The Half King

8

Daerick arrived at Cerise’s suite shortly after the departure of Lady Champlain.

“Your hair looks like a work of art,” Daerick exclaimed with a smile as Cerise opened the door and welcomed him into the sitting room. But when his gaze found the breakfast table, his eyes widened, his mouth formed a perfect oval, and he murmured, “But this…this is a masterpiece.”

Cerise laughed. “Help yourself. If I eat another bite, I might burst.”

“Well then, I must remove the temptation of these delicacies from your sight and spare you from bursting.”

“You’re such a gentleman.”

“I am, aren’t I?” he said while filling a plate with salted meats and eggs. “I’m saving your life with this selfless act.” He grinned and teasingly fanned his eyes. “I’m getting misty. Is this how it feels to be a hero, Cerise?”

She laughed again and poured him a cup of tea. “I’m no hero.”

“That’s not what everyone in the palace is saying.” Fluttering his lashes, Daerick mimicked a maiden’s high voice. “Did you hear about the king’s emissary? She walked through fire to save a dozen men, and then she put out the flames with the power of her mind!”

“I thought it was the power of my prayers.”

“Yes, I heard that version, too,” Daerick said, adding several pastries to the rim of his plate. “There’s another one claiming that you blew out the flames with your sacred lungs. That one is my favorite.”

“My sacred lungs?” she repeated. “It seems I’m more talented than I thought. When I’m finished becoming a legendary emissary and helping you break the noble curses, I think I’ll use my spare time to conquer death.”

“You should invent a male enhancement while you’re at it.” With a grin, Daerick added, “Not that I need one. I’m only thinking of my less fortunate brethren.”

“How saintly of you.”

“It’s true. Not even Father Padron can match my piety.”

Father Padron .

She’d been so distracted by the morning’s events that she had forgotten to tell Daerick about her visit to the catacombs. While Daerick sat at the table and devoured his breakfast, she paced the sitting room and relayed the story to him, starting with Father Bishop’s open hostility toward her in the prayer room and ending with a description of the antechamber she had visited and the half footprint near the wall.

Daerick frowned and blotted his mouth with a silk napkin. “Are you sure the imprint wasn’t made by something else? Furniture or a walking stick?”

She slid him a dirty look. “I may not have sacred lungs, but I can recognize a boot print when I see one.”

“Did you confront Father Padron about it?”

“Of course not.” Now he was just insulting her intelligence. She was a novice at court, but not when it came to matters of the Order. She knew better than to accuse the high priest of lying to her.

“Good,” he said, seemingly oblivious to his own patronization. “Are you certain that Father Padron doesn’t know that you know about the hidden chamber?”

“I’m certain.”

“Then don’t do anything to change that. We need him to believe he fooled you. He hid the antechamber for a reason. Whatever he’s keeping in there, he’s willing to lie to protect it. And if he’s willing to lie, we have to assume he’s willing to do more than that to stop you from finding it.”

“Are you implying he would hurt me?”

“People have done worse things to bury their secrets.”

“He’s no ordinary person,” she pointed out.

“No,” Daerick agreed. “And that’s what makes him dangerous.”

She wanted to argue that Father Padron would never harm her. But what reason did she have to believe that? He had broken her trust. Logic would say that she didn’t truly know him at all. The Reverend Mother had warned her of overzealous priests—maybe he was one of them. He had certainly atoned like one of them. So then why did she still want to defend him? Why did she crave his approval and his company even though he had deceived her? Why was she still drawn to him?

“You’re only human,” Daerick said. “It’s natural for you to see the best in Father Padron. There’s a reason for that.” He sipped his tea and went thoughtful for a moment. “I don’t suppose the Silent Soul ever visited you at the temple.”

Cerise shook her head. She had never heard of the Silent Soul.

“She’s a legendary figure,” Daerick explained. “Like the Harvest Fairy or the Winter Mouse, but she brings sweets instead of presents or coins. Parents use the Silent Soul to manipulate their children into obedience. If you do what you’re told and you don’t complain, she will leave a bundle of goodies on your doorstep when her soul’s day arrives. But you have to believe . Otherwise, she won’t come.”

“Did you believe in her?” Cerise asked, her lips twitching in a grin. “I can’t imagine that you did.”

Daerick frowned as he set down his teacup. “I wasn’t always a genius, Cerise. My parents fooled me a time or two.”

She patted him on the shoulder. “At least you’re human like me.”

