I choose a cup of ravens and owls for their eyes, so like hers, which can see to worlds beyond, and I cross to the far side of the room from her. The statues that are akin to our forms and faces — and do not think for a moment that does not make my skin crawl as if it were lined with grubs — are in a rough semi-circle and the Vagabond’s image is directly across from mine, both anchoring the ends.
I look up into staring, empty eyes just like mine. Whatever artistry depicted me here — be it glorious or depraved — has read me well. The white stone forms lines of sorrow, and the set of the shoulders is tight with determined pain. That’s me in every line. That’s my worried brow, my lips curled into the edge of a smile, my scar on the tip of my chin. A nick I received in some scuffle before I was even a man, never mind a squire. I can’t help the ironic smile that curls my lips. I never thought to see myself set in stone. I’m no Saint nor king. My father would scorn it on sight.
I set my feet on the steps and try not to flinch when I see they are woven of human bones. Those are two femurs my foot steps on. This next step is jaw bones and scapula. I stop looking after that, looking up, instead, at the great image before me. It’s not a Saint — because it is me.
It’s a terrible perversion to have an image of me set up like it is a Saint, though. This troubles me deeply. My stomach roils with it and my chest seizes. I have the most overwhelming urge to smash it, to tear it down. It seems too close to an idol, too near to a sacrilege.
I am no Saint, despite my moniker. I am only a man of flesh and blood, seamed through with darkness and light. I am only a humble knight before the great God. I hope he will forgive this blasphemy, as it is not of my making.
I think, perhaps, that I see why the Beggar Knight is so reluctant to play her part in this. I am, too.
God have mercy.
I set my cup into the hand. There’s a place there for it, a ring carved into the stone, and at a glance, I can see varying rings with varying patterns set into the hand. They look like the tumblers of a lock at different depths. The cup I selected goes down four layers in and it mates up neatly with the tumbler there. A twist, and it clicks in place, stuck now and secure.
“Are you sure this will determine which cup is the real one?” The Inquisitor sounds like a cornered animal, surrounded by men with sticks. “Because that doesn’t feel right, Penitent. I sense something else here … something very different.”
“Why else would there be so many cups?” Sir Owalan sounds very confident. “How else would we decide on which to use?”
“Use for what?” The Inquisitor shifts back and forth like the ground he’s standing on is burning hot. He can read the spirits. It’s his aspect’s dispensation. Does he sense something now he is not putting a voice to?
“There were slots in the clock in that main room, I noted,” Sir Sorken says. “Slots for cups, I wager. Did the rest of you notice it? No?”
“We could return home with all of them,” the Majester suggests. “Let our bishops sort one from another.”
“Could we? How grand.” Hefertus’s words are almost a drawl. “If you wouldn’t mind lighting the way, Majester, and showing me the path out, I’ll be happy to follow. Though I’m not sure my stallion can support the weight of hundreds of cups, I’ll certainly give it a try if it means being free of this place.”
The Majester’s voice snaps like a flag. “Obviously, I don’t know the way yet, Prince Paladin. Your mockery is not welcome.”
Hefertus is right. It would take an army to carry all these cups from this place.
I look across the room and see the Vagabond Knight hesitating over her cup. I can’t make out her features well from here, but she looks to the sky as I bid her. Perhaps, in her heart, she flies up in faith and entrusts herself to her God. The idea that I could spark faith in another snatches my breath for a moment. It’s a dear thing. Precious.
I must pluck my gaze away from her to quell the emotions rising up. Here, as in the other vault, we are tiny, living, breathing, messy, colorful dots in a massive white vault that reaches so high up that I cannot clearly see the roof. The statuary towers over me in layers of figures, white with dove-soft shadows and muted edges. If this place were in St. Rauche’s Citadel, it would be honored by the soft chanting of monks and the burning of rare incense, and pilgrims would come from all across the face of the earth for a single hour of blessing in such a place. Instead, it is shut away from the world, preserved, standing ready.
I wonder if I can find a favorite depiction of a Saint in those clustered on the wall nearby. I focus, finally, on their faces and my heart freezes.
The Saints are familiar in how they are depicted with graceful limbs and distant expressions, carved with symbolic weaponry and the flowing clothing of the righteous.
But these are not my Saints. Nor any that I recognize from ancient texts — and I have read so, so many texts.
As the light twists around them, my stomach twists, and I have a terrible feeling that they are no one’s Saints at all.
That one is posed like Our Lady of Kindness. But it is not her, for that Saint certainly did not have a forked tongue, nor did she wink one eye in derision.
The one just there looks like the Hunter King, with his bow and stags. But the Hunter King never had human victims bound to the back of his stag, their wide eyes helpless and naked forms trussed so tightly that the chiseled ropes bite into their flesh.
My lips fall open and I bite back a gasp.
This is all wrong.
And I didn’t see it until now. I was too entranced with Victoriana to see what she saw. I raise a hand, about to try to stop her — but with a sigh I can hear from even this far away, she clicks her cup into place.
It’s too late.
We all freeze, tense with readiness. My gaze flicks across the other paladins, but no one has moved. We’re waiting for something to happen. Maybe for a cup to glow or for the rejected cups to melt away.
There is nothing. Silence reigns.
