The Year of the Witching(85)

There was a chorus of gasps. People grasped their holy daggers and muttered prayers.

Judith looked to the Prophet again, and Immanuelle saw him offer her the smallest nod. She turned her attention back to the congregation, spoke in a rush. “When Immanuelle said those words, Ezra Chambers laughed like he couldn’t stop. His whole body seized up, the way the sick do when they catch the fever she cast upon us. She seduced Ezra,” Judith said, raising her eyes to the Prophet. “She put a hex on your son, using the magic of the Dark Mother to do it. So you see, it wasn’t his fault. She forced him to sin.”

“I didn’t,” said Immanuelle, speaking for the first time since her trial began. “I would never hurt Ezra. I’ll put my hand on the Scripture and say it. I’ll swear it on my mother’s bones.”

“Your mother has no bones to swear on,” Apostle Isaac said, his voice low and lethal. “Your mother’s corpse burned on the pyre. Only the ashes of that witch remain.”

“Praise be.” The flock spoke as one.

Once again, the Prophet raised his hand for silence. “Thank you for your confession.”

Judith parted her lips, as if she wanted to say more, but one glance from her husband was enough to quiet her. Head bowed, she returned to her guards, who seized her by the arms. She began to softly weep as they dragged her from the church.

The Prophet paused, his face grave in the flickering torchlight. At last, he spoke. “I would like to call upon my son, Ezra Chambers, to testify to the remarks of our last witness.”

Immanuelle’s heart froze in her chest.

“Bring my son to the altar.”

On his order, the cathedral doors groaned open and two guardsmen emerged from the darkness, Ezra between them. He looked like he’d been beaten. There was a crust of dried blood beneath his nose and bags beneath his eyes as dark as bruises. Through the thin fabric of his shirt, Immanuelle could see dirty bandages wrapped around his chest, badly in need of a changing.

Ezra limped down the aisle and braced both hands against the altar, his breathing ragged. His knuckles were just a few inches from Immanuelle’s fingertips, and she wanted nothing more than to take him by the hand. But she didn’t dare move.

This was an unexpected turn of events, one with the potential to completely upend her plan. If Ezra was pitted against her—if his innocence was used as evidence of her own guilt—then how could she clear her name without damning him?

The Prophet strode to the front of the altar and stared down at his son. “Is it true that you were in the company of the accused on the fifteenth Sabbath in the Year of the Reaping?”

Ezra shifted his weight. As he did so, his sleeve fell away, exposing the black band of a bruise around his forearm—a twin to the ones around Immanuelle’s wrists and ankles. The marks of chains and shackles. “Yes, I was there.”

“And is it true that Immanuelle spoke to her doings with the devils that day?”

Ezra’s hands trembled slightly. He clutched them into fists. “Many people spoke to many things that day.”

“But do you remember her words?”

“I do not.”

The Prophet slipped his hands into the folds of his robe. “Our accused has called you her friend. Is that true?”

Ezra hesitated. Immanuelle wouldn’t have blamed him if he denied her. Any smart man with the will to live would do so. He could still save himself. “That is true. Immanuelle is my friend, and a loyal one.”

At those words, Immanuelle choked back a sob, and Ezra must have heard it because he shifted his hand toward her by a half inch, his knuckles warm against her fingertips. He peered up at her for the first time.

It’s all right, his eyes seemed to say, the same words he’d whispered in her ear the night of Leah’s death. You’re going to be all right.

The Prophet circled them. He was close, so close that if Immanuelle had only reached out her hand, she could have seized his holy dagger by the hilt. She was tempted to do it, steal the blade and carve the sigil into her arm then and there. But she knew that if she attempted it, the Prophet’s guardsmen would shoot her dead on the spot. No, better to wait. The slaughter wasn’t upon them yet. She still had time to spare.

The Prophet dropped to a crouch at his son’s side. “Tell me, what is your connection to the accused? What is the nature of your affinity?”

Ezra swallowed hard, shifting his gaze back to his father. He squared his shoulders, as if he was gathering the strength he needed to speak. “I’m guilty of all the charges leveled against me. But Immanuelle is innocent. Any sins or crimes she may have committed were at my instruction, and mine only.”

A great, dreadful moan rose from the congregation. Many people wept openly; others ripped their own garments. Children cowered in their mothers’ skirts, and some of the more pious men lowered themselves to their knees in prayer.

Their heir had betrayed them.

The Prophet drew himself up to the altar slowly, his robes trailing behind him. “So you’re saying that it was you who lured the evil from Immanuelle Moore? You who called it forth?” He turned to point an accusing finger at his son. “All of these plagues have come upon us because of you?”

Ezra nodded. His shoulders rolled beneath his shirt as he shifted his weight against the altar. “Yes. That’s true.”