“Would you have noticed a key when you were searching?” the Majester asked.
“If it looked like a key, then yes,” Adalbrand said. “We saw a map. Of the world. On a sphere.”
The Majester barely skipped a beat. “The Holy Inquisitor claims he read about that once. That there was a time that man believed the earth was a ball.” He sounded testy. “Before you tell me all the reasons that’s nonsense, please know I’ve already heard a rant from the High Saint and am not in the mood for another. Unless this round ball unlocks one of the doors in this place, I’m simply not interested in it.”
“Well there was an interesting — ” Adalbrand began, but the door to the room crashed open.
I spun, drawing my sword in a single motion. I vaguely heard the curses of the Majester General, whose parchment had fluttered to the floor when I moved, vaguely noticed that Adalbrand — the fool — had automatically moved between me and the door without even drawing his blade.
Brindle barked.
Once.
Sharply.
But it was only Sir Owalan. Out of breath. White-lipped. Blood streaked down his dove-grey tabard. He opened his mouth to speak, turned, vomited, and then tried again.
“The Seer is dead.”
Chapter Fifteen
Poisoned Saint
She told me that there was no way out. She told me the way forward was through blood. I just hadn’t realized her vision was so immediate — that it meant here, today.
“Saints and Angels.”
I look up in time to catch the sardonic look on the young Vagabond’s face.
“Are you sure?” I gasp, forcing my gaze back to an unsteady Sir Owalan.
He nods roughly, holding the doorjamb in a trembling fist.
“Where?” I grit out.
The Majester has retrieved his map, but the Vagabond has not put her sword away. Good. We must have been attacked. Or a trap was sprung. Or something.
“The lock,” Owalan says.
His face is turning green again. I could try to ease his suffering but perhaps the Seer has a chance. I’ve been there before when someone was pronounced dead too soon and, together with my brothers, I brought them back.
I don’t know which of us moves first, me or the dog. I’m running past the Penitent Paladin before I even catch the benediction he murmurs as he makes the holy sign from forehead to sword arm.
My hands are sweating and my brow furrowed as I pick up speed down the corridor and out into the main room. The statues loom high over me and the sunlight streaming through the windows has turned from the gold of dawn and sped right through to the swell of afternoon. The granite blossoms around their feet mock me.
I’m but a gnat in this towering vault of a room, small as a mote of dust tumbling through the light beams. My legs take forever to cross all that white marble and each footfall echoes loudly through the hall.
My lips are already murmuring the prayers that come before healing.
God grant me strength to take pain from another. God grant me your power to heal. God preserve us. God have mercy. God have mercy.
I haven’t even reached the third “God have mercy” and then I see them — clustered around a heap on the ground.
Hefertus is pale, his face set like flint. I have seen him at the scene of a tragedy before. This is his way.
Beside him, the High Saint is in a crouch over the Seer. He clutches at his hair, his mouth wide and drawn in a look of horror. His eyes find us first and he flinches backward, falls to his bottom, crab-walking. His hand finds his sword hilt.
I’m already frowning before the Inquisitor sets a hand on the shoulder of the Hand of Justice — also crouched over the body. The Hand looks over his shoulder and his eyes narrow when he sees me. He stands in one fluid motion and draws his sword.
