Page 19 of Crucible of Chaos

Estevar felt a stab of embarrassment that something so personal had become a source of amusement for a stranger. ‘Of course my mind is—’

‘Ah, ah, ah,’ she interrupted. ‘A question so vital that it has haunted your sleep, pierced even the shroud of fever that nearly burned the life right out of you, surely deserves a more considered response.’

That voice was steadily becoming ever more irritating,not least because she was definitely mimicking his own vocal mannerisms. Yet, she was also correct: his wound might be stitched, the worst of the fever passed, but he was still on abbey grounds so the danger was far from over. Worse, his rescuer said Imperious was sick and now sedated, which meant he couldn’t flee without abandoning the mule who’d saved his life.

I will not depart this place without you, my friend, he swore silently.Not that there’s anywhere for either of us to go, not with the causeway flooded.

‘Are you concentrating?’ the woman asked. ‘Because I can’t tell if you’re deep in contemplation or merely constipated. I’m starting to get bored. It’s probably best for you that I not grow weary of your company.’

Still on his side, Estevar placed his palms on the woollen horse blanket and pressed carefully against the stone floor to assess how weak his ordeals had left him and whether he dared rise. Everything ached, especially his wound, but nothing so badly it warranted the greater risk of just lying here until either someone discovered him or his apparently fickle rescuer decided to amuse herself in other ways. Slowly, he pushed himself up. The sensation of his stitches being tugged was jarring, but he endured the discomfort until he’d managed to get himself sitting upright, cross-legged.

‘My, you’re a big fellow, aren’t you,Eminence?’

Rather than taking offence at the familiar joke, he was grateful. Buried beneath her apparent ridicule were clues that might give him deeper insight into the mysterious woman, although despite what she might hope, she had, already provided Estevar with a great deal of evidence to work with.

My, you’re a big fellow.

That wasn’t the sort of jab one makes when the butt of the joke is dying. She’d done an admirable job of stitching his wound, itself a rare skill. Add to that the use of the salve that was likely intended to stave off further infection and he would be justified in deducing that she possessed medical knowledge, which in turn gave him some confidence in her assessment that he wasn’t in any danger of imminent demise.

Her tone hadn’t been mocking, either. In fact, her earlier reference to the person who’d dragged Estevar here from the courtyard as ‘my man’ had been almost flirtatious– although probably neither husband nor lover, given the way she was playing with Estevar. A servant of some kind, then.

‘Ugh,’ she groaned theatrically from the dark. ‘Am I to stand here all night, waiting?’

All night.He’d been here many hours, but not an extra day, else his stomach would be raging rather than merely grumbling at its emptiness. He peered past the candle and into the shadows, but still couldn’t make out the figure lurking there.

‘I’ll make you a deal,’ she said with sudden enthusiasm. ‘Prove to me that your mind truly is clear. Apply your investigative abilities to me, and with every correct guess, I will take a step forward until you can see who I am.’ He heard her clap her hands together. ‘Oh, I do like this idea. Come now, oh dauntless paragon of reason, impress me.’

Estevar rubbed at his temples. He had a fierce headache, but what she asked for was little more than a parlour trick. It would help him regain his focus while he planned his next move.

‘I have no need to see you,’ he answered back. ‘You are the woman from the clifftop: the one with the wild red hair and the immodest taste in winter clothing.’

‘A lazy guess,’ she chided him reprovingly.

‘Given how few people are left on this island and the religious vocation of those who remain, I would call it a logical deduction. But perhaps this will amuse you more. . .’ He gestured to the chalk circle of symbols prominently lit by the candle at their centre. ‘You are not a witch.’

‘What?’ she asked, her tone suddenly sharp as a knife’s edge. ‘I save your miserable life with my precious spells and you demean my ancient traditions?’

‘I demean nothing, I merely state the obvious.’

‘How so?’

He placed a hand over his wound. It still felt hot, but the sticky salve was doing its work. ‘First, because you placed your trust in medicinal compounds and stitching thread rather than incantations and hexes.’

‘A witch can’t know herbs and healing? Perhaps the spell was in aid of the medicines?’

He ignored the feint meant to distract him. ‘Second, I am familiar with a wide range of the more genuine mystical traditions of this country.’ He reached out and traced one of the chalk symbols. ‘You’ve made a beggar’s stew of your sigils here, mixing ones for divination with others for summoning good luck at cards. Most of the rest are made up.’

‘I never said I was an especiallygoodwitch.’

‘Last, and this is the most relevant fact: only a fool would sneak into an abbey and leave the remains of a genuine witchcraft ritual in plain view of any monks who might walk in here.’ He swept away some of the chalk with his hand. ‘Not only did you fail to hide your work, you placed a candle at the centre so that your counterfeit symbols would be the first thing I saw when I roused myself.’

‘Why would I go to such bother?’

‘Because you heard Brother Agneta and me talking earlier about my particular role among the Greatcoats, which indicates that you followed us up the road to the abbey, which is how you knew she had struck me.’

Did the Cogneri truly leave me in the courtyard to die? Would the ancient tensions between inquisitors and travelling magistrates extend to outright murder? Or is there something larger at stake in this monkish feud than I yet comprehend?

‘The old bird did take you rather easily.’ The woman interrupted his rumination with an air of disappointment. ‘She may be a bitter old vulture clinging to the past, but she took you down as easily as a mule’s tail swatting away a fly. Could it be, Eminence, that your worship of reason and the law in a country where the gods themselves were murdered might be tragically misplaced?’

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