The kitcheners of the Cathedral looked both terrified and awestruck as Draka looked over the many ovens and stovetops, countertops and tables, cutting boards and utensils. There were pots and pans with long handles that had loops on them, dangling from hooks over the countertops and on the walls. The kitcheners’ heads followed him as he walked, followed by Enya and a few Monastic Knights who were now acting as his official guards.

  Cupboards filled the spaces beneath the counters, filled with all sorts of canisters of spices and dried shavings of herbs. He opened a few to take a whiff or run his finger in the lid and lick it for a taste. Oregano, he recognized. Powdered garlic. Poppy seeds labeled that they were Anatolian. Cumin. Draka pursed his brows at that one. They had cumin! He shot the cellarer, who was the leader of these monks, a sharp glare. The small shakers of cardamon and nutmeg were just as infuriating.

  Enya tried to look grim but seemed only able to look like she was nauseated and the Monastics were likely daydreaming out of boredom. When Enya saw that Draka glared at the cellarer, she pointed to the open cabinet and said harshly, “What is the meaning of this?”

  “We can order whatever the Paladin Prince desires, I assure you, Paladin,” the cellarer stammered.

  Draka rolled his eyes and straightened. He moved on with a toss of the cupboard door closed. There were larger jars of sugar and salt, once again making his blood boil. He reached the far end of the kitchen, to the first of two doors. This one, he knew, was to the stores. The other, at the other corner on the same wall, was to the wine cellar. That one, he had to be careful with and read the labels. A sacrilege could be committed by a simple selection in there. But the stores was where he really wanted to go. The cellarer had been standing at that door, waiting for him with hands folded together.

  “You want to inspect the stores?” The cellarer frantically nodded and fumbled to open it.

  If Draka had to actually speak, he would have bothered to remember the monk’s name. Brother something. Eventually, he still would, but right now, it wouldn’t stick regardless. He was still fighting the urge to go down into the crypt and strangle the life out of Olivier.

  The cellarer was quick to light a long, thin stick from a jar in the nearest oven fire, beneath baking loaves of bread, and light a lamp with it while Draka waited. Then he led Draka and his entourage into the dark narrow passage that cooled as they went. When the passage opened into a wide room, Draka finally sighed with relief.

  The cellarer kept the lamp lifted at eye-level. There were aisles of shelves that reached nearly twice as high as the tallest man, filled with labeled crates and jars. There were barrels stacked two and three high at the ends of the shelves. Butter, one stack said. Carrots, another. Onions. Rice. Wheat, one from Alcer and others from Talkro. In crates, Draka found that there were more vegetables piled into them, fish and meats in jars of oil sealed by tin lids. Wheels of assorted colors of cheeses were kept at the back of the storeroom, filling the shelf from wall to wall, end to end, top to bottom.

  Draka gave Enya a grinning nod of approval.

  Father Bruno, a handful of other priests, and the Abbess of the Cathedral, Mother Superior Felicia, were all waiting for them in the council room. Draka didn’t pause at the door, nor slow his pace to his seat at the head of the table. He enjoyed the sound of their desperation echoed in the scrapes of chairs and fumbling of rosaries as they stood from their places at the long table.

  Enya came in behind him and followed to sit at his right hand, where not only her rank entitled her but also, to be completely honest with himself, because he liked her. He liked the fire in her, the way she commanded every room she entered, and the reverence her words had on the others. They respected her because she had proven it to them whereas they respected him because they had to.

  The cellarer found his chair at the end of the table. The Monastic Knights shut the door behind them, remaining outside the room.

  “Your grace,” Father Bruno nodded his head as a bow and waited as Draka sat.

  At the head of the table, Draka was glad to see that a pile of paper with ink and quill waited. As the others sat and shifted their seats forward, Draka began to write, ‘First and foremost, I want to thank you for cooperating during this transition and for understanding the gravity of the situation in the city and the surrounding areas…’

  “Your grace,” Father Bruno began, “We have been speaking amongst ourselves and it has become very evident that…”

  Enya interrupted him, “When the Paladin Prince is writing, consider that as him speaking and conduct yourselves the same, Father. He has a vow of silence, not a denouncement.”

  “Y—yes of course.”

  ‘…which require our primary focus,’ Draka finished after lifting a frown aimed at everyone seated in front of him. He nodded, giving them the notion that he, too, was impatient with this way of speaking. ‘All of the food stores, except the wine and the minimum,’ he underlined that, ‘amount of flour required for communion to be conducted properly, will be allocated. All Brothers and Sisters, will go to impoverished areas of the city, once we designate central positions, and organize food lines. Kitcheners will be delegated to these places to cook throughout the day, from sunrise to sundown, and the Brothers and Sisters will serve the people rationed amounts of food.’

