by Cory Barclay
“Deal,” Daxton said, putting out his hand. They shook on it.
“What will you do with your crew from the Pride?” she asked. “They’ll grow restless away from the sea.”
Daxton scratched the back of his neck. “Let them. Storms have plagued the waters, so they could use a time away from the ship. The men will come back rejuvenated.”
Rowaine nodded. “Very well. There’s one more thing I need to do,” she said, heading around the side of the inn.
Ulrich was sitting on a barrel near the far wall, flicking the blade of his axe while gazing menacingly at the pirates bound beside him. Rowaine strutted past, stopping in front of the woman sitting on a bench by the pirates. She was small and shivering, though her hands were not tied. She was the one Rowaine had seen almost constantly by Gustav’s side.
“You, girl,” Rowaine said harshly, “are going to tell me where your master went.”
“He isn’t my master,” Hedda said, pushing up her spectacles, then tightening her arms around her body.
“Master, lord, lover . . . I don’t care what he is. I’ll kill you unless you tell me what I ask. We’ve wasted enough time. In my eyes, you’re just as evil as he.” Rowaine lifted her foot and jammed it down on the bench with a thud. The girl jumped. Rowaine rested her elbows on her knee, ogling the girl. A pretty thing. Close to my age, too. In other circumstances, I wouldn’t mind taking her for a frolic . . .
Hedda recoiled. “I’ve never killed a man.”
Rowaine searched her face. “Your eyes tell me you’re lying, girl, but that’s not why you’re as guilty as him. It’s because you never tried to stop him. Did his attractiveness sweep you off your feet? Were you just too cowardly to ever find your voice?”
Tears welled in Hedda’s eyes. “I was originally employed as his father’s secretary. Then Ludwig, his father, forced me to be his mistress and, before long, pushed me off on his son, Gustav.”
“I don’t pity you,” Rowaine assured her.
“I’m not asking for your pity. If I disobeyed Gustav, he surely would have killed me.”
“Perhaps you deserve it.”
Hedda opened her mouth, then closed it. She met Rowaine’s gaze. “Maybe you’re right. I’ve seen him do terrible things.” She paused, considering what to say next, then continued. “But there’s one thing he’s especially been hellbent on doing—bringing that priest and the girl to his father. That’s where he’ll be going, to find his father. He knows that if he brings one, the other will follow.”
“I don’t intend to allow Dieter to follow. Where is this Ludwig, Gustav’s father?”
“In Trier, a city south of—”
“I know where it is.”
Hedda gulped. “Baron Ludwig is overseeing an inquisition in the area.”
Rowaine scoffed. “How noble of him.”
“The witch-hunt has been going on for years. I did my research on the area and its inhabitants,” Hedda said. “They’re doing awful things to people down there. I heard that, in one village, they slew every female in the village, save one woman. Then moved on to the next village to do the same.”
Daxton stood behind Rowaine, shaking his head. “Bloodthirsty savages.”
“The rich prosper on the deaths of the weak and indefensible,” Rowaine said. “Nothing new.”
At that, Hedda shook her head. “Not just the weak! I’ve heard that no one is safe from the executioner’s axe, not even noblemen and aristocrats.”
“Sounds like chaos,” Rowaine said, sighing. “We’d better get moving.”
As Rowaine and Daxton headed back toward the front door of the inn, Hedda’s voice rang out. “How do you intend to find them?”
Without turning, Rowaine said, “I was the best navigator in the North Sea. My father was—or is—a famed tracker and huntsman. I’m sure we’ll manage.”
Inside the inn, she glanced over at Martin and Ava leaning against the wall, arms wrapped around each other.
“They grew close quickly,” Rowaine remarked. Daxton didn’t reply.
Jerome followed the two to a corner of the room. “His wound is d-dire, captain.”
“I’m not your captain any longer, Jerome.”
The surgeon smiled, his few teeth protruding randomly from his gums. “F-force of habit. Anyway, his arm may have to be amp-amp-amput . . .” he sighed. “Cut off.”
