Garroway goes to the western side, finding a ramshackle street and burning fire pit to sit at and act like a beggar. The north end splits off into two streets, one leading to a park and the other toward the mercantile district further up Nuhav proper. Lukain and Skar split those streets. I take the southern route. Tapping my feet, staying alert, hands inches from the hilts of my swords.
The hour passes in relative quiet, with nothing amiss happening outside the temple. Only a few commoners walk by—a group of young lads going to gamble with animal bones in the alley; a starry-eyed couple taking a twilight stroll through town; a merchant wheeling his creaky cart past the double doors.
My mind is so twisted at the possibilities, I worry the Bronzes will descend on the temple at any moment. Or the Silverknights might decide to barge in and ask the priests what is going on. Maybe it will even be the vampires who descend on this marbled cathedral sitting in the middle of the poorest part of the city.
None of that happens.
The service ends and the doors open. People meander out, down the few steps, and part ways in opposite directions. Some go west, some go east, and some walk right past me.
I clench my teeth, teetering on my heels, nearly hopping to make sure I see every face that exits the doors from where I’m standing across the street.
Skent never exits. In fact, if I counted correctly, three other parishioners also never leave. I wish I had some way to communicate effectively with my northern-stationed mates, to see if anyone has gone out of those smaller gates past the tall cathedral where I can’t see.
My heart starts pummeling my ribs. I bite my lip and twiddle my fingers on my sword pommels. Night is deep and dark now. The moon is high, failing to pierce through the gray clouds, showing a gloomy evening.
Out the corner of my eye, I see Vallan making his way in from the east, to my right. My stomach wedges in my throat as I approach him. I start to say in a panicky voice, “Nothing?”
He grabs my arm, voice low. “Let’s go, lass, something is afoot to the north. Don’t make sudden movements. I feel we’re being watched.”
His words don’t help my throat-lodged stomach whatsoever. My palms feel clammy and I’m starting to sweat. My stomach twists into knots, agonizingly. Above the breeze of evening and the sounds of conversation and laughter coming from the nearby street taverns, a piercing bird call sounds.
It’s the sound I’ve been waiting for.
“Come on!” I urge Vallan, and we take off at a sprint, no longer playing it close and silent.
We make it north to where Skartovius and Lukain are stationed. Garroway comes in from the opposite direction, down an alley path.
Two streets later, Lukain nudges his chin up ahead, staying quiet. We’re keeping to the shadows, just as planned, and it doesn’t feel as though anyone has seen us yet, despite Vallan’s eerie admission that we’re being watched.
Up ahead, I see what Lukain is nodding toward. Three white-robed priests of the True lead a small pack of people down a side-road, continuing north. One of the priests has his hand on Skent’s back.
The lad walks stiffly, which makes me furrow my brow. “Why is he walking like that?” I whisper.
“What’s that?” Garro asks.
“Why is hemarchinglike that?” I repeat with a hiss. “So rigid. Not resisting. We all know the boy. He’s loud and defiant. No way he’d be going with these zealots, unless . . .”
“. . . His mind isn’t his own,” Skartovius muses, finishing my thought. “Shit.”
The priests have no guards in sight. Only three robed scholars, one of them overweight, the other two underweight, all of them lookingveryeasy to take down.
They are leading four people casually through the streets, as if nothing is wrong. But I know something is very wrong.
“We can take them,” I growl. “Let’s go.”
Before I can push forward, Lukain puts an arm in front of me. When I give him an offended expression, his face twists with somber understanding. “You know the plan, Seph. We can’t. Not yet.”
I grind my teeth, bunching my hands into fists. We’re still tailing them but they’re getting away. Suddenly the scheme doesn’t matter as much to me. There’s a red curtain behind my eyes and I need to pull it aside. Even though he’s right.
Skar’s words are the death knell to my recklessness. “We need to see where the priests are taking them, love.”
He speaks as softly and gently as he can, yet all it does is enrage me. I want to scream. I want to tear my swords out of my scabbards and run these bastards down. Pluck them through the heart.
I realize my reaction is disproportionate to what I’m seeing in front of me. And with a punch to the gut I know why.
It’s Father Cullard. My history with the Truehearts, my past life, the disgusting things I’ve seen. It’s a triggering effect, witnessing this. Even though none of these three priests are Cullard, I canfeelhim in the air. Watching, waiting, plotting.
In my heart, I feel this no longer has the stink of Aramastun Wyvox over it. He’s more concerned with armies and tactics and conquest.