Shadow's End (Light & Shadow) (15 page)

I slipped past the altar with a brief, habitual bow towards the status, and found my way to the High Priest’s apartments. Without giving myself time to think, I raised my hand and knocked, decisively, trying
to calm the racing of my heart. The weight of the iron-hafted dagger dragged at my tunic, a constant reminder of treachery, and betrayal. I would not have thought that I would need a reminder to be careful and trust no one, but the facts spoke for themselves: four attempts on our life, and I still could not name our enemy.

When there was no answer, I tried the door, and slipped inside; I had come too far to go back empty-handed.
The High Priest was alone, working at his desk. He had looked up at the sound of the door, wondering who dared to come into his presence without permission, and when he saw me, he stood, slowly. His face was utterly composed.

“Hello, Catwin.”

The feeling of claustrophobia closed in. A question hovered on my lips: I had meant to ask him if he had been the one who sent the soldiers, or sent the assassin—and I could not find the courage to do so. I had been too long away from Court; I had forgotten the sense I had once possessed, that could lead me to the right question. I stared at this man, perhaps my greatest enemy, and I remembered Miriel’s words, from long ago:
they’re all murderers. Any one of them would have done it. What difference in allying ourselves with the one who did
?

We had no choice. I closed my eyes briefly.

“I got your message,” I said. “And we need your help.”

Chapter 15

“My help.” The High Priest was staring at me intently; I even thought that I saw fear in his eyes. He must be afraid, I realized—Isra had been his greatest ally, even if she did not hold with his rebellion. Now, the throne was crowded with those who were no friend to him. He had always been thin, half-starving himself out of piety, but I thought he has lost even more weight.

“Why would you want my help?
” he asked me now, warily. “And why would you come alone?”

“Miriel is watched closely,” I explained, frowning. “I could not bring her. But anything you could tell her, you can also tell me.”

“Perhaps,” he said slowly. “For what I called her here to ask is what happened in Norvelt, and why she returned.” So he had known. I felt my blood run cold, but kept my face straight, as best I could. His gaze was steady.

“Has your spy network not told you everything?” I was curious
, even in my fear. I must find out what he hoped for, and what would enrage him.  “I should think you would know everything that had happened, and why we were here.” He smiled bitterly at that.

“My
network
, as you call it, is quite fragile. I heard that there was a girl who claimed to be Miriel DeVere, and a boy, perhaps her brother—no one was quite sure—who was training the men to fight the army. Then…the reports were confused.” He frowned at me, and I reckoned that his lack of surety was genuine. I released the breath I had been holding, and tried not to look too relieved. We were far from safe, yet. “I heard that you had been attacked…yes?” His sharp eyes marked the pallor of my face; I had been unprepared for that question. “Ah, so that was true.”

“An assassin came for me, yes,” I said shortly. I looked at his face, and saw no clues there: he was watching me, intent on my expression. When I said nothing, the High Priest spread his hands and shrugged.

“And yet you are well,” he observed. “And you are here. And the men of the rebellion are gone.” Again I said nothing, and a look of irritation flashed across the High Priest’s face, but was gone quickly. “My messenger reported to me that when he passed through Norvelt, there were no men to be seen, and the townsfolk would not tell him where they had gone—they do not know my messenger for the one who distributes the letters, you see.”

“That explains a great deal,” I said, with feeling.
I remembered how we had found the rebellion: persecuted by Nilson’s men and the army, and wholly unsheltered by the High Priest. I felt, to my surprise, an upwelling of anger. I should have held my tongue, but I could not help myself. “You realize that you’ve given them nothing beyond ideas,” I said sharply. “They had no plan, no means for gathering resources, nothing but your letters.”

“The time was not yet right for them to have such things,” the High Priest said, smugly superior
, stoking my anger. “The movement was not yet broad enough. Best they have no plans, in case they should be questioned by His Grace’s soldiers.” I frowned at his tone.

“You left them with nothing,” I said. “They faced spies and soldiers for love of the rebellion, but they had no network, no way to know if there was any help for them. They were at the mercy of Nilson—and he hates them, sir, he wants the movement stamped out.”

