CHAPTER FOUR
the citadel
The sun rose over the trees before the pungent tang of wood-smoke aroused Rachael. Someone had lit a fire in her stove. She lifted her head and rested her chin on her arm as the yard crept into focus. Her head pounded; she felt hung-over.
Her dog Caesar barked and Rachael thought her scalp would peel from her skull. She sat up to see a black mare and a small roan tethered to her hitching post. The roan’s saddle displayed the Citadel’s black and red colors. The mare also wore the Citadel’s alpha/omega emblem on her bridle, but the rest of her tack was nondescript.
That was not a good omen because the plain saddle meant someone was going on a directive. Around her throbbing headache, she recalled the previous evening. The shock of feeling Lucian’s magic had receded to become the silent rage she’d learned to live with.
Half the Citadel must have experienced Lucian opening the Gate, and John wasn’t going to let Lucian slide again. The Seraph had obviously sent the judge and constable for an extra horse.
A door slammed from the direction of the kitchen, and she winced.
“Rae?”
She recognized Caleb’s voice and frowned. He was one of the few constables who didn’t fear the Wyrm and frequently dropped by to check on her. He was also John’s primary choice to accompany her on directives. Her heart quickened to send throbs of agony into her head. Surely John didn’t intend to send her after Lucian.
“Rae, you up?”
Peter’s wallet was cool in her hand, and she realized she still held the photograph. She licked the tip of her finger and managed to rub her blood off the image before she returned it to the inside flap.
Caleb came into the room and leaned against the doorjamb, surveying the mess. Instead of his cassock and collar, he wore a brown shirt and pants to blend in with the locals of the surrounding countryside. Caleb was definitely going on a directive. “Rae?” He assessed her condition with a critical eye, and she knew he watched to see whether she was connected to reality or immersed in her dreams.
“I’m all right.” She tried to stand and slipped in her vomit. That couldn’t look good. The sour stench gagged her and she choked down her bile, willing her body into control.
Caleb came to her side and took her arm, helping her balance herself on numb legs. Very few Katharoi bothered to touch her; they all complained the resonance of her magic was as tainted as the Wyrm. It was just as well; she didn’t like being touched anymore. She shook the constable’s hand off her arm.
She smelled coffee and tobacco on his breath when he said, “Take it easy, Rae. What happened?”
“Foundling.” The bed was empty. God, had she dreamed it? She touched Peter’s wallet for reassurance. “Where is he?”
“Outside. We cleaned him up and gave him a shroud so we can get him to the Citadel.” Caleb reached out to her, but she stepped away from him. “Why didn’t you send for me?” he asked.
Rachael plucked at the bloody sheets, pulling them off the mattress. A strand of Peter’s hair drifted through a shaft of sunlight. Even Lucian with all his healing skills couldn’t have brought the boy through those injuries. “There was nothing you could have done, Lucian.”
“Caleb,” he said.
“Caleb,” she dutifully replied, looking away from him.
He took the sheets from her and tossed them to the mattress. “Come on, Rae. Get yourself together.”
He had no business patronizing her. Even debilitated with the Wyrm, she stood above him in rank. When Caleb had first brought her out of Hell after Lucian’s betrayal, she’d been grateful to him, but over the years, he’d misinterpreted her gratitude for something deeper. She refused to foster his hope for any relationship other than a professional one and discouraged his attempts at familiarity.
Before she could answer him, the front door closed. Rachael snuffed the candle on the nightstand with her fingertips, pinching the wick and not letting go. The pain oriented her mind.
“Master Caleb, I’ve fed the animals.” The soft voice announced Caleb’s oldest foundling Victor.
Caleb went to the hurricane glass to blow out the flame. “Okay. Victor, go down and saddle Ignatius for Judge Boucher; she’ll be riding back with us.”
“Yes, sir.” The youth left the house, and Rachael glimpsed him on his way to the stables. He was a tall, handsome young man with auburn hair and olive skin, about the same age as Peter. Caesar trotted at Victor’s heels and the youth bent down to scratch the dog’s shaggy ears.
“Rae? Are you paying attention?”
She focused on Caleb and frowned. The Wyrm had yet to blind her soul’s eye. To anyone else Caleb would appear to be the epitome of calm, but she sensed apprehension hunkering beneath his facade. “What?”
“The Seraph wants you at the Citadel.”
