defiance of its mistreatment. Rachael felt sorry for the novice who would have to laboriously re-copy the marred pages.
John asked, “What do you know, Rachael?”
“I was lost in dreams. I don’t even remember the last two days.” She pressed her fingers against the patch covering her missing eye and stopped talking. Shakier than a foundling, she took a deep breath and tried to pull herself together; it wasn’t working. This was going very badly, but maybe this was the wake-up call John needed to remove her from service. Let him name Reynard as the Seraph’s heir; she was nothing more than a figurehead anyway.
“Rachael. Look at me.” John’s tone broached no disobedience.
She swallowed against the burning in her throat and forced herself to meet his gaze. With a slight turn of her head, Reynard disappeared from her sight, and she pretended it was just her and John in the room.
“Show me,” John commanded.
A hoarfrost nip of fear bit her heart. He didn’t need to elaborate for her to know he wanted to see her soul-light, and while it was the simplest of tricks, it was the most revealing. John wanted to see if the Wyrm had taken her, if she had become complicit with the creature she harbored. If her light didn’t burn true, then being the Seraph’s only remaining heir wouldn’t save her from a formal inquisition.
“We’re waiting, Judge Boucher.” Reynard moved into her line of sight.
Rachael clenched her jaw and held out her right hand. She summoned her soul-light and almost wept with relief when the white globe appeared to hover inches above her palm. Her reprieve was brief. Shadows formed within the sphere, streaks of black lightning—signs of the Wyrm’s progress. Rachael concentrated harder and the dark spots faded to the background. Sweat prickled across her brow as she focused on the light, and the shadows fled. Her light burned true.
“That’s enough,” John said.
Rachael extinguished the illumination.
“It’s progressed, your Eminence.” Reynard stepped from behind John so he could face the Seraph. “I strongly suggest we attempt another exorcism before you send her into the Wasteland.”
“You’ve had sixteen years, Reynard.” John sounded as tired as the argument Rachael had heard a thousand times. “If you haven’t divined the demon’s true name by now, another week isn’t going to make a difference.”
“We can’t afford to lose her, my Lord, even as a symbolic heir.” Reynard twisted his ring of office. The Inquisitor wasted no opportunity to point out her uselessness, and John no longer defended her. Rachael’s coffee soured in her stomach.
“I’ve got Lucian Negru opening Hell Gates in the Wasteland and drawing God knows what back through with him. No. There’s no time for another exorcism.” John sorted through the mounds of papers on his desk to unerringly retrieve the one he sought from the stack. He shoved the paper at her like an accusation. “And sending you is against my better judgment, but I’ve dreamed and the Lord has spoken to me.”
Rachael’s fear turned glacial and spread over her heart. Once John dreamed, no one changed his course. A prophecy would not be denied, no matter how much commonsense stood in the way. She took the document and scanned it. Her head began to hurt, distorting her vision.
“I’m issuing a directive for you to bring Lucian Negru back to the Citadel to be tried for violating the terms of his Ban. If the Council finds him guilty of desecrating his covenant, he will hang.”
She swallowed the bitter taste of her regret, keeping her eye on the document so she wouldn’t have to look at John or Reynard. The sorrow gripping her heart took her off guard. It’s the foundling, she reasoned, pressing her finger to her eye to squelch a tear. She hadn’t adequate time to mourn the loss of Peter. This was not about Lucian.
John went on as if he didn’t notice, but she knew he did. Nothing escaped her Elder. “Lucian will surrender himself to your authority. I will determine the retribution when he arrives, which means I’m expecting him to arrive here alive. Do you understand, Rachael?”
“I do.” Feeling more in control, she folded the document and held it loosely.
“Caleb has received his directive and he will serve as your constable.” John sighed and lowered his voice. “Rachael, this can’t be botched.”
Reynard made a derisive noise. Rachael’s fingers crumpled the directive before she willed herself to loosen her grip on the document.
“Go,” John said. “God watch over you while you’re out of my sight.” He made the sign of the cross over her and turned back to his papers.
Reynard smiled as she rose and turned away.
She was almost at the door when John spoke again. “Rachael, be on your guard. I want you here, where you belong. Come back to me safe.”
Rachael nodded and opened the door to step into the hall. Caleb stood a few feet away, speaking to the Citadel’s Commissioner Charles Dubois. The two men were the same height, but Dubois was broader in the chest than Caleb. Life at the Citadel’s court had softened the Commissioner’s once athletic body, but nothing dulled the man’s vigilant gaze. Rachael remained as wary of Dubois as she was of Reynard. They were vultures hanging over her deathbed.
