Page 56 of Dead Wrong

Cirian moved with a determined haste, catching me at the wrists and pinning me in place. “I’ve had enough of your mockery,” he growled. “Explain yourself plainly, or I swear on the Source that I will leave you here to rot in this place.”

“They’re your words, you devout imbecile! You looked right at me and spoke them just moments ago! Are you saying you don’t recall reciting them?”

Fear flickered in Cirian’s stygian eyes, his grip on me loosening. “No. I was simply praying. Going through my recitations, and then I was standing, looking at you.”

Was his mind not his own while the Source spoke through him? The thought sent a chill down my spine. Is that where we Adored got the power to control others? Was it the power of the Source itself?

“The words were yours, Cirian. I swear it. I swear it on my sister’s life.”

Cirian held my gaze for just a moment longer before turning back to the altar, dropping his hold on me and rushing forward to seize the parchment. He held it up to the light, his lips moving silently as he read, his hands trembling. When he looked back at me, all I could see were the questions burning behind his eyes.

“Do you know what it means?” I asked.

He shook my head. “Not in the slightest. There hasn’t been a prophecy delivered by the Source in nearly a century. Her Eminence thought the prophets extinct.”

“Well, apparently, her holiness is lying through her teeth. Is that why she keeps you around, Cirian? I often wondered what made her choose a successor before the need for one had arisen. The Cardinal could serve for another hundred years or more before she needed to name a replacement, yet you’ve been at her side since adolescence.”

“Do not speak ill of her,” Cirian spat, his lips curling into a snarl. “If what you’ve said is true, then I trust Her Eminence is just as ignorant as I am on the matter. I must speak with her right away. Come, we can’t delay any longer. We must return to the Cradle at once.”

Cirian moved for the doors of the sanctuary, then paused, turning back to me with a look of mild amusement. “Oh, and I have some clothes waiting for you in the car. I may be the Acolyte of the Source, but not even I can’t explain away an animated corpse wandering down the halls.”

“I’m not a corpse,” I argued.

Cirian’s nose wrinkled. “You certainly smell like one.”

“Fuck you.”

“Ah, there’s simply not enough time, I’m afraid. Let’s be gone.”

* * *

Walking through the entrance of the Cradle for the second time in the last twenty-four hours, my unease had not abated in the slightest. Even with the clothing provided by Cirian—a set of monastic robes that covered me entirely from crown to sole, complete with a porcelain mask to cover my face—I couldn’t help but feel exposed just existing in this space. The vitriol that the Hallowed carried for those who had “cheated” Death was a weight I could feel in the air. It settled into my lungs like a fine powder, building until it became difficult to breathe.

“Good day, Master Cirian.”

The greeting was expressed by every passing figure, Cirian responding with a polite nod and the occasional thanks. If he felt even a fraction of my discomfort, he certainly didn’t show it. His calm façade of serenity held firmly in place, and Cirian knew better than to allow it to slip.

The ride from the sanctuary deep within the woods had taken nearly an hour, traversing roads that had long succumbed to nature. Cirian didn’t speak much on the way, instead gazing out the window with a contemplative expression that I felt it rude to interrupt.

Once we reached Cirian’s chambers, he moved swiftly to the wall behind his desk, removing a small receiver from the black box that hung there. After a moment, he spoke softly into it, then awaited a response.

My disguise felt suffocating, the heavy cloth of my robes scratchy and unyielding. Sweat pooled in the small of my back, and the stench of my own breath inside the mask was enough to leave me nauseated.

Perhaps Cirian wasn’ttoofar off with his earlier comments about my aroma. The thought alone of Cirian drawing close enough to take in the scent was enough to make the nape of my neck swelter.

A swift knock on the door, and Cirian quickly hung up the device, snapping to draw my attention. He mimed the stance a monk should take, pointing to the corner of the room he wished for me to stand in. I quickly followed the silent instructions as he spoke, “Enter,” and the Cardinal strode through the door.

“Ah, Your Eminence. I was just trying to reach you. Deepest apologies for my tardiness this morning. I’m afraid my nightly rituals left me feeling rather drained?—”

“Silence,” the Cardinal interrupted, her commanding voice perfectly matched to the intimidating presence of her physical stature. “Adoranda Greene has made her move against the Unseen Rebellion. Their camp was raided last night, and our reports say their numbers are diminished.”

My breath faltered behind the mask. Diminished? What did that mean?

The Cardinal continued, seemingly oblivious to my presence. “The Madame has requested the Church’s assistance with holding one of the prisoners apprehended during the raid.”

“And why would she have a need for such a request?” Cirian questioned, his tone even. “Surely her militia has enough capacity to handle as many prisoners as she’d like.”

“The prisoner in question has been confirmed as a Reviled practitioner,” the Cardinal answered. “The Madame has him contained at her Chateau, but as the law dictates, all Reviled are to be judged by the Church. I will be leaving shortly to confirm the Reviled’s identity myself and carry out their sentencing.”

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