“But your grace—” Deacon Tomas protested as he stood in the large striped tent before Bishop Saldur and Luis Guy. The pudgy cleric made a poor showing of himself in his frock caked with dirt and ash, his face smudged, his fingers black.
“Look at you Tomas,” Bishop Saldur said. “You’re so exhausted you look as if you will fall down any minute. You’ve had a long two days, and you’ve been under tremendous stress for months now. It is only natural that you might see things in the dark. No one is blaming you. And we don’t think you are lying. We know that right now you believe you saw this village girl destroy the Gilarabrywn, but I think if you just take a nap and rest, when you get up you’ll find that you were mistaken about a great many things.”
“I don’t need a nap!” Tomas shouted.
“Calm down, deacon,” Saldur snapped, rising abruptly to his feet. “Remember whose presence you are standing in.”
The deacon cowed and Saldur sighed. His face softened to his grandfatherly visage and he put an arm around the man’s shoulders, patting him gently, “Go to a tent and rest.”
Tomas hesitated, turned and left Saldur and Luis Guy alone.
The bishop threw himself down in the little cushioned chair beside a bowl of red berries some industrious servant managed to gather for him. He popped two in his mouth and chewed. They were bitter and he grimaced. Despite the early hour, Saldur was desperate for a glass of brandy, but none had survived the flight from the castle. Only the grace of Maribor could account for the survival of the camping gear and provisions, all of which they had lazily left in the wagons when they first arrived at the manor. In the turmoil of their exodus, they had given little thought to provisions.
That he lived at all was a miracle. He could not recall how he crossed the courtyard, or how he reached the gate. He must have run down the hill, but had no recollection of it. His memory was like a dream, vague and fading. He did remember ordering the coachman to whip the horses. The fool wanted to wait for the archbishop. The old man could barely walk and the moment the flames hit, his servants deserted him. He had as much chance of survival as Rufus.
With Archbishop Galien’s death, the command of the church’s interest in Dahlgren fell to Saldur and Guy. The two inherited a disaster of mythic proportions. They were alone in the wilderness, faced with crucial decisions. How they handled them would decide the fate of future generations. Who actually held authority remained vague. Saldur was a bishop of the church, an appointed leader, while Guy was only an arm of the security branch. Still, the sentinel actually spoke with the patriarch. Saldur liked Guy, but appreciation for his effectiveness would not prevent him from sacrificing the sentinel if necessary. If Guy still had his knights about him, Saldur was certain the sentinel would take command and he would have no choice but to accept it, but the seret were dead and Guy himself wounded. With Galien also dead, a door had opened, and Saldur planned to be the first one through.
Saldur looked at Guy. “How could you let this happen?”
The sentinel who sat with his arm in a sling and his shoulder wrapped in bandages stiffened, “I lost seven good men, and barely escaped with my life. I wouldn’t call that allowing it to happen.”
“And how exactly did a bunch of farmers defeat the infamous seret?”
“They weren’t farmers; two were Pickerings and there was Hadrian Blackwater.”
“The Pickerings I can understand, but Blackwater? He’s nothing but a rogue.”
“No, there’s more to him—him and his partner.”
“Royce and Hadrian are excellent thieves. They proved that in Melengar and again in Chadwick. Poor Archibald still has fits over it.”
“No,” Guy said, “I think they’re more than that. Blackwater knows Teshlor combat, and his friend, that Royce Melborn is an elf.”
Saldur blinked. “An elf? Are you sure?”
“He passes as human, but I’m certain of it.”
“And this is the second time we’ve found them with Esrahaddon,” Saldur muttered in concern. “Is this Hadrian still here?”
“He is in the infirmary tent.”
“Put a guard on him at once.”
“I had him under guard since he was dragged to the tent. What we need to concern ourselves with is the girl. She is going to prove an embarrassment if we don’t do something,” Guy said and slipped his sword part way out of its sheath. “She is in grief over the loss of her father. It wouldn’t be surprising if she threw herself over the falls in a fit of despair.”
“And Tomas?” Saldur asked, reaching for another handful of berries. “It is clear he won’t be quiet. Will you kill him too? What excuse will you give for that? And what about all the others in this camp that heard him going on all morning about her being the heir? Do we kill everyone? If we did, who would carry our bags back to Ervanon?” he added with a smile.
“I don’t see the humor in this,” Guy snapped letting his sword slide back down in its sheath.