She barked a short, nasty laugh, unable to remember the last time anyone wanted her at the Citadel. She kept her apartments there and attended the quarterly Council meetings but that was all. More and more she felt like the discarded piece of a puzzle, swept into a corner away from all the other joined pieces. “It’s Lucian.”
He wouldn’t meet her gaze. “You know it is.”
God, she had escaped him never to escape him. “And John is issuing a directive for you and me?”
“Yes.” He sighed and gestured at her filthy clothes. “You can’t go like that. You look awful. And you’ll need to pack. Looks like we’re going on a long trip. Lucian is northwest of us in the Wasteland.”
“All right, all right,” she murmured, but it wasn’t all right. It would never be all right again. Lucian Negru had seen to that. “Give me a few minutes.”
“Sure, I’ll make you some coffee.”
Caleb had thoughtfully placed two large buckets of water in her room. She must have been in a coma for him and Victor to move around her for so long, but when was the last time she’d slept? The unmade bed gave her no clue as she closed the door to her bedroom and pulled the curtains across her window. She tugged her shirt off and tossed it into the corner.
On her right arm her flesh suddenly rose as if there was a pebble just beneath the surface of her skin. The pigmentation around the blemish became discolored. Before she could clamp her hand over the bump, it moved up her arm to disappear into one of the raised scars mapping her body. The disfigurements became more pronounced as the Wyrm gained another inch of her with every passing year.
Hands shaking, Rachael made certain to choose a shirt with loose sleeves. She pulled on the gloves she’d made to hide the joining of her pinky and ring fingers on her left hand. The physical deformities were not readily noticeable, but nothing hid the pall of the Wyrm’s resonance, which hovered over her like a shroud.
She finished dressing and packed. When she opened the curtains again, she caught a quick glimpse of herself in the glass. The scars on the right side of her face and neck undulated where the Wyrm crawled beneath her skin. The movements were barely perceptible unless someone looked very close. Rachael never allowed anyone to get too close.
Her long hair looked like she had cut it in the dark with a dull knife. She reached up and dragged the ragged layers over to shadow the right side of her face. Maybe she couldn’t hide the Wyrm’s resonance, but she obscured the demon’s physical presence.
Satisfied, she left her reflection and went to collect her sword. She loosened the strap of the scabbard and slung the blade over her shoulder, then grabbed Peter’s wallet and pushed it into her pack. Whether his death was her fault or not, he was the first foundling she had ever drawn through the Veil. Since he had no other family on Woerld, she’d hold on to his personal possessions. The wallet might give her some small comfort in the night.
In the kitchen, Caleb poured her a cup of coffee, and she could tell by his appraisal that she looked presentable. She would have to rely on him because she removed all the mirrors from her house years ago.
She paused by the table where the account book for Cross Creek was open. She set her pack down, unable to recall leaving the book there. Her eye was drawn to the heavy slashes of ink scarring the paper. The pages that had once held neatly spaced columns of handwritten numbers were now filled with nightmare sketches of incomprehensible violence. She turned the leaves slowly, marveling at the detail of familiar faces pulled in agony. Sickened, she slammed the book shut and took it to the stove where she shoved it into the fire.
Without a word, Caleb took the poker and mashed the curling paper deep into the flames, making certain they burned. “Blackout?” he asked. He likened her episodes of dreaming to alcoholic blackouts. A fitting enough description of the times when she dreamed and the Wyrm took her for its own.
She nodded. “Did Victor see that?”
“No. It was on the table, but it was closed. While Victor fed the animals, I flipped through it and saw, well, you know.” He shrugged.
She took her cup and steadied her hand to drink.
Caleb looked at her.
She shuddered. “You know it’s worse when I’m alone. I fell to dreaming. That’s all. It’s nothing. A minor fugue. I’ll be all right.”
“Is there anything else here that might be like that?”
She felt sure there was nothing. “No.”
“Good, because John’s sending Sara and Stephan to steward Cross Creek while you’re gone.” He closed the stove.
Rachael grabbed her pack and went outside with Caleb following her. She lashed her saddlebags to Ignatius’ saddle as the dapple gray fixed his one brown eye on her. The constable mounted his black mare, and Victor turned the buckboard carrying Peter’s body. The youth was obviously eager to be away from Cross Creek and the sour stench of the Wyrm’s magic.
