“Good morning,” I say, unsure what else to say.
He knows. He knows what we’ve—what I’ve done.
No—he knowsmostof what we’ve done.
That we found out who burned the library.
That we brought Gwenna back.
That we need her to complete our quest.
And that we don’t yet know what that means.
None of that is a lie. None of that is anythingwrong.
But what he doesn’t know…
The grail isn’t awhat, Mr. Pendragon. It’s awho.
I swallow.
What he doesn’t know isn’t something Iwanthim to know. Not just yet.
So to see him here, now, sets a feeling of iron dread over me.
“Come,” my father says, clasping me on the shoulder. “You too, Father,” he calls up to the chancel. “If we may?—”
“Of course.” Father Denis lowers his head and gestures toward the back corner of the nave. “Mi officina, su officina.”
The chapel office is humble. Tall windows, tight with bookshelves, spanned almost fully by a wooden desk. I can’t remember the last time I was in here and yet I’m positive nothing has changed. I fold my coat over a chair and sit, silent, as Father Denis lifts his vestments from his neck and hangs them on a hook, the red and gold the only bright color in the room. My father settles himself in the second chair, slower than I do, and smiles as Father Denis takes his own seat, hands folded on his blotter.
“To what do I owe the honor?” he jokes lightly, and my father chuckles.
“I’ve just received notice,” my father goes on, “that we’ll be hosting guests for Candlemas in two weeks’ time.”
Candlemas. A holiday that’s minor to the point of vanishing for most Christians, even Catholics, but one that Caliburn has seized on as the centerpiece of winter semester. Light in the darkness. A rekindling of the spirit.
A shiver prickles down my neck. The fire imagery, always. Had I never noticed it before?
You let someone think that I did this.
You said nothing.
I force my attention back to the present.
“Guests?” Father Denis says mildly. His thin brows draw. “You mean Mountstuart and Villa Loyola?—”
My father shakes his head. “The tournament opponents, yes. These are other guests. Special guests.” His face moves in a smile that doesn’t meet his eyes. “The White Brothers of St. Vincent.”
My blood goes cold.
The Consistory. Here. Here, in America, atCaliburn.
I’ve only ever seen them once, when I was eighteen and taking my vows. A week in France. Cold vegetarian food and hard beds. Prayer every three hours, day or night. The Prior at Arms…
The chill in my blood gives way to panic.
“They don’t travel,” I blurt out. Then bite my tongue.Get a hold of yourself.“I mean…they’re cloistered.”
