Page 99 of Prisoner of Darkness and Dreams
He still wears an amused expression, and I wonder if he suspects some of the motivation behind my comment. He always was able to read me. I thought it a kind of divine gift once. It took me far too long to realize it was actually just a skill for manipulation.
“My dear Sophos,” he dabs his mouth with a napkin. “I know it must pain you not to always feel like the favorite. But since Bearer Polis’s murder in Hallowbane, I’ve been reminded that most people are inherently weak of mind and will. They so easily become liabilities to the Temple, spilling our precious secrets. Therefore, I must be more cautious in sharing my plans with others. Even you.”
I blink at him, unsure how he wants me to respond. I settle for bland agreement.
“I defer to your wisdom, Your Grace.”
“And it transpires I was right to exercise that caution. The Hand of Ralus attempted a move against the queen the night before her coronation. Several of our cleavers were killed in the palace grounds, though we crushed their forces, of course.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” I reply. We sit in silence for a moment as I struggle to finish my food. So far, my gentle probing hasn’t gotten me in trouble. I risk pushing a little further.
“I was thinking, Your Grace, that Queen Oclanna’s new position will make things much easier for you.”
“It already has.” The Grand Bearer smiles, a glimmer of excitement in his dark eyes. “Oclanna was most helpful providing access in the royal territories. In fact, I have something to show you.”
He rises from the table and crosses the room. I put my fork down, glad that dinner seems to be over. His Grace goes to a sideboard, opening a carved mahogany box which has clearly been left out on the top for him.
I rise, sensing I’m meant to join him, and as I approach, I see that he’s holding a small glass vial full of crimson liquid.
“I predicted you’d want a demonstration, Sophos, so I have organized for a volunteer. Fetch the acolyte,” he calls to one of the servants at the door.
“It took a lot of work to find the right team of healers—most exiled dryads are exiled for a reason, my dear Sophos. Then, sourcing the necessary ingredients took weeks. After that, it was a lot of trial and error.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about, but there’s nothing to be gained from admitting that. “It sounds like it was quite the challenge, Your Grace,” I say. I hear footsteps in the corridor outside, and my gut lurches. Whatever this demonstration is, I doubt it will be pleasant.
“Only for those who don’t have the gods on their side, Sophos,” His Grace says generously. “I knew it was only a matter of time until we got the mixture right.”
The servant shows in an acolyte, his yellow robes too small on his gangly frame. He can’t be more than fifteen, and I find I can’t look the boy in the eye.
The Grand Bearer approaches him, the liquid in the vial shining under the incendi lamps.
“Now, my boy, I have one question for you.”
The acolyte looks up with eyes as wide as saucers, clearly astounded that his holiness the Grand Bearer is addressing him directly.
“Are you willing to perform the task the gods demand, and sacrifice yourself to be rewarded in the Eternal Realm?”
The boy swallows. “Yes, Your Grace.” He’s so young his voice cracks as he talks. “It would be the highest honor.”
Down by his sides, the boy’s hands are shaking. He’s nervous, but he’s faithful—it would never occur to him to question or doubt the awe-inspiring Grand Bearer.
“Indeed it would,” Caledon agrees.
“Your Grace,” I say, trying to keep my tone casual. “Would it not be simpler to just explain to me what the potion does?”
“Nonsense, Sophos,” the Grand Bearer replies without looking at me, unstoppering the vial. “With all that effort, it would be a waste for you to not see it in action. An insult to the gods even.” Now he turns, fixing me with a hard stare. “After all, this ingenious elixir is a gift from them.”
I bow my head, penitent. “Of course, Your Grace.”
He passes the potion to the boy, who hesitates for just a moment before he empties the vial down his throat. He gags and coughs, trying to apologize through his spluttering.
“I’m sor—sorry Your Grace. It’s a little bit?—”
His words are interrupted by a rattling gasp inward as he falls to his knees. The boy cries out, ripping at his robes and writhing on the floor as if his bones are trying to escape his body. His face is screwed up in pain until his eyelids fly open, revealing raw, bloodshot eyes.
The Grand Bearer stands over him, watching patiently until the boy’s moans soften into whimpers and he stops moving. Then His Grace nudges him with his foot.
“Stand up, boy,” he orders.
