CHAPTER SIXTEEN

 

sigils

Rachael struggled out of a sleep devoid of dreams. The smell of horse piss stung her sinuses. God, had she been sleeping in the stable again? She wondered how much time she’d lost to the Wyrm.

Something moved beside her; she jerked upright to see Lindsay roll over, taking Rachael’s small share of Lucian’s mantle with her. Sharp pain in her side knocked the last of her drowsiness away. Rachael put her face in her hands. Her head felt swollen, but even as she automatically sought the Wyrm’s presence, the memory of last night’s events drove the remnants of sleep from her brain. The Wyrm was gone.

Lucian. Rachael dropped her hands, her heart stammering for fear he’d taken one of the horses and fled in the night. She opened her eyes to find him where she’d left him, on the other side of Lindsay. He was obviously spent.

She could use a few more hours herself, but when she staggered to her feet and looked outside, she realized they’d already slept through half the morning. She forced herself to move. Another night behind Ierusal’s walls held no appeal for her.

The rain had given way to a clinging mist that left the church a vague outline in the gloom. Ignatius nickered at her when she loosened his reins from the post. She led the three horses into the yard one at a time and hobbled them where they could graze on the sickly yellow grass.

The more she walked, the less pain she had in her hip; she peeled her waistband back to find a righteous bruise from her hip to her thigh. Blood glued her shirt to the cut on her side, and Rachael winced when she tried to loosen the cloth from the wound.

Beside the shed, she found a trough full of water from last night’s rain. She wet her shirt until she could examine the cut herself. Lucian was right; it wasn’t deep, but it was sore. Rachael cupped her hands and plunged them into the icy water to splash the last of the dried blood from her hands and face. Cuts from the Rosa’s thorns crisscrossed her skin. Her reflection wavered on the surface of the water, and her hair framed a face she’d forgotten she owned.

Neither Lucian nor Lindsay was in sight. She returned her attention to the water and lifted the patch but wasn’t surprised to find the socket still empty. She should have known he couldn’t heal what wasn’t there.

Yet he had healed her, and she tried to reconcile this new image of herself with the mutilated face she recalled. Instead of the ropy scars left by the Wyrm, her skin was smooth, and she touched her cheek in wonder. She would never be accused of being pretty—her aquiline nose rendered her features too strong—but with the scars she’d been gruesome.

The water muddied her hazel eye so she couldn’t see if it was green or brown today. Lucian had once claimed to know her moods by the color of her eyes.

Focusing on the left side of her face, she could almost imagine she was whole again. She saw the woman Lucian had loved, and Rachael smiled at the memory until a slight tilt of her head revealed the patch covering her right eye. The blank eye of a cadaver stared sightlessly back at her, and her recollection turned bittersweet. She touched the water to shatter her reflection.

Rachael straightened to find Lindsay standing at the corner of the shed. The sight of the girl startled her, and her pulse rattled in her ears. She had to get a grip on herself. If that had been Catarina’s soldiers, she would have been dead. When her heartbeat slowed, she asked, “How are you this morning?”

The girl stared at her with haunted eyes and shrugged.

“Do you want to talk about what happened last night?”

“No,” she said quickly and jammed her hands into the pockets of her coat. “I’ll talk to Lucian when he wakes up. He’s my Elder.”

The child’s words dared Rachael to contradict her, and she decided to back off; let Lucian handle her for now. He deserved credit for guiding her so well through the traumas she’d already suffered. Perhaps he’d know how to ease her through her grief for her brother.

Lindsay turned the subject away from herself. “Your eye isn’t all cloudy anymore.”

Rachael raised her hand halfway to her face before she stopped herself. “What do you mean?”

“Lucian said when somebody is possessed, you can see the shadow of the demon in their eyes. Last night, your eye had a shadow over it and it’s gone now.” She lifted her chin in a mannerism so reminiscent of Lucian that Rachael took a mild chill.

