The Silver Scar Page 10

  “Castile seeks asylum within the church,” Trinidad said. “As an archwarden, I am bound by oath to provide it.”

  “Felons have no right to asylum. City marshals wish to question him about the altercation at the west gate.”

  “I was there,” Trinidad said, eyeing the marshal’s pistol. “Question me.”

  The marshal scowled and lowered his gun. “You would challenge me, your Christian brother, over a filthy Wiccan?”

  “He helped our priest,” Trinidad said, even as a voice inside protested that Castile had abducted him, had mixed him up in the Barren and the wrong side of the crusade.

  “He may be a Wiccan, but he is a human being,” a gentle voice said from the darkness. Trinidad turned his head. Bishop Marius strolled from the sanctuary, followed by two of her archwardens.

  Trinidad took a step back and dipped his chin. “Your Grace.”

  “Stand down, archwarden.” The bishop turned to the marshal. “What is your business here, sir?”

  “Your Grace, that man,” the marshal pointed at Castile, “is a Wiccan ecoterr and felon. He’s broken parole by trespassing inparish. The archwarden brought him and—”

  “No. He brought us,” Trinidad said. “He was helping us. Father Troy is hurt—”

  “I said stand down, Trinidad,” the bishop said.

  Trinidad closed his mouth and chanced another glance at Castile. He was starting to edge away from the dray. Trinidad shook his head slightly. Castile stopped.

  “Your authority ends at these gates, does it not?” the bishop asked the marshal.

  “Yes, Your Grace, but—”

  “So you may be about your business, and God willing, we’ll see you at matins tomorrow. Christ’s peace be upon you.”

  Marius’ pointed tone flayed Trinidad’s nerves, but the marshal dipped his head in a cursory bow. “And you, Your Grace.”

  They all watched the comber back from the gateway and turn around. No one moved until its lights faded into the darkness.

  “Come, Trinidad. Bring your guest and we’ll sort this out.” Bishop Marius turned back toward the sanctuary, taking the route beneath the cloister, but her archwardens waited. They met Trinidad’s gaze with implacable stares.

  “Trin?” Wolf asked lowly. “What’s going on?”

  “Back to position, Wolf,” Trinidad said. He nodded to Castile, who emerged from behind the battered dray to follow, his body all stiff lines and taut movements.

  Bishop Marius led the way into the sanctuary and climbed the steps to the altar, genuflecting before turning to face Trinidad and Castile. Two of her archwardens brought her a chair and then flanked her, hands clasped as if they’d been put at ease. Trinidad knew the deceit in their pose. They could have a gun trained in a half-second. Two more of the bishop’s archwardens kept behind Trinidad and Castile, hands on their hilts.

  Trinidad laid his sword at the bishop’s feet and took a knee before her. He stripped his gauntlets and tucked them in his belt as an additional sign of respect. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t have. This was no ordinary night.

  “Explain, archwarden.”

  “Your Grace,” he said. “This is Castile, a Wiccan from the mountains. He brought us back to the parish when Father Troy fell ill.”

  “And how did you meet?”

  “We were attacked by Indigos and Castile … helped us.” Simple was best. Still, he cringed inwardly at his omissions.

  “And where did you find Father Troy?”

  “I—I don’t know, Your Grace. I was knocked out from the firefight.” He indicated the damage the bullet had caused to his armor. “When I came to, Castile and his people were there. They’d run off the Indigos and found Father Troy in one of the drays.”

  “Indeed.” Her thin eyebrows raised, creasing the silver scar. He tried not to look at it. Was she pretending not to know Castile or had he actually managed to conceal his identity from her in the Barren? Either way, he might as well climb in all the way into his own bed of lies. The truth would be sussed out later, but right now he needed to buy Castile some good will and time.

  He heard Castile move behind him. The archwardens attending Bishop Marius shifted as well. Trinidad gestured with a flat hand behind his back. Castile quieted.

  “Where are the other inparish archwardens?”

  Trinidad blinked and forced himself to stare into her eyes. He realized he was letting the silence drag on too long. Curse him for using Daniel’s death to prove a lie. “I partnered with Daniel in the search. He died in the attack.”