Dubois bowed in her direction; she gave him only a cursory nod in return. Rather than wait fo
r the men to finish their conversation, Rachael went to the stairs.
Within minutes, Caleb was rushing down behind her. “Is everything okay, Rae?”
“Everything’s fine.” She lifted the paper without turning. “We have our directive.”
Outside, she paused so her sight could adjust to the sunlight. Caleb passed her and went to the horses where the groom now held the reins of a chestnut gelding that stood alongside Ignatius and Caleb’s mare. Rachael assessed the gelding and complimented the groom on his choice before she moved to take Ignatius’ reins from him.
“Rachael.”
Rachael shoved the directive into her pocket like it was a dirty secret and turned. John’s wife Tanith stood within arm’s reach. Still a priestess in the Goddess’ service, her pale blue gown reflected the colors of an Avalonian. Like John, she was small in stature, but her poise and self-confidence gave her the illusion of height. Usually a smile teased the corners of her eyes, but not this morning. Today sorrow dragged the corners of her mouth down, and Rachael’s heart twisted with guilt. She was no less responsible for Tanith’s grief than Lucian.
Tanith held her hands out to Rachael. “Will you leave without seeing me?”
“Of course not.” Rachael forced her false smile back to her face and touched Tanith’s fingers.
Other than the slightest twitch of her lips, Tanith showed no sign of revulsion at the Wyrm’s taint. “Walk with me to the gate so I may see you off.” She took Rachael’s hand in her own.
Rachael loved her for that one small gesture.
Caleb cleared his throat and bowed to Tanith. “My Lady, we’re on a directive from the Seraph. It’s of the utmost importance.”
Her dark eyes flashed from Caleb back to Rachael. “Then wait for her at the gate.”
Caleb’s protest withered under Tanith’s glare. He gave Rachael a look of appeal, but she didn’t acknowledge him. If Tanith wanted him gone, then she had a reason. Without another word, he mounted and took the gelding’s reins from Rachael before he disappeared into the crowd.
Tanith lowered her voice as she fell into step beside Rachael. With the clamor of noise around them, no one would hear her words. “It’s grown worse, hasn’t it?”
Rachael kept her pace slow to accommodate Tanith’s shorter stride. “It comes and goes.”
“The truth,” Tanith whispered, barely moving her lips. She nodded to Ganak, the emissary from the Mandir.
Rachael ducked her head in a move that could be interpreted as a slight bow so her hair shadowed her face. She hoped Ganak didn’t recognize her.
“Rachael.” A note of warning changed the pitch of Tanith’s voice.
“I can control it.” Ignatius nuzzled her shoulder and she shrugged him off.
Tanith stopped walking and faced Rachael. People flowed around the women and horse like they were stones in a stream. Other than an occasional nod to Tanith, no one spoke or approached them. They could have been alone.
Tanith took both of Rachael’s hands in hers and squeezed. “Adam Zimmer wrote to me recently. He’s very worried for you.”
Rachael bit the inside of her cheek and nodded. She had first met the Rabbinate’s Inquisitor a few years after Lucian’s betrayal. Adam had looked past her scars and often brought a smile to her face through his witty observations. They had grown close over the years through their correspondences, but last year, no matter how she tried, she could no longer read Adam’s letters. The words swam before her eye to become senseless shapes that fed her headaches.
Too proud to admit she could no longer read Rachael had stopped writing to him. In spite of her lack of correspondence, Adam continued to write to her once a month with what she assumed was news from people they knew at the Rabbinate.
“Adam asked me to give you his regards. He tells me he prays a Mi Sheberakh—a prayer of healing—for you every day. He wants to hear from you.”
Rachael blinked against a burning in her eye and lowered her head.
“You are loved, Rachael. More than you know.” Tanith brought Rachael’s face close to hers to kiss her cheek. Her breath tickled Rachael’s ear as she whispered. “Make no sign you’ve heard. Trust no one.”
Rachael’s blood chilled as Tanith repeated the gesture and kissed her other cheek. “We are infiltrated,” she whispered.
“Who?” Rachael hissed the question into Tanith’s ear.
Tanith gripped Rachael’s fingers tightly and stepped back. She raised her voice to a normal tone. “I wish I knew, but the ways of the Goddess are hidden from my eyes. I will write to Adam for you and give him your gratitude for his prayers. If you like.”
“Yes.” Rachael never had to ask; Tanith always knew exactly what to do. “Please. I would like that very much.”
“Good. You’ll not be long, I hope.”
