Rift (28 page)

“Come!” a throaty male voice called.

Sorcha opened the door, and Ember stayed close to her as they entered the room. Her heart thudded against her ribs and she clasped her hands together to stop their shaking.

“There she is.” The man who was seated beside Eira in the small but finely appointed chamber rose. He boasted more girth than height, and Ember couldn’t guess his age. His slack lips complemented his jowls, which quivered with each step he took.

He stopped just short of Ember and Sorcha, extending his hand and revealing fingers covered in gold and gemstones.

“I was afraid the good folk of Tearmunn had misplaced you.”

Ember curtsied, taking the abbot’s hand—which was unpleasantly sticky—and kissed his signet ring. “Forgive me, Father Abbot. I didn’t want to cut my lessons short. I shouldn’t have made you wait.”

“Your lessons?” The abbot fixed his watery gray eyes upon her.

She closed her eyes for a moment. If she spun too intricate a web of lies, she would surely end up caught in them herself. How to get through this without giving up the truth?

A polite cough made her eyes flutter open. Standing in a shadowed corner of the room was Father Michael. When Ember looked at him, she swore he gave a slight nod.

“I was learning what to do in the case of breech birth,” she said. It was one of the only things about midwifery she knew. Women feared a babe that hadn’t turned in the womb. Such cases too easily ended with a stillborn infant or a mother whose bleeding couldn’t be stopped.

Abbot Crichton regarded her with a wan smile. “And you find this work fulfilling?”

Ember nodded. “To relieve the pain and suffering of the sick and weak is truly God’s work.”

“Your father expressed concern that you would find life within Tearmunn wanting.” He returned to his chair, groaning as he eased his weight into it.

“My needs are few,” Ember told him. “And they are all well met.”

The abbot picked up a golden chalice and sipped the wine within it. “There are those who would argue that a young woman such as yourself might better serve God as a wife and mother, increasing the number of the faithful by blessings of your womb.”

Ember’s throat closed up. The pain in her shoulders was making itself known, protesting her stiff repose. Her dress was too tight, and she found breathing difficult. Heat prickled down her limbs. “My father thought perhaps that in time I would wed the son of a local lord; thus, I would serve Conatus and my father.”

The abbot considered this and after taking another sip of wine spoke again. “It remains true that your father owes a great debt to Conatus. You are the payment for this debt. And it seems not unfitting that your marriage be delayed as long as we require.”

Not trusting herself to speak, Ember nodded slowly.

“If you are amenable to your work here, I see no reason to interrupt your service.” He ran his finger around the rim of the chalice. “Perhaps your father is simply overprotective. Or too eager to join his house with that of our lord Mackenzie.”

Ember managed to force her voice out. “That may be true, Father Abbot.”

“Very well,” he said. “For now I shall inform Lord Morrow that his concerns are unfounded. You are dismissed, Lady Morrow. Go with God’s blessing.”

Given how unsteady her legs felt, Ember thought her curtsy enough of a miracle to prove she had earned God’s favor. She was still a bit dazed from the episode when Sorcha guided her from the chamber.

Much to Ember’s surprise Barrow was waiting for them outside the door. The three of them moved farther down the corridor, keeping their voices low.

“What happened?” he asked Sorcha.

“The crisis appears averted,” Sorcha told him. “At least for now. We won’t fully know what’s transpired until we’re able to speak to Eira alone.”

They fell silent when the door opened. Father Michael closed the door behind him and came to join their huddled group.

“I’ll ask you to come to the chapel, Lady Morrow,” the priest said.

Ember frowned at him. Though pleased by how quickly and easily her audience with the abbot had gone, her mind was clouded and an ache was building in her head. She didn’t want to go to the chapel, even with kind Father Michael. She needed her bed.

She threw Barrow a grateful smile when he said, “She’s injured, Father. We should have the healers see her and then send her to rest as soon as possible.”

Father Michael nodded. “Of course. But, my child, you must confess when you’re able. I would be neglecting my calling if I didn’t hear your contrition and offer what absolution I can.”

