A glance through the windows revealed distortions of steepled structures hanging amid the blaring white. I was somewhere high, but had to turn from the blaze beyond before guessing more.
Another tick. It came from a man-sized silhouette, limned in white and drifting near the center of the room. Squinting, I made out a hint of red and the vague shape of a barrel-lid hat. A Pharasmin inquisitor.
“How many innocents are bleeding through you?” It was clearly a man’s voice, deliberate and accusing, like a barrister speaking in court. Another shell hit the floor. “How many do you think? Six? Ten? Twenty?”
I swallowed as best I could, my lips cracked. I wasn’t sure what I appreciated less: his sanctimonious tone or that the question make me even thirstier.
“I might remember better after I had a drink.” My voice sounded raspy, grating in my throat.
A condescending little chuckle drifted through the light. “First thing on your mind. Sorry, but we don’t feed our children to monsters here.”
“Water would do.”
He popped another seed. Fabric rustled and something hurtled toward me. I fumbled with both hands, jamming still-numb fingers, but somehow caught it.
Clear water sloshed inside the bottle, held in by a stopper etched with Pharasma’s holy spiral. As tempting as it was, I frowned down it. A flask from a holy man’s robes? There was no way it was just water. Holy water, likely, but it could also be some sort of healing draught. Blessed water drank just as well as any other sort, but the reaction my body had to Pharasmins’ usual healing magic made me wary.
The pain flared as I thought about it. It came from all over, even from inside. The priests had called it with their prayers, the fire of their faith. To them—to the living—it was a warmth that healed. But not for those like me. For those who harbored death, it was a searing flame. A flame that consumed, that could even destroy. And it could take many forms.
I considered the flask. Fretting was only giving him what he wanted. I yanked out the stopper and sipped, prepared for another wave of that soul-searing burn. It didn’t come. I gulped down the rest. Aside from being body-warmed and having a slight aftertaste—likely never having been meant for drinking—it was plain water. I made a show of wiping my mouth. “Thanks.”
I rested back against the wall, shading my eyes as best I could. “So how long do you usually hold kidnapped agents of the crown?”
“Not long. I’m aware of what you claim to be.” Another seed cracked between his teeth then skidded across the floor. “We would have let the goddess’s fire consume you if it wasn’t for your enslaved priestess.”
“Jadain?” A fresh stab of pain cut off my chuckle.
His voice grew sharp. “You will call her Sister Losritter.”
“I’ll call her half the pain in my ass and the reason I’m not in Ardis already.”
“You planned to use her to sneak past the city’s guards.”
“Oh really?” I shook my head at the claim’s self-centered idiocy. “Why? So I’d be on time for evening services?”
“I know why the snake seeks the nest.”
“Of course you do.” He started to ask something else, but I cut him off. “Where are Jadain and Tashan?”
He ignored me. “When did you take control of Sister Losritter?”
“That’s ridiculous. As if I’d want to even if I could.”
“Don’t patronize us, monster. We know your kind better than we’d like.”
“I bet.”
He said he knew my kind, but I doubted he’d ever actually met another dhampir. In the bastard’s mind I was already staked and burning in the sun.
He repeated himself. “You will tell me how long ago you enslaved Sister Losritter.”
But he wasn’t asking about me.
“If you’re so interested in her, why not ask her directly?”
“We certainly will, once we’re convinced your control has faded. This will be easier if you tell us what we want to know. I know your kind can still feel pain.”
I’d seen dozens of vampires force their will upon humans, dominating weaker minds with the intensity of their presence. Although it would make my investigations endlessly less complicated, it was simply a talent my watered-down vampiric blood denied me. My jailer obviously didn’t believe that, though. If I’d dominated Jadain, she was my victim. But if I hadn’t, she was my …
He began some threat.
“In Caliphas, weeks ago. Who remembers.” I tried to sound flippant.
“Accuracy will make this easier for you.” He fished among the seeds in his palm, flicking out an unworthy or two. “Why her?”
“A priestess seemed like she’d make good bait. No one would question a holy woman asking them to step down an alley with her.”
“But why her?”
I dared only the smallest shrug. “I passed her one night. I almost took her, then thought better.”
“You’ve fed on her, then?” His disgust was apparent.
“Of course not. Marks could give her away.” I tried to change the subject. Details were tripwires in an interrogation, and the more I laid the more likely I’d eventually stumble. “When am I to be executed?”
Again he ignored me. “You took her from Maiden’s Choir?”
It was my turn to be insistent. “When?”
The silhouette hung silently for a long moment. “I can force you to answer.”
Did he think I didn’t suspect what his order had in store for me? I doubted I had much to lose. “Not if I bite my tongue off first,” I said plainly. “We both know it won’t kill me, but a few hours of silence is starting to sound real good.”
He took a breath to consider. “You’ll have another night.”
With that, the figure drifted toward the door.
I laid my arm over my eyes, trying to ignore the feel of old scars in order to block out the relentless light. “I suppose I’ll see you in the morning, then.”
“Sooner than that. We wouldn’t send you to the goddess unclean.”