“When the movement has spread, when it occupies the hearts of all—then it will be the time to organize,” the High Priest said. “But not yet; at all costs, they must not organize yet. One day, I shall reveal myself as their leader and bring them to glory.” His gaze was faraway, and his smile was so self-congratulatory that I ground my teeth. He wanted to be their savior, a knight on a white horse, the triumphant leader; and his supporters would bleed for that.

Then his eyes snapped back to me
. “The best we can do now is secure the support of the King. Is that why you came back?”

“Yes,” I said
promptly, hoping that my agreement had not been too quick. It was even true, after a fashion—and I knew at once that I should not tell this confident man, this supremely self-assured, ruthless man, that we had done just what he had refused to do. “There was no word from the city. We had thought we would hear a proclamation from Wilhelm. But there was nothing. We came to make sure that he was still true to the cause.” The High Priest’s face closed off at once.

“He has made a poor all
y to the cause,” he said darkly. “A very poor ally, indeed. If I were not assured that there was a key, a failsafe—“ He bit his words off, staring at me. “Well, that is not important. To you.”

“Ho
w do you mean?” I asked, and the High Priest’s eyes narrowed.

“I mean that Wilhelm
has taken none of my counsel,” he snapped. “He once had a brilliant mind, he knew that there was
nothing
more important than this. Why, with the goodwill of all his citizens, he might not now be facing an invasion—his people would have laid down their lives for him, instead of standing in terror and being cut down like sheep. Now there is an army at his doorstep. But does he see it for what it is? Does he turn to me for advice? No! He will not even respond to my messengers.”

I stared at the man in shock. He had schemed and plotted for decades, biding his time through generations of power-hungry kings, working tirelessly to raise a movement of the people, a rebellion that burned in the hearts of all citizens. If my worst fears were true, he was a ruthless man, utterly dedicated and methodical.

Only a moment ago, he had told me that the time was not right for the movement to be born of the people. And yet now, facing a setback of mere months in his attempt to persuade the King, he was breaking down. I could understand such things from Miriel, who had only her wits and her façade as her weapons, who had no power at all in the court. But the High Priest had a network of spies, the ear of the former Dowager Queen, a longstanding alliance with the King himself; him, I expected to bide his time.

“He is young, there is an army at his doorstep—as you said—and he is being advised by a Council of commanders and generals,” I soothed
, thinking that I was more at ease with a methodical enemy than a mad one. “It is natural for him to be fixated on the invasion. Perhaps if you were to ask him and his family to come for a private service, to pray for the country, you could steal a few moments of his time.”

“And say what?” the High Priest asked bitterly. “He has told me to my face that it is not the right time to voice support of the rebellion, that his hold over the Lords is to tenuous. He delays, and the cowardice will become a habit.”

“Tell him that he must sign an accord with the rebels,” I said promptly. “A treaty, promising them equal rights in law. He need do no more than sign it, and then he can reveal that after the war is won and Heddred is at peace.” The High Priest laughed.

“There is no such treaty—it would take months to draw up. Wilhelm must know all the provisions to be included.
There is quite an extensive list.” I stared at him, and my distaste deepened. I had known him to be not only intelligent, but also quite cunning, self-reliant, decisive. Now I realized that the years of isolation from the movement he had created, the years of speaking his thoughts out loud to no one, of watching Court and Church and hating the excesses of both, and yet still taking no decisive action, had begun to convince him that he could not be wrong. He alone was the leader of this movement, he was the visionary and he alone would guide King and country to accord.

He was a mirror of the Duke, I realized, with a start. He had watched and waited and plotted, and he had made a meticulous plan—and, like the Duke, his plan was being delayed and undone by what he saw as ignorant stubbornness. The High Priest was furious because Wilhelm would not take advice without questioning it. He must control everything, from the voice of the rebellion, to the careful execution of its goals—and he would determine those goals. In the Duke, who sought only power, it was understandable. But in the High Priest, who sought to give voice to the people, it was a magnificent irony.

I swallowed. I must do whatever I could to ensure that the High Priest never knew Miriel for a rival leader. He must not know that she had unified the movement of the people behind a goal and treaty of their own devising, and that she had led them in support of the Royal Army. For what would happen if he knew that he was no longer the sole architect of this movement? He would surely try to wrest back control of the movement—or he might go quite mad at the thought of his work undone.

