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If that was the case, how did he become privy to these unusual circumstances that failed to make sense in the human world?
The carriage stopped in the semicircular drive of the manor, and as the baron prepared to exit, he heard voices on the other side of the door. Peering through the window showed the coachman, Fenwick, speaking with his father’s henchman, Alaric.
“Now?” Fenwick asked, his brows pinched to a confused frown. “But we’ve just returned, and I’m certain the young lord is exhausted after a long day.”
“Yes. Immediately.”
“Very well.” The carriage door opened, and Fenwick cleared his throat. “My lord, your father has returned early from his travels and asked that I take you to the monastery.”
“The monastery? At this hour? For what purpose?”
“I am afraid I do not know.”
The henchman merely tipped his chin up, the refusal to say clear on his face.
“My mother asked that I meet with her first.”
“You will do no such thing.” Alaric rested his hand on the hilt of the dagger at his hip, the gesture telling the boy that he’d use force, if necessary. “I was tasked to fetch you immediately. Your father will meet you in the undercroft.”
“I was told that I would not be required to return until my wounds healed.”
“I suppose you will have to learn for yourself the reason for which he summoned you.” He twisted toward Fenwick, towering over the portly coachman. “Perhaps you will step back so that I may join Lord Van Croix in the carriage.”
After an unsure glance toward the baron, Fenwick did as Alaric asked.
As the larger man climbed inside, the baron scooted away from him, keeping as much distance between them as possible. The door closed, and only moments later, they were off.
Silence carried for an exceptionally long time, the baron stealing glances every so often and catching the subtle stroke of Alaric’s hand over the blade on his lap. A marking on his thumb caught the boy’s attention. Some sort of strange branding that’d been burned into his flesh. Not like the mark of the Pentacrux, which the baron easily recognized. Something he’d never seen before.
“You would spare yourself immense pain with a simple confession,” Alaric said, finally breaking the silence between them.
“You are either foolish, or ill-informed. Confession does not free oneself from pain. Surely, you have made note of those who’ve gone missing.”
“And what are your theories about that?”
Saying them aloud to his father’s righthand would have been as incriminating as if he’d sprouted wings before the bishop. No one spoke ill of his father, and particularly not the Pentacrux, so instead, the baron turned his attention back toward the window. “Tell me, Alaric. Would you kill me on my father’s command?”
“Yes,” the man answered without a single hitch.
The baron’s lips twitched, his suspicions confirmed. “If it is loyalty that compels you, know that he would slide a blade across your throat with little more remorse than for the dirt on his boots.”
“And still, twice the regard he has for you.”
The baron kept his gaze locked on the passing landscape, puzzling over why his mother opposed the murdering of her husband, considering Alaric spoke the truth. He did not say another word for the rest of the ride to the monastery, and when the cart breached the gates of the building, coming to a stop in the clearing, a sickness twisted in the baron’s stomach. “You know what he does in these meetings, yet you say and do nothing.”
“My loyalty extends only to your father.”
“Like a lame dog who has only to limp once before getting put down.”
“Come, young lord, I am certain there is much to be discussed between you and the good bishop.” Alaric’s mocking tone grated on the baron, and he ground his teeth, holding back the ire burning inside of him.
He followed after Alaric into the grounds of the monastery and toward the infirmary. Makeshift beds lay scattered about an open room, where the pentashes scurried between them, offering ladles of water from wooden buckets. At the opposite side of the room, Bishop Venable stood beside one of the sick, his hand waving in the distinct gesture of the cross.
With a jerk of his head, Alaric urged him to follow, and as they passed one particular bed, a hand reached out to grab his wrist. The baron turned toward a frail-looking, older woman, whose eyes bulged wide, gray hair in disarray about her head. A Raver, as the Pentacrux would have labeled her. She pulled at his arm, lifting her upper body from the bed, where shadows of stains on the blankets below her indicated she’d been there a while. An awful stench crinkled his nose, and he fought the urge to gag. “Your Grace,” she rasped. “Save us.”
“I am not a holy man,” the baron responded, tugging back his own arm, but her clutch tightened.
“He vowed to deliver my soul this eve. I’ve a young daughter. I will give you her hand, if you’ll take me from this evil place.”
