The Eye of God (The Fall of Erelith) (10 page)

“Nothing is broken,” Blaise replied. His divine nature had taken care of that problem. When he struggled to sit up, Frolar slipped an arm around his back and helped him. Another sneeze ripped through him. Flashes of white burst in front of Blaise’s eyes, and he shook his head to clear it. The movement made the pain worse. He breathed through his clenched teeth.

His fingers curved into the arch of talons, and he pressed his hands against the stone to flatten them. It was his fault he hadn’t listened to the fading song of the Arena. The effort of remaining upright robbed him of the satisfaction of reaching out and clawing the smug look off of Frolar’s face. While there was concern in the man’s expression and pose, the unspoken “I told you so” hung between them.

Blaise let out a long, slow breath and focused his attention on maintaining the illusion of life when his human body tried to feign death to rest and recover from the fall that would’ve killed a mortal.

Luck—or His intervention—spared him from needing to explain how he had escaped being buried beneath the stones he lay upon. He let out a breath in a huff and lifted his shaking arm to wipe at his stinging brow.

Frolar caught his wrist. “Don’t touch it.”

The frown pulled at Blaise’s cheeks and made them ache, but he didn’t fight the man’s grip. The effort of holding his arm up, even with Frolar’s hold on him, left Blaise shaking. The stinging of his forehead made the rest of his face twitch. Jabs of pain pierced his skull and stabbed down his spine.

Blaise muttered a curse on a faked breath. The simple effort of pretending he was a living, breathing mortal sapped him of strength.

“Really, Blaise. I did try to warn you.” Frolar sighed and let him go. The man sat back on his heels. Blaise’s arm flopped to his lap and the tips of his fingers twitched. The bones in his hands shifted beneath his skin.

“Your Holiness?” a soft voice asked from somewhere behind him. Blaise’s nostrils flared and the scent of terror taunted him. Not daring to turn around, he swallowed and tried to ignore his watering mouth.

“Get bandages,” Frolar ordered with a sharp gesture. The slap of boots on stone answered the bishop’s demand. “What am I going to do with you, Blaise?”

“Nothing. Yes, yes, you warned me. Yes, yes, I should’ve known better,” he grumbled. Frolar didn’t stop Blaise when he reached up to touch his brow. The warmth of blood soaked through his glove, and his mouth twisted up in a grin. At least he wouldn’t have to explain why he didn’t bleed, though it was at the cost of enduring the pain and weakness of healing at the wretchedly-inferior speed of a human. “I won’t tell Alphege if you won’t.”

“Have you lost your wits? We can’t do that, Blaise!”

“I’ll tell him I fell down the steps,” Blaise replied, prodding at his forehead. At Frolar’s glare, he shrugged. “It’s true. I did trip going down the steps.”

“Except, in case you weren’t aware, the entire thing collapsed beneath you.”

“That’s not my fault.”

“The Archbishop isn’t going to be happy.”

“I’ll make certain to tell him you did try to stop me.”

“Here, your Holiness, sir.” A cadet scrambled up the pile of rubble at Blaise’s side to thrust out a handful of linen scraps. The boy stared at Blaise’s head and he scowled but remained silent.

“Thank you, cadet. Go tell your superior that our work here is done and we best get back to the Cathedral.”

The boy saluted, the white tassels of his coat bouncing and drawing Blaise’s eye. Soot and blood stained the fringe, and darker splotches marred the gray of the uniform. “I’ll arrange a carriage for you, your Holiness, my Lord.”

Instead of climbing down, the boy jumped to the sands and ran for the nearest intact gate.

“I can’t believe you fell from the second tier,” Frolar muttered before letting out a long and low sigh.

“It could’ve been worse,” Blaise replied.

“You could be dead, I suppose. May God show His mercy, Blaise. You’re completely covered in blood, and I’m convinced most of it is yours.”

Blaise flipped his hand and if Frolar noticed the rudeness of the gesture, the man said nothing. “Nonsense.”

“I’ll pray the Archbishop doesn’t make me your keeper,” the bishop grumbled in a low enough tone that Blaise doubted mortal ears could’ve heard it.

He felt the corners of his mouth twitch up. “What was that?”

“Nothing, just an old man’s grumbling.”

“You’re not old,” Blaise replied. Closing his eyes, he drew a long and deep breath to catch the man’s scent. Despite Blaise’s human form, his own blood lacked the sharp, metallic tones that triggered his hunger more often than not. It smelled of roses in the dark, of blossoms folded and waiting for the dawn, and of the cool crispness of the deep and lifeless void that both birthed and destroyed souls. It tickled another sneeze out of him.