“Yes, well,” he went on. “My mother was strict with sweets, and the Silent Soul always brought my favorite toffee. So I followed my parents’ orders without questioning them—which, believe me, was a struggle. Then one year I overheard a serving boy telling his friends that the Silent Soul wasn’t real, that it was parents who left sweets at the door. What he said made sense to me. My intellect told me he was right.” Daerick lifted an index finger. “But I was afraid to admit to myself that the Silent Soul was a myth. Because what if I was wrong?”

“Then you would get no toffee.”

“Exactly. I wasn’t prepared to take that gamble, so against my better judgment, I forced myself to believe in the Silent Soul until enough time passed that I couldn’t deny the truth anymore. And by then I had lost my taste for toffee. I used to feel foolish for how easily I let myself be manipulated by sweets and lies, but the experience taught me about the power of persuasion, and that was a lesson worth learning.”

Even though she saw his point, it felt like he was patronizing her again. “You equate my respect for Father Padron to your belief in the Silent Soul.”

“And who could blame you?” Daerick asked. “You lived at the temple since birth. Nineteen years is a long time for the Order to teach you their version of the truth. Their doctrine is a part of you. It’s in your bones, and it’s going to take longer than a few days to admit to yourself that some of what they told you is a lie.” He stood from his chair and took Cerise by the hand. “Don’t be ashamed for feeling confused about Father Padron. He’s powerful and charming, and he represents everything that’s sacred to you. But don’t let your confusion make you reckless. Not all priests are safe. There’s a lot you don’t know about them.”

“Fine,” she said. Enough with the lectures . “Then teach me.”

Daerick gave her a resolute nod. “With pleasure.”

W hile Daerick escorted Cerise to the east wing on the first floor of the palace, where the former emissary’s office was located, he quietly discussed what he had learned from his research. He still hadn’t translated the term umbra sangi , but he had sent an encrypted letter to a colleague in Calatris who specialized in linguistics. Daerick had spent most of his time poring over ancient writings related to the Great Betrayal.

“I realized something that should’ve occurred to me before,” he whispered as they descended the main staircase. “I haven’t spent as much time immersed in religion as you have. I think that’s why it took me so long to notice there are no records of the Mortara dynasty’s role in the Great Betrayal.”

Cerise had always known that the Mortara dynasty’s role was absent from the scrolls; she had read them so many times she could recite whole passages from memory. She did so now. “‘To house Calatris, which devised the method to slay the goddess, she unleashed more knowledge than the mortal mind could bear. To house Petros, which forged the weapon against her, she gave the curse of bloodlust. To house Solon, which seduced her from the heavens, she bestowed self-destructive beauty. And to house Mortara, she gave the curse of darkness, to disappear into the shadows for eternity.’”

“But why?” Daerick asked.

“It’s not recorded in the scrolls, but I assumed the Mortara dynasty was the house that brought together the other nobles—that the betrayal was their idea,” Cerise said. “And that’s why the Mortara curse is the worst of them all.”

“It’s not just absent from the scrolls; it’s absent from all records. That’s what I spent this morning confirming,” Daerick replied. “But if that’s the reason for their curse, why would the goddess reward house Mortara with dominion over the priests?” Daerick quieted his voice as he led her down the first-floor eastern corridor, where silken carpets gave way to tile that caused their sounds to echo. “No priest, not even Father Padron, can refuse a direct order from a firstborn Mortara. Most people would kill for power like that.”

“Do you think the reason matters?” she asked. “Can the curse be broken without us understanding why the priests are bound to Kian?”

“Perhaps,” Daerick said in a tone that hinted otherwise.

They reached an office suite situated about halfway down the corridor. The office must have been built along an exterior palace wall, because beams of sunlight streamed through the open door and into the hallway, bathing the floor tiles in brilliance. Cerise entered the suite and found a small sitting room furnished with a tastefully simple red velvet sofa and two end tables. Spanning the rear wall was a window that offered a view of the east lawn and the rows of citrus trees in the distance. While Daerick closed the door behind them, Cerise inspected the sitting room. The greeting area was pristine, without a trace of dust on the furniture or on the glossy floor. She continued beyond the sitting room to a side-facing doorway that led to an office carpeted with colorful, plush rugs and featuring an etched mahogany desk with a matching chair settled behind it. In the corner stood a cushioned divan and a side table bearing a silver tea set.

She wondered if this was the office the Reverend Mother had Seen in her vision. Cerise could picture herself behind the desk, reading and learning and sipping tea like a proper lady. The mental image made her smile. She felt older and wiser simply by standing here.

“Here it is,” Daerick said with a flourish. “The old woman’s office, and now yours, unless you’d prefer a different one. The king created a lot of vacancies when he dismissed his court, so you can have your pick of any of the office suites along this corridor.”

