The Blood Knight - J. Gregory Keyes [72]
“Well, too few do,” Ehan replied. “Know about it, that is. Anyhow, that’s what we’ve been up to.”
“Wait. These ‘Hierovasi’—they control the Caillo Vaillamo in z’Irbina?”
“I should say so. Fratrex Prismo is one of ’em.”
“Niro Lucio?”
“Ah, no.” Ehan shook his head as they passed the high-arched doors of the front entrance and moved toward the yard of the sprawling west wing. “Lucio died of a peculiar and unexpected stomach disorder, if you catch my meaning. It’s Niro Fabulo now.”
“So d’Ef is no longer obedient to the holy of holies?”
“Nope.”
“Then who is in charge here?”
“Why, the fratrex is,” Ehan said.
“Fratrex Pell? But I saw him die.”
‘No,” a familiar voice averred. “No, Brother Stephen, you saw me dying. You did not see me die.” Stephen’s gaze leapt directly to the source of the words.
Fratrex Pell, the highest authority at d’Ef, was the first brother of that monastery whom Stephen had met. The fratrex had been posing as an old man, trying to lift a burden of firewood. Stephen had carried the burden, but he’d taken the opportunity to try to impress this person he’d imagined to be a simpleton. In fact, looking back on things, it was a bit painful to remember the condescension with which he had treated the fellow.
But the fratrex had been the one having sport with him, and the fratrex soon had revealed Stephen’s foolishness.
He was there, now, seated at a wooden table in a rather peculiar-looking armchair, his violet eyes twinkling beneath bushy gray brows. He wore a simple umber robe with the hood thrown back.
“Fratrex,” Stephen breathed. “I don’t—I believed you dead. What I saw, and then the praifec’s investigations—”
“Yes,” the fratrex drawled casually. “Think carefully about that last one, won’t you?”
“Oh,” Stephen said. “Then you pretended to be dead to avoid the praifec.”
“You always were a quick one, Brother Stephen,” the fratrex said drily. “Though it very nearly wasn’t a pretense. Once Desmond Spendlove showed his true colors, I knew who he was working for. I wouldn’t have guessed it, either. I trusted Hespero—I thought he was one of us. But everyone makes mistakes.”
“Still,” Stephen said. “When you saved my life, you were stabbed, and then the wall collapsed.”
“I wasn’t exactly left unscathed,” Pell said.
That was when the details snapped into place: how sharp and thin the brother’s legs were as they pushed through his robes, how his upper body moved strangely.
And the chair, of course, was wheeled.
“I’m sorry,” Stephen said.
“Well, consider the alternative. And as I understand it, this is a particularly unpleasant time to be dead.”
“But you were helping me.”
“That is true,” the fratrex allowed, “though I did it from more than personal regard. We need you, Brother Stephen. We need you alive. In fact, more than we need me, ultimately.”
Somehow Stephen didn’t like the sound of that.
“You keep referring to ‘we,’” Stephen said. “I have a feeling you don’t mean the Order of Saint Decmanus. Or the Church itself, for that matter, given what Brother Ehan has let on.”
Fratrex Pell smiled indulgently. “Brother Ehan,” he said. “I wonder if you would bring us some of the green cider. And maybe some of that bread I smell baking.”
“It would be my honor, fratrex,” he said, and scurried off.
“Can I help?” Stephen asked.
“No, stay, have a seat. We have a lot to talk about, and I’m not of a mind to delay. Time has gotten too short to be mysterious. Just give me a moment to collect my thoughts. They seem rather scattered lately.”
Ehan brought the cider, a round of roglaef that smelled like black walnuts, and a hard white cheese. The fratrex took a little of each, bending with some difficulty; his right arm seemed particularly impaired.
The cider was cold, strong, and still a bit bubbly. The bread was warm and comforting, and the cheese sharp, with an aftertaste that reminded Stephen of oak.
The fratrex sat back, clumsily gripping a goblet of cider.
“How did our ancestors defeat the Skasloi, Brother