Page 117 of The Half King
“Your faith is your king,” Father Padron told his men. “The goddess delivered your freedom so that you may carry out her will. Now let her will be done. The emissary is an abomination. You can see the forbidden magic she uses to shield herself. It is our duty to dispatch her and anyone who stands in the way of divine justice.”
“Divinejustice?” Cerise called out. The numb places inside her body began to fill with heat. She pointed at Cole and then at Nina. “Your high priest is a murderer and a hypocrite. He killed an innocent woman with a child in her womb!”
“Cole Solon killed the woman,” Father Padron smoothly lied. “Because she carried his bastard. I couldn’t stop him, but I dispatched him for his crimes.”
Rage boiled Cerise’s blood. Every part of her felt ready to combust. “The only bastard she ever carried wasyours!”
There was a collective intake of breath.
“That woman was my mother,” Cerise yelled, pointing at Nina. “And this”—thrusting an index finger at the high priest—“is the man who stole her heart and fathered me.”
“Lies!” Father Padron shouted.
“I wish it was a lie!” she shouted back at him. “I hate that your blood runs in my veins! But it does.” To prove it, she conjured a flame in her hand. “Where do you think my magic came from?”
“From sorcery,” Father Padron spat. “You convict yourself even as you speak.”
She ignored him and addressed the priests. For once, they would know what kind of man they served. The fire of her fury had engulfed her, consumed her. “He killed my mother to hide his secret. He murdered Cole Solon after using him to poison the late king and queen. And when Mother Strout discovered his treason, he poisoned her, too. His evil has no limits. I can’t stop him alone, but together we can bind him. You have to help me.”
“Help you?” Father Padron asked, scoffing. “A heretic who would say anything to save herself?”
“I don’t need saving.” Cerise unsheathed the Petros Blade. “The goddess entrusted me with the most destructive weapon in all of creation—me, not Father Padron—because I alone was worthy to wield it.” As she spoke, the blade began to vanish, exactly like the sunset runes had done, and she held it high for all to see the last glimpse of it. “Shiera gifted me with her favor so I could break the noble curses. She guided my path and blessed me along every step of the journey.Thatis what the will of the goddess looks like.” Cerise paused. “Listen to your hearts. Who do youthink she would want you to follow? A priestess created in her own image? Or a man who perverts her holy magic by using it to torture and murder innocents?”
Kian stood beside her and clasped her hand. To anyone watching, the gesture probably looked like an act of solidarity. But there was love in his touch, a silentI’m sorry, and I’m here for youin the squeeze of his palm and the brush of his thumb against her inner wrist. She squeezed him in return while settling her other hand atop Blue’s head. If not for the two of them, she didn’t know how she would have the strength to stand.
As she scanned the crowd of priests, she was met with dozens of cold, hard gazes from the men whose loyalty belonged to Father Padron. Even now, knowing the evil he had done, they were willing to overlook his crimes in exchange for whatever he had promised them. There were more of his kind than she had hoped. The Reverend Mother’s words echoed in her ears.Nameless, faceless men who served false idols.It wasn’t the Triad. It was the Order.
A few pockets of men traded wary glances with one another, hesitating to act, clearly torn between the treason Father Padron had asked them to commit and the risk to their own safety if they refused. Cerise remembered what Cole had told her—that he had chosen to be Father Padron’s ally instead of his enemy. She could only hope the priests would be braver than Cole had been.
While the men wrestled with their morals, one priest backed away and strode briskly to join the royal guard at the sanctuary entrance. Cerise recognized him as Father Bishop. She held her breath and silently prayed that other men would follow his lead, that his bravery would embolden them to do the right thing. But in the end, every other priest remained in the room. One by one, each man made his decision until all of them stood tall and clasped their hands in front of Father Padron, collectively declaring their allegiance to the Order.
The priests had listened to their hearts, and they had chosen cowardice.
They shamed the mighty goddess they claimed to serve.
“I fight for the king and his priestess!” shouted a young woman from the crowd that had gathered behind the royal guard. Other voices clamored with hers in support.
Kian looked to Cerise. “Are you ready, my love?”
She nodded at him and said, “If we survived the blighted mountain, we can survive this.” And then she dropped her shield.
The priests formed a tight huddle and worked together to raise a shield of their own, but Cerise was prepared for them, and she used her energy to strike it down. Then Kian gave the signal for his royal guard to attack, and the sanctuary erupted into chaos.
The battalion surrounded the priests and slashed out at the men on the fringes, who scrambled to defend themselves with their limited magic. A lone priest could be defeated, but collectively, they were unstoppable, and so Cerise focused her efforts on blocking them from pooling their energy. Blue barked and snarled, tensing on his haunches and all but begging her to release him into the crowd. She told him, “Go,” and at once, he launched into the fray and tore into his first victim.
Daerick ran to Kian’s side and handed him a sword, and the two of them joined the fight. In the brief moment that Cerise looked at them and away from the battle, one of the priests killed a guard and used magic to duplicate his weapon—two blades, then four, eight, sixteen, until more priests were armed than not—and then the sound of clanking metal filled the sanctuary, punctuated by feral shouts and groans of pain. The tang of magic and the smell of sweat thickened the air, and then it struck Cerise: she had lost sight of Father Padron.
She peered through the chaos for his gilded robes. When she couldn’t find him, she lowered to one knee and searched the floor for his body. All that remained of Father Padron was a set of bloodred shoe prints leading to a side door.
Cerise drew a hopeful breath. He never would have abandoned the fight unless he was vulnerable. Judging by the trail of blood he had left behind, he hadn’t been able to heal himself from his wounds. Perhaps the magic infused into the Petros Blade had prevented it. If so, that meant this was her chance to end him, to cut the head off the beast and restore balance to Shiera’s holy Order.
Cerise glanced at Kian as he thrust his sword into his opponent’s chest. He didn’t need her help, at least not now, and so she seized the moment and went after Father Padron. She crouched low and followed the trail of blood to the side door, then pushed the door open and left it partly ajar—just wide enough for her to see the battle on the other side.
As her eyes adjusted to the moonlight, she stepped into what appeared to be a private garden. Shorn grass stretched out for roughly half the length of the prayer room, bordered by tall, leafy hedges that blocked the space from view. It was a simple garden with no flowering vines or fountains on display. The highlight of the space was a small carriage resting in the corner, already tethered to a pair of horses.
A shadowy figure limped toward the carriage. His steps were clumsy and uneven. He clutched his side with one hand, the other hanging limp from the shoulder where an arrow had landed. He had nearly reached his escape.
Cerise clenched her jaw. He was going to be disappointed.