Caleb said to Victor, “Judge Boucher and I are going to ride ahead. You take your time.”
“Yes, sir.”
They soon left Victor and the plodding wagon behind. They rode in silence, keeping a steady pace. As they neared the Citadel, the congestion on the road became thicker with merchants and local farmers coming and going either to the Citadel or the Semah River with their wares. Most of them remained on the central road to the Citadel to enter the main eastern gate. A few followed another narrow side-road to the village of Banias, a dirty river village that snuggled up to the Citadel’s western wall like a tick.
Rachael and Caleb followed a less traveled road to enter the Citadel’s northern gate. Not one of the better-maintained thoroughfares, the road boasted less traffic but became a mud-hole during the heavy autumn rains. Rachael didn’t care; she was glad to be out of the crowds.
They crested a small hill and on the plain below rested the Citadel, high on a manmade mound. In spite of her years on Woerld, the sight of the bastion never failed to take her breath away. The Semah River sparkled, a jeweled necklace that curved behind the Citadel. A fortified outer wall gave the Citadel its first line of defense, and a second inner wall encompassed the cathedral and grounds.
The cathedral faced the east where the basilica rose to form a dome between two towers. At the top of the dome, the lesser spires of adjacent buildings surrounded a great resurrection cross. The towers contiguous to the cathedral housed the apartments and offices of those Katharoi who resided at the Citadel.
Most of the Katharoi lived on their holdings and only reported to the Citadel for council meetings or in times of war. The supplies from the holdings kept the Citadel functioning so that in Woerld, the Katharoi stood outside of Ra’anan’s local government. They supported themselves and rarely interceded in Woerld’s political arena. To keep Ra’anan’s King Phillip happy, the Seraph sent an annual tribute and helped in years of famine or plague.
In return, King Phillip never interceded in the Citadel’s business and trusted the Seraph to keep the Fallen from corrupting his lands. The War of the Great Schism had made a deep and abiding impression on all of Woerld’s kings, and none wanted to see their countries turned into a barren wasteland like Norbeh. They left the bastions to their own devices so long as taxes were paid and the Fallen remained in Hell.
The Citadel and the Katharoi who lived there formed a splendid machine that never seemed to lose its way. Even when a piece falls from the cogs, the wheels continue to turn, Rachael thought as she and Caleb approached the postern gate to the outer wall.
She bit down on her self-pity and nodded to the guard who motioned them through the open portcullis. The sun disappeared as the long, dim tunnel swallowed the light. They emerged back into the brightness of the middle ward and passed through the second gate into the crowded courtyard.
The alley between the summer kitchen and the bake-house was congested with a few Katharoi and staff on their way out of the Citadel. The crowd parted reluctantly for Rachael and Caleb. Rachael ignored the three Katharoi who made the sign of the cross as she passed.
They hated her, and those that didn’t hate her feared her. She carried the stench of the Wyrm on her like a vile perfume, and they sensed it the same way they sensed one another’s magic. Rachael turned her face away from them and guided Ignatius to the right, toward the cathedral.
The courtyard was busy with Katharoi and staff members who served the Katharoi going about their daily business. Katharoi from other bastions moved amongst the Citadel’s members. Emissaries from the Mosque and the Rabbinate laughed together as they walked toward the Citadel’s great library to the left of the cathedral. The blue robes of an Avalonian priestess contrasted with the red clothing worn by a Deg Long from the Tibetan temple as they wound their way through the crowd, heads bent close to converse over the racket.
Members of other bastions came from all over Woerld to visit the Citadel’s famed library like they traveled to the Mosque to learn astronomy. In her youth, Rachael had journeyed to the bastion of the Hindus, the Mandir. There she had studied the Dharmacakra and the confluence of energy that created the spokes of the Dharmacakra’s wheel. Under the guidance of the Mandir’s Seraph, Rachael had come to understand how the realms of existence—Heaven, Earth, Woerld, and Hell—interrelated with one another. The four realms were like four lakes joined by tiny streams; toss a pebble into Hell and the ripples would extend to the farthermost reaches of Heaven.
Rachael scanned the crowd to see if any of the Citadel’s visitors were disturbed by Lucian’s opening of the Gate, but the only tension she sensed came from the Citadel’s Katharoi. Everything else seemed normal. The steady ring of metal against metal announced the blacksmith was well into his day. Four women wearing cooks’ aprons whispered amongst themselves as they sauntered to the gardens swinging empty baskets. Rachael ignored their stares, wishing she didn’t have to undergo this indignity every time John needed her.
