Page 53 of The Black Table
“Shameful, Kingston, that’s what that is. Shameful.”
I say nothing.
“You lost in a scrimmage to St. Ignaty. Did you think I wouldn’t hear of that?”
I can only stare at the ground. I can’t look anywhere else. I am tense, head to foot, waiting, waiting for the blow. And when my eyes close, I hold them shut a fraction of a second longer than usual.
Bracing.
But there is no strike, of blade or of fist.
There is just her face. Concentrating. Focused.
No.
My eyes fly open.
“Answer me,” my father roars, and I realize he’s been speaking to me. “What good comes of you quitting, Kingston? What good, to anyone?”
“Not…quitting. Not permanently,” I mumble, freshly ashamed at how weak my voice sounds. “Only for the season, the semester. I’ll come back to it when?—”
“You will not,” my father interrupts. He glances back at his desk. “I’ve just finished the logistics. A new tranche of documents coming into the library. French, German, Italian, all over the place. All at Emrys’s asking. All foryourbenefit.”
I clench my teeth hard. So hard I can taste blood at the back of my mouth.
Because I know he’s right. I know it shouldn’t be too much. It’s part of what we do. The purity of purpose, the excellence with the blade, the quest for the ultimate knowledge.
Swordsmanship. Scholarship. Self-mastery.
It all comes together. It all has to.
And yet…
“It’ll still be there,” I say, voice a little stronger now. “Still be there once we’ve completed the season and…”
“But will he take you in the class?” My father cuts in. “Do you know what I’ve done to appease that doddering old fool? The lengths I’ve gone to, the strings I’ve pulled, the sheer amount of money I’ve spent…”
There’s a heat to his words now, the flicker of power waning slightly.
“You know the kind of scrutiny we’re under. This sort of…unorthodox arrangement with him is already testing the limits.”
It’s more than that. And we both know it.
Because what he doesn’t say, would never say out loud, is that it’s heresy.
To the rest of the world, the White Brothers of Saint Vincent are a harmless, secluded sect of monks in the south of France. They mask their faces, pray ceaselessly, keep bees and keep away from the world.
To us, they are judge, jury, and executioner. The Consistory.
Founded by the antipope Benedict XIII of Avignon just after his excommunication in 1417. Charged since then as keepers of the grail protocol. Fervent, exacting, zealous.
A mage like Dr. Myrddin Emrys is not someone to be tangled with in their kind of holy pursuit.
Unless, of course, it succeeds.
In that case, of course, all sins are forgiven.
But only if.
