Chapter 55: Chasing Daybreak

Clara had lost track of time.

Her wrists were bound behind her back with a coarse rope that burned her skin whenever the soldier carrying her adjusted his grip. He’d slung her over his shoulder like a sack of grain shortly after the third time she tried to bite his hand.

The indignity was almost worse than the fear, but not quite. Her limbs had gone numb long ago, and the morning chill had settled so deeply into her bones that she’d stopped shivering.

That sounds bad, come to think of it.

Wherever they were headed, the walk was long. Based on the position of the rising sun, they appeared to be going north, but she couldn’t tell much besides that, since the only thing around them was a dense sea of trees. She was sure it’d been several hours since they abandoned the coach. They’d even passed over train tracks at one point, and she’d briefly entertained the notion that they were going to tie her there, like the damsel in a corny Western flick.

Leofric walked at the front of the column, his cassock brushing against the undergrowth as he moved. He hadn’t spoken since he’d told them to bind her, which was unnerving. Aldric trailed a few paces behind him, occasionally throwing a menacing glance back at Clara. At one point, a soldier grumbled about why they couldn’t have used horses for this, and Aldric chastised him about the importance of not leaving a trail through the forest.

Her mind went to the ring inside her satchel, which was now being carried by Aldric. If her plan worked, a trail wouldn’t be needed to find her.

After a while, the scenery shifted. The trees thinned, and the breeze became less earthy and more refreshing, as if the air itself were reinvigorating her. Clara craned her neck awkwardly and caught glimpses of a clearing ahead. There was a narrow dirt path that led to a wooden cottage, and behind it was a lake reflecting the morning sun. It’d be a picturesque vista in different circumstances, like a lone fisherman’s retreat surrounded by the wild; something fit for a thousand-dollar-a-night ‘nature experience’ Airbnb.

Leofric unlocked the door and pushed it open. “Set her down.”

The men tied her to a chair while she looked around.

In front of her stood a table, with an empty chair on the other side. Along the far wall were a kitchen cabinet and a washbasin, and to her left, a snug fireplace. It would all be very quaint, were it not for the iron bars set before the windows.

Maybe I’ll need to rethink the marketing for that Airbnb.

“Welcome to your temporary accommodations,” said Leofric pleasantly. “I’d apologize for the austerity, but I don’t think your stay will be very long.”

One man went to draw the drapes closed while another started the fire.

Aldric tossed her satchel aside, took a bottle of wine and a jeweled chalice from the cabinet, and placed them on the table. “You should be glad, Miss Casewell. You were so emphatic about continuing your interrogation, back then.”

Clara’s arms flailed against the ropes binding her to the chair as the inquisitor poured wine into the chalice in front of her. Leofric took the other seat, keeping his eyes fixed on hers, while the four soldiers left the cottage, presumably to keep guard outside.

Aldric poured slowly, letting the liquid swirl up the sides of the chalice. “You know, thanks to you, Her Holiness was rather clear about my… diminished prospects within the inquisition. I didn’t think I’d be conducting interrogations again this soon. The Goddess is truly merciful.”

“The Goddess has nothing to do with whatever this is,” Clara said defiantly. She leaned back, then pushed herself to the side with all her strength, causing the chair to slam against the table. The chalice fell over, spilling wine all over the table—and the high inquisitor.

Leofric sighed, but didn’t move even as the purple stain spread over his cassock. “Aldric, you will clean this mess, or I guarantee our next conversation will be significantly more unpleasant than the one you had with Her Holiness.”

Aldric’s eyes went wide, and he hurried to retrieve a cloth from the cabinet. Clara smirked as Aldric, with his hands shaking, ineffectually wiped at the purple stain on Leofric’s cassock. Watching him do this is almost comical enough to make this whole thing worth it. And to top it off, the cloth was only making it worse, smearing the wine deeper into the gray fabric.

“You have done enough,” Leofric said after what must have been five excruciating minutes of ritual humiliation. “Leave us. I will conduct the interrogation.”

“But, High Inquisitor—”

“Leave us.”

Aldric grunted, but did as he was told, closing the door to the cottage behind him. Leofric rose from his chair, took the cloth, and patiently dried the table.

“You see, Little Clara, this is really quite simple. I only want to understand what has happened to you. How a diligent servant of the Goddess was reduced to… this.” He glanced at her, and his face contorted in disgust.

“And what happens after you find out?”

“We shall see.” His smile was the same as always, but now that she’d seen the predator behind the kindness, it held a completely different meaning. “I am a merciful man, after all. I have low expectations, but if there is a way to return you to the Goddess’s service, that would be preferable to the alternative. I have invested a great deal of time in you, after all.”

Clara laughed. “That’s a funny way to say you’ve groomed an orphan for a decade to use her as a weapon against your political enemies.”