When she and Caleb stopped at the western entrance to the cathedral, grooms came forward to take their mounts. Caleb ordered a third horse be saddled and brought to them, and one young man took the animals to the shade while the second ran to the stables.
Over the doors of the cathedral’s entrance was a relief carved in stone. With his great wings outstretched and his sword drawn, Saint Michael pressed his foot against the fallen Satan’s throat. Satan’s eyes were defiant, in spite of his crushed wings and Michael’s obvious rage, the fallen angel exuded confidence. His gaze promised he would rise again.
Rachael instinctively crossed herself as she approached the steps. The doors were open to take any breeze up to the highest floors. They stepped into the coolness of the atrium where tall arched windows allowed natural light to spill into the cathedral. Approximately twenty feet ahead, another set of doors opened into the nave, an area almost as busy as the atrium.
The nave extended for several yards before an ornate wooden screen interrupted it. Through the latticework of the screen, Rachael glimpsed the quire and high altar where the Katharoi held both Mass and court.
She turned away from the nave and looked beyond the carved colonnades to the arcades that melted into the shadows. With Caleb on her heels, Rachael slipped around a small group of protégés.
Rather than take the straight path to the Seraph’s formal entrance where emissaries from other bastions might be waiting, she veered right toward an arcade that led to a dim passageway. Tapestries depicted battles from the War of the Great Schism when the Fallen had almost destroyed the Zoroastrians by dividing their ranks over theological differences.
The Fallen’s adherents had infiltrated the Zoroastrian bastion and convinced the Seraph that the unity of Woerld’s religions betrayed their beliefs. The Zoroastrian council voted to separate from the Council of Seraphs and their respective bastions. Not even the most passionate pleas from the Mandir’s Seraph had swayed their hearts. From the moment the Zoroastrian bastion divorced itself from the Council, it had only been a matter of time before the Fallen attacked, and without being able to rely on the other bastions, the Zoroastrian fortress fell to the powers of chaos.
By the time the surviving Zoroastrian Katharoi reached the other bastions with news of the breach, the Fallen had secured their defenses in the city of Melasur. John was a foundling during the last years of the War, and he recounted how the ripples from the War of the Great Schism had extended into Earth’s realm in the form of World War II. John never wanted his Katharoi to forget how close they’d come to losing Woerld and Earth to the Fallen.
Rachael and Caleb passed the last of the tapestries and the chattering crowd thinned as they reached a plain door that connected the cathedral to the adjoining tower. The next corridor ended at a narrow stairwell used by the Katharoi and serving staff to access the Seraph’s chambers. The less she was seen, the better.
The ride to the Citadel along with the climb to the fourth floor cleared her head. Once John heard about her latest blackout combined with the loss of her foundling, he would surely rescind his directive. Then she could go back to Cross Creek, raise warhorses, and drown herself in forgetfulness again.
Rachael stepped into a passageway lit with a few scattered sconces. No ornamentation lined the stone walls. The only occupants of the hall were the two guards who flanked the side-door to John’s office and a line of three empty chairs. The guards came to attention as Rachael neared them.
She said, “The Seraph has summoned me.”
The soldier bowed and knocked before he opened the door. He returned and gestured for Rachael to enter. “Judge Boucher. Constable Aldridge, you may wait there.” He gestured to one of the empty chairs.
Into the abyss, Rachael thought, steadying herself for the interview to come.
In the expansive office, she inhaled the scent of leather and tobacco tinged with the faintest odor of incense. It was a smell she had long associated with John’s book-lined shelves in the well-lit room. When she was young, this chamber had been her sanctuary. With the coming of the Wyrm, she had sought comfort from her Elder’s presence less and less.
Parallel to the door she had entered was another entrance, which led to a comfortable antechamber where formal guests awaited their private audiences with the Citadel’s Seraph. Flanking the door were two large globes atop brass stands. The globe on the left was of Earth and the one on the right represented Woerld. The thirty-one spokes of the Dharmacakra’s Gates crisscrossed both globes and reflected what John believed were the corresponding sites of power between Earth and Woerld.
