In a Time of Treason by David Keck Page B

have found you. He is taken.”
    Their priest seemed to recover in an instant. “What do you mean ‘taken’?”
    “Provost, Patriarch Semborin is prisoner in the Mount of Eagles, hostage—against his will—in surety of our faithful conduct.”
    “By every Power of Hell, it’s bloody sacrilege!” The man’s voice returned from polished vaults, and the messenger raised his hands.
    “Kinsmen of every duke but Mornaway, Yrlac, and Gireth have been locked in the towers. Ragnal was in the blackest rage.”
    The sinews of the provost’s neck stood under his beard.
    “
Ragnal
was in a rage? By Heaven, we will send word to every king and Patriarch from this spot to the Yawning Gulf! With Semborin in chains, he will hear no more of justice or recovering the marches. He will demand that we carry our treasury to his strong rooms, but I’ll see him stripped and begging forgiveness in the streets before he gets a clipped penny!”
    “With respect, Provost, they will kill him.”
    “With respect?” the provost stood, crackling. “I will hear that from Ragnal’s own lips,” he concluded.
    “Father, you are provost of the high sanctuary?” asked Lamoric.
    The priest rounded on Lamoric. “Sir, you will explain how you’ve come to be climbing from the crypt of my sanctuary, and you’ll do so before you dare draw another breath!”
    “We are sorry to have startled you, Provost,” said Deorwen. “This is Lamoric of Gireth, son of—”
    “Gireth?” The man’s eyes flashed. “And you have avoided Ragnal’s hospitality thus far?” Smiling, the provost turned to the messenger. “Canon Gilmar, would King Ragnal free Patriarch Semborin for a duke’s son?”
    He had hardly said it before Durand had his fist on his blade.
    The canon quavered, “Provost, I am not certain that these people are within our power to give.”
    “Provost,” said Deorwen. “My husband is not the heir.”
    “Landast is the elder brother, yes.” The provost nodded to himself. “And so there is no reason to deny His Majesty’s wishes except spite.”
    “The king’s men will be watching us, Provost,” said Gilmar.
    “Every man in cassock or cowl, I expect.”
    “He has Patriarch Semborin.”
    “Then you must begin by clearing our new friends from this very public place, I think. I find myself in a very spiteful temper just now.”
    _________
    P RIESTLY HANDS PROPELLED them into a tiny windowless room: the vestry. And the three were left to spend all the hours of daylight crowded under heaps of priests’ finery. There was Durand crushed in with Deorwen but unable even to ask her what she had meant by that night in the riverbank sanctuary. All winter, Lamoric had been frantic, and the summer before he’d been playing the Red Knight. But he was not a bad man. He had a good heart. Without Durand playing wedge between them all winter, they might have come together. He stared at the two, wondering what would happen if he let them be. There was no way forward for him with Deorwen, and a wound didn’t heal with the blade still in it. He had to go.
    It seemed days later—darkness filling the ancient vastness of the high sanctuary—that Canon Gilmar’s head appeared in the doorway.
    “It is arranged,” he said. “Come.”
    At a small door, the provost awaited them.
    “Have you got a bit of meat pie or something?” asked Heremund.
    The man scowled for an instant, then pressed on. “In my novice days, I studied at the monastery of the Warder’s Gates off Farrier’s Street. There was a window in the kitchen-house. The kitchen-house was built in the thickness of the ancient wall. The cooks tipped rubbish to the gulls. There will be a rowing boat waiting to carry you across the gulf to Scriven-sands.”
    “Have the king’s men abandoned their search?” asked Lamoric.
    Gilmar laughed: a puff of breath. “No,” said the provost. “There are watchmen and sergeants of the king’s guard in every street.”
    “We must get out,”