The Weeping Monk took note of the gruesome flails hanging from the Trinity guards’ leather belts, and he coolly tucked his robe behind the pommel of his sword and stood to face them as Father Carden approached the door. The Trinity stepped back in unison and spread the flaps of the pavilion’s entrance. Father Carden ducked and entered alone.
A sour mist obscured only the closest items. The air was heavy and scented with incense. Perspiration beaded Carden’s brow. Servants continued to scurry back and forth, replenishing the vast wooden tub at the center of the papal tent with natural hot spring water.
Wading in the tub was a human skeleton. Pope Abel weighed no more than a hundred pounds and was mostly hairless. What flesh did cover his bones was sinewy and taut.
“Your Holiness.” Carden knelt on the carpet before the tub.
“Rise, Father Carden,” Pope Abel answered in his gravelly voice.
Carden stood. He did not react when he saw the pope’s face, scabbed with the pox.
“I find these waters quite restorative,” Abel said, then asked, “How was your journey?”
“Winter arrives early, Your Holiness,” Carden said.
“You must be tired. Let my people draw you a bath. Surely I haven’t used all the hot water.” Pope Abel smiled. Carden noted that despite the pope’s diseased appearance, his teeth were pearly white.
“That is a generous offer, Your Holiness, but . . .” Carden hesitated.
“But the work is too important. I know. I know you. Your work has not gone unnoticed, I assure you, Father Carden. And I know we have taken you away from that work. It must be difficult.”
“It is my honor to make the trip, Your Holiness. But yes, I confess there is a feeling that weighs upon me. There is so much to do.”
“God sees this work, Father Carden. He sees. How many villages cleansed? Is there a number?” Abel asked eagerly.
“They don’t always live in villages, Your Holiness. These sad abominations live in the treetops and mud holes, caves, marshes. It is the rare kind that approximates what we would recognize as a traditional human settlement. The same goes for their appearance. While some might look like us, most of the others have stunted wings or misshapen limbs to afford easier climbing through the branches. Horns. Eyes without pupils that see in the dark. Some are covered in fur, while others live in the dark underground their entire lives and have no use for eyes, so they simply do not have them.”
“Extraordinary. How marvelous it must feel to know that you are doing what God planned for you and removing these aberrations from His land.”
“I feel this, Your Holiness, I do.” Carden felt a swell of emotion at the thought.
Pope Abel swam away and the mists converged around him. He emerged and spat water into the air. “How many Red Paladins do you command, Father Carden?”
Father Carden swelled a bit with pride. “It is difficult to say, Your Holiness. In every town now we are overrun with volunteers. It would not be a boast to suggest that our numbers exceed five thousand.”
“You have amassed an army, Father Carden. Incredible. And they are dedicated?”
“They come from different backgrounds, some rougher than others but they are a brotherhood. And a sisterhood as well, I might add.”
“Excellent.” Pope Abel snapped his hands together and water shot into the air. “And losses?”
The moment Father Carden feared had come. “Some, Your Holiness.”
“Some?” Pope Abel replied, still popping water into the air.
“Naturally, there is resistance to our great work.”
“A ‘resistance,’ is it, Father Carden? That sounds formidable. Is that what we call this Wolf-Blood Witch? Hmm? A ‘resistance’? All by herself?”
“She is not all by herself—”
Pope Abel sprang up in the tub. “Don’t contradict me, you vain farmer’s boy!”
Carden looked down at his muddy boots, shamed by the rebuke.
Pope Abel stood there, dripping immodestly, daring Carden to look him in the eye. Then, satisfied, he slowly slid back into the water up to his eyes and waited there, like a crocodile.
“I beg your forgiveness, Your Holiness,” Carden whispered.
“She knew our plans, this witch.”
Carden nodded. “They found maps—”
“Found? She stole them from the Red Paladins she murdered in the glade. I know everything, Father Carden. You do yourself no favors by softening the blow. Dozens of Red Paladins slain by this witch, and what has been your answer? Hmm?”
Carden started to answer, but Abel cut him off.
“Nothing! That is what! Your campaign is paralyzed with winter approaching. Weakness is like the pox, Father Carden: it spreads to all who are near it. This witch is making a fool of you. A fool of us!”
“There is—”
“Eh? What’s that?” Abel snarled. “Measure your words, pilgrim.”
Carden struggled to remain calm. “Your Holiness, we believe we have found where these creatures nest. We are setting the trap. I beg you for time. When we find her, I swear to God, we will make such a chilling example of her it will drive her followers to despair and madness.”
“Make it so, Father Carden, or it is you who will be made the example.”
“Yes, Your Holiness.”
“One more misstep and I will send in my Trinity to assume command of this army of yours. Be advised, the Trinity are not famous for their mercy.”
“I understand, Your Holiness.” Carden bowed and made as quick and dignified an exit as possible.
He was incredibly thankful to breathe the biting cold air again. He strode past the Trinity guards without a glance and was about to do the same to the Weeping Monk, then hesitated. He grabbed the monk at the bicep and hissed in his ear. “This is your failure that I have to come here and be subjected to this humiliation. Where is your pride? This witch mocks us. If I burn, mark my words, I will not burn alone.” Carden shoved the Weeping Monk aside and marched to his horse.
The monk adjusted his robes and stared at the golden, dead faces of the Trinity standing watch at the pavilion doors.
THIRTY-ONE
LADY LUNETTE STROKED A SHORT-HAIRED gray cat in her lap and tipped over a small hourglass on the windowsill of her tower. The sands began to fall. She gently pushed the feline from her lap. “Down, down. Work to do.” With a tiny complaint, the shorthair leaped onto a velvet bench and curled into a ball. Lady Lunette took a lump of fig pastry into her hand and patted it, humming softly to herself, as a knock sounded at her door.
“What is it?” she asked tartly.
The heavy oak door creaked open and Merlin leaned his head into the small doorway. “Your Majesty Queen Regent?”
An invisible armor of ice settled over Lady Lunette. She smiled thinly. “Lord Merlin, what a surprise. To what do we owe the honor of this visit? And may we offer you a fresh cherry custard?”
Merlin admired the tiered trays of colorful desserts that filled the Queen Regent’s tower chamber. “I must decline, milady, for I ate my fill at court. Though I hear they are delightful.”
“Wine, then,” Lady Lunette stated, cocking an eyebrow at a pitcher of wine and two silver goblets. “You must have worked up quite a thirst from such an exciting day.”