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Nelda sat over Frayne, worried that his condition hadn’t changed in the time she had been away, nor since she had returned. There was fresh water for drinking, another bucket for washing, and bread and soup had been delivered. Not that it was of good quality—it would go only a little way in helping bring Frayne’s strength back. And the longer he remained like this, the more she worried.
They would have been better off being left in the dungeons, although she was sure the cardinal would have used them in some way to get her to do as he wanted. She had remained as strong as she could, but these boys would do what they could to protect her. Even sacrificing themselves, it seemed.
The bang at the door made her jump, and the men dressed as monks of the God who pushed into the room were even more of a surprise. She stood against the bed, worried they would reach Frayne. The noise and movement was overwhelming. Several of them quickly had hold of Grace as she squealed and pulled against them. Heath raced forward but was pushed back, and he hit the ground with a sickening thud. Frayne murmured in his fevered sleep but remained unmoving.
“You have no respect for your king,” Nelda said. She wanted to pull the fire to the surface but knew it would put them all in more danger. “But I should have known that, for you have no respect for the God either. You use him as an excuse.”
The world quietened around them. And then a man laughed.
“Like you and the Goddess,” came the reply, but she couldn’t see who had spoken in the dim light.
He was not worth conversing with.
“Leave the boys—I just want the witches,” he announced, his voice fading, and she realised he had never entered the room.
“We can’t let them live,” one close to her said. She caught the knife reflecting the candlelight as he moved quickly towards Frayne.
Nelda reached out, catching his arm, and he screamed. The noise was so shrill she wanted to press her hands over her ears to block it out, but she couldn’t take her hand from his arm. The knife clattered to the floor, and Frayne called out as the flames broke through the monk’s skin and lit up the room. Frayne shielded his eyes as men closed in around her.
Odd, she thought, that there were no soldiers amongst them. All of them held out a silver image of the God, as though that would protect them or stop her. The dying monk still burned and screamed as he dropped to the floor.
“I said to leave them,” the cardinal bellowed from the doorway over the sound of the dying monk.
Grace had her eyes pressed closed and was trying to pull her hands to her ears, but the men holding her weren’t letting her move very far. She whimpered something, and the monk suddenly stopped screaming. Frayne held tight to the back of her dress, pulling her away, but there was nowhere to go; they were against the far wall. The smell of burnt flesh filled the small space. The flames slowly died down, and then there was nothing left but a dark, stinking mound.
“If you promise, I will come with you,” Nelda whispered.
“Enough,” the cardinal said, his voice just as low in the strangely silent space, and the candle hissed as though getting in the last word. “Bring them.”
Nelda was pulled from Frayne’s hold, past the remains of the man who had tried to kill him and the unconscious Heath.
“Lock it,” the cardinal instructed as she was pulled into the hallway and tried to adjust to the light after the brilliance of the burning man.
“We don’t have a key,” one said, and then she heard the bolt on the other side. It hadn’t done anything to keep them hidden and safe before.
“What of Brother Jarrow?” another asked, something desperate in his voice. And she wondered if they were all as heartless as the cardinal.
“He is with the God,” the cardinal announced, striding ahead of them. The group moved after him, too many hands ensuring she couldn’t get away, but she had given her promise. If she chose, she could burn them all to dust as she had just done to Jarrow.
She expected them to be returned to the chapel, and in some way she was looking forward to seeing the image of the Goddess again. But they were dragged in a different direction, towards the gardens. It was only then that Nelda remembered the time she had spent as a young girl in that chapel, praying for guidance and offering thanks for her brother.
Odd that she hadn’t remembered until now. She certainly did not want to return to the coffin of metal, and she was sure that Grace would not survive it a second time. As the sun lit the greenery before them, she wondered if either of them would get the chance to see such wonders again.
She assumed the monks thought it easier to ask forgiveness of the king once she was dead than to seek his approval now. There might be a history between them, but he had hunted her down for most of her life just as her brother had done. He would never forgive what he thought she had done, even if he discovered his son lived.
The large, covered cart seemed out of place. Before she could work out why, Grace was being lifted inside, where several men already waited. Nelda followed, lifted as though she were nothing. It wasn’t designed for carrying people, and she was pushed forward to sit on the flat wooden base. Several young monks sat with them as the others climbed in after them. She expected the cardinal to follow, but she hadn’t seen him since they had come out into the garden and didn’t know if he was still with them.