Lindsay and Lucian had become too close. Elders and their foundlings risked becoming so immersed in one another’s existence the death of one could kill the other. If it hadn’t been for the Wyrm, she would have seen the danger last night when she’d talked to the girl. Lucian and Lindsay needed a period of physical separation soon or their bonding would be irreversible.

Lindsay asked, “Can you see better?”

“Yes. I do.”

Lindsay nodded as if the admission acknowledged her suspicions. “You were with Peter when he died. Did Pete say anything?” She hugged herself and looked down, then back up to Rachael hopefully. “About me, maybe?”

Relieved by the girl’s question, Rachael relaxed; Lindsay seemed herself again, not a shadow of Lucian. “I’m afraid I don’t have much to add to what I told you last night. He only regained consciousness long enough to tell me about you. That was his last request. That someone save you.”

“Lucian saved me,” she said as she glanced at the shed where he slept. “He’s been taking care of me just fine.”

“Yes, he has.” She took a step forward, and Lindsay backed up a step. Rachael halted and reminded herself to be patient. The girl had suffered one shock after another; she wasn’t made of glass as Rachael had first supposed, but she could still break. “Lindsay, I’m not here to hurt you or Lucian.”

“Then don’t take him back to the Citadel,” Lindsay whispered.

“What?”

“I said—”

“I heard you,” Rachael snapped. She closed her eye and rubbed her forehead before she focused on the girl again. No, Lindsay Richardson’s fragility was a façade; her small body housed a determined soul. “Lindsay, I can’t turn my back on my responsibility.”

“He gave you a second chance. Why can’t you give him one?”

Rachael bit back her retort. She wanted to tell the child she never would have needed a second chance if Lucian hadn’t betrayed her in the first place. Yet an insidious part of her questioned her own reasoning. Hadn’t she willingly followed him to the Gate, knowing he lied?

He’d dangled the one treasure Rachael could never turn her back on—power over the Hell Gates—and she’d followed him like a lamb. What had Caleb said? The Fallen win by turning your greatest weakness against you.

“You can go away and pretend you didn’t see us,” Lindsay offered as she took a tentative step forward.

Rachael evaluated her. This one will bear watching. She is as sly as a judge. “Do you really think Lucian wants to live the rest of his life as a renegade?” The girl looked down at her feet. She didn’t move away when Rachael approached her. “Lindsay, no one has denied him a second chance. He will get a fair trial, and he will have an opportunity to defend himself.”

“He’s not one of them.”

She felt the girl’s intense gaze like an accusation. “I know that.”

“He hasn’t done anything wrong.”

“I know he’s not complicit with the Fallen. I know why he opened the Hell Gate, and the Seraph will take Lucian’s circumstances into consideration. We’re not unreasonable, Lindsay, but we have to be careful. We have to hold our members to their promises.”

“You could speak for him. That would help him, wouldn’t it?”

Rachael’s stomach churned. “You don’t know what that means.”

Lindsay went on as if she hadn’t heard. “If you speak for him and tell them he’s okay, they’ll listen to you.”

Had Lucian put the child up to this? “Do you understand what it means to speak for someone?”

Lindsay met Rachael’s gaze. “It means you believe in someone’s innocence enough to stand up for them.”

“It also means that you share their fate if they’re found guilty.” When Lindsay didn’t drop her defiant glare, Rachael asked, “Who told you about speaking for someone?”

Now the girl blushed and diverted her attention to her shoes, kicking a twig beside her foot. “I saw his memories. He was sad because nobody spoke for him at his trial. He understood why, but it still upset him. He didn’t have any friends anymore.”

No, he didn’t have any friends. He had Catarina and look at what she did to him. Rachael ran her shaking hands through her hair.

Lindsay scuffed the dirt with the toe of her shoe then looked up. “Forget I said that, okay? He’d be mad if he knew I asked you to speak for him.”

