Page 22 of The Lost Reliquary
“I do not question the Goddess’s will or wisdom,” Gottschalk says curtly. “Not even when they send me a pair of children to do what has already been done. Caius, take them to the heretic.”
Dismissed.
“He’s charming,” I say when we are well away from Gottschalk’s study. “Must be fun at your Order’s parties.”
Nolan gapes at my insolence, but a faint smile spreads on Caius’s lips. “Gottschalk is a paragon among our path,” he says with careful respect, “but not known for diplomacy. Even when it comes to our blood brethren.” Despite our cover story, he doesn’t lower his voice. “Don’t worry, this castle is more like a mausoleum whose occupants haven’t quite figured out they’re dead yet.” Sourness tinges his words, makingme wonder how much he cares for his current position. “And what ears are here to listen know to keep their secrets well.”
“You mean those cheerful fellows outside Arbiter Gottschalk’s chamber?”
Caius shoots me a wry look. “Belspire’s lofted Thorn Guard. An interesting quirk of the city’s history. They were the royal lines’ elite bodyguard for centuries even before the gods arrived, trained to be loyal, impenetrable, and deadly. Not unlike our ilk in many ways.”
“And now?” Nolan inquires.
“They still serve, though they’ve persisted to the point of far outshining the charges they were created to protect.”
The way he says it, it’s clear the royals aren’t the ones calling the shots for their bodyguards these days. But even though Bellators are the only ones who command legions, it’s not unusual for Priors, Arbiters, or even Clerics to have a few blade-swinging minions. Someone has to do the dirty work.
“Must be a handy perk to being positioned here. How long have you been in Belspire?”
Caius’s mouth thins. “Long enough.”
“Seems nice. I hope I get as fancy an assignment as this.”
He scoffs quietly. “You might aspire higher than this bitter weed of a city. Though we all serve where the Goddess wills, don’t we?”
Oh yeah, someone would definitely prefer to be stationed elsewhere. I can’t exactly blame him. Belspire isn’t far from the Goddess’s light, but it isn’t exactly close either. The itch of that lack has already begun, a nagging feeling in the back of my mind, like I’ve forgotten to do something important. Caius has had time to acclimate, certainly, but this is a middling assignment, at best. And it can’t be fun playing second to a superior who basically amounts to a cranky skeleton.
“You were at the Dusk Cloister,” says Nolan, with obvious intent to change the subject.
Caius glances over, as if sizing Nolan up a second time. “I thought I recognized you. You arrived shortly before I left to begin my apprenticeship.” He pauses meaningfully. “You both witnessed the massacre at the Cathedral. When we received word of what had happened… I can’t imagine.”
“You really can’t,” I say.
Nolan gives me a sharp look. There’s loosening our story a little, and there’s straying too close to the truth of how those hundreds of devoted really ended up dead.
“Awful.” Caius shakes his head. “We must all do what we can to ensure those responsible are brought to justice.”
That’s all the bonding we manage before we descend a series of stairs into the darker, danker corners of the castle. A stone arch leads into a dim corridor that ends at a thick door. After removing an iron key from his cassock, Caius opens it, revealing a winding staircase leading down into the earth. The air around us shifts, carrying a musty scent of damp stone accented by the hostile tang of human suffering. At the bottom of the stairs, there is a long passage lined with cells. Belspire’s prisoners are a sorry lot, shivering in the sharp chill of the dungeon air. I try to ignore the rotten food in the prisoners’ bowls, the human waste in places it shouldn’t be, and the haunted hollowness of the eyes that follow us. Whatever crimes are being punished here are beyond a penitent’s restitution, and a whole lot ofnot my business.
Another staircase takes us even deeper into the earth, to a tight, ancient passage with thick spots of mold clinging to its stones. The light grows almost nonexistent, only a handful of oil lamps barely flickering. If the cells we passed were a place of punishment, this was a place to throw someone away entirely. Or at least somewhere no screams will be heard.
A solitary cell sits at the end of the cramped corridor. It’s so dark here that, even with my eyesight, I think it’s empty at first. Then: a faint movement in one shadowed corner, from what I mistook for a pile of rags. It’s a person… mostly. There is something off about the shape and hold of her body, and a hint of old blood hanging in the air.
“Heretic.” The pile trembles noticeably at the sound of Caius’s voice. “You will answer any of the questions these two ask of you.” The Arbiter gestures for us to step forward, something new in his face: anticipation. Apparently, Caius doesn’t only oversee the interrogations at Belspire—he enjoys the work. “Proceed.”
Nolan steps forward, hands wrapping around the bars of the cell. For a moment I catch something that might be pity, but he’s carefullyneutral when he turns back to Caius. “We need to question her in private. Those are our orders.”
Our orders from Tempestra-Innara.That part goes unspoken, and Caius doesn’t question it, though there’s a flicker of disappointment. “Of course. I will return in a while.” He starts to depart, then pauses. “You will not be overheard here.”
“Thank you for your help, Arbiter Caius.” My formal politeness seems to assuage him slightly, and he nods to me before leaving.
Nolan and I wait until his footsteps are long gone, then turn back to the ruined form of the woman in the cell.
There were many facets to our studies at the Cloisters. Swing a blade, read a book, say your prayers—those were the easy parts. But there werespeciallessons too, ones that were as much tests of our nerve as they were additions to our education.
I can tell at once that the woman has been badly tortured. She relaxes slightly after Caius is gone, limbs loosening in the bloodied scraps that remain of her clothing. Her light skin is a mess of bruises and open wounds, a few of which have begun to fester. Even if she wasn’t being executed tomorrow, she wouldn’t survive another week, at least not without immediate medical attention and a shitload of luck. I trace the paths of her injuries, noting size and shape and location, a picture forming of what Caius did, or had done to her.
After all, we both received the same education.
