The Temple of Heart and Bone (33 page)

“Shall we then?” Drothspar
invited them.

Petreus
led Drothspar and Chance out of his cell and through the dormitory. Their pace
quickened as loud voices relayed accounts of a man, naked and dripping water,
running through the halls. Smirking brothers winked at Petreus as he passed.
The same men quickly bowed their heads as they caught a glimpse of the hooded
Drothspar. Low whispers speculated on who might have died before rushing off to
investigate the commotion.

Petreus, Drothspar, and Chance
left the dormitory and crossed the courtyard in the brisk autumn air. The
branches of the trees were bare to the world and reached in silent supplication
toward the heavens. Drothspar’s new shoes, rummaged from underneath Petreus’
bed, slapped against the stone pathway. The sound echoed back sharply as it
bounced off the surrounding walls.

The cathedral was quiet as they
entered, but not empty. Here and there the faithful knelt in prayer. Two young
brothers tended candles in the sanctuary, going about their work in silence.
Several women threaded glittering beads through their fingers. Chance noticed
an older man kneeling before the statue of the craftsman. She met its eyes once
more before it was out of sight.

Two men in shabby clothes knelt
by the entrance, their hands outstretched. The men looked furtively at Petreus,
Drothspar, and Chance, then stared quickly at the floor. They muttered
something in hopeless voices and Chance dropped a small coin in each of their
hands. They wished her the blessings of the Maker as she followed Petreus and
Drothspar out through the cathedral doors.

“Brisk morning,” Petreus observed
as Chance caught up with them. He rubbed his arms and stamped his feet. His
eyes blinked in surprise as he watched the two beggars emerge quickly from the
cathedral. “How much did you give them?” he asked curiously.

“Enough,” Chance replied, her
face flushing with embarrassment. Drothspar turned to watch as the two men
rushed out of sight.

“Hunger must have been gnawing at
their bellies, the way they’re hurrying off.” Petreus looked at Chance’s rosy
cheeks. “You shouldn’t be embarrassed by your generosity, Sasha. The Maker
blesses those who give without thought of reward.”

“My father says I only encourage
them to be indolent,” she said, feeling the need to defend herself.

“He’s wrong,” Drothspar said.
Petreus looked at the girl and nodded once before leading them through the
city.

The Old Arle Square was bustling
with activity. Merchants hawked their wares from push carts, their urgent
voices calling to passers-by. Artists hung their paintings for display on the
northern wall of the Ratter. Landscapes and portraits vied with dashes of color
and imagination as their painters argued over the limited space of the wall.
Vegetables, house-wares, and trinkets of all kinds were offered to the midday
shoppers. Mothers examined goods carefully while managing to keep their
children out of trouble with a word, a grasp, or a stern look. Most of the women
in the square had scarves tied around their heads to ward off the chill, and
the children all had rosy cheeks.

The public houses were already
open and men were walking in and staggering out. City guards walked slowly
through the square, encouraging order with their presence. Drothspar was amazed
at the life moving all around him. He had nearly forgotten the pace of the city
in the years he had been gone. Petreus moved through the crowds with an agility
born of practice while Chance literally swam through the sea of bobbing heads
and shoulders. Drothspar concentrated on staying with them, feeling nervous in
the press of the crowd.

Walking was easier once they left
the square. Petreus navigated the streets efficiently, and they soon found
themselves outside the Ythel estate. Drothspar looked at the familiar grounds
and felt the rushing pain of memory. This had been his wife’s home. She had
been a child here, grown up here,
lived
here. He had taken her away. He
had pulled her from her home. He felt invasive as he looked through the wrought
iron gates to the manor beyond.

“Do you still want to go inside?”
Petreus asked.

“I have to,” Drothspar answered
quietly. The answers he needed were inside. He turned to look at Petreus. “Yes,
I do.”

