Chapter 31 - Reap and Sow

At midday sharp, resonant chimes rang from the belfry of the Great Templehouse. The cityfolk gathered to the promise of protection as if to a hearthfire in winter, their eyes everywhere as they looked for monsters lying in wait. The Blades were out in force. They lined the streets around the templehouse for nearly a half mile, silver swords and crossbows at the ready.

There hadn’t been a Clerics’ Conclave held in Blackbridge for more than a century. Word had spread that the Patriarch had arrived that morning in the small hours, a retinue of clerics and attendants in tow. Anticipation of such a holy day cast out much of the fear, for what evil would dare descend now, with the most pious people in the land here gathered?

Eda and Ben remained in the darkness, watching.

Eda felt like one giant bruise. Her head wound, while superficial, stung every time she frowned or raised her brow. Ben’s hand bore the fine gouges of the demoness’s claws. His lip was swollen. It wasn’t lost on her that Lawrie had fallen sick as a result of being bitten by a fiend—who was to say a demon couldn’t inflict the same illness?

After today, it might not matter.

Blackbridge was in fine form; the clouds hung thick with rain, the air heavy with promise. Today, it all ended. One way or another.

Last night they’d escaped up Lich’s staircase to the sound of furious voices echoing along the corridor. The trapdoor above bore only a simple bolt lock, and they had piled out into the cellar of a fine home. Eda suspected it was Lich’s—she recalled a blur of ornate furniture and audacious embroidery before the terrified scream of a housemaid sent them spilling into the street like thieves in the night. They ran until they were gasping for breath, collapsing in some dark close.

Tripp led them back to the wealthy hunter’s house. Eda and Ben were so tired that they fell asleep right there on the floor of the solar, clinging to each other.

Eda woke first. She’d silently cried, staring at the dusty ceiling. For her brothers’ pains. For her own. For the boiling anger bubbling up inside when she thought of all the ways they’d suffered. And for Kit—because part of her had desperately hoped to find him waiting in that big house, smiling roguishly.

There you are, darling.

In the darkness of the solar, she’d covered her mouth to stem the sounds of her misery.

But standing now in the shadows between buildings, Eda was numb. She didn’t think she could muster a single tear—all hollowed out. Her insides were more howling storm than blood and sinew.

When Tenelle cut through the crowd and joined them, Eda held out the chunk of obsidian in silence.

“You did it?”

“It’s done.”

“And we nearly died,” Ben said.

Tenelle studied their cuts and bruises. “You thought it would be easy?”

“Nothing about demons is easy,” Eda said curtly. “We know that better than anyone.” She handed over the chisel and hammer.

“Hm. You are many things, young lady, but no coward.”

You’re damn right. “I’m glad you noticed, Commander. Shall we?”

They followed at some distance behind Tenelle as she cut across the wide cobbled intersection, where Blackbridge’s main arteries fed back to the templehouse and keep. The templehouse itself could hold a thousand people at capacity, and it was already near full. Stragglers were still being admitted through the towering silver doors, but they looked well dressed, perhaps here by invitation. Late commonfolk were turned away.

Still, those relegated outside would not miss sighting the Patriarch if they could. The crowd was huge and noisy, but they parted like water for the commander in her resplendent plate.

“Let them in,” Tenelle said when a Blade tried to stop Eda and Ben ascending the templehouse steps. The guard gave them an incredulous look, eyeing Ben’s poorly concealed sword, but she stood aside.

Within, it was an echoing cavern, thrumming with the voices of the gathered Faithful, who sat along rows of hard pews. It swelled even fuller now than when they’d fled the place days ago. Flat daylight was transformed into a startling palette of colors where it shone through the stained glass. Gold cornice gleamed high above in the vaulted ceilings.

Tenelle marched toward the dais at the head of the hall, keeping to the borders of the room. She murmured to soldiers stationed along the wall as she passed. Eda and Ben kept their hoods up and followed. Eda was stiff in every muscle, anticipating a sudden need to flee or for someone to catch sight of their faces and raise the alarm. Tenelle hadn’t yet cleared the Shaws’ names.

Saints, I miss that mantle.

Her worry was for naught. The city denizens were too busy finding their seats and sharing in hushed excitement. Eda and Ben were made amorphous among the shifting mass.

Tenelle stopped a dozen rows from the front—close enough for a clear view, but not so near as to catch the bishop’s eye. Eda and Ben filed dutifully onto the end of the pew. “Keep your heads down,” Tenelle hissed, “and have that sword ready.” Then she was gone.

They sat. It took Eda a moment to realize the man next to her was staring. She glanced at him. Did a double take.