“Every servant of the Goddess, from the highest inquisitor to the lowliest monk, is ultimately a shepherd. A shepherd invests in his flock—feeds them, protects them, guides them. And when the time comes, yes, he takes from them what he needs. That is the natural order, ordained by the Goddess.” His voice had the patronizing tone of a professor made to repeat himself too much. “You were fed, clothed, educated, and loved at Saintess Brigid’s, where you learned the joys of serving a higher purpose. In return, you were asked to fulfill a single, holy purpose. It is not a bad bargain, compared to what might have become of a street rat left to the mercy of Elysia’s alleys.”

“It figures that someone like you would be an expert at moralizing your own twisted actions. But tell me, what holy purpose is that? What do you get out of antagonizing House von Rhenia?”

He shook his head. “I’d say you’ve already gotten more answers than you deserve. I’ll be asking the questions going forward.”

He took the chalice from the floor, wiped the rim, and poured the wine. Then he held it above his head with both hands and chanted, “In vino veritas.”

The wine glowed, and he lowered it to the edge of her lips.

“Drink.”

Clara kept her mouth shut and glanced at her satchel, lying in the corner of the room.

Warren urged his horse forward, following the ring’s tug. The forest closed around him quickly, and the column had to thin into a single file to keep going. Behind him, Duke von Rhenia called orders to his retinue. Warren had left in such a hurry that he hadn’t instructed the Church’s soldiers to follow him, but there was no time to rectify that mistake now.

“Lord Warren.” The duke brought his horse alongside Warren’s when the path briefly widened. “You have not yet explained where we’re headed. Or why, for that matter.”

Warren hesitated. He’d prefer not to explain the ring on his finger, nor the circumstances of its purchase, to Maximilian von Rhenia. But circumstance left him with little choice. “We are following an enchanted piece of jewelry, Your Grace. It is part of a set that draws toward its pair. I believe it will lead us to Casewell.”

Duke von Rhenia’s gaze flicked to Warren’s hand, then to his face, then back to the path ahead. Warren expected some sort of follow-up question. Something along the lines of, ‘How do you know Miss Casewell has the other ring?’ Instead, the duke simply nodded, which was many times worse than anything he could have said, and heat rose to Warren’s cheeks.

He leaned forward in the saddle. The more they pressed on, the more the tug of the ring strengthened. He still couldn’t be sure that Casewell was actually at the other end of it; in fact, logic told him the chances of that were pathetically low. But Warren was operating on something entirely distinct from logic right now.

When the trees began to thin and the undergrowth gave way, he saw boot prints pressed into a patch of soft earth. The group stopped, and Lord Conrad dismounted to have a look at them.

“Five or six people, I think. Relatively fresh. And one of them was carrying something very heavy. This set of boot prints goes much deeper.” Lord Conrad pointed at the dirt, and Warren immediately saw what he meant.

“Or someone,” said the duke.

Warren pushed his horse faster. After another half hour, the tug of the soulmate ring getting stronger with every pounding hoofbeat, they reached a clearing.

The first thing he saw was a lake—based on its sheer size and the direction they’d traveled, it ought to be Lake Elowen. In front of it sat a small wooden cottage. It would be almost unremarkable, were it not for the people around it.

One man in the crimson robes of the Holy Inquisition. And four wearing identical black leather armor atop dark red uniforms, with weapons at their sides.

The colors of the Veiled Keys.

But what are they doing here? I thought they mostly ran covert missions outside of Arcadia these days.

The Veiled Keys’ operations were a secret even to most of the Church, so Warren had no way to know for sure, but his intuition told him the odds that Casewell was involved had increased exponentially. She hadn’t committed a crime yet, but heretic hunters didn’t exactly have a reputation for operating within the strictest bounds of the law, which was why the Crown had made significant efforts to curb their power over the last few decades. If the Veiled Keys had caught wind that she was traveling alone at night… Well, suffice to say they could have come up with plenty of reasons to target her.

Hence all of my warnings.

“Your Grace, Casewell is likely inside that cottage.” Warren dismounted.

The duke signaled to his soldiers, and the rest of the group dismounted and followed behind Warren. Save for the duke, who only had his cane, and the duchess, who apparently carried nothing, everyone else was armed. Even Warren had his hand fixed on the pommel of his sword. For what, he didn’t know—it wasn’t as if he was planning to attack the inquisition.

The Veiled Keys had noticed them by now and were whispering among themselves guardedly as Warren approached. When there were only a few paces between the two groups, the crimson-robed figure turned, and Warren recognized him immediately. Not who I expected to see here. Is he trying to get revenge on Casewell?

“Inquisitor Aldric,” said Warren. “What a peculiar place for us to meet. Have you abandoned the calling of the inquisition to become a fisherman?”

Aldric straightened at Warren’s voice. “Lord Warren. And…” His eyes darted past Warren to the von Rhenia party, and panic set in. “Your Grace?! What—I mean, this area is—What are you—”

The duke raised his cane and pointed it at Aldric. “Is Miss Casewell inside that cottage?”

Aldric lowered his head. “Your Grace, my lords, I must regrettably inform you that this area is presently under the jurisdiction of the Holy Inquisition, by order of a high inquisitor. Sacred business is being conducted here, the nature of which I am not at liberty to disclose. I am not sure what brought you here, but you are bound by law to withdraw at once.” Despite Aldric’s humble tone, the four Veiled Keys had their hands over their weapons.

