Seraphina(90)

They’d look twice at a scented monk, but no good could come of arguing the point. I kept on doggedly: “There’s something I must tell you, about my grandfather.”

He kept his back to me, pretending to examine the Skep. “We know all about him. Eskar is probably biting his head off right now.”

“I have maternal memories—” He scoffed at this, but I persisted. “Imlann revealed to my mother that he isn’t alone in despising the peace. There’s a cabal. They’re waiting for Goredd to weaken sufficiently, at which point I can only guess—”

“I’m sure you don’t have a single name.”

“General Akara.”

“Caught and modified, twenty years ago.”

I gave up trying not to antagonize him. “You never informed our Queen.”

“My generals are loyal,” he sniffed over his shoulder. “If you wish to convince me of a plot, you’ll have to do better than that.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but an arm wrapped around my throat from behind, choking off my voice, and then someone stabbed me in the back.





Or tried to, anyway.

My attacker released me with a cry of dismay. His dagger made no dent in my scaly midriff; he dropped the weapon on the marble floor with a ringing clang. Comonot whirled at the sound, drawing a sword concealed in his robes. I ducked; the Ardmagar struck faster than I’d believed possible in a man of his age and girth—but then, he wasn’t an ordinary man. By the time I raised my head, there was a dead priest on the floor of the apse, his robes a tangled mass of black, his life a wash of crimson pooling before the bishop’s throne. His blood steamed in the frigid air.

I glimpsed the string of amber prayer beads at his throat. This was surely the priest I’d seen speaking with Josef. I rolled him over and cried out in alarm.

It was the clothier who’d threatened me. Thomas Broadwick.

Comonot’s nostrils flared. This could not be good, a saarantras smelling fresh death. I heard voices and the scuffle of feet rushing up the apse toward us; the din of our brief battle had not gone unnoted. I froze in panic, not knowing whether to urge the Ardmagar to run or to turn him in myself.

He’d saved my life, or I’d saved his. Not even that was clear.

Three monks reached us, skidding to a stop at the sight of our gruesome tableau. I turned to Comonot, intending to follow his lead, but he was unexpectedly shocked and pale; he looked dumbly at me, shaking his head. I took a deep breath and said, “There’s been an assassination attempt.”





Comonot and I were not officially detained, but “voluntarily” confined to the bishop’s study until the Queen’s Guard arrived. The bishop had good food and wine sent up from the seminary kitchens, and welcomed us to peruse his library.

I would have been happy to make free with the books, but Comonot would not stop pacing, and anytime I moved at all he flinched, as if he feared I might come over and touch him. I probably could have cornered him behind the lectern if I’d had a mind to.

At last he burst out: “Explain this body to me!”

He was asking the right person. I had addressed similar questions from Orma twenty dozen times. “What specifically perturbs you, Ardmagar?”

He seated himself across from me, looking directly at me for the first time. His face was white; sweat plastered his hair to his forehead. “Why did I do that?” he said. “Why did I reflexively kill that man?”

“Self-preservation. He’d stabbed me; he was likely to go for you next.”

“No,” he said, shaking his jowls. “That is, perhaps he would have attacked me, but that’s not what went through my mind. I was protecting you.”

I almost thanked him, but he seemed so profoundly disturbed by the whole thing that I hesitated. “Why do you regret protecting me? Because of what I am?”

He regained some of his hauteur: his lip curled and his heavy lids lowered. “What you are is every bit as repulsive to me as it ever was.” He poured himself a large glass of wine. “However, I am now in your debt. If I had been alone, I might be dead.”

“You shouldn’t have come here alone. How did you leave the entourage without being seen?”

He took several large gulps and considered the air in front of him. “I was never in my carriage. I had no intention of viewing the Golden Plays; I have no interest in your queer religion or the dramas it spawns.”

“Then what were you doing in the cathedral? Not finding religion, one assumes.”

“Not your concern.” He sipped wine, his eyes narrowing in thought. “What do you call doing something on behalf of someone else for no apparent reason? Altruism?”

“Er, you mean what you did for me?”

“Of course that’s what I mean.”

“But you had reason: you were grateful I had saved your life.”

“No!” he shouted. I jumped, startled. “That didn’t occur to me until after the deed was done. I defended you without even thinking. For the merest moment I …” He paused, his breath labored, his eyes glazed with horror. “I had a strong feeling about what happened to you. I may have cared! The idea of you hurting made me … hurt!”

“I suppose I’d call that empathy,” I said, not exactly feeling empathy myself for how much the idea disgusted him.