The girl’s concern was too powerful to be feigned; Lucian hadn’t put her up to any of this. She thought she was helping him. Rachael nodded. “Okay, between us.”

An uneasy silence grew as they regarded one another beneath the weeping sky. Rachael hoped that with a secret between them, the girl would come to trust her. Lindsay’s stomach growled and Rachael asked, “Are you hungry?”

Lindsay hesitated then said, “Yeah, I guess so.”

Rachael relaxed and recalled giving her saddlebag to Lucian for a pillow. “Let’s see if the Rosa left us anything in Caleb’s pack. Lucian is using mine.”

Lindsay trailed behind her as she went to the porch where deep gouges from the Rosa’s thorns splintered the wood. The door sagged in its frame, forlorn and broken as the shattered windows. Holes gaped along the back wall, and Rachael could see inside the kitchen and bedroom.

Caleb’s pack lay where she’d left it, next to the manacles. Without stepping onto the fractured boards, Rachael reached over and dragged the torn saddlebag to her.

Lindsay leaned close and pointed to the brand on Caleb’s pack. “That’s Catarina’s emblem.”

Frowning, Rachael lifted the flap so she could better see the brand. A garland of leaves formed a circle, and inside the circle were two ravens facing one another. Between the birds was the Citadel’s alpha/omega sigil.

“Two ravens fighting in a circle. Lucian said that’s Catarina’s emblem for Mastema. He said all of Catarina’s followers wear it. That’s how they know each other.”

Three houses of Elders in the Citadel incorporated a variation of this emblem into their standards. Rachael traced the crest with her finger and wondered how many Elders were involved in the original plot. They’d made a fool of her once; she’d not give them a second chance. “What else did Lucian say?”

“That I was never to accept anything with that emblem on it, no matter how pretty it was, because then I’d be showing allegiance to the Fallen. He made a big deal out of it and made me swear.” Lindsay peered around Rachael. “We can’t take it or we’re joining them.”

“I believe there’s a little more to it than that.” Whatever else he’d done, Lucian had impressed upon her the need to avoid Catarina’s seal and any who wore it. “We can take it without being complicit.”

“How do you become complicit then?”

“You have to renounce your vows to the Citadel, then there’s a ceremony for those who choose to follow the Fallen.” Rachael folded the flaps of leather to cover the pack’s contents and gathered it in her arms. She wanted to see what other surprises Caleb had for her, then she remembered the manacles.

“Why don’t you—” Rachael stopped. What was she thinking? She’d started to ask Lindsay to grab them for her, but that would be cruel, especially after gaining a small measure of her trust.

Lindsay cleared her throat.

Rachael said, “Why don’t you go ahead and cover Lucian with his cloak? It’s going to be colder in the shed with the horses gone.”

Lindsay glanced at the manacles but made no remark before she walked to the shed. Rachael cradled the pack in her arms; she would come back for the chains later. She turned her back on the church and joined Lindsay.

Rachael found a spot a few feet from Lucian where she could see through the shed’s slats on both sides. She didn’t expect anyone would be brave enough to enter Ierusal after last night, but she wouldn’t get caught dreaming again. “Here,” she whispered to keep from waking Lucian, and Lindsay joined her in the corner.

Rachael unfolded the ruined pack and soon discovered a few pieces of jerky. She handed Lindsay a strip of meat.

“Shouldn’t we save some for later?” Lindsay watched Rachael remove items from the pack.

“We’re only a day or so from the Eilat outpost. They’ll have provisions there.” Rachael chewed a piece of meat. She removed the items from Caleb’s pack and set them on the ground beside her. He hadn’t carried much: a change of shirts, woolen socks, a small kit with first-aid ointments for abrasions and infections, some willow bark, a pot for boiling water, a brush and comb, and a shaving kit.

Rachael sighed. She checked all the pockets a second and third time but found nothing.

“What are you looking for?” Lindsay inspected the items.