I doubted he meant some ritual incense-burning and cloth-waving. “Try. We can visit your miserable goddess together.”
“Your kind always says the same thing, but we have our ways.” I could practically hear his sneer.
“I’m sure.”
“And in case those ways don’t work on a thing like you …” He opened the cell’s door, its hinges screeching. “The doses of calotropis oil you just drank should.”
My arm fell from my eyes, a litany of curses and a sudden bitter taste crowding my mouth. Calotropis oil? Some kind of poison?
A crimson hem fluttered and the door to my gleaming prison slammed shut.
20
INQUISITION
JADAIN
The door to our dingy prison whined open.
I released Tashan’s hand, having just pulled it away from his jaw to examine the plum-sized bruise fruiting there. It wasn’t pretty, but it was far from life-threatening. Normally I wouldn’t bother calling upon the goddess to heal what nature would tend to, but in this case I was tempted—one of my order had given him it, after all. Tashan gingerly reapplied his scarf, its dawn colors now stained with rusty red bursts.
My heart lurched at the sight of crimson robes. Heavy iron keys rattled as one of Pharasma’s inquisitors stepped into our bare stone cell.
Only he didn’t look like most inquisitors. The goddess’s hunters were typically from the same stock as soldiers, severe types that didn’t look comfortable without a weapon in hand. This was someone’s grandfather. Thin-shouldered with a head of wispy, hat-flattened white hair, he looked more like a schoolmaster than an agent of divine justice—especially as he wrestled his keys from the stubborn lock. An amulet like mine, but cast in steel, bounced against his chest. He retrieved his keys with a jerk and squinted into the dim cell.
“Sister Losritter?” He sounded unsure. “And … attendant.”
I exchanged a suspicious glance with Tashan. “Yes?”
“Yes. Good.” The elderly man stepped inside, unarmed and leaving the door open behind him. “Terribly sorry, all of these chambers look very much alike.”
“Where I’m from, cathedrals don’t have dungeons,” I said.
After we’d surrendered to the guards, they’d taken us through a gate attended by priests and crenelated with short steeples. A march through narrow, excessively well-lit streets led us to a tower sculpted with staring, masked psychopomps and, finally, to this cell.
“Oh, you’re not in the cathedral.” He said it like it was supposed to be reassuring. “Even in the Holy City we have places to attend to our more secular needs.” He peered at a sheaf of papers in his hand, going on without waiting for an answer. “Conveniently, that brings me to my first question. Our records show you studied at the Chapel of Guilts yet were ordained at the House of Solace in Vische—”
“I never served at the Chapel of Guilts,” I interrupted.
He gave a curt hum and tapped the page with a finger like a chicken bone. “But you served in Caliphas? At the royal cathedral?”
“I still serve there,” I answered shortly. I shook my head, clearing the haze of bureaucracy. “Who are you, and why are we being held here?”
“My bones! Forgive me. I’m Brother Abelard, servant of the Lady of Mysteries and the high priestess of her holy city, Mother Ulametria.” His tone turned gentle, even sad—a man giving a child serious news. “You’re here, Sister, because you attacked a guard patrol alongside a devil in mortal skin.”
Attacked! Devil?
“We didn’t!” Tashan tried to yell, a thick noise smothered by the scarf balled over his face. The inquisitor looked mildly surprised.
I held out a hand and Tashan reluctantly slumped back into the corner. “Larsa? Where is she?”
They hadn’t carried her into the city with us. Last I saw her she was lying limp in the back of the cart, overwhelmed by divine light.
He shook his head.
The followers of the Pharasmin Penitence were staunch traditionalists, obsessed with the soul’s condition, but even they wouldn’t have murdered Larsa outright … probably. “Brother, please. Is she alive?”
He frowned, staring. “Not as you and I know the goddess’s gift, but in a manner of speaking. Until judgment is wrought, she’s being kept in one of our sun cells. It’s designed to hold things like her.”
I didn’t know what a “sun cell” was, but that she was alive was something of a relief.
Brother Abelard spared a glimpse at Tashan. “Does your man need healing?”
“I’m fine.” The scarf covering Tashan’s mouth did little to disguise the bitterness in his reply.
“What crime is she being charged with?” I pressed.
“Sister,” he said with a father’s firmness. “Please. You must forget her.”
I tried not to rankle at his patronizing. “I have responsibilities in Ardis—responsibilities the Holy Mother of Caliphas gave her blessing. Larsa has a role to play in my work.”
“What responsibilities?”
I saw no reason to hide our goals from him, and briefly explained Doctor Trice’s concerns regarding Ailson Kindler’s safety and the doctor’s position as a healer and friend of the church. I certainly didn’t understate Larsa’s part in our venture, or her position as a royal agent.
He nodded as I finished, his thin white brows pinched together. “And your Holy Mother endorsed the half-dead’s involvement in your work? She gave her the goddess’s blessing?”
I sealed the truth behind a tight frown. No, of course she hadn’t. While I hadn’t lied about Larsa’s involvement, Mother Thestia hadn’t asked about her specifically, and I hadn’t gone out of my way to bring up her heritage.