To her left, natural light from three tall, arched windows flooded the room. The rest of the chamber was given to bookshelves except for the one wall farthest from the door, which sheltered the hearth. Cushioned chairs surrounded the open fireplace where John often entertained the visiting emissaries of other Seraphs. Seated in one of the chairs was Reynard Bartell, the Citadel’s Inquisitor, and he rose when she entered.
At the center of the chamber was John’s desk, as ornate as any throne, the wood burnished to a deep cherry. As soon as she shut the door, John said, “You took your bloody time getting here.”
John Shea’s voice had been the first Rachael heard in Woerld, and as her Elder, she had come to know his moods better than her own. He wasn’t angry with her for her tardiness, but he intended to know the reason.
He was seated behind his desk, looking up from the paper he held. He wasn’t a large man physically, yet he commanded the room nonetheless. Though he was well in his seventies, he could still put one of the younger Katharoi in place with either sword or argument.
Reynard Bartell clasped his hands before him as he moved into the light. His cassock and crimson scapular were immaculate. In spite of her recent washing and clean clothes, Rachael felt dingy.
As if sensing her discomfort, Reynard smiled benevolently. Her gut constricted. A master courtier, Reynard had been a judge when he’d used Lucian’s trial to secure his position of Inquisitor, chief Citadel judge.
She ignored Reynard and went to John’s side. She took his hand as she knelt to kiss his ring of office. “Forgive me, your Eminence.”
His hand lingered on top of her head. Though he tried to keep his face impassive, she saw his revulsion at what she’d become. Worse than his disgust was the disappointment in his eyes over her failure to master the Wyrm. John released her and gave her leave to rise with a wave of his hand. “Don’t let it happen again.”
Taking a deep breath, she pasted a smile on her face and turned to greet Reynard.
“Judge Boucher.” He reached out to her. “We were becoming concerned.”
Rachael braced herself for the contact and didn’t resist him when Reynard took her shoulders and kissed her left cheek, then her right. He cupped her face, his hands remaining a second too long, and the Wyrm rose briefly, whether to feed on her hate or Reynard’s, she didn’t know. The demon fell back to the recesses of her mind when Reynard released her. He said, “The Lord be with you, Judge Boucher.”
“And with your spirit, my Lord Inquisitor.” She responded with a slight tilt of her head. She didn’t take his proffered hand. As John’s heir, she wasn’t required to submit herself to Reynard’s authority. She bent her knee before the Inquisitor only during the most formal ceremonies when John allowed no breach of etiquette.
Reynard’s fingers curled but didn’t close.
“Sit down, Rachael.” John indicated the chair across from his desk. “I’m sure Constable Aldridge has briefed you.”
“He has.” She didn’t like the way Reynard positioned himself just behind John’s right shoulder. The entire scene was reminiscent of when she had to answer for her actions in Lucian’s crime. John spared her a public trial, but the inquisition by John and Reynard had been intense nonetheless.
“What kept you?” John asked.
“There was a foundling.”
“Was?” Reynard raised an eyebrow.
Rachael stilled her nervous fingers and met John’s gaze. “He was dying when I found him. His name was Peter Richardson, he was fourteen and from the early twenty-first century. He died this morning just before dawn. Victor is bringing him.”
“What killed him?” When she didn’t answer, John prompted, “Jackals?”
“I believe so.”
“You believe?” Reynard shook his head.
“I never saw the Veil,” she said to her boots.
John leaned forward. “So you don’t know if he was attacked within the Veil?”
“No.”
“Did the jackals cross over and attack him in Woerld?” Reynard snapped.
“I don’t know.”
John threw his pen into the stack of papers, and the nib spurted ink across several pages in defiance of its mistreatment. Rachael felt sorry for the novice who would have to laboriously re-copy the marred pages.
John asked, “What do you know, Rachael?”
“I was lost in dreams. I don’t even remember the last two days.” She pressed her fingers against the patch covering her missing eye and stopped talking. Shakier than a foundling, she took a deep breath and tried to pull herself together; it wasn’t working. This was going very badly, but maybe this was the wake-up call John needed to remove her from service. Let him name Reynard as the Seraph’s heir; she was nothing more than a figurehead anyway.
“Rachael. Look at me.” John’s tone broached no disobedience.
She swallowed against the burning in her throat and forced herself to meet his gaze. With a slight turn of her head, Reynard disappeared from her sight, and she pretended it was just her and John in the room.