“I don’t know.” A signed confession, a note implicating Reynard, some piece of hard proof she could take back to John. She tossed the empty pack aside in disgust. A miracle. “Nothing, I guess.”

The emblem was meaningless unless she could tie Caleb and Reynard directly to Catarina and the Fallen. The Rosa had torn Caleb’s clothes to rags. If he’d carried any sign of his complicity with the Fallen or Reynard on him, it was confetti now.

All she had was Lucian’s word against Reynard, a begrudged allegation if ever there was one, and a phantom prayer book supposedly in Reynard’s possession. Reynard would see her ride into the Citadel with Lucian and that piece of evidence would be destroyed or hidden forever. Then what? The word of one liar against another.

Lindsay finished her breakfast and wiped her hands on her jeans. “Where’s his coat?”

“What?”

“Caleb’s coat. Maybe he had something in his pocket.”

Rachael turned to the corner where she’d left Caleb’s sword wrapped in his coat. Maybe she wasn’t done after all. “Excellent idea,” she said, and Lindsay rewarded her with a smile. Rachael went to the garment and disentangled it from the sword.

At the edge of the shed, she went through the pockets but found little more than lint. The tightly woven wool made the coat rainproof, and the inner lining was quilted to be warm.

Lindsay wandered over as Rachael knelt and spread the coat on the dry ground inside the shed. With her knife, she sliced through the threads holding the lining to the wool.

Lindsay squatted beside her. “Be careful.”

“Why?” Rachael frowned at the coat.

“Can’t you feel it?”

Rachael looked up. “Feel what?”

“You know, when the magic is sour.”

Rachael felt nothing. She passed her hands over the coat, but she didn’t feel the first resonance of any kind. “Where is it the strongest?”

“Here.” Lindsay indicated an area between the lapel and the collar.

Rachael ran her finger along the seam and sensed the first indication of a spell. It was wound tight and buried deep within the fabric; only someone who knew where to look would find it easily. “You’re very sensitive.”

“Is that good?”

“It is today.” Rachael tried to see if a ward protected the spell. Sure enough, so faint she might have mistaken it for an aberration of the Wasteland’s fractured magic, she found a charm embedded over the seam. The longer she focused on it, the more violence emanated from the enchantment.

How had she traveled with Caleb for all this time and missed it? Even as the question crossed her mind, she knew the answer: the Wyrm. The demon had deadened her senses to God’s Spirit.

She had been able to dream and feel the reverberation of other people’s magic, but those forms were reflexive unlike the intentional use of her other talents. When she thought back on the last eight—no, ten—years, she couldn’t recall a single time when she had allowed the Spirit to flow through her.

“Maybe we should say a prayer,” Lindsay suggested.

Probably not a bad idea at all; it would be a good way to test herself. “Stand back. Just in case something goes wrong.”

“I’ll get Lucian.” Lindsay stood and backed up a few paces.

“No, let him sleep.” She didn’t want him to see in case she failed. “You can pray with me. If you like.”

“From over here?”

“If you like.” Rachael held the offer open like a truce and waited while Lindsay thought about it.

She nodded. “Okay.” She knelt in the dirt and bowed her head.

Rachael took a deep breath and placed her fingertips over the ward. A mild burning tingled into her flesh as she began. “Pray with me then, Lindsay Richardson, that we are strong in the Lord and in his mighty power.” Rachael felt the Spirit flow through her veins like a current. She’d forgotten the beauty of channeling the Spirit. “We have nothing to fear.” Unbidden, Lucian’s words tumbled into her mind: Do not be afraid. Beneath her fingertips, the threads writhed, and she winced but didn’t move her hands. “For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the powers of darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.”

Her hands were bathed in light, a light she’d forgotten she possessed. Beneath her fingers, darkness seeped from between the fibers like blood oozing from a wound to flow harmlessly into the ground. “We take up the shield of faith, with which we can extinguish all the flaming arrows of the evil ones.” Rachael poured her light into the cloth, and she felt Lindsay’s magic drift over her. “Protect us with Your might and Your love. Amen.”

