The Year of the Witching(88)
“And what of Ezra? You said you’d offer him mercy?”
At the mention of his son, the Prophet’s eye twitched. “I did, and I’m a man of my word. After you’re cut, Ezra will be absolved of his crimes.”
That meant that the Prophet would only enact his plan after her cutting. It meant that she had time. “So you intend to free him, then?”
“Free him?” The Prophet scoffed, looking close to laughter. “I can’t do that. As my heir and a former apostle, Ezra took creeds to the Church. Creeds that he subsequently broke when he turned his back on his faith in order to help you. That’s an act of holy treason.”
And holy treason carried the penalty of death by pyre purging. “How far does your mercy extend if I refuse your offer?”
The Prophet’s gaze went dark. “It doesn’t extend at all.”
Rage boiled in the pit of Immanuelle’s stomach. She clenched her fists. He was all but forcing her to the altar in shackles. Either she married him, or she and Ezra burned on the pyre. There was no other alternative.
“You have such a sharp gaze,” said the Prophet, smirking. “You do favor her when you look at me that way.”
“Favor who?”
“Your grandmother. Vera Ward. Do you know that after your arrest in Ishmel, she followed you on horseback all the way to the Hallowed Gate? She was so exhausted by the time she arrived that arresting her was an act of mercy.”
“Vera’s here?” Immanuelle whispered, horrified.
“In the flesh, as of a week ago.”
“What do you want with her?”
“She’s Bethelan,” said the Prophet. “The holy seal is carved between her brows. I have an obligation to guide her soul back to the Father’s light, which is no easy task given how long she’s dwelled in darkness. Besides, I pity her, truly I do. Imagine it, first the poor woman was made to watch her only son burn on the pyre. Now, seventeen years later, it seems her granddaughter—the last of her living blood kin—will share his fate. It’s a terrible tragedy.”
Immanuelle couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. All this time she had been so busy chasing beasts and devils, believing that evil began and ended with them. She had been so foolish. True evil didn’t lurk in the depths of the Darkwood. It was not in Lilith or her coven, or even in any of the curses they cast.
True evil, Immanuelle realized now, wore the skin of good men. It uttered prayers, not curses. It feigned mercy where there was only malice. It studied Scriptures only to spit out lies. Lilith had known this, and Miriam had known it too. So they’d cast their curses and summoned the plagues. They’d tried to fix things, in their own twisted way, to put an end to all the evil that began with the Prophet and all the prophets who had reigned before him.
“I’ll draw it back,” said Immanuelle, not knowing if it was even possible. “If you pardon me and Ezra, if you let us leave Bethel with my grandmother, I’ll find a way to end the plagues. I’ll leave all of you in peace.”
“I thought you said you didn’t control the plagues.”
“No, I said I didn’t summon them. There’s a difference.”
The Prophet studied her for a beat before turning back to his desk. He sat, scribbled his signature at the bottom of his letter, blew the ink dry, then slipped it into an envelope. He tipped his candle, spilling a spot of wax onto the letter’s flap, tugged his dagger from the shadows of his shirt, and pressed the hilt’s pommel into the puddle, forming the print of the holy seal. “I’m not interested in a hasty fix, Immanuelle. I’m not going to get on my hands and knees and beg you to draw the plagues back. That’s not how this works, and it’s not what the Father demands. If we are to find a way to end the plagues, we won’t do it by delving into the darkness.”
“Then how do you plan to stop this? You think cutting me or jailing your son will make any difference? Do you think Lilith and her witches will give a damn about that?”
“No, I don’t,” the Prophet said calmly. “That’s why, if the plagues continue, I’m prepared to raze the Darkwood until there’s nothing left but twigs and cinders. The pyres I light will make the holy purges of David Ford look like hearth fires. One way or another, Bethel will prevail and the Father will have His atonement.”
Immanuelle’s hands tightened to fists. “If it’s atonement you want, if that’s what the Father truly demands, then why don’t you start with yourself?”
A peal of thunder cracked outside, and the dark seemed to thicken, pressing in against the windowpanes.
“What do I have to atone for?”
“I think you know.”
“I never claimed perfection, Immanuelle. We all make mistakes.”
Rage washed through her. Outside, the wind roared through the blackness. “I’m not talking about mistakes. I’m talking about crimes. You bedded Leah long before her cutting, taking her virtue while she paid penance here, under what should have been your protection. You sent my father to the pyre out of jealousy and spite. You’ve jailed your own son on charges you know are false. And the dungeons beneath our feet are filled with innocent girls you torture for the crime of having witch marks on their census files. There is nothing you wouldn’t do, no one you wouldn’t hurt, to keep power in your hands.”