Assassin's Heart (Assassin's Heart, #1)(87)

I leaned over. It was an illustration of a staff with golden beams of light radiating from a gem.

“Daedara,” he said. “A god of the sun, mostly worshipped in the eastern part of the continent.”

“Where the hells did they find him?” Les asked.

I shrugged.

“He was one of the six gods worshipped in Lovero before the Sapienzas took the throne,” Faraday said, “but why the Da Vias have turned to him, I am unsure.”

“I think I understand.” I pointed at a line in the text. “Daedara is a god of fertility, also. Marcello told me Estella blamed him for not providing her with a child. But after he was banished, she remained barren. I don’t think she was ever stable in her head, but I could easily see her transferring the blame to Safraella.”

Faraday nodded. “It could be true, too. If Safraella could see how unfaithful Estella was, why would She bless her with a child?”

“But doesn’t Daedara care that they’re freely murdering people?” Les asked. “If they’re not worshipping Safraella, then they’re nothing more than common criminals.”

Faraday examined the text closely, then shrugged. “He seems to be against the murder of children.”

“Well,” I said, “turning to Daedara seems to have done their Family some good. Their numbers have exploded. It seems their women barely have time to clip, so busy are they being pregnant.”

Faraday leaned back. “But I don’t think you need to fear anything from this priest of Daedara. Unless, like the ghosts, you fear the sunlight.”

“Thank you, Brother.” I inclined my head. “Should the Saldanas survive, I would welcome you into our home.”

He smiled brightly and shut the book. “I may take you up on that, Sister. Truly your lives are full of adventure and intrigue!”

I grabbed my mask from the table. Les reclaimed his from the floor where I had knocked it. A tingle of regret traveled through me as I watched Les dust the cobwebs from it. He had waited so long for his mask, and I had pushed it aside as if it was a cheap trinket. Les didn’t seem to mind, though. He caught my eyes and winked before he pushed his mask to the top of his head.

“Now we must be off.”

“But Sister, the sun has set and the angry ghosts wander the plains.”

I clutched my key. There would be no more delays, not while Marcello still lived and I was so close to my vengeance.

I slipped my mask down my face. “If the lowly Brother Pelleas could cross the plains one hundred years ago, then surely a favored clipper can do it as well.”





thirty-seven


WE GAVE THE MONASTERY LES’S HORSE. THEY LOOKED dubiously at the ill-tempered animal, but I reminded them they could sell him for the coin.

Butters had been kept well fed and maintained in my absence. He nickered when he saw me. We saddled both horses and led them to the gate, where the usual mob of ghosts had gathered.

“Are you sure about this?” Les asked. Butters tossed his head and stomped his hoof, either raring to go or trying to impress Les’s mare. She stood quietly, her ears flicking at Butters.

“No.” I stared at the ghosts. “But if it works, we can make up time.”

The priests swung the gates open. The cacophony from the ghosts rose in volume. Even with the gates open, though, they could not cross onto holy ground. They pressed themselves against the invisible barrier, trying to reach us.

“Are you ready?” I asked him.

“What’s the worst that can happen?”

“Your soul could be pulled from your body and you could wander the dead plains for a thousand years?”

“And that’s why I keep you around, kalla Lea. For your sense of humor.”

Butters huffed as we walked toward the dead plains. The moon was barely a sliver and already high in the sky. If this worked, we could push our horses and reach Lovero before the sun rose.

The ghosts stretched toward me, screaming. I urged Butters forward. The ghosts swarmed me, trying to be the first to claim my body, but when they touched me, they were driven back by a spark and flash of light, just as they’d been when I’d been attacked on the dead plains before.

“Les!” I glanced over my shoulder. He hesitated by the entrance. Then he shook his head and kicked his horse into the fray of ghosts. Miraculously, the ghosts swayed away. They could not touch him without being forced aside. We had looked upon the face of Safraella, and the ghosts could not rip our spirits from us.

Les directed his horse beside Butters. His chest heaved with heavy breaths. “I can’t believe that worked.”

“Let’s go!” I kicked Butters, who leaped into a gallop, happy to be given the chance to run once more.

Les gasped as his mare followed. He had a tight grip on the her mane but didn’t jerk her head. We trailed a stream of angry ghosts. The dead did not tire and did not forget their rage.

I slowed Butters a little so Les could catch up and ride beside me.

“Will we go straight into Ravenna?” he yelled over the sound of the horses’ hooves.

“No.” I shook my head. “They’ll notice anyone who enters the city this late. We’ll enter Lovero through Lilyan, then make our way to Ravenna.”

We urged the horses faster, trying to outrace the ghosts. Any that managed to reach us were deflected by an invisible barrier that surrounded us like the monastery, hurling them far away into the plains with a flash of light. It was as if we were holy ground. They tried to throw rocks at us, branches, anything they could find, but everything was deflected away. Our protection seemed to make them even angrier, if that was possible. Maybe they could sense how Safraella had touched us, had given us a new life while they were trapped with their rage and grief. Maybe they hated us even more because of it.