Page 77 of The Year of the Witching

The Prophet circled them. He was close, so close that if Immanuelle had only reached out her hand, she could have seized his holy dagger by the hilt. She was tempted to do it, steal the blade and carve the sigil into her arm then and there. But she knew that if she attempted it, the Prophet’s guardsmen would shoot her dead on the spot. No, better to wait. The slaughter wasn’t upon them yet. She still had time to spare.

The Prophet dropped to a crouch at his son’s side. “Tell me, what is your connection to the accused? What is the nature of your affinity?”

Ezra swallowed hard, shifting his gaze back to his father. He squared his shoulders, as if he was gathering the strength he needed to speak. “I’m guilty of all the charges leveled against me. But Immanuelle is innocent. Any sins or crimes she may have committed were at my instruction, and mine only.”

A great, dreadful moan rose from the congregation. Many people wept openly; others ripped their own garments. Children cowered in their mothers’ skirts, and some of the more pious men lowered themselves to their knees in prayer.

Their heir had betrayed them.

The Prophet drew himself up to the altar slowly, his robes trailing behind him. “So you’re saying that it was you who lured the evil from Immanuelle Moore? You who called it forth?” He turned to point an accusing finger at his son. “All of these plagues have come upon us because of you?”

Ezra nodded. His shoulders rolled beneath his shirt as he shifted his weight against the altar. “Yes. That’s true.”

“And you manipulated her power to seize the title of prophet, making you a heretic. Afalseprophet.”

It wasn’t a question, but Ezra answered anyway. “Yes.”

His confession elicited a roar of protest. Despair became shock, and shock became fury. The crowd jeered, surging forward, stomping their feet and shouting. The echoes of their cries blasted between the walls. This time, the Prophet let them scream.

“No,” said Immanuelle, but her voice was lost below the bedlam of the crowd. In that moment she didn’t think of her own innocence or guilt. She didn’t think of the reversal sigil or Bethel or summoning the power of the plagues. Her thoughts were only with Ezra, and the grave danger his false confession had put him in. “He’s lying. It isn’t true!”

Before she could utter another word of protest, members of the Prophet’s Guard broke forward to seize Ezra. Grabbing him by the arms, they dragged him back to the cathedral doors.

“Thank you for your confession,” said the Prophet. “This trial is adjourned.”

CHAPTERTHIRTY-FIVE

Sometimes, I think he loves me. Not selflessly, the way that you do, but with a kind of hunger. There is power in that love, but there is malice too. I often wonder what will become of me when that malice manifests.

—FROMTHELETTERSOFMIRIAMMOORE

IMMANUELLE WOKE TOa cold splash of water and a kick to the ribs. “Get up.”

Wincing, she cracked her eyes open and peered up at the guard who stood over her. He, like all of the other servants who had come to her cell to question and torment her, wore a mask over his mouth, as if he feared he would catch her evil by breathing. He held an oil lamp that shined so bright, Immanuelle had to squint to keep from being blinded by it.

Without a word, she forced herself off the cold stone floor and stood.

The guard kept her shackled as they walked through the Haven’s corridors. Immanuelle tried to memorize the path as she went—left twice, right once, left three times, right four, pause at the iron door—but it was futile. The dark made it impossible to discern one hall from the next.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked, hating the tremor in her voice.

The guard didn’t answer. They walked on.

With every step, Immanuelle’s thoughts drifted, and she wasforced to shift her focus from memorizing the path to simply staying on her feet. Her head swam and her legs felt soft beneath her. She began to shake, and she wasn’t sure if it was the fear or the hunger or both.

As they moved down the corridors, Immanuelle’s thoughts went to Ezra—his false confession, his sacrifice, all that he’d said and done in order to protect her. It was a fool’s gesture; he must have known that. She had been doomed the instant she left the Moore house. But still, despite everything, he had tried to save her, lying under holy oath to do it, trading his inheritance, his freedom, his life, for hers. It was a grave sacrifice, and one she was grateful for. Her only hope was that, if a little luck was still on her side, she’d have the chance to tell him that before the end.

After a long, silent walk through the Haven, the guard led her to an empty corridor. At its end stood a wooden door so large, it spanned the entirety of the wall. It swung open at their approach, and Esther emerged from it into the darkness of the hall. She was disheveled, her skirts wrinkled, her bodice sloppily laced. Her hair fell loose around her shoulders, and her eyes were red and swollen. As she brushed past them, she gave Immanuelle a look of so much loathing, a chill carved down her spine.

The guardsman yanked on Immanuelle’s shackles, hauling her forward, and Esther disappeared into the darkness of the corridor. With a sharp strike between her shoulder blades, the guard shoved her the rest of the way through the portal, and the door slammed shut behind her.

Immanuelle stalled by the threshold, too afraid to move. She examined the room before her. At the center of the far wall was a bed, its mattress big enough for five people. It was mounted on a massive wrought iron frame, strikingly similar to the craft and style of the Haven’s front gates. Above it hung a large, rusty broadsword that looked so old, Immanuelle wouldn’t have beensurprised to learn its original owner had been one of the Holy War’s crusaders. On either side of the blade were windows overlooking what Immanuelle assumed were the plains, though it was far too dark to see more than a few inches past the windowsill.

“It was good of you to come.”

Immanuelle jumped and turned to see a man sitting in the far corner of the room, hunched over a small writing desk. There was little light in the shadows beyond the reach of the oil lamp, and it took Immanuelle a moment to recognize him as her eyes adjusted.

The Prophet.

---