The darkness dissipated into the ground, and Lindsay opened her eyes. “Did we do it?”

“I think so.” Rachael felt around the collar. “You did very well. I can see Lucian has been working with you.”

Lindsay blushed and looked into the yard.

Rachael returned her attention to the coat. The only magic she sensed came from something beneath the fabric. It was unpleasant but no longer violent. She picked up her knife and worked the threads loose around the collar, inching along the border until she was able to peel the lining away from the wool.

“Look.” Lindsay pointed to the left side of the collar where a strip of white flashed against the dark wool.

A piece of silk was folded three times. Silk. Of course. They often used silk rather than parchment to send messages. Holding her breath, Rachael unfolded the handkerchief.

“What’s it say?” Lindsay scooted around and peeked over Rachael’s arm.

“It’s just Catarina’s seal,” Rachael murmured as she stood. Dead center was Catarina’s sigil for Mastema. The ink was the brownish-red of dried blood. Rachael ran her finger over the lines and sensed the signature of Reynard’s magic, faint like a whiff of cologne beneath wood smoke but there nonetheless. She examined the markings, remembering how John had taught her how to know each Katharos by their blood.

She opened her heart to the Spirit and prayed to be shown the truth. After a moment of squinting at a small section of brown slashes, she saw the first spiral chain embedded in the bloodstain.

“What are you looking for?” Lindsay stood on her tiptoes.

Rachael lowered the silk so the girl could see. “Every Katharos has a distinctive signature to their blood. It looks like colorful chains.”

“Like DNA?”

“Yes, exactly.”

Lindsay squinted at the handkerchief. “And you can see it without a microscope?”

“Some of us can.” Rachael smiled at the girl’s incredulous expression. “God has given us talents to compensate for the lack of technology.”

“Is that why my cell phone won’t work here?”

“Yes. Electronics affect our brainwaves and impede our ability to make conscious contact with the Spirit. For some reason, electronics like your cell phone will only work when the Veil between Woerld and Earth is open.”

“And when the Veil closes they turn into something else?” Lindsay asked. “Lucian called them portals for the damned.”

“That’s a fitting description. You have to understand, angels are made of light, electricity, and their presence disrupts the signals within Earth’s devices.”

“What about demons?”

“Demons are angels who have fallen from grace. Demons and angels can take many forms, but the essence of their nature does not change.”  Rachael returned her attention to the emblem. Caleb’s signature was instantly familiar; it took her another minute to identify the chains belonging to Reynard. A third person had been involved, but she couldn’t discern who.

The spell was bound tight, and the presence of all three individuals had been necessary to leave such a distinctive feel to the sigil.

“Do you know what it means?” Lindsay asked.

“No, I don’t.” The cloth wiggled beneath her fingers. The silk felt oily, and she resisted the urge to toss it aside.

“What have you found?” Lucian’s voice almost caused her to drop the handkerchief.

She turned to find him standing at her left, and she stepped closer to him, holding the cloth up for him to see. Their shoulders touched as he drew his finger along the outline of the emblem. The scent of roses was embedded in his clothes and hair, but underneath the powerful odor of the Rosa, she detected the musky aroma that was uniquely his. With her eye, she traced the curve of his jaw to his full lips.

Lucian frowned at the symbol. “They only carry a missive like this when they enter a broken Hell Gate and walk across Hell. It gets them past the lower demons. You see the brush marks.” He took one corner of the silk, and his hand touched hers before he adjusted his grip. His finger hovered over a stray mark. “They mix the blood of the members for the ink. The brush is made from the hair of the person who will use the missive. In this case, Caleb.”

“They can do this at any Hell Gate?”

“No, there are only three Gates that are so badly damaged they can be used in this manner: the Gates at Ierusal, Batheba, and Carlenta.”