“Bartholomew?”

He looked even paler than that night he’d come to their shop. His fine cape was wrinkled, his lips chapped, eyes sunken. He stared at her in mute horror. Then he rigidly looked forward. “Do not speak to me.”

She clenched her fists. “Did you…get what you wished for?”

She thought he would not answer, until he murmured, “Yes. Oh, yes. I wanted a man ruined. I wanted his life destroyed. The demon promised to do so without direct violence against him.” Bartholomew swallowed. “He killed the man’s family instead. A fire, they said. But I know it was him. I did not—I did not want that. I did not mean that.”

Eda had no words.

He thumbed at an icon of the Faith about his neck, made of purest silver. His palm bore a fresh cut atop the healed one beneath.

Her loathing rose anew. Eda was no congregant, but the way Florian Fane had taken these people’s faith and made a mockery of it, had turned the sacred into the sacrilegious for his own worldly ambitions…Hypocrisy, she thought wryly. It turned her stomach.

How many years had he already taken?

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I promise I’ll end all this.”

Bartholomew shot her a confused look, but then the congregation were bid to stand for readings from the Codex. Next came canticles, rising in moving notes of devotion. Eda recognized the tune but not the words. Part of her wished to believe as others did. Perhaps then all of this might be easier to bear.

Thuribles were swung back and forth across the dais by young aides. The incense was herbal and cloying as it rose in great plumes, cleansing the templehouse in that mystifying way tradition held paramount.

Then Fane took center stage.

He was a bright, clean figure as he strode across the dais. All eyes belonged to him when he stood at the golden lectern: respect and awe for a man who could banish the demonic with a simple word. His sliced cheek was conspicuous, but the angry red marks upon his ear were more gratifying, for Eda’s teeth had put them there. Behind him, a dozen similarly dressed clerics filed into seats arranged in a neat semicircle. Most were men and women of aging years. All were suitably grave, as import of the day demanded.

Eda and Ben looked at one another. Here we go.

“My good people. Welcome.” Fane’s voice echoed like a penny in a well. “Today we stand witness to the thirteenth Clerics’ Conclave in Weslic history. Here gathered are those most devout, most principled, most long-serving members of our Faithhood in all of Wesland, as appointed by the Lordfather’s chosen, our Patriarch. Please welcome His Holiness now.”

To great applause, another man appeared from the chantry doors behind Fane. He was stooped and gray with age, shuffling at a slow gait. A young priest held his arm to guide him. He might’ve been mistaken for any ailing grandfather were it not for his splendid attire: robes of pristine white with gold trim, a matching golden scarf of office hanging from neck to floor. Atop his head, a boxy hat stitched with rubies shone in the flat light. The Faithhood’s sigil gleamed upon his breast.

That outfit alone was worth the entire contents of Shaws’ Antiques & Curiosities, plus the building itself. Eda might have been dazzled by it once, or sick with jealousy. Now she only felt a dim unease. The Patriarch’s grand trappings would not protect him from the demonic, nor the avaricious men who coveted his station.

Fane took a seat with the other clerics as the Patriarch found the lectern. Old as he was, his eyes were alert as he scanned the congregation. Thin lips smacked together. “Blessings upon all you gathered here and upon this fine city.” The praise sounded only the slightest bit forced. “It is my great pleasure to oversee this Conclave here in Blackbridge. I am honored to have served as Patriarch over you, the Weslic people, for some thirty years. But the time comes to look to the future. My greatest duty yet remains: to select the one who shall succeed me after my spirit returns to the Lordfather’s embrace. This is the purpose of every Conclave—to ensure that the word of the Lordfather and his teachings is left in worthy hands.”

His voice was dry as old paper and nearly as light, but the templehouse was quiet enough to hear him. “The city of Blackbridge has long suffered under the machinations of the demonic. Some weeks ago, I sent Bishop Florian Fane to oversee the salvation of your city. By all accounts, you have suffered great loss. But Bishop Florian has defended you with uncommon spiritual power. I would like to thank him personally for his good works here.”

Cries of agreement went up among the audience, a smattering of applause. Fane bowed his head, demure.

Eda wanted to rip it off his neck.

“Much discussion has been held between the Faithful here gathered upon this dais. As council members and the highest of their order, it is from among them that a Head Cleric, successor of the Patriarchy, must be chosen. Now comes the time for each member to nominate another.” He turned. “Clerics of the Faithhood, please cast your votes now, in the Lordfather’s name.”

He moved aside. The nave held its breath as the first cleric approached the lectern—a woman with neat graying hair. “I, Bishop Sybil Navare of Alderport, vote for Bishop Florian Fane.”

