Affirmative rumbles filled the air. The distraught crowd pressed closer, men and women jostling each other to get a look at this man and his captive.
“We all know the devil must find agents to do his bidding,” Bosque told them. “Witches are the servants of the devil. They are his whores!”
This shout earned Bosque nods and calls of “aye!” from the mob.
Bosque raised his right hand, able to keep Sorcha imprisoned with only one arm. “I swear to you that I saw this witch command the demons that attacked us. When she tried to steal that child, she bid the creatures leave.”
“You saw this?” the mother of the child asked.
“Indeed I did,” Bosque told her. “And are not the demons gone? Have they not left us in our sorrow to bury the dead?”
“I saw it too!” a man called. He stepped from the crowd and turned to address his neighbors. “From where I was hidden under my wagon, I saw her command the demons to leave. She’s a witch!”
Wails rose from the villagers that blended with angry shouts.
Bosque shook his head. “And this is not all. I know this woman. She is not one of us but one of them.” He pointed northwest to the road that led from the village to Tearmunn.
“She belongs to Conatus. To the people of the keep.”
A man called out, “But the knights offer protection!”
“Is this protection?” Bosque asked. “Where are the knights now? Have they done anything to stop this?”
Sorcha thrashed in his grip. “These are lies!”
Bosque pressed his other arm against her throat, choking off her words. She scratched at his arms as he strangled her.
“Have we not long borne the rumors of their heresy?” he asked the crowd, who answered with shouts.
“I’ve heard they use the Saracens’ magic!”
“They steal women and children!”
“They should have burned with the Templars!”
The mood of the villagers shifted, their grief abandoned in favor of rage.
Sorcha’s face was turning blue. Bosque shoved her forward, and she fell to her hands and knees, gasping for air.
“And what message shall we send to Conatus? How shall we repay those who sent a witch into our midst?”
The mob swarmed over Sorcha.
Eira bowed her head and stole from the village, carefully making her way back to the road and taking care not to draw notice. Alistair pushed back the hood of his cloak at her approach. He’d been waiting at the edge of the road, holding the reins of two horses.
“Is it done?” he asked.
“Yes.” She took her horse’s reins from him and mounted. “But this night is only the beginning.”
“He told us that someone must die. That death begets life,” Alistair said reverently. “The old must collapse so the new can rise.”
“Bosque Mar is as wise as he is powerful,” Eira said. “And you’ve been listening carefully to his words.”
Alistair nodded, watching plumes of oily black smoke rise into the sky. He shook his head regretfully. “Sorcha was a fine warrior. I’m sorry to lose her.”
“So am I,” Eira told him. “But her mind clung to the old ways. She closed her ears to my pleas.”
“She couldn’t be saved,” Alistair murmured.
“No,” Eira answered. “She could not. But she was only one. After tonight the others will seek the shelter we offer from the coming storm . . . including Lady Morrow.”
“Yes, my lady.” Alistair smiled at her as he swung into his saddle. They set off at a gallop, bearers of urgent news for the knights of Tearmunn.
Much later—long after the fire had died and the woman’s charred corpse was taken down—the villagers would not be able to recall the name of the man who’d discovered the witch, nor how he’d known she hailed from Tearmunn—proving at last that the rumors of Conatus consorting with evil spirits, even the devil himself, were true. They all agreed, however, upon their good fortune that such a wise man had been sent among them so that they might be delivered from God’s wrath.
THIRTY-ONE
BODIES KNOCKED INTO Ember as she made her way toward the manor’s great hall. Conatus had assembled to celebrate the ritual of Fidelitas, but Ember couldn’t imagine any ceremony taking place in this mob. The packed corridor was abuzz with whispers.
Ember might not have been able to reach the hall, but she was following Barrow, keeping so close she almost trod on his heels. His tall, strong figure parted the crowd, and Ember took advantage of the path he cleared before the throng closed in again.
Barrow pushed people aside until they stood before those members of the Circle who’d made their way here: Claudio, Ewan, Fionn, and Cian. The great cedar loomed behind them, waiting for its annual tribute. Still absent were Eira, Thomas, and Father Michael. Ember’s chest contracted. If Eira was still missing, it meant she and Sorcha both could be in danger. Ember hadn’t spotted Alistair anywhere in the crowd either. Looking up, she saw that the gallery was filled with anxious observers as well. They were all waiting, speaking in hushed tones that flooded the room with a steady drone. Her eyes continued to search for her friends; she hoped to catch a glimpse of them.
“This is no way to sober up.” Kael came up beside her, rubbing his head. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know yet,” Barrow said. “Did you hear of the attack?”
“Bits and pieces,” Kael told him. “I made my way home when the rain hit; finding my bed seemed like the best option at that point. It was all the commotion that woke me up.”
“Did Alistair go with you?” Ember asked.
“No,” Kael said. “I haven’t seen him.”
Her skin went cold.
“Don’t be afraid for him,” Barrow said quietly. “The creatures were attacking villagers, not us. We may not know why, but it’s enough to know that Alistair should be unharmed.”
Ember nodded but knew she wouldn’t shake her fears until she saw Alistair.
The mood of the crowd was growing restless. What had been whispers transformed into muttered complaints and soon grew into shouts demanding answers.
“Ugly room,” Kael said. “It’s not helping my headache.”
New cries poured in from the corridor beyond the great hall that sent ripples of motion through the gathered mass. The crowd parted and two people came striding into the hall.