  The rest of the truth lay in the silver lines etching his chest and Paul’s blood crusting the engraving on the naked sword at her feet. How would he keep all that from her? She would learn Paul was dead soon enough and figure out where it had happened. If she hadn’t already. Paul had been dead for hours …

  The bishop just looked at him, waiting.

  “Seth and Malachi didn’t come with us—they weren’t here at the church.”

  “Their absence was unexpected?”

  If his lies didn’t collapse right away like a house of cards, Malachi and Seth would pay for it. He’d just accused them of desertion, if not in so many words. He nodded.

  His knee throbbed where it had banged in the crash—kneeling on it wasn’t helping—and his chest felt constricted by his armor. The more he tried not to focus on the pentacle in his chest, the horror of watching that knife carve a sacrilegious symbol into his skin and the searing sand as it healed his wounds, the shallower his breaths became. Heat rose from his collar. He lowered his head.

  “Are you all right?” Marius sounded almost gentle.

  He answered with absurd understatement. “It’s been a long night, Your Grace.”

  Marius arched an eyebrow at Trinidad, gestured for him to stand. He watched the archwardens take note of his favoring his injured knee. Marius glanced at Castile. She folded her hands. “And all this is why you brought a convicted Wiccan eco-terrorist inparish, endangering the relationship between town and Church?”

  Christ in Heaven, was she actually believing him? He nodded.

  “Witch,” Castile said.

  The eyebrow climbed higher. “Sorry?”

  “We are called witches, my lady,” Castile said.

  Trinidad’s shoulders slumped. They had been so close to wrapping this up quickly.

  Bishop Marius leaned back, her attention firmly on Castile now. “Come nearer. Let me have a look at you.”

  Castile stepped up and took his place next to Trinidad, who felt a cold draught sweep the back of his neck. He could have sworn the archwardens behind them drew nearer as well, but he didn’t dare look back to check.

  “You are unhurt?” Marius asked.

  Castile sounded easy, friendly. “Just minor cuts and bruises, my lady. I’m fine.”

  “The proper address is ‘Your Grace,’” one of the bishop’s archwardens said.

  “I’m sorry,” Castile said, dipping his chin. “I mean no disrespect. I’m not familiar with your ways.”

  “Why do you seek asylum here?” Bishop Marius asked.

  “It’s as Trinidad said. My patrol came upon the Christians during the firefight and we helped them get the priest back inparish.”

  “But you’re banished from the parish.”

  “I am, yeah. I meant to stay outside the gates, but someone had to drive the dray after slavers attacked us and shot your priest. My own soldier was also wounded, or I would have let her drive.”

  “It seems a particular cruelty for your lord to send someone in your position.”

  Castile shrugged. “Banishment is a position Christians imposed on me. To my coven, I am just another soldier.”

  Bishop Marius frowned and switched her attention back to Trinidad. “Many hours have passed since you left the parish.”

  Trinidad opened his mouth but Castile jumped ahead.

  “We secured the area and went home,” he said. “To get my lord’s opinion on what to do next. We weren’t
quite sure how to proceed, Your Grace, having never captured a priest and an archwarden before.”

  “You considered ransom?” she asked.

  “No. My lord would not reap three ills upon my coven for such a wrong. He is a good man, Lord Hawk.” Castile let the name hang there for a moment. “Perhaps you’ve heard of him.”

  The lines creasing Bishop Marius’ thin lips deepened. “I’m not familiar with him, no.”

  Her Grace’s prejudice against Wiccans and Indigos was well known, but she couldn’t be insulted by Castile suggesting she simply knew a name, could she? Or maybe she did know Hawk. How could he find out? She’d lied more in one homily than Trinidad had since he’d taken vows—including those he had just told. It didn’t make him feel any better about his lies tonight, though.

  She sat back in her chair and drew in a deep sigh. “I accept that you acted in good faith, Castile.”

  Trinidad’s spine relaxed a little.

