Fractured: Tales of the Canadian Post-Apocalypse(83)

“Joyce,” the priest said behind her.

She froze.

“You must call me Matthew. After all, we will soon be related by marriage.”

Joyce swallowed, carefully pronounced, “Yes, Matthew.”

It was difficult not to run out of the tent but she managed a steady pace. There was no thought to what would happen once she left. All that was important for the moment was reaching the open air.

Outside, night had fallen and the fog was thick once more. Out of habit, Joyce moved to the cisterns where the dew traps emptied. She stopped at the door, sagged, and looked hopelessly out into the night as though seeking an answer.

Instead, her eyes found guardsman Otis with his two friends following her out of the market tent. Their eyes locked for a moment. Something flickered across his face she could not identify and then he smiled his idiot smile.

“Hey, Joyce, I hear you’re getting married. They say you’re going to marry a priest. Is that the guy, that old fossil at your table?” Otis and his friends swaggered closer. They were bloated with laughter. “He looks stiff as a poker. Of course, it’s good to have a stiff man. You know what I mean, Joyce?”

Otis was far too close now. He had always been at least the width of a table away from her. Now she could smell him. He seemed so much taller, so much stronger as he loomed out of the fog.

“Bet you like stiff men but you need a young one.” His hand reached out for her shoulder.

It never touched her.

Something hissed out of the dark and struck the guardsman on the wrist. He yelped. The hand withdrew as he turned to face his attacker. The young man with the blond hair was standing there.

“You will not speak to a sister of the Convocation Penitent in that fashion and you will certainly not touch her,” he said, and there was iron in his voice. The friendly face he had worn that morning was gone.

“You know what you get for hitting a guardsman?” Otis asked. His truncheon was out now.

The young man said nothing. Instead, he stared hard at Otis while tapping something against the palm of his free hand. It took Joyce a moment to realize what it was. Her eyes widened and she looked up in search of a collar but he still wore the scarf wrapped tight around his neck.

One of the other guardsmen, either brighter or better informed than Otis, had noted the scourge as well. He seemed to realize what it signified and now looked wary of continuing the conflict. Otis had no such reservations.

“I am going to make you so sorry,” he announced, and tried to step forward only to be restrained by his more prudent companion. Otis shook the hand off and demanded, “What?”

“Look what he’s holding.”

“I know what he’s holding. He just hit me with it,” Otis snapped. “I’m going to shove that whip down his throat.”

“He’s a priest,” the other guardsman croaked under his breath. “We can’t touch him.”

“This bone rack? No way,” Otis retorted. “Anyway, I don’t care. He hit me.”

“We can’t. You know that,” the other insisted, and then added in a hiss, “We have orders.”

“Shit,” Otis spat, and then looked squarely at his opponent. “Let me see it.”

The blond man raised his chin and pulled the scarf down. In the dim light, iron glinted at his throat. Otis swore again, longer and more fluently, and then warned, “You watch your back, Wrather. People like you have accidents. You know what I mean? One night, you’ll have an accident.”

The young man said nothing back, neither did he move nor look away. Otis stood before him quaking in impotent fury, trying to contrive a graceful retreat. In the end, all he could do was spin on his heel and curse his friends into following him. Joyce watched in astonishment as they left, leaving her alone with her saviour.

“You idiot,” she scolded him. “I have to live here. I have to see them every day.”

“You will be protected,” he assured her.

“Just because I am married to a priest?” The word stuck in her throat and she repeated it. “Priest.”

“Yes, because you will be the wife of a priest. After the riots last year, none of the guardsmen and not even the Caretakers would dare touch you. Not you and not me. You saw that here tonight.”

“You are a priest,” Joyce said. She was shaking now.

“Yes.” He stepped closer to her. She could feel the heat of his body and realized that he was breathing hard. He was all iron and fire. It seemed that he might reach for her, take her in his arms again. Abruptly, Joyce backed away two paces.

“Don’t touch me.”

The words hit him hard. His shoulders fell and the eyes with them. The iron was gone. The fire was out. He said, “I am sorry. I don’t know if I can do this.”

“Do what?”

“Any of it. Face them. Lead this Convocation. Marry you. I don’t think I am worthy or strong enough. My uncle expects it, but I don’t know if I can.”

Joyce could not find her voice for a full minute after that. She could only stare at the young man. In the end she asked, “Marry me? You are going to marry me?”

“If you are willing. Didn’t the archdeacon tell you that I was coming today? From what you said at the farm, I thought you knew all about it and had decided to accept.”