Each step sent a fresh ache through Tristan’s knees, spine, and skull. By the time they reached the top, sweat chilled under his armor.
Father Perero rapped twice on the great oak doors with the butt of his staff. “It is me,” he called, his voice carrying. “Open up.”
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then came the scrape and clatter of a heavy bar being lifted. Bolts drawn. The door cracked open a hand’s breadth, and a pair of wide brown eyes appeared in the gap, rimmed with red from crying.
“Father?” a girl’s voice whispered. “Is it safe?”
“As safe as we can make it,” the Shepherd replied, gentler now. “Luckily for us, the Lord sent us a champion at just the right moment. Now, we can evacuate to that ship I have waiting in the canal.”
Champion?He did not feel like a champion. It had been dumb luck. A blind swing. But Tristan set his jaw and held his tongue.
In his silence, Father Perero urged, “Open the doors, child. Quickly.”
The doors swung wider with a groan, and Tristan’s breath caught at what he saw.
The nave was full.
Men and women filled every pew, every aisle, every scrap of floor. Mothers clutched infants; older children huddled against them. The elderly leaned on canes or each other. Dockworkers with saltin their hair stood shoulder to shoulder with merchants in fine wool, their faces drawn tight with worry.
Hundreds of eyes turned toward the doorway.
Toward him.
For a moment, Tristan could only stand there on the threshold, the smell of sweat and fear rolling over him. The clamor of distant battle faded under the weight of so many silent, pleading stares.
He had ridden here to save one man. The Lord, it seemed, had different numbers in mind.
The promise he’d made Olivia echoed in his skull.I will be right back.
The words tasted like ash.
Forgive me, Olivia.His heart cracked in his chest as Father Perero stepped forward, leading him into the cathedral. Amongst that group of frightened civilians. And he was the only knight.
One blade to guard hundreds of souls.
I’m afraid I’ll have to break that promise.
Chapter fifty-four
Seraphina
The damp tang of the sea lingered in the air. The gentle lap of waves against rock whispered somewhere close by. Closer still were voices—one she knew and one she did not.
“…I already paid you,” Tiberius was saying. “That should bemorethan enough.”
A rough male voice with the faintest hint of a Lothmeeran accent answered, “That was before a big price was put on this one’s head, m’lord. Abigprice. My rates have tripled—”
“Tripled?” Tiberius snarled. “Are you trying to rob me blind?”
The man laughed. “No, m’lord. I’m trying to rob you withyour eyes wide open.”
Seraphina floated in that space between dreaming and waking. Her lashes fluttered. Her tongue felt thick. Her head, heavy. That sickly sweet taste lingered in the back of her throat. Her rump ached from being perched on a pommel for only the Lord knew how long.
She was still on horseback, still held upright by an arm clamped around her middle.
Tiberius.