“There’s nothing I can do for him. I leave it to you. Better to save his life with one arm than let it fester and kill him.”
The surgeon nodded.
Rowaine glanced at the old innkeeper still hunched over Dieter. “But I’m sure Claus won’t want him staying forever. Can you find him suitable arrangements?”
“I will,” a voice called from the doorway. It was Martin. “I’ll watch over him and Little Sieghart.”
Rowaine walked to him, looking him up and down, then offered a dramatic bow and smiled. “Very well, sir, I leave his safety in your capable hands.” She clutched his shoulder, then abruptly leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek.
Martin’s pink face boiled red. He stammered, then quietly plopped back down next to Ava, wide-eyed and weak-kneed. Ava whispered something in his ear and scuffed his head.
Rowaine stared at each friendly face in the room—Martin and Ava, Claus, Jerome, and finally Dieter.
“Stay safe, my friends,” she said.
Then she and Daxton left the inn and headed for the stables.
“Wait! Let me go with you!” It was Hedda. “I want to see this through.”
Rowaine looked back at the girl now standing in front of the inn’s door. Since Ulrich hadn’t joined her, Rowaine assumed she was not officially under arrest. She narrowed her eyes at the woman.
“I don’t trust you,” she said, “so I won’t let you come with us. But I won’t stop you from following our trail, either. Just remember, Trier’s a fair distance from here, so if you don’t keep up, you’ll make a decent meal for the wolves.”
Hedda’s face went pale.
Rowaine spun back around and continued walking, navigating her way around puddles of blood-stained mud, abandoned weapons, and dead bodies. As she passed the covered body of Mia, her bottom lip trembled, but she kept her head bowed to hide her tears.
Farewell my love. May you finally find peace from this wretched world.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
SYBIL
Somewhere in a dark void, Sybil crept toward a small foothill. Dressed in nothing but a white gown, the blackness seemed to envelop her thin body. A single, leafless tree sat on the hill, darker than black. Fog swirled through the tree. As she drew closer to the tree, she saw forms on the hill. A crow circled and landed on the tree’s top branch, clutching the limb with its talons. A wolf padded along and rested on its haunches next to the trunk. It gazed up at the moon, then its eyes moved to the crow. It licked its watering lips. As Sybil approached the base of the hill, the wolf tilted its head toward her and their eyes met—the wolf’s reflecting brilliant orbs of yellow. Slowly, the creature bore its fangs, sharp white teeth glistening in the darkness. Sybil let out a scream, but no sound escaped.
Sybil awoke with a start, her heart pounding.
She had no idea where she was, her nightmare clouding her reality. She felt the wind blowing through her hair, so she knew she was outside. Her throat was dry, her lips raw. She tried moving her hands, but realized her wrists were stuck together. She tried wiggling her arms, but they chafed against a rope.
From the force of the wind, she knew she was moving fast. Then she realized she was on a horse, her hands tied to the reins. Though she couldn’t remember how she’d gotten there.
Her head ached. She felt hot breath on her neck and sucked in sharply.
Gustav was behind her on the same saddle, his warm body pressed into hers. His arms were extended over her shoulders, gripping the loop of the reins, spurring the horse onward.
She blinked through the darkness and saw trees whirling by on both sides.
They were on a dark trail, only the moon and stars illuminating their path.
“What’s going on?” she croaked, barely recognizing her own voice.
“I have you, girl,” Gustav whispered in her ear.
She shuddered. She couldn’t see his smirk, but felt it.
Slowly, she began piecing together the night’s events.
We were standing against Gustav and his men, I remember that. Then Ulrich and the guards came from the shadows. Someone died. Mia! After she killed a man. Then everything went crazy.
Someone had my child. Gustav? No . . . he’d already set Peter on the ground. Someone else snatched him.
Martin! And that thief-girl?
And I remember Dieter . . . trying to save me.
Dieter!
“What happened to my husband?” she called out.
“Last I saw, he was rolling in the mud, nursing a nasty cut, covered in blood.”
