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1
ALISTAIR
“South?”
One.
The lash hits my back, the iron beads on the tendrils breaking my skin. I smile.
“Present.”
“West?”
Two.
“Present.”
“East?”
Three.
“Present.”
“North? Present.”
The whip hits my back for the fourth time. I don’t flinch, nor do I feel the pain.
Raising my hand, I let the cat whip fly over my shoulder to strike myself for the fifth time.
Five more.
The act of self-flagellation is a ritual the Cardinals have taken part in for centuries. It grounds us.Focuses us. Keeps us from straying off the path laid out in ancient times.
Feeling the blood trickle down my back as I increase the pressure of the strike, I close my eyes and smile.
The sound of the other three whips is music to my ears. The sounds of the hushed rasps of horror and fear of the inter-Cardinals fill my black soul with something akin to joy.
Ten.
“Rise.”
The other three Cardinals, in order, Benedict, Damien, and Charles, rise from kneeling on the cold stone floor of the underground chamber in the old townhouse in the middle of KnightsGate, one of the oldest cities in England and the founding town of our Order.
“Inter-Cardinals. Have you completed the tasks given to you?”
“Yes, Duke.”
“Yes, Duke.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes.”
Narrowing my eyes at South-West, I tilt my head. “Yes, what?”
“Sir. Duke. Your Grace. Sir?” His nervous tension makes my blood sing. He is the outlier here. He has been brought in as a test. The other three know their place and know it is here, learning at the feet of the masters.
“Pick one.”