A bucket of cold water was tipped along the floor, soaking into her dress and likely the tunics of the men surrounding her.
“That won’t help you,” she said. Hadn’t she explained this to them already?
No one responded, other than a soft murmur as rope was handed between the monks. She was tied roughly, the rope rubbing against her skin, and then she was tethered to the latticework covering the cart.
They jolted forward at the snap of a leather whip, the rope pulling at her arms, and Grace cried out. It wouldn’t matter what they said or what they claimed now. The cardinal and his monks were in charge, and not even Nelda’s brother could save her.
The rocking of the cart could nearly have put her to sleep, except that she was wrenched against the ropes every time they hit a rock or hole in the road. She was tempted to burn through them, but it wouldn’t help her and could put Grace in more danger.
They hadn’t spoken since they had left the room, nor had any of the monks crammed into the space with them. But Nelda didn’t know what to say that might help them, and she was sure Grace felt the same. This wasn’t the first time either of them had been caught. But wherever they were going, she knew they would never return to Sunsong Castle.
The cart rattled its way along the road. Nelda tried to look out the small holes, assessing the landscape, trying to remember where they might be. But none of it looked familiar. And she hadn’t travelled from the castle so much as she had run.
Frayne would have to decide if he would tell the king who he was. Whether he would be believed or not, she couldn’t guess. She was confident the queen would understand or believe who he was. The queen was the only one to know there had been two babies that night. But why she would remain quiet, Nelda couldn’t guess. Jamie came to mind again, holding the bundle in the smoke. Had he ever planned on returning him?
Perhaps the queen had been trying to protect Frayne from something or someone else. She might not have known the girl a witch and was only protecting him from whoever had started the fire. But if that were the case, the king at least would have been told of the two babes.
None of it made any sense to Nelda, and she was frustrated that it kept replaying yet she was no closer to understanding.
The smell of the burnt building and rotting flesh reached them long before the carriage stopped, and Nelda wondered why no one had done anything. The cart stopped with an abrupt jolt. The light outside was dim. Someone leant over her to untie the rope from the cart, then dragged her towards the opening by the rope. It rubbed at the already-raw skin on her wrists and pulled at her aching limbs.
She barely had time to understand where they were when she was pulled from the flat, rough surface of the cart onto the ground. Her legs refused to work, and she fell hard on her side.
“The cardinal wants her alive,” one said, and it appeared to be the first words she had heard all day.
“I’m not touching her,” said the one holding the rope. “You saw what she can do.”
“I did, but Brother Jarrow had gone against the cardinal. I think if you do not threaten it, it won’t bite.”
“I’m not a dog,” Nelda murmured, trying to tug at the rope to get enough slack so she could find her feet. Or even sit up. She gave up and lay down. Something sharp and hard was pressed into her thigh, and she had a pain developing in her arm. She could only hope it wasn’t broken, as it had taken the weight of her body falling the few feet from the cart.
“Witches are not human,” the monk growled.
She would have argued, but these men didn’t see any women as equal, let alone those who were different. That was something the mother had taught her, with her compassion and understanding. They were all the same in the eyes of the Goddess. Nelda closed her eyes, knowing the woman who had done so much to keep her safe all those years had died not because of her, but because of these men.
“Where are your soldiers?” she asked. “They are brave enough to lift an old woman to her feet.”
“Get her up,” the younger man said, frustrated, but she wasn’t sure if it was with her or the situation.
The monk at the end of her rope leaned forward and helped her to her feet.
Grace was still hanging on to the edge of the cart despite another man tugging at her ropes, although Nelda was relieved that he wasn’t tugging very hard.
“Let me help,” Nelda said.
The monk who appeared to be in charge nodded, and the other relaxed the rope. The man holding tight to her rope, however, did not. She glared at him and then looked back to the other.
“Let her,” he directed, and the rope slackened.
“Put your feet down,” she directed, reaching out to take Grace by the hand. But Grace shook her head. “Grace,” Nelda whispered, and the girl raised frightened forest green eyes towards her, “sit down and put your legs out.”