Frolar’s scent lacked true fear. There was an undertone of some worry, but it was very mild. Blaise narrowed his eyes. When the man hooked an arm under Blaise’s, he gritted his teeth and rose to his feet. Thousands of years of living a lie slammed down on his shoulders and he weighed his pride against the desire to lie down and sleep.

If he were able to embrace his divine nature, it wouldn’t take him long to recover. Blaise flexed his hand and shook his head.

“Stand there,” Frolar ordered, gesturing to a flat stone several feet below them.

Too tired to argue and too annoyed to speak, Blaise forced his trembling legs into motion and fixed his gaze on the other end of the Arena.

“I’ve said it once, I’ll say it again: God made you too tall,” Frolar groused.

“I like to think I’m perfection given life by His will,” Blaise replied with all of the arrogance he could force out in the hopes it masked the weariness in his voice.

“You never change.”

Blaise laughed at the irony of the man’s words. “I change.”

“A bishop shouldn’t lie,” Frolar rebuked.

“I do.” After pausing long enough to earn a glare from Frolar, he gestured down at his clothes. “I change my clothes. Every day. So do I swear on His name.”

A laugh escaped Frolar and the man dabbed at Blaise’s forehead with one of the bandages. With deft hands, the man wrapped Blaise’s head in a layer of linen so thick and tight that he wanted to claw it off.

“I just hope your good humor is still intact when the Archbishop is finished with you.” With one final tug at the wrappings, Frolar climbed down the rubble pile to the sands. “Don’t scare me like that. I thought you’d surely died.”

Blaise froze. The man’s words were laced with the acrid stench of deceit and lies, but Blaise couldn’t figure out what was truth and what wasn’t. Had Frolar been afraid, but confident Blaise would live, or had the mortal hoped for his death? The man waited for him at the base of the debris pile.

“It’ll take a lot more than that to kill me,” he muttered as he eased his way down to the sands.

“Don’t think yourself immortal because you’ve God’s luck on your side,” the bishop warned. “You know better. God punishes those who believe themselves more than they are.”

“Yes, yes. And he blesses those who believe themselves less. It’s Alphege’s favorite scripture.”

“I wonder why,” Frolar replied in a dry tone. “Do tell me if you need help. You’ll be all right, won’t you?” At his nod, the man smiled. “Good.”

Once again, the scent of deceit and lies tickled Blaise’s nose and he rubbed his smoke and blood stained sleeve against his face to keep from sneezing. “I’m fine,” he lied.

Frolar nodded and walked toward the nearest gate, leaving Blaise to follow. While he would be fine—eventually—his muscles trembled and his bones ached.

All he had to do was keep his temper and hunger in check until he healed enough that his urges didn’t get the better of him.

“Bishop Frolar,” a deep voice boomed out from the tunnel. Blaise sucked in a breath and staggered to a halt.

“Oh blessed God, He who sees all, please tell me that isn’t the Emperor’s dog,” Blaise groused.

“Blaise!” Frolar hissed before waving at the tall figure emerging from beneath the portcullis. “Colonel Cassius. It’s been a while.”

“Ha! I thought I recognized you. Wait, is that you, Blaise? What in the blood-stained hells happened to you?”

“Colonel!” Frolar gasped.

“Ah, my apologies. I’m afraid I must impose on your hospitality. You’ve been summoned, Bishop Frolar, and I’ve no doubt that the same summons applies to you as well, Bishop Blaise. I’m surprised. It seems you were here at your leisure.”

“I’d rather be in the blood-stained hells,” Blaise muttered under his breath before managing a smile. “I was seated with His Imperial Majesty today, Colonel, and he felt blue was a more fitting color.”

“I’ve always thought you best suited for red, but one doesn’t argue with His Imperial Majesty. Please, come with me.”

“What’s going on?” Frolar asked.

“The Archbishop requests your presence,” Cassius replied.

Frolar’s mouth dropped open. “What could be so important that His Holiness would ask the military to—”

“Not now,” Cassius interrupted, shaking his head. The stench of the man’s fear burned Blaise’s nose, so strong it nauseated him.

Blaise swallowed back bile and gestured to the opened portcullis. “We should hurry, then.”

Cassius jerked his head in a nod. The man’s terror overwhelmed the stench of smoke, blood, and death hanging in the still air.