Eda’s mouth ran dry. She gripped Ben’s hand. He squeezed back.

The next cleric rose. He seemed unhappy, the words coming with short reluctance: “I, Bishop Marcin Heath of Dawnmouth, vote for Bishop Florian Fane.”

And so they went, one after the other.

“Bishop Florian Fane.”

“Bishop Florian Fane.”

“Bishop Florian Fane.”

Last to rise was another woman. Younger and frowning, she stood with a rigid impertinence that reminded Eda of Tenelle. “I, Bishop Amabel Hughes of Rivenham, vote for Bishop Marcin Heath.”

This caused a hushed stir, with a few sideways glances shared among the clerics. But the Patriarch merely nodded and turned back to the crowd. The vote was clear. He need only agree to it. “Then I recognize the nominations of my fellow clerics. It is with great solemnity and pleasure that I hereby name Bishop Florian Fane as my direct successor and future Patriarch of the Faithhood—”

Fane was halfway out of his seat, cheeks pink with pleasure, when a grinding noise filled the templehouse.

Martine Tenelle appeared from the chantry. She marched onto the dais, hand on her sword hilt. Behind her, two burly Blades pushed Mr. Night’s mirror—the Shaws’ mirror—on a wheeled platform. It was crisscrossed with heavy chains, propped up by a supporting strut. The mirror did not shine in the motley light but rather absorbed it in a way clearly unnatural.

Confusion rippled through the crowd. The clerics looked about in alarm. Fane stood deathly still, color leaching from his face.

A man in the front row stood. He was bald and stocky, with an air of authority about him that spoke to his station more than his ceremonial plate armor. “Commander, what is the meaning of this?”

“That’s Grand Marshal Tiernan,” Ben whispered in Eda’s ear. “Highest-ranking Blade in the country. He is the Order.”

“Please forgive the interruption, sir. Your Holiness.” Tenelle bowed to both men in turn. Her face was unrepentant. “I regret that I must sully this most auspicious ceremony with base matters, but I cannot allow corruption and evildoing to be rewarded in the Lordfather’s own house. If I may, Your Grace?” She gestured to the golden lectern.

Quite baffled, the Patriarch nodded and moved back, allowing her to take his place.

“Martine,” Marshal Tiernan warned.

She held up her hand. “I will submit to any and all punishment you deem fitting, Grand Marshal, but not before this congregation hears the accusations I bring forth.” She pointed at Fane. Her voice cracked like a whip. “Bishop Florian Fane has consorted with demons and is responsible for the fiend attacks in this city. This Gateway belongs to him.”

A wave of gasps rolled through the crowd, breaking like sea-foam into whispers and exclamations. Some yelled in outrage. In the margins of the room, Blades shifted uneasily.

The Patriarch gripped his attendant’s arm. The clerics sent looks of disbelief at Tenelle, then at Fane.

“This is outrageous!” the Marshal cried.

To Eda’s surprise, it was High Governor Wolfram who rose to his feet on the other side of the room, hand raised toward the crowd. “Peace, good people. Marshal Tiernan, we must allow the commander to say her piece.”

“She has no such right! This Conclave is sacred!”

“All the more reason to hear any objections to its ruling before a successor is agreed upon.” He raised his voice. “Would you not concur, Your Holiness?”

The Patriarch gaped. “I…Yes, I…”

“My soldiers discovered this Gateway hidden in a saint’s mausoleum, with fiends protecting it. This is how they have infected Blackbridge. Florian Fane was there at the scene, in the dead of night.”

Fane gathered himself. Though pale, his expression fixed upon bafflement. “Commander Tenelle, you are quite confused. Eda Shaw was also there. It was her, the witch, who slaughtered my men. You and your soldiers saw their bodies with your own eyes.” He held his arms out to the crowd. “Have we not all witnessed the way the girl commanded the beasts? How, by my own power, they were sent running?”

“Yes!” the crowd cried back. “Yes, it was her! It was the Shaw girl!”

Eda sank into her seat. Her heart thundered.

“Why would I, a man of faith, harm my fellow priests?”

The crowd bellowed in agreement, incensed.

Tenelle said, “You have long used Eda Shaw as a scapegoat for these atrocities. I, too, was once convinced of her guilt. But I see now that you are more than capable of slaying the innocent, Bishop, in order to accomplish what you’ve always wanted—the adoration of an entire city and a council of clerics to ensure your ascension to Patriarch.”

She beheld the seething crowd and cried, “This man has lied to us all since arriving here. It is my supposition that Bishop Fane made a bargain with a demon, using this mirror, in order to set the fiends upon us. They answer his call. Can any here claim to not wonder how, exactly, a common bishop can turn away evil with a mere wave of his hand?” Among the cries of anger, some looked at one another warily. The air swirled with outrage and unease and confusion.