“Okay,” Petreus said, nodding. “I
have no idea how this is going to turn out, so be prepared for anything.” He
looked meaningfully at Drothspar and Chance. “Anything.”

Petreus pulled a chain outside
the gate and a bell sounded near the manor. A liveried servant approached the
gate, his eyes widening as he recognized Petreus.

“Yes, my Lord Priest?” the
servant said.

“Good day, Dobbins,” Petreus
greeted the man. “I need to see the master of the house.”

“Ah, yes, my Lord. Permit me to see
if the Master is in.” He turned to leave, his face doubtful.

“Dobbins?” Petreus called after
him.

“Yes, my Lord?”

“Please impart to your Master
that my need is quite urgent and my purpose keen to his desires. Tell him, from
me, that I would not lightly intrude upon him in his home, remembering well our
last… meeting.”

“I will try, my Lord.”

“Dobbins!’

“Yes, my Lord?”

“It really is important.” Petreus
put aside the formulaic speech and spoke to the servant plainly. The man looked
quite taken aback and his eyes widened further.

“I shall try, my Lord Petreus.”

They waited for some time outside
the gate. The sun traveled overhead and the shadows stretched out along the
ground. Drothspar tried to think of how to approach his father-in-law but
nothing came to mind. Chance examined the grounds while Petreus paced and
muttered to himself.

Dobbins returned to the gate
accompanied by three of Ythel’s personal guard.

“The Master has consented to see
you,” he told Petreus. “These men will escort you to the sitting room.”

“Thank you, Dobbins.”

“Petreus, the Master was not
pleased to hear of your arrival,” Dobbins said candidly. “I beg you, be
brief—and careful.”

Petreus nodded his head slowly.

“Thank you again, Dobbins. I’ll
do my best.”

Dobbins turned and walked alone
back to the manor.

“My Lord Petreus,” one of the
soldiers said stepping forward, “who are these who accompany you?”

“Captain,” Petreus said,
inclining his head in greetings, “this is Brother Steadword, a priest of my
Order.” He extended his arm to Drothspar who bowed politely. “And this is my
niece, Sasha. She has brought me the news that I come to share with your Lord.”

“I see,” the captain said.
“Follow me then, if you please.”

The captain led them to the manor
where Dobbins waited to open the door. They passed inside and were taken to a
sitting room to await their audience with Ythel.

“This is going much better than I
thought it would,” Petreus admitted. “I thought we’d be turned away at the
gate, or told to return in a week’s time.”

Drothspar looked around the
familiar sitting room. It had changed little since he’d last been there. He
remembered waiting impatiently for Li to appear, his living heart hammering in
his chest. The same portraits of long dead patriarchs lined the walls. The room
had been decorated to impress upon visitors the prestige and nobility of the
Ythel family and the great honor granted to those who received an audience.

Chance sat comfortably in an
armchair by the window. Light streaked in across her shoulder and spilled over
the polished wooden furniture. It glittered from the gilded frames of the
pictures and spread over the marble tiled floor. None of this impressed her.
She had grown up in her own family manor and had played in just such rooms as a
child.

Petreus looked at his companions
expecting congratulations for his efforts. He stared meaningfully at one and
then the other before snorting reproachfully. He reached into his robes and
pulled out a small silver flask. Unscrewing the cover, he took a long swallow.
He extended the flask to Chance, but she shook her head politely.

After what were certainly hours,
the captain returned.

“My Lord of Ythel will see you
now,” he told them brusquely.

“Excellent, Captain, excellent.” Petreus
did not look as excited as he sounded. He looked at his niece apprehensively,
staring deeply into her eyes. She returned his gaze, acknowledging his unspoken
warning. She winked impishly at him, causing him to frown slightly. She
couldn’t
appreciate the situation, he thought to himself.