Rachael forced a smile to her numb lips and looked down into Tanith’s worried gaze. She wished she had some reassurance for her, but they could share only the most banal pleasantries in the courtyard. “I’ll return as quickly as I can.”
“Good.” The older woman smiled. “I came to give you my blessing. May the Goddess ride with you all the days of your journey, and may She bring you home to us safe. Here. Where you belong.”
The hair on her arms rose at Tanith’s eerie echo of John’s parting words. Tanith stepped back and melted into the crowd before Rachael could whisper goodbye. Alone again, she mounted Ignatius and turned his head toward the gate. She rode away without looking back.
We are infiltrated.
Rachael found her flask and took a quick drink to drive the taste of fear from her mouth. If Tanith suspected members were complicit, then surely John did too, and neither of them would warn someone they thought complicit. No, John trusted her, Rachael was sure of it. She never would have walked out of his office if he believed her corrupt, but that didn’t mitigate her danger.
With the Wyrm, she would be a prime suspect if accusations were made. No wonder Reynard had been so eager to see her soul-light fail to burn true. He rooted out the complicit with savage zeal and was not known for advocating mercy for the condemned. With Rachael gone, no one would stand in his way as heir. Whether he could prove she was complicit or not, Reynard would use any opportunity to further his advance to Seraph.
Ahead, Caleb stood talking to one of the guards. When he saw her, he mounted his mare and was ready to ride by the time she reached him. “Everything all right?” he asked.
“Fine.” It would have to be for now. She couldn’t do anything about complicit members until she finished with Lucian. She led the way beneath the portcullis and tucked Tanith’s words close to her heart.
She steered Ignatius back toward the farm. “We need to go back to Cross Creek. I want to backtrack Peter’s trail. I need to know where that child was attacked.”
“Sure,” Caleb said. “It shouldn’t take us long.”
Rachael didn’t care how long it took. Now more than ever she needed to know if she was at fault for the boy’s death. Reynard could easily claim she murdered Peter through her neglect, or worse still, that she summoned the jackals to cheat the Citadel of another warrior. She had to have a plan of action in place, and she couldn’t do that until she knew the truth.
She set Ignatius to a trot, and Caleb covered her blind side. The sunlight burned the Wyrm to the recesses of her soul. By the time they reached the field where she had first seen Peter, her head felt clear.
Caleb dismounted and checked the foliage for blood before following Peter’s tracks. As they moved between the trees, her home slipped away in the background. She was already sick with longing for her familiar routines, meaningless though they were.
They followed a slight incline, then up another hill where Peter’s blood trail ended. The only disruption of the earth came from a young boy’s feet. No paw prints marred the ground. Rachael released the breath she had been unaware of holding and dismounted to search the leaves with her own eye.
Caleb validated her c
onclusion. “I can’t find any jackal tracks. They took him inside the Veil. There wasn’t anything you could have done, Rae.”
Rachael relaxed. If Caleb bore witness and affirmed she wasn’t at fault for Peter’s death, Reynard couldn’t claim otherwise. Caleb reached down and picked something up.
“What did you find?” she asked.
“Cell phone.”
Of course, twenty-first century parents tethered themselves to their children with their electronics. The devices usually worked while the Veil between Earth and Woerld was thin; sometimes as much as forty-eight hours, sometimes as little as five minutes.
Rachael held her hand out, and Caleb gave it to her. She flipped it open and punched the power switch. The little screen lit up, but it didn’t show Peter or his last moments as she had expected. Instead, she saw the smiling girl from Peter’s photograph.
Lyn. Save her.
Shadows and darkness set the background like some macabre wallpaper. Rachael recognized all too well both Hell’s landscape and the young woman from the photograph. Only her summer beach smiles had vanished beneath tears and terror. There was no doubt she was Peter’s sibling, and Rachael suspected Peter had given himself to save her.
Rachael gave Lyn only the most cursory examination. She focused on the man who held and comforted the distraught child. Lucian. The ragged figure stood, favoring his lame leg. Good God, was her dream this morning a prophecy? Rachael frowned at the screen and remembered his dark gaze ruined by grief. A doubt crept soulfully into the back of her mind, a tiny seed of disquiet that the man she loathed was not the man before her. She silenced the misgiving for fear it would unravel her heart.
The picture distorted momentarily, breaking her reverie; if she was lucky, the Veil remained thin enough for the phones to connect. She pressed the menu button and examined the list of numbers; there were two possible Lyns, Marilyn Anderson and Lindsay. Rachael pressed the number for Marilyn and received silence. She touched a button then chose Lindsay’s number and was rewarded with a ring.
Miserere: An Autumn Tale Page 6
