Simon flung the small book at the crucifix with a roar of fury. The scream went on until his lungs wheezed in agony, and Simon staggered on his feet as he at last drew a breath. He stood in the tomb of the chapel with his chest heaving, glaring at the symbol of his lifelong delusion. The icon for which he had devoted his life; the representation of all that had been taken from him, taken from those he loved.
He believed none of it any longer. It was naught but a story he’d desperately wanted to see proven true. Like a bedtime tale meant to comfort and assure a child anxious in the dark. Simon had berated the desperate Eseld for believing such fantasies about her son, but at least her idol was a living, flesh-and-blood man. Whatever Christ had been—if he had been at all—now he was nothing more than the likeness of a dead man hanging in macabre decoration in chapels all over the world.
There was no difference between the nurse’s delusions about Glayer Felsteppe and Simon’s pathetic whims about God. Except perhaps that Eseld was infrequently rewarded for her unwavering devotion.
Simon left the chapel with the door standing open and made his way toward the keep to answer Glayer Felsteppe’s summons.
Chapter 9
Dori watched Constantine Gerard stack the wet firewood near the hearth and felt another pang of guilt as she kept her seat on the bench, the ever-present tankard of broth in her fist. She’d tried several times for the first few days of her recovery to offer her assistance to the man who was so dependably—if brusquely—tending her. Each of her inquiries as to how she could help him had been met by increasingly stinging rebuffs, causing her to feel foolish and humiliated, and so she’d stopped offering. They rarely spoke now, unless it was a hesitant inquiry or a curt response regarding the weather beyond the walls.
They’d been sharing the little oratory for more than a week and it had rained constantly all those many days. A blessing that had allowed them to enjoy a warming fire, even though the great torrents outside had flooded the river and made fishing almost impossible, and the ground and the very air were so saturated with water that the walls inside the oratory had begun to trickle, lending the shelter the feel of a subterranean cave.
Dori felt much improved; her mind was clearing, as was her vision; her skin was not so blatantly transparent as it had been for weeks. The constant cry of her baby—trapped in her ears since the blurry moment of his birth—quieted somewhat, allowing Dori to recall it at will rather than be at its mercy while it haunted her unceasingly, causing her heart to gallop and her thoughts to thrash against the inside of her skull. She no longer felt that she was barely clinging to sanity, liable to leap from the edge and run toward Thurston Hold and to whatever bloody end Glayer Felsteppe would serve upon her. As she grew stronger, her thoughts became more methodical, more calculating. She was coming back to herself; she could feel it. And each day in the oratory bolstered her confidence in the idea that when she went to collect her son, she would not fail.
She was nearly ready.
“The rain must surely stop soon,” she said to Lord Gerard’s back, ever toward her.
The shadow of his head bobbed in response.
She grimaced and gave a silent sigh. “I’d go to Thurston Hold at its first break; perhaps before. The rain will do much to hide my journey. I’ll discover whether Felsteppe is in residence and see what else I can learn of the goings on.”
He didn’t bother to face her. “You’re still too weak.”
“I’m not,” Dori argued. “I’m nearly well.”
The shadow shook to the negative and then was still for some time. Just when Dori thought he was set on ignoring her completely, Lord Gerard turned sideways on the stool.
“You’d come down with fever and die.”
“No,” she said calmly. “I wouldn’t.”
“Or you’d be caught.”
“No.” She could feel her temper rising, heat coming into her cheeks, and so she took a moment to breathe. “I can’t simply sit here forever while Felsteppe is allowed to go on about his life with my son however he pleases.”
Lord Gerard shook his head and turned his face back to the fire, although his large body remained perpendicular to her on the stool. “Too weak.”
“Well, I’ll never recover completely living on nothing but fish and broth in this dank prison,” she snapped.
Lord Gerard rolled his head back to regard her with somewhat of a wry expression. “You’re welcome.”
Now Dori’s cheeks did heat. “I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful. I know you likely saved my life.”
He looked away again. “I did save your life.”
Her frown deepened. This was not going at all the way she’d planned. And yet she couldn’t keep herself from rising to the bait he seemed intent on dangling before her. “After you tried to kill me.”
“You tried to kill me, too,” he replied mildly.
Dori gave a low growl in her throat. “If only I had.”
“Yes, if only.”
Another deep breath. “I’m not asking your permission. I’m telling you that I am ready to make the journey to Thurston Hold.”
He was silent for several moments, and when he did begin to speak, he kept his gaze on the fire to his right.