The captain led them to an
audience chamber that was forty paces deep and twenty paces wide. Polished
flagstones reflected the daylight streaming in through the windows. The floor
was raised at the opposite end of the chamber from the main door. A
well-dressed man sat in a high-backed chair on the platform. Two armed guards
stood to either side of the chair and slightly behind. Elaborately carved
columns supported the ceiling and formed a channel that focused attention on
the dais.

Petreus, Drothspar, and Chance
followed the captain past the columns to the foot of the dais. The man in the
chair looked down at them with heavy-lidded eyes. His face was careworn, lined
with age. The lines disappeared into the man’s short-cropped, gray mustache and
beard. His brow was wrinkled from the practice of reading in low light. His
silver hair was combed straight back from his forehead.

The man wore a black velvet
mantle embroidered gracefully in silver. The long sleeves flared out at the
cuffs, split, and were pinned back to his shoulders. The split outer sleeves
revealed a silver silk lining and fine, white inner sleeves. The collar stood
straight up at his neck, covering his throat in silver-trimmed black. The
whiskers of his pointed beard reached just above his collar. Black riding pants
covered his legs, which ended in black leather thigh boots. A heavy-looking
golden ring glittered from his right hand. It tapped against the wooden arm of
the chair with the rhythm of an annoyed cat’s flickering tail.

“Good afternoon, Petreus,” the
man said by way of greeting. His voice was deep and strong. It was a voice
accustomed to giving orders.

“Good afternoon, my Lord of
Ythel,” Petreus responded, bowing. “I trust we’ve found you well and in the
Maker’s keeping.” Petreus stood resolutely before the dais, his face also
neutral. Whatever fear he had brought into the room, he had hidden with the
skill of a gambler. He steeled his nerve with resentment. Resentment was better
than fear, he thought to himself, and Ythel could expect no more. Petreus was
certain the man would respect nothing less.

“Why have you intruded yourself
upon me, Petreus? Our
relationship
was concluded long ago.” The man’s
voice was calm, as if he were merely curious. There was, however, a note of
steel in his tone, indicating that he expected to be answered.

“My Lord, unique information has
been brought to my attention, I was certain you would find it appealing to your
interest.”

“Share this information quickly,”
the man said with a slight tone of disbelief, “and then be on your way.”

“I shall endeavor to be brief, my
Lord,” Petreus replied, concentrating to keep his indignation in check. “I
would prefer to share the information with you alone, my Lord,” Petreus said
evenly.

“My guards are here to ensure my
safety,” Ythel explained as if to a child. “They are completely trustworthy.”

“Ah,” Petreus said, “as
trustworthy as one of your former cavalry commanders, perhaps.” Petreus noticed
the narrowing of Ythel’s heavy lidded eyes. Even the guards looked insulted.
“Still,” Petreus continued, “if my Lord of Ythel feels threatened by the
presence of two priests and a young girl, who am I to challenge him? My
information was for you, alone, however. If you don’t want it, I will take it
with me as I leave. Good day, Ythel.” Petreus turned on his heel without
waiting for dismissal. Chance gawked at her uncle for a split-second before
turning to follow him. Drothspar also turned hesitantly from the dais.

“Stand where you are, priest,”
Ythel said firmly, standing. His voice rose with insult and command. Petreus
turned to face Ythel, whose eyes were no longer heavy and disinterested. “You
risk your life,
priest
,” Ythel threatened openly, spitting out the word
“priest” as if it were something poisonous.

“And you waste my time,
Ythel
,”
Petreus retorted with equal contempt. “Are you afraid to stand before me
without your henchmen? When have I
ever
raised my hand against you?”

“When have you raised your hand
against me?” Ythel scoffed. “When you played your part in stealing away my
daughter,” he hissed. Petreus looked slightly stricken at Ythel’s words.

“If you had had the courage to
stand up to Gathner, my Lord of Ythel,” Petreus began quietly, “perhaps your
daughter would not have felt it necessary to leave your company.” Ythel’s eyes
flashed momentarily as the words sounded against his own personal guilt.