Overseeing defensors, Church soldiers, as they patrolled inbound ships had once been one of the esteemed responsibilities of the Inquisitors. Now it was a cushy “punishment” for sinful youth.
Ben pinched the bridge of his nose and took a long draw of the salty bay air.
“My patrol stopped a diseased ship from coming into port last week,” a voice carried. A duque’s son, one of the half dozen royals in the tent behind Ben—though, for the life of him, Ben couldn’t remember the boy’s name. “Not quite as exciting as finding illegal magic, but it is useful work.”
A goblet clinked. The scent of floral wine perfumed the unventilated tent.
Another boy groaned. Ben recognized that particular grumble—it came from a conde, a count, named Claudio, a year younger than Ben, who’d been in a few of Ben’s classes on Church etiquette and history growing up.
“I swear,” Claudio groaned, “most of these searches are so boring.”
“They aren’t meant to be entertaining,” said the duque’s son. “They are reparation for our sins.”
“We didn’t do anything wrong, Sal,” Claudio countered. Salvador—that was the other boy’s name. “So your parents caught us kissing. We’re betrothed, for the Pious God’s sake. It shouldn’t matter.”
The rest of the group gasped.
“Calm down,” Claudio moaned. “We didn’t do anything that bad. We aren’t real sinners, like the rest of you heathens.”
Someone cleared their throat, reminding Claudio that the Crown Prince was one of the aristocrats serving on the Inquisitor patrol. One of the heathens.
Silence fell.
Ben massaged his temples and looked back. Velvet chaises and overstuffed settees created a circle for the handful of nobles, all fancied up in silken breeches, polished gold buttons and beads, lace neckerchiefs and jeweled hair nets—styles befitting a Church service, not a dockside search for magic.
Ben shook his head. He swore he saw at least two of each of these people. Damn that drink.
He tugged on his collar, wanting to rip down the pavilion walls and let in a breeze. But it would show the world around and remind the aristocrats here of true problems. With the walls up, the elite could sit in ignorance as too many guards had to stand watch to keep the desperate at bay—the sick who lined up outside of hospitals, the poor who begged along the streets.
“This duty used to mean something,” Ben mumbled to no one in particular.
Salvador squinted. “Are you all right, my prince?”
The rest of the Inquisitors leaned forward, some concerned, others intrigued.
Ben met their eyes, fighting a hiccup. But his reputation was no secret.
Even our prince falls for the Devil’s temptations, Argridians said. Poor Prince Benat—he overindulges, he is promiscuous! He serves Inquisitor patrols to cleanse himself. If our divine prince can be so seduced by evil, yet be redeemed, then there is hope for our own brittle souls!
Ben imagined it all as a clumsy waltz. How many missteps could he take in one direction, back, forward, before people stopped crying poor Prince Benat and started crying heretic?
Caught drinking—he served a week of Inquisitor patrols, and the Church forgave him, like any other aristocrat. Sex—if rumors spread, another week of patrols, and all was atoned for.
But being caught with Grace Loray’s magic? Speaking favorably of certain plants? Unforgivable.
Ben brushed off their concern. “I’m fine,” he snapped.
Claudio sat up straighter, his dark eyes flashing. “My parents pray for you at each Church service. They pray that our country is strong enough to undertake the Pious God’s most difficult tasks.”
Ben lifted an eyebrow. “Are you saying I’m not already strong, Conde?”
Claudio’s face went red. He hadn’t thought Ben would call him on it. He’d thought he’d sulk off, simpering and shamed that he was as prone to sinning as the rest of them.
“Of course not, my prince,” Salvador jumped in, putting his hand on Claudio’s knee. “What he means is you’re an example to us. Your resilience against evil gives us hope that we, too, can overcome any sin.”
“Even being dumb enough to kiss your betrothed in your father’s study,” a girl next to Salvador whispered.
Claudio whipped a frilly pillow at her.
Ben faced outside again, enough of a dismissal to get another conversation going. Claudio and Salvador threw themselves into it, doing their best not to look at Ben, still at the door.
In another time, Ben might have joined their conversation, something frivolous about the next Church holiday. He might have joked about what had landed him on this patrol, or given Claudio and Salvador tips on how not to get caught.
But Ben couldn’t get Salvador’s words out of his head.
Argrid wanted him to be strong, to inspire them; but they wanted him to fall as well, because the Pious God rewarded those who sacrificed—and what bigger sacrifice than to give up an ordained leader?
The Argridian people had cheered for Rodrigu’s and Paxben’s deaths. They had begged for them.
Pious God above, his head hurt.
“Prince Inquisitor? Your presence is needed.”
Ben turned. Jakes Rayen stood at attention on the dock, his defensor uniform billowing in the wind, showing the ivory crest of Argrid: the curved V, cupped hands for a willingness to lead a life of purity; the X, representing crossed swords, to protect that life. Jakes yanked the uniform straight, tugging the collar down, showing the flushed bronze skin along the top of his chest, a few bristly hairs that Ben knew ran all the way down to the soft skin below his stomach.
Ben’s body sang with heat that had nothing to do with the warmth of the day. Part of the reason he was glad to have Jakes in his guard was because he looked so good in that uniform.
“Is it a diseased ship, Defensor?” Ben asked, but he knew Jakes wouldn’t have come if it were that simple.
Jakes frowned. “No,” he said. “Raiders.”
A few of the Inquisitors groaned, jealous that Ben’s patrol had found what would release him from duty for the rest of the day. He ignored them and followed Jakes out into the sun.
The raider ship was a steam-driven frigate moored at a dock that embodied Argrid’s despondency now. The planks were brittle and ill patched, with barnacles and grime sticking to the posts and along the edges. Ben walked behind Jakes up the dock, stepping where he did so as not to fall through the weak wood.
Ben paused at the base of the gangplank. More of his defensors swarmed the deck, some hauling a chest overboard, taking such care that he immediately knew its contents. He almost asked them to lift the lid so he could see the vials of magic inside. Could he still name the plants, as Rodrigu had taught him?
A different memory came, though—vicious monxes, and his own father, smacking him across the mouth when he dared say something positive about magic after Rodrigu’s burning. The only thing important to know about magic now was that it was a sin, all of it—and his sins would be wiped away as soon as he gave the necessary speech to the raiders.
“Are you all right?” Jakes asked, falling in step as Ben started up the gangplank. Then, realizing they were within earshot of others, added, “My prince?” Then repeated, louder, “Are you all right, my prince?”