She made an effort to ignore the effect his nearness had on her and concentrated on the silk. The bold strokes on the cloth were vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t recall where she’d seen a drawing like this. “Why walk through Hell?” She thought of the weakened Hell Gate she’d sensed when she and Caleb had entered Ierusal.

“Less likelihood of capture.”

“Now it makes sense.”

“How so?”

“Right before we reached Ierusal, Caleb wanted to ride back and look behind us. Knowing what I know now, I suspect he met with Speight’s men. When Caleb rejoined me, he tried to talk me into waiting outside Ierusal while he came in to get you. I thought he wanted to kill you.”

Lucian looked down at her. “Last night, when you were speaking to Lindsay, he tried to get me to leave. I thought he wanted me dead. He wanted me out of the way so I wouldn’t exorcise the Wyrm.”

She looked into his dark eyes so full of pain. Rachael whispered, “Would you have turned yourself over to him if I hadn’t been there?”

His frown deepened as the implication of her words hit him. “Probably.”

Not probably. “Yes. Yes, you would have.” Lucian would have walked right into Caleb’s plan. Then once the Wyrm had taken her, Caleb would have dragged Lucian and Lindsay to the fractured Hell Gate and proceeded to Hadra with Speight and his men. “This is strong magic they’re working, and no one at the Citadel suspects a thing. How are they doing this right under our noses?”

Lucian shook his head. “They are neither careless nor stupid. They aren’t working these spells in the Citadel. They’re probably using a holding, someplace far enough away that other members won’t stumble on them. Or they’re using some area already known for its malevolence, some place that would mask the stench of their spells from other Katharoi.”

Rachael went cold. She knew just the place. “Cross Creek,” she whispered. Of course. Merciful God, they’d been working their magic in her house.

“Rachael?” Lucian’s arm slipped around her waist.

“I moved out of the Citadel several years ago to my holding at Cross Creek.”

The blood. She gripped the silk with numb fingers, staring at the marks. What if the third person’s blood was hers? Her breakfast rolled uneasily in her stomach. “What if I’m complicit?”

“No.” Lucian’s hold on her waist tightened.

Lindsay moved into Rachael’s line of vision. “Is that how you know about renouncing your vows, Rachael?”

“Lindsay!” Lucian glared at the girl.

“Why are you so scared, Rachael?” Lindsay demanded.

Rachael straightened. She had to get a grip on herself. “I’m not frightened.”

“You looked like a ghost! You said everything would be okay for Lucian’s trial, but now that you’re looking at one, you’re scared to death. Won’t they give you a fair trial too?”

“That’s enough!” Lucian turned on Lindsay and she flinched at his anger.

Rachael blanched, realizing now how feeble her earlier assurances must have sounded. John condoned savage measures to root out the complicit, and she could expect no mercy with Reynard as Inquisitor. A breeze snatched at the silk, and Rachael balled her fingers into a fist to keep the note from fluttering out of her hand.

“They were working their magic in my house. While I was there.” What if she’d renounced her vows to the Citadel while under the thrall of the Wyrm? Days of emptiness at Cross Creek stretched before her. Sick with terror, she turned away from Lucian.

“Listen to me,” he said. “Not five minutes ago, you let the Spirit move through you. Your prayer awakened me.”

Rachael shook her head; that had been a small charm. It was nothing compared to calling upon her greater talents.

“Rachael, you can only give yourself to the complicit through your free will. You know that.” He gently extracted the cloth from her hand. “Do something.”

“What?”

“Anything. You have other talents. If you’re complicit, you won’t be able to draw on the power of the Spirit.” He gestured to her as if she was a foundling again. “Command the earth.”

Rachael directed her gaze to the sodden ground. She tried to still her heart but doubt redoubled her anxiety. She closed her eye and took a deep breath, seeking the calm she needed.

