“And a lifetime to build.”
“And slave labor. Or prisoners. Or supplicants, I suppose, were they dedicated enough.”
“Or monks,” Sir Coriand suggested gently.
“The ones who are bent just a little. You know. Twisted. Off. Not right.” Sir Sorken was nodding.
“And about a hundred or a hundred and fifty years, obviously,” Sir Coriand said absently. “Which we don’t really have, unless you’ve solved the puzzle of age, my friend.”
“I’m working on it. No progress as of yet.”
Sir Coriand paused, realized we were all listening, and cleared his throat. “But building a replica is neither here nor there. For now, suffice it to say, we won’t be getting out of this one until it’s solved. And it’s wickedly clever. Puzzles within puzzles and all that. If there weren’t so many tragic … incidentals … it would be quite a lark, really.”
“He means deaths,” Sorken clarified.
“Yes, that. The solution for this room required every living person in the room to participate. Interesting that it didn’t need the dog, don’t you think? But I suppose the dog didn’t sign up for this. Maybe consent is required.”
“I consented to nothing,” the High Saint said with a barb in his tone. I shot him an angry scowl. I hadn’t forgotten what he’d taken. And I hadn’t consented to that.
“Well, the door did try to keep us out. I think that perhaps entry is consent. Except where the dog is concerned, at least. He came with the girl. It wasn’t his choice. And we had to work together as a group. It couldn’t be solved separately one at a time. It stands to reason that the rest of the riddles will be like that, too.”
“Surely there cannot be more.” Sir Owalan sounded aghast. “This would test the patience of a true Saint.” He paused. “Or is that how it creates Saints? Through tests that stretch us to the edges?”
“Which is your goal?” Sir Coriand asked with a faint smile. “To be a Saint or to find the cup? I think — perhaps — that the puzzle box offers both to you.”
“Please, Brindle,” I whispered. “Please be well.”
I needed him back, if only to have an intelligent conversation.
I cleared my throat. “I’m not certain anymore that this place makes Saints. I think it’s trying to kill us.”
“Well, it’s certainly being creative about it,” Sir Coriand said tolerantly. “Well? Cup or Saint?”
“I want the cup,” the Penitent said at the same time that the High Saint spoke. “I want to be a Saint.”
Sir Coriand laughed. “Well, at least you won’t kill each other if you want different things.”
And just like that, every eye turned to Adalbrand.
He sighed, his head bent over the Inquisitor. When he looked up, his face was lined and tired.
“I can do nothing for him. His soul has fled.”
“Oh, Merciful God, have mercy, have mercy,” the Majester moaned.
The wicked part of me wondered if the God had as little mercy to spare as I did. Perhaps he’d flick the Majester’s request away as one flicks away a gnat.
It would serve him right.
The look in Adalbrand’s eyes was murderous, and I thought that perhaps the Majester owed Hefertus a great debt, because the looming paladin had followed his friend and right now it was only his meaty palm that held the Poisoned Saint back from lunging at the Majester. Adalbrand may have healed him, but it seemed he still struggled to forgive. A part of me felt very satisfied with that.
“I can’t remember why I did it,” the Majester said uneasily. “There was some voice telling me it was right.” I felt a chill at that. “Blood was required. And with him broken beneath the masonry, it was a mercy. No one wants to live with their legs and pelvis crushed to powder. That’s what the voice said.”
“I could have healed that,” Adalbrand gritted out between clenched teeth.
“No one can heal what the God has wrought,” the High Saint said, making the holy sign. “Come with me, Majester, and I will hear your confession and grant you reprieve as I may. We shall take this matter to the God where it belongs.”
“I … I … yes.” The Majester looked shaken.