Sybil wanted to cry, but the wind kept her eyes dry. She choked on her own scratchy throat. “Is he alive?”
Gustav said nothing, but she felt his body move. A shrug, perhaps.
“And my son?”
“Your little friend took him. I don’t know where.”
“Where are we going?”
“To the place I’ve been trying to take you for weeks. Trier. Where my father is.”
“What’s in Trier, besides your father?”
Gustav chuckled. “Your imminent death, girl. And my imminent glory.”
Sybil clenched her jaw. “Dieter will come for me. Or Rowaine—”
“I’m hoping so.”
“You won’t get away with this.”
Gustav gripped the reins tighter. “You may have friends in Bedburg, where you’ve lived your life. But you have no such support in Trier. Nothing awaits you there besides a trial in front of bloodthirsty inquisitors, and the cross you’ll burn on.”
Despite her best efforts, Sybil’s teeth began to chatter. Her body shivered. The wind was cold, but her despair colder.
Gustav speaks true. I have nothing in Trier, no one to protect me. What can I do? If Dieter is injured, how can he rescue me?
I once told myself I’d do my own rescuing, but how can I, strapped to this damned horse?
As if reading her thoughts, Gustav said, “You can plan your escape all you want, but you’ll always reach a dead end, girl. I lost a lot of good men trying to capture you and, now that I have, I will not be denied.”
“You didn’t care about those men.”
Gustav laughed. “Well, perhaps you’re right.”
“You only care for yourself.”
“And Hedda. It’s a shame she wasn’t quick enough—maybe she could have joined us. But she’d only slow us down. I suppose they will hang her.” He shrugged. “She had her uses.” His voice was grim but edged with lustful memories.
“Is she your lover?” Sybil couldn’t have cared less, but knew she had to keep Gustav talking. And not thinking. The more he talked, the more time she had to design her own plan.
“In some ways, she was,” Gustav said. He sighed. “She’s my father’s spy. Once I bring you to him, I’ll get to enjoy the things I’ve been owed all my life. Maybe you did me a favor, killing my brother, because I am now next in line.”
Sybil frowned. “I didn’t kill Johannes. Though I should have, after what he did to me.”
Gustav nodded to himself. “For a moment, I did wonder if that whelp of yours belonged to Johannes—”
“My son is Dieter’s.”
Gustav steered the horse around a wide bend in the road. “It’s no matter. All that matters is that your husband and perhaps your redheaded friend follow you to Trier. Once that happens . . .” he made a sound like he was ripping paper, “I win, and you and they . . . lose.”
“What is your father giving you for bringing us to him? Wealth? Land?”
“Those, I’m sure. But also something much more valuable. A seat!”
“A seat?”
“In the parliament at Cologne, my dear. You are my ticket to true nobility.”
Sybil stayed quiet for a while, the wind and horse hooves the only sounds she heard.
So avenging his brother’s death was never his motive. It was always purely selfish. I should have known.
“Are you guaranteed this position? What if your father doesn’t follow through with his promise?”
“He’ll have no choice.”
“Everyone has a choice, Gustav.”
“You don’t.” At that moment, Sybil couldn’t argue with that. “But I’ll play your little game,” he said, clearing his throat. “If my father doesn’t give me the position I desire, then I’ll just have to take it from him.”
Sybil winced. “You’d kill your own father to further your ambition? It’s no wonder everything went to your brother. Your father must have never trusted you.”
A low growl reverberated behind her. She knew she’d gone too far.
“You know nothing of the Koehler family, whore. Now quiet your tongue and ready yourself for your final days. Pray, or do whatever it is you Godly folk do.”
Sybil opened her mouth to speak again, but felt a sudden heat near the back of her head. Her sight went unfocused, the edges of her vision closed in.
Then darkness took her.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
HUGO
“Trier is the oldest city in Germany, Herr Samuel.”