Blaise glanced up at the sky. The last shred of black clouds dissipated as if it, too, was frightened.

Chapter 5

The vase shattered against the divan Terin crouched behind and the shards clattered to the marble tiles. The fragments of glazed ceramic bounced across the floor, gleaming in the glow that manifested in the air overhead.

“Slippery child,” Zurach spat. “How long do you plan to run for? Didn’t you want to fight me?”

Terin rubbed at his smarting jaw and tried not to let the man’s words bother him. It’d taken one blow—a mere clip to his chin—for Terin to realize if he got caught, he’d live to regret it, and he’d pay for his failure with pain.

The collar didn’t even bother to punish him, as though sensing what waited for him when he was captured by the man who mocked him.

Crawling across the floor, Terin dodged the broken pieces of vases, bowls, cups, and plates, as well as the broken arm of a silver candelabrum. The crunch of ceramics under foot froze him in place.

“You can’t hide behind the furniture forever,” Zurach said, laughter lightening the man’s tone.

“Why not?” Terin muttered the question, glancing around the arm of the divan. Silver glinted in the Speech-wrought light and cracked gainst the wood above his head. He jerked back, catching a glimpse of his nude opponent across the room.

“You can do better than that, my little slave,” Zurach said in a rumbling voice. Terin shuddered.

“What in the darkest, coldest depths of the bloodstained hells do you think you’re doing?” Emeric bellowed from the doorway across the room. “I leave you for no more than three hours, and I come back to this? Why are you naked?”

Zurach laughed again. “I was teaching the boy a lesson.”

“By scarring him with the visage of your nudity?”

“You’re just jealous.”

“If you want a pleasure slave, Zurach, I’ll send a few of my girls to you tonight. For the love of our mother, at least tell me you didn’t ruin the bath,” Emeric muttered.

Zurach snorted. “I might have cracked a tile or two. No worries, no worries, I’ll fix it.”

“I hope you intend on fixing the rest of this mess, too. What in God’s name were you trying to do? Kill him?” Emeric asked.

Zurach sniffed, and Terin dared to peer around the arm of the divan again. A cushion slapped him in the face. With a startled yelp, his heart leapt into his throat. Terin scurried to the middle of his shelter and crouched down. The broken candelabra lay beside him, and the filigree bit at his fingers when he picked it up to test its weight.

“Well?” Emeric asked.

“Well what?”

“How good is he?”

“He’s a slippery little runt, I’ll give him that much. Got a hit on him once—ah, twice, if you count the pillow.”

“Really, Zurach? All of this for one hit? Are you serious?”

“I told you, he’s really slippery.”

Terin heard Emeric sigh. “Did he hit you?”

“Just what do you take me for, Brother?”

“A fool for letting a slave run you in circles for three hours. Bring him out, then.”

“Do it yourself, you know where he is,” Zurach grumbled.

“I’d hope so, seeing that there is only one piece of furniture left that is large enough to protect him from your stupidity.”

A slow clapping of hands answered the Citizen. “Your powers of observation amaze me.”

“Come out, slave,” Emeric demanded.

Terin hesitated, and the collar burned. Sucking in a breath, he snatched at the back of the divan and stood, his gaze slid over Emeric to fix on Zurach.

Zurach leaned against the doorway and blocked Terin’s one route of escape from the room. The man’s tanned skin glistened with sweat.

“You’re going to decrease his value if that scars,” Emeric said.

“Nonsense. We’re not selling him, anyway. Little cut like that isn’t going to scar. The gash on his side? That’ll leave a scar, for certain. I really should’ve killed that bronzeling instead of just taking his eye,” Zurach replied with a shrug.

Terin’s brow furrowed and he lifted his hand to his chin. Heat radiated from his swollen jaw, but there wasn’t any pain. When he pulled his fingers away, his blood stained them.

“That’s not his face, though. Some like their boys scarred up, but not on their faces! Were you taking it easy on him?”

Zurach chuckled. “I wanted to test him, not kill him, Brother.”

“So you destroyed an entire wing of my villa instead. Unbelievable.”

“You’re in quite the mood. What’s wrong now?”

Emeric stepped forward, and Terin flinched. The Citizen smiled. “Come here, slave.”

A shiver ran through Terin, and he glanced over at Zurach. The man nodded and made a curt gesture for him to obey. The collar warmed and Terin hurried forward before it could punish him further, avoiding as much of the broken ceramics, cracked tiles, and splintered wood as he could.