Father Ambrose filched the lone remaining grape from the bowl and ate it. Out of view of the Cardinal, he seemed more relaxed. Or maybe he considered her no threat to his position. “You may try to speak to him, but our Father Korza is not a communicative man.”
“I would still like to take my chances,” she said.
“Very well.” Father Ambrose smiled tightly, as if hiding a secret. “But you have been warned.”
She followed him down to a surprisingly modern kitchen and deposited their dishes in the sink.
He then took two brass candleholders from a cabinet, inserted a candle in each, and lit them. “There is no light where we are going,” he explained.
He handed her a candleholder and returned to the spiral stairs. They descended, winding deeper and deeper, passing the cells where she and Jordan had washed up, where they’d kissed. Her steps hurried past that level.
As she continued deeper, she wondered how best to approach Rhun. He had been furious when she and Jordan agreed to accompany him on the search. But why? What price had he paid four hundred years ago?
She considered his alleged age. Could he truly be five hundred years old? That would mean he’d lived through the Renaissance. His courtly, formal mannerisms made more sense now, but nothing else did.
Like why she was even heading down here?
Part of the reason was simple: to escape. She needed to give herself space and time to adjust to the new Jordan.
But Rhun also had answers she needed.
From the priest’s reaction in the garden, she suspected Rhun would be more truthful about the dangers ahead—at least more forthright than the Cardinal. Even though her mind was made up, she wanted to know everything she could about the quest. Rhun might give her answers or, more likely, he would just stare at her with those dark eyes and say nothing. But she had to try.
Father Ambrose stopped in front of another massive wooden door. He struggled to unlock it with a skeleton key from a ring he kept on his belt. The rusty lock looked as if it had not been opened in years.
Hair stood up on her arms as a stray fear came to mind. What if Father Ambrose intended her harm? She scolded herself at such foolishness. Both Jordan and the Cardinal saw her leave with him. He wouldn’t dare do anything to her. Still, her heart would not slow.
The lock finally gave and Father Ambrose pulled back the heavy door with difficulty and pointed into the dark room.
Across the chamber, Rhun knelt in front of what might have been an altar, although it was too dark to tell. A single votive candle lit the room, most of its light absorbed by the scarlet glass that held it. Its small flame revealed a distant, arched ceiling and ancient stained-glass windows that must look out upon nothing but more rock. Empty wooden pews filled the space, separated by a threadbare carpet running down the center.
Was this a Sanguinist’s chapel?
Father Ambrose gestured that she enter first, and she slipped inside, moving quietly, crossing only a few steps past the threshold, not wanting to disturb Rhun in prayer.
As the door closed behind her, the wind blew out her candle. She should have thought to cup the flame. She turned to Father Ambrose—only to find he hadn’t entered with her.
She went back to the door and tried the handle.
Locked.
He had trapped her alone with Rhun.
She paused, uncertain about what to do. She would not give Father Ambrose the satisfaction of pounding on the door and begging to be let out. Also she did not want to intrude upon Rhun’s prayers.
For him not to notice her presence already, he must be in deep meditation. Rhun noticed everything. His senses were sharper than hers, but now he gave no outward sign that he knew she was here.
Was he so lost in his faith?
She felt a twinge of envy for such focused devotion.
In the quiet, she heard faint words whispered in Latin, words easy to translate because she’d heard them often enough during the Masses of her childhood.
“The Blood of our Lord Jesus Christ, which was shed for thee, preserve thy body and soul unto everlasting life. Drink this in remembrance that Christ’s Blood was shed for thee, and be thankful.”
He was giving himself Communion. For the first time, she truly understood the meaning behind the prayers. Everything she knew about the Church would have to be rethought. Beliefs she had once rejected were being proven true, supported by a history she had not even thought possible.
“The Blood of our Lord Jesus Christ keep you in everlasting life.”
He put a large chalice to his lips and intoned:
“The Blood of Christ, the cup of salvation.”
In the desert, he had been ashamed to drink his wine in front of her and Jordan. She crept back to the door, about to knock, but she stayed her hand.
As much as Rhun had hated her and Jordan seeing him vulnerable, it would surely be worse if Father Ambrose did.
She turned her back to Rhun, granting him his privacy. She slid to a sitting position on the floor, wrapped her arms around her knees, and waited.
11:31 P.M.
Rhun raised the cold cup to his lips, inhaling the familiar scents of gold and wine. He needed Christ’s blood tonight more than he had in many years. It would help him heal, and it would still his anger. Knowing the risks, Bernard had bound the innocent woman and the soldier to him. They had accepted the quest, not understanding where it would lead. Had he been so rash when he was a fragile human?
Shame burned in him. The blame for it was not Bernard’s alone. Rhun’s actions had brought the soldier and the woman here. He had told them the forbidden. He had saved them when he should have let them die.
If he failed them now, they would wish that he had let them find a quick death in the desert.
He raised the cup one final time and drank. Long and deep. The liquid scalded his lips, his throat. It was not the fermented grape, but the essence of Christ’s own blood that flamed against the sin that flowed through his tainted body. He set down the drained cup, then raised his arms to shoulder height and let the flames of Christ’s gift burn through him while he finished his prayer. Steam rose from his lips, and he forced the last words through the agony. Then he knelt with nothing left but the memory of his sin.
Fresh rushes rustled under Rhun’s boots as he crossed into the entry hall to greet Elisabeta’s maid, the shy little Anna.
At Čachtice Castle, Elisabeta insisted that each fall the old rushes be discarded, the stone washed clean and dried, and new rushes be left in their place. She strewed chamomile over them, lending her house a clean, restful scent so unlike most of the other noble homes he visited.