Bishop Binsfeld, his hands clasped behind his back, was speaking with Tomas as they—and Hugo behind them—walked down a lavish hallway adorned with timeless relics and paintings from the early Roman times. “It wields great power within the Holy Roman Empire,” the bishop explained. “Here in Trier, Archbishop Schönenberg sits on one of the most influential seats in the electorate.”
“But why this sudden outbreak of witches plaguing the diocese?” Tomas asked.
Bishop Peter Binsfeld was a white-haired man with a stooped back and a soft voice. To Hugo, he didn’t look at all like the bloodthirsty witch-hunter he’d been made out to be. But Hugo had also learned that looks were often deceiving—Tomas being the perfect example: His mentor looked nothing like the merciless killer Hugo knew him to be.
The bishop had yet to answer Tomas’ question. They headed toward double-doors engraved with a language Hugo didn’t recognize.
The bishop eyed Tomas. “You hail from . . .”
“Cologne, Your Grace. My assistant and I oversaw trials in Bedburg at the request of Archbishop Ernst. We were then sent here.”
Hugo was impressed with how easily Tomas had fallen into his new role as “Inquisitor Samuel,” though still a bit apprehensive about playing his own part as Samuel’s assistant, “Gregor.”
“Right.” Binsfeld cleared his throat. “Balthasar Schreib, he leads God’s glory in Bedburg, correct?”
Tomas nodded.
Binsfeld gazed up at the vaulted ceiling and tapped his chin. “He is a fine man—a Jesuit, as I remember, and a very holy bishop. I’m sure he has brought the faith back to the region.”
Hugo pursed his lips. He helped kill my father, which brought back faith, I suppose.
They came to the double-door and waited. A man of Bishop Binsfeld’s stature would never consider opening, or even knocking on, a door in front of him—he’d expect it to be opened for him.
Which is what happened. The door opened and two guards reared back their heads to salute the bishop as he walked by.
Ignoring them, the bishop continued. “While the blessed return of the faith may be the case in Cologne and Bedburg, Trier is unfortunately in turmoil. Protestants, Jews, and witches have berated us for some time. For those reasons, the archbishop saw fit to separate the three groups, and called upon me for that task. Witchcraft, superstition, and dangerous dealings have robbed the people of Trier of their livelihoods.”
They were in a vast hall lit by golden crosses and elegant ornaments. Doors leading to smaller rooms lined both sides of the hall.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Tomas said, bowing his head.
“Lord Inquisitor Adalbert will be in that room, overseeing a trial.”
Hugo opened the door—not wanting to wait for entry—and the trio entered the room. It was a courtroom, of sorts, though it more resembled a prayer-room in a cathedral.
Except here, the law—at least as set forth by the powers-that-be—is what is prayed to, not God.
From what Hugo had heard, secular law and God’s law was one and the same in Trier.
Bishop Binsfeld moved to a back row and sat alongside other spectators. Hugo followed, then Tomas.
A young woman and her daughter stood in the middle of the room, boxed in by several metal bars. Three men were seated at a dais on a raised platform at the front of the room.
Hugo immediately recognized the older man on the left.
That man has been in my house before! I recognize that smirk and gaunt face.
Ludwig von Bergheim, father of the man who hurt Sybil . . . Johannes.
Hugo didn’t recognize the man on the right—a bald gentleman, older than Ludwig on the left, with a large crucifix hanging from his neck. His eyelids were so puffy they practically hid his eyes, making it impossible to tell if he was asleep or just listening through closed eyes.
The man in the middle was a whole different matter. He wore a mask—a plain white one, nothing sinister-looking, just a way to hide his identity. He was tall and thin, but the mask gave him an unnerving quality that sent a chill down Hugo’s spine.
“Why does that man mask his face?” Hugo whispered to the bishop.
Binsfeld leaned over. “The inquisitors in Trier face hard rebuke from the many people they prosecute. None more so than that man, Lord Inquisitor Adalbert. It is to hide his face from possible retribution.”
Though Hugo longed to learn from his mentors, this revelation gave him pause. We are to be so hated in this city from the commonfolk that we’ll be forced to wear masks?
