The Vampire & Her Witch

Chapter 1567: The Abbot’s Reckoning (Part One)

At the center of the table, Ashlynn had gone so still that a person could mistake her for a statue. Her face had settled into an impassive mask that revealed nothing of what she was thinking, while her emerald eyes looked cold and hard. The man sitting next to her, however, completely misread her reaction to the tale unfolding in front of them.

"If just this much bothers you," Owain said softly. "Then you should understand why women have no place sitting in judgment. You can still put an end to this nonsense," he suggested in a mild tone, as though he was just making idle conversation. "Stop forcing the baronesses to participate in this ugly business. Clear the hall of women and children and let the men settle things."

In truth, Owain didn’t care whether the baronesses were bothered by the sickening things the Inquisitors were saying or not. What he cared about was that a man’s wife and children were among the most powerful levers a person could grasp, and when Ashlynn stormed the great hall, she threatened the wives and children of every knight and baron in the hall.

Some men, like the coward Erling Fayle, the ambitious Loghlan Dunn, and the disappointing Wes Iriso, were outright traitors; that much was clear. But others, like Tybal Aleese, were sitting on a fence, and Owain hadn’t missed the way Baroness Peigi dragged Tybal over to the bastard, Hugo, in order to ask about Rain.

Ashlynn had taken the whole room hostage, and Owain’s support looked fragile and thin because people were afraid of what she might do to their loved ones. But if he could remove her leverage...

"Women see far worse than this every day, Owain," Ashlynn said calmly, not bothering to take her eyes off Diarmuid and the Inquisition to look in his direction. "And the ones who haven’t ever seen men who are this ugly need to take a good, hard look at the monsters who look like men to walk among them," she said as she fixed her gaze on the Abbot.

She’d heard enough. Between her encounter with Cian and the way everyone from the acolytes to the Inquisitors praised Percivus for his ’teachings’ and his ’superior methods,’ she’d heard more than enough to make up her mind about the fate these monsters deserved.

Still, she held herself back from doing what she so desperately wanted to do. Vaulting over the table to end these men’s miserable lives personally would cost far too much, and it would do nothing to undo the things that Jocelynn had suffered... Nor would it erase the guilt in her heart for leaving her sister here, foolishly believing that her identity would shield her while Ashlynn waged war against the Lothians.

So, no matter how much she wanted to let loose with her fury, Ashlynn forced herself to hold back. Her heartbeat slowed as she matched its beat to the echo of Nyrielle’s heartbeat within her chest, drawing on her lover’s calm composure even as she relied on Ollie’s immovable strength and Isabell’s soft, sheltering branches to keep herself in check.

The time would come soon enough to give vent to the fury in her heart, but for a few moments more, she had to hold on.

Diarmuid crossed the floor to where Abbot Recared lay propped against the base of a chair, his crimson and gold robes stained with blood from the beating he’d received and his face swollen enough that one eye had closed entirely. The failed miracle had drained him as thoroughly as it had drained his acolytes, and the additional violence from Sir Beathan’s fists had left the Abbot in no condition to mount a defense of any kind.

He could barely speak.

Diarmuid knelt beside him and placed a hand on the Abbot’s chest. He closed his eyes, and his lips moved in a quiet, simple prayer.

"Lord of Light, whose mercy mends the broken and the lame,

Ease your servant’s suffering, allow him respite from the pain."

A faint warmth spread from Diarmuid’s palm into the Abbot’s chest. It was a minor miracle that did nothing to heal the abbot’s underlying wounds. Diarmuid could have done more, but by the time he reached the abbot’s side, he couldn’t bring himself to heal so much as the bruise that kept one of the abbot’s eyes shut.

He could, however, push back the pain that clouded Recared’s mind and give him the strength to speak in his own defense. Perhaps it was more than the man himself deserved after training a predator like Percivus, but if for no other reason than the robes they both wore, Diarmuid felt that he owed the abbot at least that much.

"One last time," Diarmuid promised himself as his gaze flickered over the Inquisitors and the acolytes around him. The connection he felt to his brethren had become even thinner since learning what Acolyte Cian had done in Maeril, and it felt even thinner now as he listened to the testimony of his ’peers.’

After tonight, he would be done with the robes of the Inquisition... But tonight, he would do as an Inquisitor should, one last time, if for no other reason than to show the faithful in the room that there was more to his order than the thirst for power and wealth. At least for some of them...

As the light of Diarmuid’s minor miracle faded, the Abbot’s good eye opened. He stared up at Diarmuid, looking like he’d just received a gift he’d never wanted and one that he wished he could return.

"Can you hear me, Abbot Recared?" Diarmuid asked, speaking loudly enough that the lords and ladies at the high table could hear him.

Recared nodded. His jaw worked, testing whether the muscles would cooperate, and after a moment, he spoke in a voice that was rough and raw compared to his smooth, polished tone from earlier in the day.

"I can hear you," he said.

"Good," Diarmuid said as he sat back on his heels and regarded the Abbot with the same patient, searching gaze he had turned on the acolytes.

This time, however, there was something harder in his eyes. He’d been gentle with the acolytes because they were little more than boys. Even those who were old enough to be called men still had so little power and freedom that they might as well have been children in the eyes of the Church. He’d been less forgiving of his fellow Inquisitors, but for this man...

For the man who had architected everything the Inquisition did in Lothian March, Diarmuid’s eyes held neither sympathy nor pity. Recared deserved neither, and Diarmuid would ensure that the people sitting in judgment understood that...