“Show me,” John commanded.
A hoarfrost nip of fear bit her heart. He didn’t need to elaborate for her to know he wanted to see her soul-light, and while it was the simplest of tricks, it was the most revealing. John wanted to see if the Wyrm had taken her, if she had become complicit with the creature she harbored. If her light didn’t burn true, then being the Seraph’s only remaining heir wouldn’t save her from a formal inquisition.
“We’re waiting, Judge Boucher.” Reynard moved into her line of sight.
Rachael clenched her jaw and held out her right hand. She summoned her soul-light and almost wept with relief when the white globe appeared to hover inches above her palm. Her reprieve was brief. Shadows formed within the sphere, streaks of black lightning—signs of the Wyrm’s progress. Rachael concentrated harder and the dark spots faded to the background. Sweat prickled across her brow as she focused on the light, and the shadows fled. Her light burned true.
“That’s enough,” John said.
Rachael extinguished the illumination.
“It’s progressed, your Eminence.” Reynard stepped from behind John so he could face the Seraph. “I strongly suggest we attempt another exorcism before you send her into the Wasteland.”
“You’ve had sixteen years, Reynard.” John sounded as tired as the argument Rachael had heard a thousand times. “If you haven’t divined the demon’s true name by now, another week isn’t going to make a difference.”
“We can’t afford to lose her, my Lord, even as a symbolic heir.” Reynard twisted his ring of office. The Inquisitor wasted no opportunity to point out her uselessness, and John no longer defended her. Rachael’s coffee soured in her stomach.
“I’ve got Lucian Negru opening Hell Gates in the Wasteland and drawing God knows what back through with him. No. There’s no time for another exorcism.” John sorted through the mounds of papers on his desk to unerringly retrieve the one he sought from the stack. He shoved the paper at her like an accusation. “And sending you is against my better judgment, but I’ve dreamed and the Lord has spoken to me.”
Rachael’s fear turned glacial and spread over her heart. Once John dreamed, no one changed his course. A prophecy would not be denied, no matter how much commonsense stood in the way. She took the document and scanned it. Her head began to hurt, distorting her vision.
“I’m issuing a directive for you to bring Lucian Negru back to the Citadel to be tried for violating the terms of his Ban. If the Council finds him guilty of desecrating his covenant, he will hang.”
She swallowed the bitter taste of her regret, keeping her eye on the document so she wouldn’t have to look at John or Reynard. The sorrow gripping her heart took her off guard. It’s the foundling, she reasoned, pressing her finger to her eye to squelch a tear. She hadn’t adequate time to mourn the loss of Peter. This was not about Lucian.
John went on as if he didn’t notice, but she knew he did. Nothing escaped her Elder. “Lucian will surrender himself to your authority. I will determine the retribution when he arrives, which means I’m expecting him to arrive here alive. Do you understand, Rachael?”
“I do.” Feeling more in control, she folded the document and held it loosely.
“Caleb has received his directive and he will serve as your constable.” John sighed and lowered his voice. “Rachael, this can’t be botched.”
Reynard made a derisive noise. Rachael’s fingers crumpled the directive before she willed herself to loosen her grip on the document.
“Go,” John said. “God watch over you while you’re out of my sight.” He made the sign of the cross over her and turned back to his papers.
Reynard smiled as she rose and turned away.
She was almost at the door when John spoke again. “Rachael, be on your guard. I want you here, where you belong. Come back to me safe.”
Rachael nodded and opened the door to step into the hall. Caleb stood a few feet away, speaking to the Citadel’s Commissioner Charles Dubois. The two men were the same height, but Dubois was broader in the chest than Caleb. Life at the Citadel’s court had softened the Commissioner’s once athletic body, but nothing dulled the man’s vigilant gaze. Rachael remained as wary of Dubois as she was of Reynard. They were vultures hanging over her deathbed.
Dubois bowed in her direction; she gave him only a cursory nod in return. Rather than wait for the men to finish their conversation, Rachael went to the stairs.
Within minutes, Caleb was rushing down behind her. “Is everything okay, Rae?”
“Everything’s fine.” She lifted the paper without turning. “We have our directive.”