Minutes passed before she felt confident enough to whisper a prayer. As the first word left her mouth, she focused on the thick clay earth at their feet. Peace descended over her and she willed the ground to part. The Spirit moved through her body, and as she opened her hands, a crack appeared in the ground.

The full force of the Spirit coursed through her body and the fissure widened, clumps of soft ground fell into the hole. When the crevice was a foot wide, she ceased her prayer and allowed the gap to close. Sweat beaded on her forehead as she stared at the ground.

Lindsay looked at her with new respect. 

Lucian reached out and took Rachael’s wrist, guiding her back to him. “Look at it again, Rachael.” He spread the handkerchief open. “Is that your blood?”

Rachael licked her lips and forced her gaze to the brown stains. Scrutinizing the blood again, she stared until her head ached. She disregarded Caleb’s and Reynard’s patterns, unraveling them from the third set of chains winding deep into the silk.

She remembered the account ledger Caleb had left open on her kitchen table. Caleb had convinced her that the sketches were hers, but she couldn’t draw, not like that. The same sure hand that had sketched those images of agony in her ledger drew the sigil on the handkerchief.

Studying the blood, Rachael saw the first clue in the chain. Clearing her mind, she followed one link to another until she recognized the pattern. Dubois. Charles Dubois, the Citadel’s Commissioner.

“Dubois.” She felt Lucian’s hand leave hers as she relaxed. “It’s Charles Dubois’ blood.” Rachael raised her head. He looked down at her with a concerned gaze, and she became aware of his hand at the small of her back.

“Not yours.”

She shook her head and stepped back. “No.” His fingers lingered a second too long on the curve of her spine.

He seemed to sense her discomfort and stepped away from her. “Good.”

“I need something to carry the silk in so it doesn’t get damaged.”

“I got something,” Lindsay said. She rooted in her gym bag and retrieved a small tin that had once carried some kind of peppermint. “You can have it.” She offered the box and glanced down. “And I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. About the trial. And stuff.”

“It’s all right.” Rachael slipped the note into the box and snapped the lid shut. “Really,” she said as she held her hand out to the girl, “it’s all right.”

Lindsay made a fist and held it up. “Good.”

Uncertain of the child’s meaning, Rachael turned to Lucian, but he’d left her side as silently as he’d appeared. She saw him at the back of the shed where he stood near the packs. Rachael thought he smiled as he made fists and bumped his knuckles together gently.

Rachael returned her attention to Lindsay and tapped the girl’s knuckles with her own. Lindsay nodded as if that settled everything and went to help Lucian gather their hastily thrown gear into some semblance of order. He hooked his cane into the strap of his own pack and lifted it. Lucian spoke to the girl and Lindsay answered him in a whisper.

Rather than eavesdrop, Rachael grabbed her pack and went back to the porch. The manacles were curved like a question mark on the wood, and she dropped her bag to open the laces.

The fear of her own corruption still pounded in her heart, and she touched the cold metal, wondering if she would have had Lucian’s courage. He had known the minute he left Hadra what returning to the Citadel would mean for him, yet he had come regardless. Rachael gathered the chains into her hands so they wouldn’t make a sound before she crammed them deep into her pack.

He had not returned to give her a second chance like Lindsay thought but to make amends. Just a few minutes ago, he could have lied and made her believe she was corrupt. She had witnessed a few Inquisitions, so he might have had little trouble convincing her to turn renegade with him.

Instead, he’d calmed her and made her see the truth, and in return for his sacrifice, she intended to drag him back to the Citadel where a jury of liars and frauds awaited his arrival. Rachael jerked the laces tight with more force than necessary, ignoring the burning in her throat. Lucian had his faults, but cruelty wasn’t one of them, unlike those who wore the cloak of sanctity to shield their corruption.

She glanced over her shoulder, and in the depths of the shed, she saw him watching her. Maybe she had to take him back to the Citadel, but she didn’t have to abandon him once he was there. She owed him that much at least.