A high inquisitor? Warren couldn’t imagine one of them personally caring about Casewell. Despite her recent statements in court, she was still just a commoner, and blasphemy among the lower classes was a daily occurrence, not worth the time of someone so high up. Could it be that there was something else going on?

Either way, if a high inquisitor was the one giving orders, neither Warren nor Duke von Rhenia would have the authority to countermand them. Warren tried to think about what he could do next, how he could solve this peacefully and ensure Casewell’s safety.

But Duke von Rhenia didn’t wait. “I will take that as an admission.” He turned to his soldiers. “You’ve heard the good inquisitor. Withdraw and head back to Westwick. I wouldn’t want those in my service to face undue repercussions.”

“Your Grace, are you certain?” one of them asked.

The duke nodded, and the six soldiers saluted, then returned to their horses, riding away. He turned to Warren.

“Lord Warren. It is not my place to order you, but you may want to consider withdrawing as well.”

What is he planning? Is he going to… fight the inquisition? Surely not. House von Rhenia does not have a great relationship with the Church, but going that far would be madness. And facing off against the agents of the Veiled Keys, they’d be lucky to survive.

Lord Conrad and the duchess took a step forward.

“This is the last time I will ask. Is Miss Clara Casewell inside that cottage?” Duke von Rhenia asked Aldric again. “It would behoove you to consider your answer carefully.”

The inquisitor frowned. “Your Grace, even someone of your station cannot interfere with the—”

The duke sighed. “Dear, it seems they do not intend to cooperate.”

“Indeed, darling. What a pity that they don’t know their place.” The duchess took off her left glove. On her ring finger was the largest diamond Warren had ever seen. “Hasta lucis. Transfige.”

As she chanted, the panicked Veiled Keys drew their weapons, and Aldric took a step back.

The air behind her right shoulder warped, and a shape took form out of nothing: a long javelin of pure silvery energy.

It hovered point-forward for a split second, humming faintly, then launched with baffling speed toward the soldier in front.

The javelin punched through the Veiled Key’s chest as if his armor were nothing but paper, drove out the other side, and dissolved into fading light. He looked down at the fist-sized hole in his chest with horror.

Then his knees folded, and a fountain of crimson came out. It sprayed across the dirt, across Aldric’s robes, and even across Duchess Adelheid herself.

Duke von Rhenia smiled at his wife. “I’ve always thought you looked beautiful in red.”

The impaled soldier crumpled into the dirt, and Warren instinctively stepped back and unsheathed his sword.

He didn’t know where to even begin making sense of what had just taken place right before his eyes.

The brutal killing of a Veiled Key, with no hesitation or ceremony.

The duke’s nod of approval to his wife’s bloody appearance.

“To arms! Deliver the Goddess’s justice unto the sinners!” Aldric called out as he pulled a wand from under his robes.

The three remaining Veiled Keys sprang into action.

The two swordsmen charged in unison, one moving to flank the duke, the other closing on Lord Conrad, while the bowman took a step back and pulled out an arrow, nocking it with professional efficiency.

Aldric chanted. The air warmed up, and a scorching orb of fire burst from his wand, aimed squarely at Lord Conrad.

But the young lord was faster, jumping to the side and muttering something under his breath. The emerald set into his saber shone vividly as he swung it to meet the Veiled Key’s sword.

The resulting clash rang out like thunder, and the Veiled Key’s weapon shattered into pieces.

Lord Conrad followed through, driving his blade cleanly across the man’s collarbone before he’d even finished registering what had happened to his own.

Warren, as a member of House Albion, had spent his entire life being drilled on the nobility’s duty to follow the teachings of the Goddess and cooperate with the Church—he’d practically been raised by clergy. Yet in the space of just a few breaths, two holy men had been slaughtered in front of him. Should he try to stop this? Knowing that the von Rhenias were doing this to save Casewell?

Conrad didn’t hesitate, flowing past the falling body with brutal grace and dashing toward Aldric while dodging more fireballs.

“Archer.” Duke von Rhenia struck his cane down, the ametrine on its handle flaring to life as he chanted, “Murus terrae.”

The earth rumbled, and a circular slab of hardened dirt floated upward, intercepting an arrow that was headed toward the duchess.

“Thank you, dear,” she said in a conversational tone. She tucked a loose strand of her dark hair behind her ear before unleashing another energy javelin that pierced through the archer’s forehead.

“My pleasure,” said the duke.

Amidst that disconcertingly domestic exchange, Warren realized with a jolt of concern that the second Veiled Key swordsman was right behind the unarmed duke. But the duchess deftly redirected one of Aldric’s fireballs onto the soldier’s side, setting the man’s uniform alight.

The members of the Veiled Keys were supposed to be elite, handpicked by the Holy Inquisition for its most dangerous and secretive duties. Yet four of them had just been dispatched in an instant.

Warren understood, now, why his father had always cautioned him about House von Rhenia.

The burning man let out a guttural scream as he collapsed.