Outside, she paused so her sight could adjust to the sunlight. Caleb passed her and went to the horses where the groom now held the reins of a chestnut gelding that stood alongside Ignatius and Caleb’s mare. Rachael assessed the gelding and complimented the groom on his choice before she moved to take Ignatius’ reins from him.
“Rachael.”
Rachael shoved the directive into her pocket like it was a dirty secret and turned. John’s wife Tanith stood within arm’s reach. Still a priestess in the Goddess’ service, her pale blue gown reflected the colors of an Avalonian. Like John, she was small in stature, but her poise and self-confidence gave her the illusion of height. Usually a smile teased the corners of her eyes, but not this morning. Today sorrow dragged the corners of her mouth down, and Rachael’s heart twisted with guilt. She was no less responsible for Tanith’s grief than Lucian.
Tanith held her hands out to Rachael. “Will you leave without seeing me?”
“Of course not.” Rachael forced her false smile back to her face and touched Tanith’s fingers.
Other than the slightest twitch of her lips, Tanith showed no sign of revulsion at the Wyrm’s taint. “Walk with me to the gate so I may see you off.” She took Rachael’s hand in her own.
Rachael loved her for that one small gesture.
Caleb cleared his throat and bowed to Tanith. “My Lady, we’re on a directive from the Seraph. It’s of the utmost importance.”
Her dark eyes flashed from Caleb back to Rachael. “Then wait for her at the gate.”
Caleb’s protest withered under Tanith’s glare. He gave Rachael a look of appeal, but she didn’t acknowledge him. If Tanith wanted him gone, then she had a reason. Without another word, he mounted and took the gelding’s reins from Rachael before he disappeared into the crowd.
Tanith lowered her voice as she fell into step beside Rachael. With the clamor of noise around them, no one would hear her words. “It’s grown worse, hasn’t it?”
Rachael kept her pace slow to accommodate Tanith’s shorter stride. “It comes and goes.”
“The truth,” Tanith whispered, barely moving her lips. She nodded to Ganak, the emissary from the Mandir.
Rachael ducked her head in a move that could be interpreted as a slight bow so her hair shadowed her face. She hoped Ganak didn’t recognize her.
“Rachael.” A note of warning changed the pitch of Tanith’s voice.
“I can control it.” Ignatius nuzzled her shoulder and she shrugged him off.
Tanith stopped walking and faced Rachael. People flowed around the women and horse like they were stones in a stream. Other than an occasional nod to Tanith, no one spoke or approached them. They could have been alone.
Tanith took both of Rachael’s hands in hers and squeezed. “Adam Zimmer wrote to me recently. He’s very worried for you.”
Rachael bit the inside of her cheek and nodded. She had first met the Rabbinate’s Inquisitor a few years after Lucian’s betrayal. Adam had looked past her scars and often brought a smile to her face through his witty observations. They had grown close over the years through their correspondences, but last year, no matter how she tried, she could no longer read Adam’s letters. The words swam before her eye to become senseless shapes that fed her headaches.
Too proud to admit she could no longer read Rachael had stopped writing to him. In spite of her lack of correspondence, Adam continued to write to her once a month with what she assumed was news from people they knew at the Rabbinate.
“Adam asked me to give you his regards. He tells me he prays a Mi Sheberakh—a prayer of healing—for you every day. He wants to hear from you.”
Rachael blinked against a burning in her eye and lowered her head.
“You are loved, Rachael. More than you know.” Tanith brought Rachael’s face close to hers to kiss her cheek. Her breath tickled Rachael’s ear as she whispered. “Make no sign you’ve heard. Trust no one.”
Rachael’s blood chilled as Tanith repeated the gesture and kissed her other cheek. “We are infiltrated,” she whispered.
“Who?” Rachael hissed the question into Tanith’s ear.
Tanith gripped Rachael’s fingers tightly and stepped back. She raised her voice to a normal tone. “I wish I knew, but the ways of the Goddess are hidden from my eyes. I will write to Adam for you and give him your gratitude for his prayers. If you like.”
“Yes.” Rachael never had to ask; Tanith always knew exactly what to do. “Please. I would like that very much.”
“Good. You’ll not be long, I hope.”
Rachael forced a smile to her numb lips and looked down into Tanith’s worried gaze. She wished she had some reassurance for her, but they could share only the most banal pleasantries in the courtyard. “I’ll return as quickly as I can.”