I shrugged and smiled, spreading my hands as if to say I could not know what would be the best course. And then I saw it: the chance to have the High Priest plant the suggestion in Wilhelm’s mind, the idea that could kindle Wilhelm’s passion for the rebellion once more. Gods willing, the treaty would be signed and Miriel and I would be gone within the week. But if not, if the battle came before we could persuade Wilhelm to meet, if we must wait, then I must lay the groundwork.

“Now is the time to step softly,” I said to the High Priest. “He is a young man, he thinks he knows best. But we—you, sir—can plant the seed in his mind. Suggest that such a treaty could be drawn up between the two of you someday. Remind him that he swore once he would support the rebellion—that might be gentle enough to call him back,” I suggested. I saw the opportunity to fish for information. “After all,” I said, with a wry grin, “he has just married for love. Any man may be distracted when he has a new bride. When the newness wears off, I think he may be a good sight more sensible.” The High Priest was frowning off into the distance, pondering my suggestion; he hardly heard me.

“Married for love?” He snorted. “What fool told you that?” I scrambled for an answer.

“Now that you mention it…it
was
a servant in de la Marque livery.”

“Yes,
he
would have everyone believe it was love,” the High Priest remarked, with a sneer. I could only think he meant Guy de la Marque, the man who had stayed in power while the High Priest had been thrust down. But I could hardly think for the hope growing in my chest.

“At least we’ll have the fun of watching him fight Gerald Conradine for command of the army, yes?” I said lightly
, but the memory of Gerald’s cold gaze sobered me. “He’s a man I’d not want for my enemy.” The High Priest waved a hand, dismissively.

“Gerald Conradine has no claws.”

“He killed Vaclav,” I retorted, and to my surprise, the High Priest laughed.

“Killed Vaclav? No. No, that was not Gerald.”

“But how could you know…” My voice trailed off as I realized what he meant, and I swallowed. The fear must have shown on my face, for the High Priest laughed once more, truly amused at my naïveté.

“
So even you two never guessed? Ah, wonderful.”

“But…” I searched for words. “Why?”

“War, Catwin.” The High Priest leaned forward. “A war to bleed the country dry, to show the people what the nobles’ squabbles cost them. The court is a pit of greed, where nobles fight over the lifeblood of Heddred. With the army occupied in the West, the people could rise in the East. Of course, Garad proved singularly determined to preserve peace.” His face twisted at the memory: his plans undone.

I stared at him silently. I had no words for this; it sickened me. To push a county to war, throwing thousands of lives into the balance, only to show the flaws of others? I had sat with Miriel and Jeram while they debated underhanded attacks—salting water supplies, cutting horses and oxen loose.
              They had wondered at the honor of that, and now I was faced with their leader, a man who did not bat an eye at the thought of plunging a country into battle. He carried no guilt, this man; he cared only for success, and failure.

I bowed. “I must be getting back.”
I must get back to Miriel, tell her this new information; it was nothing to the High Priest, but everything to us.

“Wait.” His voice was dry. “What did you need my help for, then?”

“Why, for the rebellion, of course. To see if you could persuade Wilhelm to stay true. Only you can bring the rebellion to fruition.” I thought that I had gone too far, but he gave a truly eerie smile in response.

“Oh, no,” he said absently. “I think you will do your part as well.”
Unsure what to say to this, I smiled and slipped out the door, thinking it better to leave quickly than give him an opportunity to trap me into telling the truth.

I decided not to go back to the Duke’s rooms at once, instead making my way up to the healers’ quarters. Roine had been much occupied of late, preparing bandages and medicines for the army, and preparing a small group of healers for the sights and sounds of the battlefield. It was she and her compatriots who would be some of the first to see the aftermath of this invasion, and whoever it was who won, there would be carnage and broken bodies to walk amongst, searching out the dying to offer help—or words of comfort as they died. The best she could hope for would be to see more Ismiri dead, than Heddrian, and I knew that would be of little comfort to her.

“It is necessary,” she had said, white-faced, when I asked her about it. I had frowned; the Roine I knew would lecture me on the uselessness of war and conceit of war. But she was afraid, I reminded myself. We were all afraid.

I stuck my head around the door and saw the usual bustle of activity. Roine was at a table in the back, grinding herbs, and I took a basket of linen strips and made my way over to her. She looked up at me gravely.