“No, I like this one.” She slipped behind the desk and found that she could still see the window through the doorway. “The view is perfect, and besides, the late emissary’s notes are in here.”

Daerick winced. “Only a few pages. She wasn’t much of a recordkeeper. Everything I could find is in the top drawer of her desk.”

“And the elusive journal?” Cerise asked. It had to be somewhere around here if the Reverend Mother had Seen her reading it. “What does it look like?”

“It’s quite distinctive,” Daerick said. “The cover is made from black and white leather squares stitched together to look like temple floor tiles. Kian’s father gave it to her as a welcome gift. It’s impossible to miss.”

“Did you look for it in her bedchamber?” Cerise asked. “If the journal was important to her, it was probably with her when she died.”

Again, Daerick winced. “This is where she died.”

Cerise felt her eyes widen. Her gaze drifted to the chair behind the desk, to the plush divan, to the carpeted floor, while her mind conjured images of an elderly woman slumped across the various objects in death.

Daerick gently elbowed her. “Change your mind about one of those vacancies?”

While Cerise was still trying to adjust to the knowledge that her predecessor had poisoned herself in this very room, someone from the outer corridor opened the door to the sitting room and then walked into the office. Cerise stepped around her desk and was met with a startled reaction from Father Bishop, who had clearly assumed the suite was empty.

Father Bishop glanced back and forth between Cerise and Daerick. His mouth moved, but no words passed his lips.

“May I assist you, Father Bishop?” Cerise asked in her most ladylike tone. Not that he deserved it. He looked more guilty than a child with his hand in the sweets jar.

He composed himself and fixed his icy glare upon her. “Excuse the interruption. I only came to return this.” Then, from the billowy left sleeve of his robe, he retrieved a small book bound in alternating leather squares of black and white.

Cerise gasped. “The emissary’s journal!”

“That’s the one,” Daerick said. He folded both arms and lifted his chin, looking down his nose at the priest. “That explains why it was missing. What were you doing with it?”

“The emissary had a name,” Father Bishop snapped. “She was Mother Strout. And yes, I borrowed her journal. What of it? I came to put it back. I did nothing wrong.”

Cerise had been so fixated on the journal that she hadn’t noticed the changes in Father Bishop. Now that she studied his face, she detected a hint of redness in his eyes and rimming the bottom of his nose. His eyelids were swollen, and his voice seemed a note rougher, more raw than it had been yesterday when he’d chastised her in the sanctuary. It almost looked like he had been crying.

Crying for the old emissary?

“Lord Calatris didn’t accuse you of wrongdoing,” she told Father Bishop. “He asked you a question, which you still haven’t answered.”

“You want an answer?” he asked in a tone that sounded like a threat. “All right. I’ll tell you why I took it.” He shook the journal in the air. “Because her death made no sense—that’s why. I knew Mother Strout. I knew her longer than anyone else at the palace. Before she was the old king’s emissary, she was a Seer in the temple where I was raised. Mother Strout was the most devoted oracle that ever existed. She lived to serve the goddess, so why would she dispatch herself without saying a word to anyone?”

“Did you find your answer?” Cerise asked, nodding at the journal.

By way of reply, Father Bishop slammed the book on the desk and then turned on his heel and stalked out of the room. A moment later, the suite door clattered shut.

She would take that as a no .

She picked up the journal and traced a square with her fingertip. At least now she understood why Father Bishop hated her. The late emissary had been like a mother to him. He had respected and cared for Mother Strout, and when she had died, the Order had sent a novice in training to replace her. That must have felt like an insult to her memory.

“The crotchety priest did make an interesting point,” Daerick said.

Yes, he did. Based on everything Cerise had heard about Mother Strout, it did seem strange that the woman had poisoned herself. “Was there an investigation when she died?”

“There was an inquiry,” Daerick said, “but it turned up nothing. She had no enemies and no heirs, so there was no one to benefit from her death. And the note she left behind was in her own handwriting.”

As above, so below . The flame you seek to dampen will consume you. Cerise wished she understood what it meant.

“If there was foul play involved in her death, it was meticulously planned and flawlessly executed.” Daerick shrugged. “I can’t tell you why old Mother Strout is dead, but now that we have her journal, I can help you resume her work. There are only six moons remaining with Kian on the throne. In that time, you might as well be the best emissary you can be. That will have to do.”

A heavy silence fell between them.

“You’re right,” Cerise agreed softly. “Let’s get started.”

She still didn’t know her purpose along the narrow path to breaking the curses, but the journal felt like a stepping stone—with any luck, the first of many.

Finally, it was time to set destiny in motion.