CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
KARIS
Karis’s skin crawls as the archpriest embraces him.
“Dear boy.” Neradt draws back with a kindly smile. “We’ve prayed for your safe return every day. Sit down, please. You must be exhausted.”
Karisisexhausted. Every ounce of energy goes towards putting on some semblance of his usual attitude, to hide the numbness in his heart. But he doubts anyone in here actually cares.
He’s never seen the archpriest’s spacious office so crowded. Half a dozen cardinals and high priests mill about in their sacred robes. Three paladins stand by the door, and Neradt’s secretary sits at a separate desk to the side. The priests all murmur their agreement with Neradt, and the paladins remain silent.
Captain Tanner was dismissed as soon as they arrived here. Karis misses her presence more than he expected.
“I’d rather stand. I’ve been sitting in a saddle all week,” Karis says. “Thanks for your prayers and all. I didn’t realize I was that important.”
“All the children of Vara’s Radiance are important,” a cardinal says.
“Too true.” Neradt’s smile maintains the exact same brightness at all times, as if painted on. “But mortal hearts are weak to bias, and I think we can all agree Karis’s youth and talent make him especially valued to the Radiant Order. Would you like some tea, Karis?”
“I’m fine,” Karis says, but Neradt pours a cup anyway. The fragrance is weak. Steam curls towards the ceiling, and the room feels overcooked and stuffy.
Karis has been here before. He’s taken tea from that very gold-trimmed tea set, poured by the archpriest’s own hands, and he always thought it was just nice of the old man. Even though he never wanted to join the order, he blamed his parents for finally finding a socially acceptable way to get rid of him. He didn’t blame Neradt for taking him, and he accepted the archpriest’s kindness as his due. The man just seemed painfully pious.
But now Karis knows that Archpriest Neradt—and possibly every cardinal in this room, maybe even the high priests—knows about the binding of Vara. They’re not just aware; they’re complicit. They know what Ronan and the Locksmiths are doing, and instead of helping, they’re leveraging the army of paladins at their disposal to fight it tooth and nail.
Karis takes the teacup and saucer, too tired to refuse again.
Neradt reclines in his magnificent leather armchair. His wrinkled hands curl like claws around his own teacup. “I’m very sorry to keep you from your rest, dear child. But we need to ask you some questions about your harrowing ordeal. May I cast a truth spell on you?”
His sunburst pendant gleams against his golden robes.
“No,” Karis answers, without hesitation. He has the right to refuse; he hasn’t been charged with any secular crime or order violation. They aren’t permitted to bespell him without consent.
The secretary writes something down on the open notebook before him. Neradt sips his tea, and pushes against Karis’s refusal with a smile. “I wouldn’t subject you to a compulsive spell, of course. Just the simple observational form.”
Karis sets his untouched tea on the desk. “No,” he repeats, and tries to put together an excuse from his fogged thoughts. “I’ve had enough spells cast on me the past few weeks. I’ll tell you everything, but I don’t want any more magic.”
The secretary writes something else. Neradt’s kindly smile never wavers. “Very well. Then tell us what happened.”
The tale Karis tells is similar to the truth, at first. A knife to his throat, a silencing spell. He adds a lot of blindfolds to the story, justifying a lack of description. “I only ever saw Vizia,” he says, and has to pause until his pulse stops skipping. Even Ronan’s surname is a sharp knife through the exhaustion, a painful memory of gentle fingers in his hair. “I heard him talking to someone a few times, but they only spoke Praian.” He shrugs, and picks up the teacup again. Doesn’t take a sip. “I wish I could be more helpful.”
The secretary has been writing this entire time. Another sheet of paper sits next to the notebook, and he occasionally circles something on it.
“This has been very helpful already, dear child,” Neradt says. “I apologize for dragging you through such terrible memories. Now, your exemplary tracking magic is well known. Could I trouble you to locate Ronan Vizia for us?”
“The first thing he did was take my focus.” Karis’s earring burns a hole in his pocket. He hasn’t had a chance to get rid of it yet. “I can’t track without it.”
“Of course, how could I neglect that. Brother Gilbert?”
Gilbert gives an exaggerated bow and places a box on the archpriest’s desk.
Neradt opens the box to reveal a layered gold and lapis sphere, as large as a chicken egg. He gestures. “This should be sufficient.”
Karis sets the teacup down again. He hasn’t drunk any of it, but his mouth twinges as if he’s swallowed something bitter. Usually, it’s difficult to find something that works as an uncontracted mage’s focus. Each individual person’s magic is so distinct. But this sphere is the same materials as the earring he claimed to use—except much larger, and much higher quality. Nobody in this room is a novice in magic, and nobody will believe this focus won’t work as a substitute.
The scry won’t work anyway, of course. Karis needs Vara’s direct help for scrying, and he can’t talk to Vara in the Bright Cathedral. But that’s irrelevant, because Karis has no intention of looking for Ronan anyway.
He plucks the sphere from the velvet-lined box. The weight of it warms to his palm, and he sends a little burst of gold light through it, as if he’s testing the conduit. “I haven’t always been able to find him,” Karis says in warning. “It only works if he’s still in Charain. But I’ll try.”