  “However,” she went on, “I fail to see how or why we should keep the city from questioning you. We must maintain good relations with the mayor’s office. We need their cooperation now more than ever.” She cast a steely look at Trinidad. “This you surely understand.”

  Trinidad understood well enough. She needed the mayor to free up marshals to take the cross, to fight in the crusade. He also understood she wanted Castile somewhere private, where she could further question him. He hadn’t forgotten that Castile had given her the scar, and whether she’d seen his face or not, she’d remember her attacker getting slashed across the back. If she found the silvered cut on his back, he would never escape.

  He drew a breath and plunged in, vows for truth be damned. “I swore Castile safe conduct throughout the parish, Your Grace. My protection. In exchange for his help.”

  “You don’t have that authority,” Marius said. “And now I must ask you to stand aside in this matter.”

  “You’re asking me to go against my word.”

  “Your vows to the Church surpass your word to outsiders. As far as you are concerned, I am the Church. And I am not asking.”

  “Father Troy would be dead if Castile hadn’t brought us back here,” Trinidad said.

  The bishop dropped her chin, blinked her eyes. Sniffed. When she lifted her head, tears were rolling down her cheeks.

  “I didn’t want to get into this here, now,” she said. “We received word that Father Troy is dead.”

  The world tilted and spiraled. Trinidad stared at her, knowing it was rude but unable to help himself. Castile leaned closer to him so their arms lightly touched. The warm brush of proximity served to ground him.

  Her face grew stony beneath her tears. “As well, my archwarden Paul. Murdered in his bed. We have suffered great losses today. Three good men dead. I am not a believer in coincidence. So, you see we must have a full inquiry. I know you did all you could for Father Troy, but there are still many questions. Especially about Paul.”

  Trinidad felt as if she had butted him in the gut with a rifle. She knows, Christ save me, she knows. He glanced at her solemn, expressionless archwardens and clutched at his order’s collective stoicism, beaten into him by years of training. He drew on it to lock down his grief and fear. Time for that later. This was about Castile now.

  “Castile helped Father Troy too.”

  “I know. But Father Troy put you all in danger. He made a bad mistake,” she said. “One we must forgive the dead.”

  The dead. He held himself against swaying.

  “I appreciate your position, Trinidad,” she went on. “But I’m not willing to risk the Church’s relationship with the mayor for a promise you made to a convicted ecoterr.”

  Despite the bishop’s tear-streaked face, her authority loomed over him. His gaze flicked over the soft targets on the bodies of the archwardens flanking her, the eyes, nasal cartilage, their Adam’s apples. He saw them doing the same to him. He stiffened, drew up to his full height.

  Marius leaned down and offered Trinidad his sword. He took it, slid it automatically back into its scabbard at his side. But he couldn’t make his feet move away. As soon as he left this room, the world would come crashing down. It would be graven into reality. Father Troy was dead.

  Marius gentled her tone. “Get some rest, son. Things will seem clearer in the morning.”

  The archwardens approached Castile. Chains clinked in the quiet, drawing his attention back to the Wiccan he’d promised to protect. He turned to them, hand on his hilt, but Castile met his gaze. Shook his head.

  Castile was right. The archwardens were too many. Still, he held, unable to walk away.

  Castile’s voice was steady, soft. “Just go.”

  Trinidad turned for the door. This time as he passed the cross, he did not bow his head. He heard the shuffle of boots, the guards clicking metal bracelets on Castile’s wrists. Castile made no sound. Trinidad glanced back at him. The Wiccan seemed smaller somehow, childishly thin, belying the strength Trinidad knew lay within his narrow frame.

  “I’m sorry,” Trinidad said.

  “I know, my son. In time you’ll come to see the rightness of my actions,” Marius answered.

  “I wasn’t talking to you,” Trinidad said, and he passed into the shadowed cloister.

  SEVENTEEN

  Bishop Marius suppressed a shiver and averted her eyes. Slack-jawed, bruised inmates stared from their chains at her and the archwardens as they dragged Castile down the corridor of the jail. He struggled but James, a hulking silent archwarden whose muscles strained his armor, manhandled the smaller man inside. Seth and Malachi followed, faces set into hard lines.

