“You want each of us to leave our possessions here and follow you into the monastery, confessing at the door that we are murderers and the lowest of worms?” The High Saint looks like he might start worshipping Sir Kodelai if he isn’t reined in.
It takes all my self-control not to roll my eyes. When I accidentally catch a glimpse of the Beggar Paladin, she’s making a face like she bit into something sour. I catch Sir Owalan watching her and biting his lip with amusement. You grow inured to this nonsense over time … but it takes time, and the Vagabond hasn’t had that time yet. Her reaction — and how adeptly it mirrors my own, though I disguise it — is like a breath of fresh air after being in a sick house.
Sir Kodelai claps Sir Joran on the shoulder. “Actually, High Saint, I was hoping you would lead the way and I will bring up the rear, bearing in mind that all gathered here are under my authority.”
He gives us all a grim look to remind us that if we so much as flinch from his outrageous demands, we’ll be flayed alive in public — wonderful stuff — and then he turns back to the High Saint, who wastes no time in intoning his next words.
“Let us pray. Glorious God, from each of us our bounty, to each of us our need, may the Lord of Heaven render that on which our spirits feed.”
There is a ragged “amen” from the group, though this time I accidentally catch Hefertus’s eye roll. The prayer is a mealtime prayer. About as fitting for this occasion as breaking out an aged wine and popping the cork might be.
“Well, lead on then, Saint,” one of the Engineers says, taking a noisy slurp of tea. I wonder idly if he can smuggle in his kettle. It will be a difficult day for the Engineers without the steady stream of tea they ingest. “Go confess to murder like a good knight.”
The High Saint gives him a black look, but he spins sharply on his heel as if he expects to be inspected — by Sir Kodelai, no doubt — and plunges into the door with the heartrending cry of “I confess, I am a murderer!”
I taste iron as I bite into my lip, certain the door will suck the life out of him for that, but to my surprise, he strides through, looks around, and then keeps going as if nothing has happened.
The Majester follows, hot on his heels. He has kept his parchment and pens, though he leaves his pack and extra weapons behind. His face is lined and grim as he states, “Murder,” and strides through the door. Just like the High Saint, nothing seems to happen.
I catch the Vagabond’s eye. Does she see this?
She shrugs.
Hefertus goes next, a calculating look on his face, and I know what he’s planning before he tries it. He says nothing as he steps through, only bending when he’s caught, frozen mid-stride by the door. When he finally confesses “murder” it sounds like a curse.
“No dawdling behind this time, Beggar Knight,” the Hand of the God says pointedly, and the Vagabond’s cheeks are stained bright when she strides stiffly to the door.
Her dog growls at Sir Kodelai as she steps through. She has kept a thick bearskin cloak by means of wearing it, and who knows what she’s tucked beneath it. She was a flurry of arranging and sifting through her pack before her name was called. I suspect she’s stashed all kinds of things on her person. Survivors and beggars are like that. They keep what they can and will be as devious as necessary to keep it close. Those who don’t, die fast enough to convince the rest.
I step through quickly after her, and I hate that I feel nothing when I confess I am a murderer — or rather, nothing more than the normal pang of terrible shame that I always feel when I admit to myself or to others that my failures killed a girl still not in adulthood and the poor pale babe she bore. They’re both on my mind when I almost collide with the scowling Vagabond Paladin.
“Some of us,” she says pointedly, “have far too much power. And some of us enjoy it too much.”
I purposefully misunderstand her, hoping I can cool her temper before the Hand of the God arrives.
“If you mean me, Lady Paladin, then let me confess I am entirely powerless before your charms.”
She laughs, a low snicker-y laugh like she doesn’t believe me, but she relaxes, which was my aim in teasing her.
“Lead on, sir jokester, and I hope we deal with the poor Seer and find the cup quickly. I have the most terrible feeling of visiting my own grave when I come here, and I should like to note that it’s a far grander and far more terrifying grave than I ever expected.”
I could not say why I smile at that, or why I hurry down the stairs so quickly, but I’m not alone. We are all silent as we descend the endless stairs to the vault below. Just as before, the absolute scale of the place makes it feel sacred, intimidating, holy. We are like red ants trailing in a line through a cathedral too small to fully comprehend the glory around us.
Light bathes the white hall in ivory laced with the colors of the triptych, and for a moment I am transported to the Aspect of the Holy God’s church in Saint Rauche’s Citadel. I can almost hear the chanting echoing through the nave as I did when I visited there last.
By the time we reach the mosaic floor — in silence, I might add — those following us are nearly on our heels.
The last ones to have entered other than Sir Kodelai are the Engineers, and I note with a certain degree of approval — despite my general condemnation — that they have found a way to subvert Sir Kodelai’s orders by bringing their golems. The golems carry all their belongings — including, I would like to note, a kettle still steaming and bubbling.
There will be tea. It cannot be stopped any more than the sunrise.
“You can hardly expect us to agree to come down here for your ceremony and leave the golems up there unsupervised, and if they’re coming anyway, then they should carry for us,” Sir Sorken is saying. “We’ve both done as you wished — our hands are empty and we’ve confessed to murder.”
He says “murder” in an overly dramatic way of which I fully approve. After all, none of us should have been asked to do this. This entire act is a violation. The Aspect of the Vengeful God is making enemies here.
They leave the golems at the foot of the stairs and we walk the rest of the way in silence. Though this monastery is pristine and bathed with morning light in a way that makes the carved flowers blush and limns the hummingbirds carved alongside them, we are going to a scene of a terrible tragedy.
The others duck their heads under the importance of this act, or scuttle quickly, eyes forward. Not my Vagabond though. Her eyes are upward and narrowed, first taking in the demon — still caged, I might add; if he killed the Seer, then he did it from there — and then inspecting each of the faces of the mighty statues that tower above us. They are graceful and fluid in their frozen agony. They make something in my chest seize and choke.
