and basket in the garden, feeling taut as a clothesline
herself. At the door of the inn, she noted a salt line across the threshold,
the type intended to keep dark things out. This negotiation looked well planned
on the bishop’s part. Jenna whispered a quick charm as she stepped over the
salt line to allow Brechia entrance. That would at least even the odds. Inside,
Jenna studied the far corner where Herrin, looking edgy as a cat in a kennel,
sat with the bishop. Again the man made her cringe. He might look gray-haired
and dignified, but she sensed a cold darkness. As she served the meager evening
crowd, Jenna noticed more salt lines at the windows.
Three Retributive Knights circulated
around the perimeter of the room with swords drawn while the Knight-Commander
hovered near the bishop’s table. This was another man she didn’t much like,
Jenna realized after watching him a few minutes. Too much death on his hands...
and no regrets.
Suddenly the outer door opened. A Knight
stepped forward, then backed up as a verbal barrage hit him broadside. “Get out
of me way, you great-assed fool! Can’t you see I’ve got work to do and don’t
think I won’t take it out of your hide if you put me behind!”
A launder woman pushed her way between
the guards, using her basket of clothes to knock him out of her way. The scene
should have roused a laugh from the inn’s patrons—one of the Church’s finest
flummoxed by a poor launder woman, but no one was laughing, not with the Lord
Bishop watching.
Jenna allowed herself the briefest of
smiles, before returning to her serving. Then she stopped cold. The inn didn’t
employ a launder woman. Laundering was one of Jenna’s many duties. Turning
again, she noted the basket was filled with clothes from the clothesline in the
garden, and the shabby dress and apron the woman was wearing were Jenna’s own
spares. The face turned toward Jenna—dark hair, aristocratic nose. One of the
blue eyes winked. Brechia.
Herrin had made a point about not
trusting the damned; Brechia had been equally opinionated about a traitor of
Jenna’s own blood. And the Lord Bishop—he might be greedy, but there was
something else as well. Seeing them all in the same room like this made Jenna
realize the only person she could trust was herself. Sad to say, but true.
She watched Brechia circulate among the
room’s customers, flirting here, haranguing there, but definitely circling the
room with a purpose. Ah, breaking the salt lines, Jenna finally noticed. Did
that mean that other revenants—
“This way,” a rough voice muttered in
her ear. “His Magnificence wants a word with you.” The Knight-Commander had her
by the arm and was propelling her toward the corner table.
As she crossed the room, she gathered
herself inward as Gran had taught her to look at the problem with more than her
physical eyes. She had time, but only a little. What was it that needed to
happen? What wish would set all this aright?
The dead needed to find final rest and
haunt no more—that one was easy.
The bishop and his knights needed to go
without unleashing Holy Retribution—also easy.
Then it became harder. She wanted Herrin
safe from the Church, not only from foolish exorcisms and greedy bishops, but
also from the mind-numbing training that was turning him into a stranger.
And for herself, she wanted... what? A
life of laundering and waiting tables? It seemed not, though she had believed
so only a few days ago. Now that she knew she could bespeak the dead, it seemed
foolish to ignore the talent.
She dug deeper under the surface and
sensed other intentions bubbling in the room. Brechia wanted rest, but also
harbored anger against the greed that had condemned her to centuries of unrest.
But when she concentrated on the Lord Bishop, a chill crept up her spine. He
would never trade gold for gold, which left only one currency for treating with
the dead—blood.
She stared at the positioning again as
the
herself. At the door of the inn, she noted a salt line across the threshold,
the type intended to keep dark things out. This negotiation looked well planned
on the bishop’s part. Jenna whispered a quick charm as she stepped over the
salt line to allow Brechia entrance. That would at least even the odds. Inside,
Jenna studied the far corner where Herrin, looking edgy as a cat in a kennel,
sat with the bishop. Again the man made her cringe. He might look gray-haired
and dignified, but she sensed a cold darkness. As she served the meager evening
crowd, Jenna noticed more salt lines at the windows.
Three Retributive Knights circulated
around the perimeter of the room with swords drawn while the Knight-Commander
hovered near the bishop’s table. This was another man she didn’t much like,
Jenna realized after watching him a few minutes. Too much death on his hands...
and no regrets.
Suddenly the outer door opened. A Knight
stepped forward, then backed up as a verbal barrage hit him broadside. “Get out
of me way, you great-assed fool! Can’t you see I’ve got work to do and don’t
think I won’t take it out of your hide if you put me behind!”
A launder woman pushed her way between
the guards, using her basket of clothes to knock him out of her way. The scene
should have roused a laugh from the inn’s patrons—one of the Church’s finest
flummoxed by a poor launder woman, but no one was laughing, not with the Lord
Bishop watching.
Jenna allowed herself the briefest of
smiles, before returning to her serving. Then she stopped cold. The inn didn’t
employ a launder woman. Laundering was one of Jenna’s many duties. Turning
again, she noted the basket was filled with clothes from the clothesline in the
garden, and the shabby dress and apron the woman was wearing were Jenna’s own
spares. The face turned toward Jenna—dark hair, aristocratic nose. One of the
blue eyes winked. Brechia.
Herrin had made a point about not
trusting the damned; Brechia had been equally opinionated about a traitor of
Jenna’s own blood. And the Lord Bishop—he might be greedy, but there was
something else as well. Seeing them all in the same room like this made Jenna
realize the only person she could trust was herself. Sad to say, but true.
She watched Brechia circulate among the
room’s customers, flirting here, haranguing there, but definitely circling the
room with a purpose. Ah, breaking the salt lines, Jenna finally noticed. Did
that mean that other revenants—
“This way,” a rough voice muttered in
her ear. “His Magnificence wants a word with you.” The Knight-Commander had her
by the arm and was propelling her toward the corner table.
As she crossed the room, she gathered
herself inward as Gran had taught her to look at the problem with more than her
physical eyes. She had time, but only a little. What was it that needed to
happen? What wish would set all this aright?
The dead needed to find final rest and
haunt no more—that one was easy.
The bishop and his knights needed to go
without unleashing Holy Retribution—also easy.
Then it became harder. She wanted Herrin
safe from the Church, not only from foolish exorcisms and greedy bishops, but
also from the mind-numbing training that was turning him into a stranger.
And for herself, she wanted... what? A
life of laundering and waiting tables? It seemed not, though she had believed
so only a few days ago. Now that she knew she could bespeak the dead, it seemed
foolish to ignore the talent.
She dug deeper under the surface and
sensed other intentions bubbling in the room. Brechia wanted rest, but also
harbored anger against the greed that had condemned her to centuries of unrest.
But when she concentrated on the Lord Bishop, a chill crept up her spine. He
would never trade gold for gold, which left only one currency for treating with
the dead—blood.
She stared at the positioning again as
the
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