  Once inside the interrogation cell, with its chains and bloodstains, Castile redoubled his fight. Before Malachi or Seth could step forward to help, James punched Castile’s chin, slamming him back against the wall. The crack of fist against bone echoed against the bloody concrete. Castile fell to the stained floor and stayed limp for a few breathless seconds.

  “Cooperate,” James said when Castile came to. “It’ll go easier on you.”

  “I’m not telling you shit,” Castile sputtered droplets of blood from a split lip when he spoke. “And you’re about to have a fuck lot of questions.”

  But few that could be asked in front of James and the others. Fortunately, Marius had found a public goal that fit neatly with her private ones of locating Lord Hawk and punishing Paul’s murderer.

  “I only have one,” Marius said. “Where is your coven located?”

  Castile shook his head and gave her a bloody grin.

  “I will have it from you. Your people are a threat to parish security. Strip and chain him,” she said to James, and gestured Seth and Malachi outside the cell.

  “Your Grace?” Seth said once they were in the relative quiet of the corridor.

  She studied them. Seth’s pale face showed wisdom hard-won through scars, particularly a jagged red crease that ran along his jawline. At twenty-one, Malachi was the youngest archwarden inparish. He looked it with his plump cheeks and wide-eyed stare, but he already bore two ribbons of advancement on his chest. Two more than Trinidad had.

  She drew a breath. “I understand how difficult this is for you, with Father Troy and all the questions around Trinidad’s activities tonight. Did he speak to either of you before leaving the parish?”

  Seth and Malachi looked at each other. Neither answered.

  Ah, and Trinidad’s lies start to unravel. “Because he said he couldn’t find you.”

  Another exchange of glances. “Perhaps he said that to protect us,” Seth said. “Trinidad was very upset by Father’s illness and his actions tonight—I’ve never seen him so frantic.”

  “Trin is more devoted to Father than anyone,” Malachi said, and dipped his chin. “Since he is Father Troy’s adopted son.”

  “He hasn’t advanced through his colors since he was invested in the order,” she said.

  “Trinidad isn’t interested in advancement,” Seth said. “He only wants to s
erve his priest and his Church. If he misspoke tonight, I’m sure he had good reason.”

  “His service is about to change, regardless of his interests,” she said. “Two archwardens are dead. Father Troy disappeared under mysterious circumstances, only to be returned to us with a bullet wound. It also looks as if Trinidad has befriended a convicted ecoterrorist. There will be an inquiry. This night could reflect badly upon all the Boulder Parish archwardens. Do you take my meaning?”

  Only Seth dared meet her eye, for an instant, before bowing his head. “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “I want you to publicly take the cross tomorrow, so there is no mistaking your commitment to stamping out Christ’s enemies. This will reassure the people, which is our first concern. Otherwise I fear you two could be implicated in whatever rumors will surely plague the parish archwardens after the unfortunate events tonight.”

  “And Trinidad, Your Grace?” Seth asked. His eyes didn’t flick upward to her scar like it did with so many others.

  He was one to watch. “I intend to put the question of taking the cross to him tomorrow morning. If you get the opportunity, encourage him to do so. It could go some distance to clearing his name.”

  “Your Grace,” James said from the cell door. “The Wiccan is secured.”

  “Leave us, but stay close,” she told James. “I’ll have need of you in a bit.” She had no doubt Castile would fail to cooperate.

  James glanced at the scar on her forehead. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

  Interrogation cells had solid doors rather than barred. She shut it behind her. Inside the cell, James had chained Castile facing the wall, nude. He bore various scrapes and scars from prison life. But his narrow frame carried well-defined muscles, unmarred by major injury—all but the long silver scar that ran diagonally from shoulder to hip, confirming her suspicions: Castile was the man who had tried to kill her in the Barren. She knew from experience he was stronger than he looked.

  Marius considered Castile. Obviously, he could rove. That meant he was one of only two people who could have killed Paul: Castile or Hawk. She doubted Hawk would do such a thing. He’d been respectful in their dealings. Castile, though, had attacked her in the Barren. He must have killed Paul at his earliest opportunity.