“Confess?” Ember wondered if she was hearing the priest correctly.

“You did just bear false witness to Abbot Crichton,” Father Michael told her.

For a moment a chill replaced the creeping heat that had been steadily draining Ember’s strength, but she caught the sparkle in Father Michael’s eye.

With a relieved breath she said, “I will give my confession soon, Father.”

Father Michael’s smile bordered on puckish as he made the sign of the cross and bid them good night.

Barrow cast a sidelong glance at Sorcha. “I take it she did well?”

“Remarkably.” Sorcha laughed. “I think even Eira was impressed.”

Barrow’s rumbling laughter joined Sorcha’s.

Ember wanted to laugh with them, but she was fighting to catch her breath. The heat that had been building beneath Ember’s skin now beaded into sweat beneath her bodice and at her temples. Trembling spread through her arms and legs.

“I think we may have misjudged Ember’s calling,” said Sorcha to Barrow. “Perhaps we should send her out as a spy.”

“That may be the case,” Barrow said. “But we’d miss her in the Guard.”

Sorcha nodded, smiling at Ember. “Where did you learn to act, dear girl?”

Ember opened her mouth but found she couldn’t draw breath at all.

“Ember?” She could hear the concern in Barrow’s voice, but she could no longer see his face, only a blur of colors. The floor beneath her feet tilted and she was falling. She barely felt Barrow’s arms around her, catching her, lifting her up. Her skin was on fire, and the spinning before her eyes twisted her stomach into knots.

The sound of Barrow speaking was very far away. “She’s burning up.”

Darkness rose behind the chaos of colors, crashing down in a wave that swept Ember from consciousness.

TWENTY-ONE

ON THE OTHER SIDE
of the closed doors Abbot Crichton swirled his chalice of wine, lifted it to his lips, and drained it in a long, single gulp. Then he poured himself another.

“Quite a lovely thing, our lady Morrow, is she not?” Wine dribbled from one corner of his wide lips. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

Eira murmured her agreement, wondering when this boor of a man would leave her to the pressing work she was neglecting so he could linger in his cups.

“You’ll understand, then, why I see it as such a shame that you would use her for such brutal work,” he said.

“You find midwifery that brutal?” Eira asked.

With a groan, the abbot lowered himself into a chair, his girth spilling over the edges of the seat. “I never knew you regarded me as such a fool.”

Eira had been worrying at the silk of her gown, thinking what a waste of time and effort it was that she and the other women were trussed up to deceive the abbot. His words froze her hands on her lap. Hoping her face was blank, she lifted her eyes to meet his.

“I’m sorry?”

“Dear, dear Eira,” the abbot said. His smile reminded her of a coiling snake. “Must we play this game? The night grows long and I would seek my bed.”

Refusing to take the bait, Eira said, “Forgive me, Father Abbot. I don’t understand.”

Abbot Crichton’s smile vanished. “How long did you expect me to go along with this charade? I know about the Guard. Lady Morrow is simply your latest recruit. Hoping to establish your legacy, Eira? Is that the reason you took a nobleman’s daughter and handed her a sword?”

Eira’s jaw worked as her mind grasped for a response, finally settling on the truth.

“She was called to serve where she belongs.”

“Are you so proud that you believe you can flout the natural order that our Lord established?” The abbot’s words weren’t angry, but languid and cruel in the way that a cat toyed with a captured mouse.

“This natural order you claim is foolish,” Eira told him. “Why hinder warrior spirits because they’re contained within a female form?”

“It sounds like you already have an answer for me.” The amusement in his voice infuriated her.

“You know how vital our work is,” she said. “Limiting the roles of those few who belong to Conatus endangers not only us, but those we’ve sworn to protect.”

The abbot pursed his lips, nodding.

“If we had your blessing, we could train young women openly.” Eira heard the fervor in her voice but pressed on. The abbot knew the truth about the Guard, which meant she had nothing to lose and she might even have the chance to sway him. “Nobles could send their unwanted daughters to us instead of hiding them in convents.”