“That is all you have?” Marshal Tiernan said. “A hypothesis? You have no evidence!”

“I have no irrefutable proof; that is true.” From inside her tunic, Tenelle drew out the silver hammer and chisel. “If Bishop Florian is innocent of all wrongdoing, I will be the first to beg the forgiveness of all those gathered here. And as an innocent man…” She held out the Breakers to Fane. “He will take no issue with destroying this Gateway here and now.”

Fane blanched. “Come now, Commander. The destruction of a demonic artifact is a dangerous undertaking. I would not risk harming anyone in the act, least of all those in this place of worship.”

“He is correct,” Tiernan seethed, taking a step up the dais. “This has gone far enough, Martine. Stand down.”

“No.” Bishop Amabel Hughes stood. The one who voted against Fane. “Let him do it. A Gateway should be dealt with without delay, and if Bishop Fane is so imbued with holy power, he will surely keep these people safe. Will you not, Florian?”

Fane did not look at her. His smile froze upon his face, grotesque and grimace-like.

Tenelle pressed the tools into his hands. “Come, Bishop. Protect Blackbridge one final time. Save us from this fiendish plight once and for all.” She turned to the crowd. “With a few strikes, the monsters can be banished from our city forever!”

Someone cried out, “Do it, Bishop!”

Then another: “Destroy it!”

Caught up in the promise of an end to their terror, the people’s ire became excitement. They were eager to have their hero prove himself once more. The congregation rose to their feet, pointing, cheering. The walls sang. Eda and Ben stood, too, so they might still see.

But Fane stared at the Breakers in his hands, stricken.

Tenelle cocked her head. “Why do you hesitate? You promised us salvation—here it is. You are innocent, are you not?”

Fane’s mouth flapped. The noise slowly ebbed. Row by row, the crowd fell quiet, their enthusiasm wasted on the living statue before them. A tremor of dark satisfaction rolled through Eda’s bones.

Yes. Show them who you really are.

“Why does he dally?” Tenelle turned in a circle toward the Patriarch, the clerics, the sea of people watching in the nave. “Why does he hesitate? With a simple swing of this hammer, Bishop Fane might prove his innocence and save us all, yet he refuses! Why would that be?” She was nearly shouting. “I know why. The bishop has tricked us all. He is the source of your suffering, and he cannot even deny it!”

Fane’s expression suddenly twisted. His hands fisted by his sides. Sweat gleamed on his brow. “I do deny it,” he said. Stiff as an automaton, he approached the mirror. “And I am happy to prove you wrong.”

Marshal Tiernan palmed his sword. A few of the clerics stood, alarmed. Eda watched the tight line of Fane’s shoulders as he faced the Gateway. Is he really going to…?

Crack.

The crowd gasped. Tenelle met Eda’s eyes across the crowd, grim-faced.

Crack.

Watching the slow destruction of the Gateway that had been theirs, the strangest sense of melancholy came over her. This mirror was a permanent fixture in the Shaws’ home their entire lives, as familiar as Eda’s own reflection. For all the fear and awe it inspired, she suddenly felt as if she were witnessing the death of her old self. What fate awaited her once it was gone?

This was the best outcome, Eda told herself—luring Mr. Night into the open. Expose the bishop; destroy the demon. Free the city from them both.

But if Mr. Night did not come, all was lost.

Tiernan was shouting at Tenelle. Wolfram was telling him to stop. The Patriarch clung to his aide against the wall, eye flitting between the chaos. Some at the rear of the congregation were fleeing outside. Others cheered as spiderweb cracks emerged across the mirror’s face. The Blades barked at people to sit, but few listened.

Crack.

“You see!” Fane cried, turning wild eyes on Tenelle. “You cannot accuse me! I am this city’s protector!”

Crack.

“I am chosen by the Lordfather himself!”

Crack.

“I am—”

Fane paused midstrike, for in each corner of the nave, orange warning fires turned blue.

The audience screamed. Eda grabbed Ben’s clammy hand.

From the shadows of the chantry, a stream of writhing black smoke snaked its way across the dais. The clerics scrambled to get away. Marshal Tiernan froze where he stood. Only Fane seemed to understand what was happening, as Eda did. He retreated as black smoke gathered by his feet.

The swirling darkness rose and took on the figure of a man, white-haired and silver-eyed. He snatched Florian’s wrist.

Mr. Night regarded the glinting hammer coolly. “Florian. Don’t you know not to touch things that don’t belong to you?”