“Good.” The older woman smiled. “I came to give you my blessing. May the Goddess ride with you all the days of your journey, and may She bring you home to us safe. Here. Where you belong.”
The hair on her arms rose at Tanith’s eerie echo of John’s parting words. Tanith stepped back and melted into the crowd before Rachael could whisper goodbye. Alone again, she mounted Ignatius and turned his head toward the gate. She rode away without looking back.
We are infiltrated.
Rachael found her flask and took a quick drink to drive the taste of fear from her mouth. If Tanith suspected members were complicit, then surely John did too, and neither of them would warn someone they thought complicit. No, John trusted her, Rachael was sure of it. She never would have walked out of his office if he believed her corrupt, but that didn’t mitigate her danger.
With the Wyrm, she would be a prime suspect if accusations were made. No wonder Reynard had been so eager to see her soul-light fail to burn true. He rooted out the complicit with savage zeal and was not known for advocating mercy for the condemned. With Rachael gone, no one would stand in his way as heir. Whether he could prove she was complicit or not, Reynard would use any opportunity to further his advance to Seraph.
Ahead, Caleb stood talking to one of the guards. When he saw her, he mounted his mare and was ready to ride by the time she reached him. “Everything all right?” he asked.
“Fine.” It would have to be for now. She couldn’t do anything about complicit members until she finished with Lucian. She led the way beneath the portcullis and tucked Tanith’s words close to her heart.
She steered Ignatius back toward the farm. “We need to go back to Cross Creek. I want to backtrack Peter’s trail. I need to know where that child was attacked.”
“Sure,” Caleb said. “It shouldn’t take us long.”
Rachael didn’t care how long it took. Now more than ever she needed to know if she was at fault for the boy’s death. Reynard could easily claim she murdered Peter through her neglect, or worse still, that she summoned the jackals to cheat the Citadel of another warrior. She had to have a plan of action in place, and she couldn’t do that until she knew the truth.
She set Ignatius to a trot, and Caleb covered her blind side. The sunlight burned the Wyrm to the recesses of her soul. By the time they reached the field where she had first seen Peter, her head felt clear.
Caleb dismounted and checked the foliage for blood before following Peter’s tracks. As they moved between the trees, her home slipped away in the background. She was already sick with longing for her familiar routines, meaningless though they were.
They followed a slight incline, then up another hill where Peter’s blood trail ended. The only disruption of the earth came from a young boy’s feet. No paw prints marred the ground. Rachael released the breath she had been unaware of holding and dismounted to search the leaves with her own eye.
Caleb validated her conclusion. “I can’t find any jackal tracks. They took him inside the Veil. There wasn’t anything you could have done, Rae.”
Rachael relaxed. If Caleb bore witness and affirmed she wasn’t at fault for Peter’s death, Reynard couldn’t claim otherwise. Caleb reached down and picked something up.
“What did you find?” she asked.
“Cell phone.”
Of course, twenty-first century parents tethered themselves to their children with their electronics. The devices usually worked while the Veil between Earth and Woerld was thin; sometimes as much as forty-eight hours, sometimes as little as five minutes.
Rachael held her hand out, and Caleb gave it to her. She flipped it open and punched the power switch. The little screen lit up, but it didn’t show Peter or his last moments as she had expected. Instead, she saw the smiling girl from Peter’s photograph.
Lyn. Save her.
Shadows and darkness set the background like some macabre wallpaper. Rachael recognized all too well both Hell’s landscape and the young woman from the photograph. Only her summer beach smiles had vanished beneath tears and terror. There was no doubt she was Peter’s sibling, and Rachael suspected Peter had given himself to save her.
Rachael gave Lyn only the most cursory examination. She focused on the man who held and comforted the distraught child. Lucian. The ragged figure stood, favoring his lame leg. Good God, was her dream this morning a prophecy? Rachael frowned at the screen and remembered his dark gaze ruined by grief. A doubt crept soulfully into the back of her mind, a tiny seed of disquiet that the man she loathed was not the man before her. She silenced the misgiving for fear it would unravel her heart.
The picture distorted momentarily, breaking her reverie; if she was lucky, the Veil remained thin enough for the phones to connect. She pressed the menu button and examined the list of numbers; there were two possible Lyns, Marilyn Anderson and Lindsay. Rachael pressed the number for Marilyn and received silence. She touched a button then chose Lindsay’s number and was rewarded with a ring.