My pause was answer enough for the inquisitor. “I thought not. That does ease some of my concern about how far our southern brethren have fallen, though.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He ignored me, considering a cell wall. “What hold does she have over you?”
“What hold? As in, has she hypnotized me or is she using some power to control me?” I scoffed. “No, of course not.”
He looked back to me, his mouth a grim line. “Consider this well, Sister. The undead have many terrible ways. They can infect us, turn our own wills against us. Can you be certain she hasn’t exerted some power over you.”
Why was he trying to get me to confess against Larsa? Did they need crimes to condemn her as neatly as they wanted? Was her blood not crime enough for them?
I composed myself, speaking firmly and clearly. “Royal Accuser Larsa has no power over me. In fact, neither my training nor my experience give me any reason to believe she even has the ability to mystically influence other minds.”
Brother Abelard made a short, disappointed sigh, shaking his head.
Somewhat heartened, I continued. “We know so little about her kind. The church teaches us not to fear death, but to see wonder in the miracle of being and the mysteries of the hereafter. Undeath is abomination, but those like her are as alive as they are undead. If life and mystery are holier to the goddess than undeath, why would we ever extinguish lives as tenacious and mysteries as deep as what she represents? The goddess brought her into this world. We must trust in the goddess’s will and accept Larsa as one of her children.”
Silence hung between us.
“This is what is in your heart? These are your words and no other’s?” The inquisitor’s face remained impassive.
I didn’t hesitate. “They are.”
Again he nodded. “Then I’m sorry, I had hoped it would be otherwise.” He folded his papers, tucking them into his robes and drawing himself up.
“Jadain Losritter.” His voice had changed. No longer the casual sigh of a bored clerk, every word became an accusation. “The inquisition of Cryptgate Cathedral, executor of Pharasma’s law in her holy city of Kavapesta, accuses you of crimes against the faithful, the church, and the goddess herself. For willfully misinterpreting the Lady’s creed and spreading blasphemy with the intent to disguise her enemies, I charge you with heresy in the second order.”
The charge struck me like a slap.
“As a member of the inquisition, I confirm and second allegations brought against you and will recommend to the office of the Holy Mother that you face immediate excommunication. You will be held here to await the Holy Mother’s verdict and then face trial for your crimes.”
It felt as though I were underwater. My vision bobbed, I forgot how to breathe. Tashan was on his feet and at my side. He brought an arm around my shoulder, as if he thought I might fall.
The Osirian channeled my question, anger bringing out his accent. “What allegations?”
The inquisitor answered as though I’d asked. “We received word from your own church some days ago, informing us of your situation.”
I drew myself up, pushing down a sick feeling. “What situation?”
“That blasphemous forces may have tempted you from the path of faith. It was only a suspicion, but one it saddens me to confirm.”
“My faith has never faltered!” I gripped the wooden spiral around my neck. Immediately I looked down. I felt the grain of the wood … and that was all. The cold touch of Pharasma’s presence, the comfort of that subtle chill, was entirely absent. Suddenly I was back in Havenguard, in cell eighteen.
He saw the concern in my face. “Your church’s own High Exorcist saw this in you and warned us.”
“Mardhalas?”
The rider I saw her send the night before we departed. The High Exorcist couldn’t act against Larsa in her own temple, not without our Holy Mother’s consent and not with the throne close enough to defend its agent. Here, with these zealots, though, all she had to do was raise the shadow of doubt. Or was I truly her target? Was my mercy really so unforgivable to her?
“I know our brethren in the capital think of the goddess as an absentee mother, but here we know her lessons and feel her
guiding hand,” the inquisitor said. “Here, when we stray, we feel the sting of her slap. I pity you, Miss Losritter. Your failure should have been noticed sooner, but it seems that many in your order are just as lost.” He turned and laid a hand on the door.
I wanted to ignore him, to beg him to take it all back, to scream. “Wait!”
Over his shoulder he spared a look of waning tolerance.
“Regardless of my place in the church—”
“You have no place.”
“Regardless, I’m still a witness to Larsa’s innocence. Don’t let the condition of my faith influence your ruling over her. She’s no monster and deserves to be released.”
“My dear, that creature’s end was decided the moment she came within these walls. Our questions were only ever about you.” The door swung. “And now we have none.”
21
CAVITY
LARSA
The cramping came gradually, rising in my body as the sun rose above my glass cell. What there was of stone and steel fell away, replaced by relentless light and aching stiffness. The poison seized my legs and shoulders first, then seeped through the rest of my body. I stretched and twisted for hours, limbs knotting, screaming to bend even as muscles grew thick and tough. It was all I could do to bury my eyes in the crook of my arm, sealing out the bombarding sunlight. I could still feel the heat on every inch of my skin. Even through my arm and clenched eyelids I could see a glow like a hot iron.
My prison was a red ache, exploding with every pulse and forced breath. Never before had my heart felt tired. I tried not to panic, but with every beat it grew more exhausted.
At some point I broke. I screamed, but the poison denied even that release. A dry draft escaped the crack between my lips. I strained, but only managed a squeak. I doubt my agony disturbed even a dust mote.
Bloodbound Page 18