Grace nodded slowly, doing as directed. Nelda took her by the arm, as hard as it was with her hands tied so tightly in the thick rope, and helped her slide down from the cart. Once her feet were firmly on the ground and she didn’t appear like she might fall over, Nelda released her hold and stepped back. It hurt to lift her arm, and her hands were becoming numb. And she was sure something wet was trickling down her leg from whatever she had fallen on.
The man gave a tug of her rope, and she sucked in a sharp breath as pain shot along her arm. The young monk in charge looked at her for a moment as though he might step in, but instead he turned his back and walked towards the ruin of a convent.
Nelda took it in for the first time—the burnt stone, the collapsed walls, the odd feeling that the gods had left this place long ago. She swallowed down her fear and followed the man tugging at the rope. It was not her convent, and yet it appeared just the same. Would she even recognise her home now if she were dragged through it?
The stone statue of the God stood tall and weathered by the main door, the Goddess smashed to pieces. There were no signs of any of the other gods. Inside the main courtyard, or what would have been, the earth was bare, charred from the fire. Several remains were slumped around stakes where they had been burnt. Grace whimpered behind them. There was nothing left in the heat of the fire, but there were other remains around them, tattered tunics, bones picked clean of flesh—some tiny. Nelda thought of the little boy she had tried to save from the flames. A crow screamed, and she looked up at the remains of the wall as several large black birds looked down over them. She wondered if it was fear that had kept the people out of the ruins and prevented them from burying the dead. At least the child was buried in the forest, and the birds hadn’t fed from his bones.
Nelda wasn’t sure how long it had been since the convent had been burnt, but the smell of death lingered. She was tempted several times to raise her hand to her nose, but the pull of the man ahead of her prevented her getting even close. More bodies lined the hallways once they entered the building. Although the roof was long gone, some charred beams lay across the ground, and she struggled to make it over the obstacles as she was tugged forward. Something creaked behind her, and somewhere in the distance something fell. No one seemed worried by the idea. Although Nelda flinched away from the sound, she was still being dragged through the building, and then they were under the cover of the roof. Torches burned in sconces along the walls, lighting the destruction ahead of her, and Nelda found it more difficult to walk.
She had no idea what lay ahead for them. But she knew the cardinal was behind it, and he wouldn’t make it quick. They were so far from Sunsong no one would find them out here. Not that she really thought anyone would look, other than the small hope her brother would try.
The small, empty room that appeared before her could have been the room she had slept in for the last twenty years, other than the lack of a bed or furniture of any kind. She was shoved forward, the door banged closed behind her, and her hands kept tied. Nelda turned slowly in the dim light. There was a small hole somewhere above her where a narrow beam of dusty light pushed its way in. As the walls were all stone, she wondered if it had been created for someone to watch her. She’d had a candle or two in her room, and little else. But then, she had only used the space for sleep and changing. There had been a small washstand, she remembered, although the water was always cold. She had not allowed herself to warm it, even though it would have taken little effort.
It had seemed to her over all those years that using her magic wouldn’t just put herself at risk but everyone else in the convent—and in the end it had done just that. Just like this community, her own convent was likely filled with the remains of the women and children she loved. She closed her eyes, and a sigh escaped.
She wanted to sit down and rest. She was exhausted. Her arm ached, her wrists burned, and her leg stung. She could have burned away the ropes, but she didn’t want to do anything that might possibly upset her captors, and she had no idea what they wanted from her. She tried not to allow herself to think of the boys. Frayne would know what to do. And although she hadn’t had the chance to explain who he was to her brother, Nuris would look out for them.
In some ways, it was a good thing she hadn’t had the chance to tell him who they were. He might have reacted to the news very differently than what she hoped. And the queen appearing in his rooms had been a surprise. Or was it only because she had wanted the child? Pip was special. Nelda hoped Nuris would keep her safe, and that he wanted to keep her safe. No matter the years she had thought he was chasing her down to kill her, no matter the anger she could still see on his face whenever she closed her eyes from when she had realised she was safe from the fire.
He had seemed happy to see her when she had found him. She had never felt so comfortable as she did in his arms.
The idea filled her with some hope as the door squealed open. Nelda hadn’t even heard a bolt, and there didn’t appear to be a latch. Had someone been standing guard outside the door?