Abbot Crichton laughed. “You think the lords of England and Scotland would prefer their daughters wielding swords instead of rosaries?”

“I believe many of the girls would prefer it,” Eira said, lifting her chin.

“Perhaps that’s true.” The abbot shrugged. “But those girls don’t tithe to the parish. They don’t command their own personal armies. And they don’t have the ear of any king.”

Eira’s shoulders wanted to crumple in defeat, but she forced herself to sit stiffly.

“Lord Morrow has petitioned me to return his daughter to him,” Abbot Crichton said. “The accusations he makes are serious. Not only are you corrupting young women, but you are in league with the devil.”

“Witches,” Eira murmured, remembering the scene Edmund Morrow had made the night after Ember’s calling.

“The Church must investigate such accusations,” the abbot continued. “After all, we know the temptations of Satan can infect even the most stalwart of orders.”

Eira felt blood drain from her cheeks as Abbot Crichton made the sign of the cross, saying, “We need only remember the Templars.”

“You know what we do here.” Eira couldn’t stop her voice from shaking. “You
know.
”

The abbot sighed. “Alas, I am often away and perhaps things have occurred in my absence that are unsavory. I make allowances for your unique purpose and know you must call upon strange forces to aid you in battle. Though you give me assurances, I know little of the mysteries your magicians employ. It may be these powers have led you astray . . .”

Eira stood up, giving the abbot her back. She didn’t want him to see how frightened she was.

“What do you want?” she asked. “For the lady Morrow to be returned to her father?”

“The lady Morrow seems perfectly content here,” he replied. Eira heard him slurp more wine. “She lies beautifully, which demonstrates her commitment to the Guard.”

A dagger lay hidden within Eira’s bodice. She wanted nothing more than to slide it from its sheath and give it a new home in the abbot’s gut.

“Lord Morrow has only made a complaint,” he went on. “He hasn’t done enough to persuade me his cause is worthy. I believe the Circle might have a stronger position to take in this matter.”

Eira turned to face him. “How much?”

Abbot Crichton dipped his finger into his wine, watched the liquid slide like a drop of blood onto his palm, and then licked it off. “Your tributes will be four times a year instead of two.”

She clenched her fists. Though the Church supplied Conatus’s treasury, the abbot already claimed a percentage of their funds to supplement his personal coffers. Now he wanted more. Her Guard had been brutally attacked by striga. An entire village was missing. But this man—who’d been appointed as the Church’s authority over Tearmunn—cared only for gold.

Eira’s hands were shaking, her lips tight and trembling with rage. She couldn’t risk speaking for fear of what she would say.

“If you don’t want to have this conversation again, I’d recommend that Lady Morrow be your last protégé,” Abbot Crichton said.

“How do I know these new tributes will be enough?” Eira asked sharply. “Lord Morrow could offer you payment to retrieve his daughter.”

“He could, couldn’t he?” The abbot rose. “Only time will tell, I suppose.”

Seething, Eira watched as Abbot Crichton finished his wine and waddled toward the door. He opened it, pausing to look over his shoulder at her. “I’ll expect the first payment ready in the morning to take with me when I depart.”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. The abbot knew she could make no objection.

“Deus le volt,”
he said. Then he smiled and closed the door.

Eira bowed her head. “No, Abbot,” she whispered. “I do not believe God wills this.”

Though her destination was the stockade, meaning another trip through the muddy courtyard, Eira couldn’t bother with taking the time to trade her fine gown for a Guard’s attire. At this point she would have delighted in seeing the gown burn. As a member of the Circle she had full access to any prisoner, and the warden stationed at the stockade simply placed the key ring into her outstretched hand and inclined his head in respect as she brushed past him and descended the stone steps to the cell block. Though it was unusual for a member of the Circle to question a prisoner alone, it wasn’t unheard of. And Eira was desperate to free her mind of the abbot’s arrogance. Interrogating the sorcerer would remind her of how important their mission was, no matter what petty abuses Abbot Crichton heaped upon them.