“Come,” the monk said, and again she was surprised he wasn’t a soldier. The monks of the God had seemed so insignificant when she was growing up. She was sure they weren’t and that there must have been more they did behind the scenes, although much of it prayer. But it had been the sisters she had seen far more of, helping the poor, teaching children, caring for the ill.
“Where are we going?” she asked, but the monk reached silently forward for the rope. She hoped he would simply lead her rather than drag her to their destination.
She was tempted to call out to Grace and see where she might be. But the man was not the same as the one who had dragged her before, and she allowed him to lead her through the remains of the building. The large chapel seemed odd once they reached it, many of the pews burned and damaged. When she looked to the altar, the Goddess had been replaced by the God. He looked out of place, as though he were visiting but not sure whether he should sit or stand. She smiled at the idea, and someone cleared their throat. She looked across at the young man who had appeared to be in charge earlier, sitting in what might have been the only pew to survive the attack on the building. She was led over to stand before him.
“You find this amusing?” he asked.
“I find it odd,” she said. “Why not take me to one of your own places of worship?”
“That is not what this is,” he said, looking up at the statue. “This is a reclaimed space, taken back from the evils of witchcraft.”
“There may have been a witch or two hiding here,” Nelda admitted, “but that does not mean the whole community is guilty. The Goddess guides us to help those less fortunate than ourselves. It is a shame the God is not as giving.”
He glared at her then.
“And I’m grateful mine isn’t as cruel. Although I would like to see what they have to say when it is time for your cardinal to stand before them. When the time comes, he will have to stand before them all.”
“Tie her up with the other one,” the man said, moving his gaze back to the God as though she wasn’t worth his effort and her words had no effect.
He must think himself outside the laws of his own religion, Nelda thought as she was tugged away and through another doorway she hoped led back outside. But it was a smaller chapel off from the main one, the image of the Goddess hastily painted over. Sections of her were visible—a hand, part of her midriff, part of her neck—the rest lost to the strangely white paint. Nelda wasn’t sure if it appeared as though she were disappearing into the wall or trying to step from it. A narrow section of her legs was just visible, like a line of colour.
She heard a moan and turned to find Grace behind her, tied to a number of narrow poles that only just managed to keep her standing. Her head was slumped, and she appeared to be bleeding. One arm was tied at the shoulder at an odd angle to keep it out straight while blood ran down it and dripped into a pottery bowl.
As she tried to understand just what they had done to Grace, Nelda was pulled towards another set of poles and a thick rope wound around her waist and down her legs. As though she had the strength to pull away. The narrow pole kept her upright and pressed into her back. The ropes around her wrists were cut away. She sighed with the relief, although it was short-lived as her left arm was tugged out and tied to a pole, twisting her back until she couldn’t see her hand. The strain on her shoulder was unexpected. Her right arm was similarly tied, only the pole was closer and the rope, although narrower than the last, bit into her skin above her elbow. Her fingers were already feeling numb, and she couldn’t move at all. Not that she thought she should fight, but something in her insisted. She tugged uselessly against the ropes, causing them to bite into her skin.
The young monk appeared and looked over Grace as though inspecting meat at a market rather than a woman. Then he turned to the monk standing beside Nelda, who had just tied the last rope.
“She is ready,” he said, bowing his head.
The man stepped forward and ran his hand over her arm. She cried out at the sharp pain that cut into her, thinking he must have had a knife. Four evenly spaced, equally deep cuts had appeared on her arm. She looked at him, and he raised his eyebrows. Did he have magic?
He turned his hand over and revealed a series of blades, although she couldn’t see how they were connected. Each dripped blood into his palm. The feeling was going in her hands, and the stinging lessened along with it. She was worried she would slip away like this, slowly bleeding onto the floor. No, into a large metal bowl, which he placed on the floor where the blood ran down her arm.
With the angle of her arm, the blood flowed around her wrist and into the perfectly placed bowl. The dripping was consistent, and she was lost to the pattern of it.
“Do we release the other?” one of the men asked.
“I want a second bowl from her first.”
Silence followed as Nelda could only look down. The bowl was large, she thought. That would be a lot of blood. What did they think they could learn from it? She was struggling to find the right words. When she looked away from the odd vision before her, the room was empty but for them, and she was sure they were not far away. She looked up at the Goddess before her, or at least what remained of her, and thought she could see her smiling face beneath the paint.