  Draka slid the paper over to Enya, who read it to them. All but Mother Felicia and one of the other priests had wide eyed expressions. They, instead, looked at Draka warmly.

  “That sort of effort takes weeks if not months to organize,” one of the other priests, who was the Chamberlain, judging by his seat. “With all of the other tasks which are required of us, how are we supposed to do such a thing? How many of yours are going to be delegated?”

  “Watch who you’re talking to that way, Father,” Enya cautioned. “He’s not asking.”

  Draka pulled the paper from her, wrote on it, then pushed it back to her with a rolled eye at the Chamberlain.

  Enya chuckled, “‘The affairs of men are inferior to those of God.’ Any other questions regarding bedmaking?”

  Mother Felicia tucked her chin to hide her smile. The other priest, who seemed in league with her, turned to the side. The Chamberlain, now confirmed, sat back in defeat. Father Bruno and the remaining priests nodded with pinching-lipped frowns of acknowledgement.

  “The Paladinate is already filling every wagon we have with tables, bricks, and tents for the lines. We know the basics of what you’ll need, it’s up to all of you to let us know what more you require for this to work and we’ll get it done before the night is finished. And, we’ll be moving food supplies to replenish what you use throughout the day by street and canal,” Enya slouched in her seat, eyeing the Chamberlain. “We’re doing the heavy lifting. Your people just need to be there and do their part to feed these people.”

  “Those areas can get violent,” yet another priest spoke up. “We’ll need protection from the thugs. We may have God to protect us, but the gangs often don’t care if it means they might lose control.”

  “Again, we’ll be there.”

  Draka slid another paper to Enya. She read aloud, “Also; second sheets, blankets, third and further garments, shoes, and any other such thing that the people may need will be brought and provided to them.”

  “The clothes off our backs,” the Chamberlain said under his breath.

  The priest who was in league with the Mother Superior nearly jumped over the table at him, “And so it should be! I have been asking for donations, even a blanket that could be spared for those poor children, for weeks! You pompous, arrogant, unchristian, bureaucrat! I rebuke you!”

  Both Draka and Enya were struggling to stifle their victorious laughter at the sight of a priest jabbing a finger at another. They had found their true ally among the Clergy of the Cathedral. He motioned for the man to return to his seat almost in sync with the Mother Superior.

  “I will have the nunnery organized to fill our carts with as much as they can handle. And, if I may,” Mother Felicia looked at the priest who was worried about the violence, “We would gladly spare our wagons for your physicians and their supplies. As well as our most skilled to assist them in treating any illnesses we may discover.”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  That priest put a tongue in his cheek with a chuckle. So, he was the Infirmarian here, Draka mused, and Mother Felicia wasn’t going to allow him to escape doing his part. “Of course,” he grinned. “I appreciate it and will have a list made forthwith.”

  “The stores won’t last the day,” the cellarer was watching himself rub his fingers together. “I doubt through the afternoon, even if we stretch it into soup. We just don’t have enough for everyone. And, as much as I would like to say that the Paladinate would be capable of it, I don’t think we can make them send their children through first, followed by pregnant mothers, and so on, in that order, without altercations. Those who eat will be seen as the haves and we will have made yet another sect of have-nots.”

  Draka slid another paper. Enya read, “There are shipments of food coming from Alcer and Talkro. They should arrive day after tomorrow. So, however many we can feed is how many we can feed. If we must have communion with sawdust and water, does that make the sacrament less holy in the eyes of the Lord?”

  Draka didn’t have to see the light reflecting in their eyes to know that he had met his mark in every face in the room. Even Enya’s eyes were glistening. There was only nods in answer. Draka breathed his first true sigh of relief in what felt like a lifetime. He waited for everyone to leave before he did so that he could make his way back to the nave. He needed to pray. He had a lot to ask for forgiveness for. Well, one thing in particular—somewhat begrudgingly.

  It was as he came out of the room that he found Nina with the gray head covering and robe of a novice nun, being spoken to by Mother Felicia. He stopped in his tracks. Mother Felicia finished whatever she had been saying and moved on, Nina giving the humble bent-kneed bow that was proper of a nun. She looked up to Draka and sighed with sunken shoulders.

  Once she was close enough to him, she said quietly, “I don’t think she likes me. I haven’t much time, so I’ll be brief. Apparently, there’s towels to be stacked in wagons before midnight mass.”

  Draka furrowed his brows with a confused finger pointing at her outfit.

  “Yes,” Nina rolled her eyes, “I’m a novice. I haven’t taken all my vows, yet. Will you keep up? Look, I have news. And, here,” she dug out a handful of coins from within her gray robe that matched the shawl over her hair, “this is what was over from the hundred. The city is split between believing that—” she looked around her with a frown, “—Baron,” obviously, she meant to say something more derogatory, “and you. But, they don’t believe him as much as he would hope. Your idea is sound, but it won’t be enough. I’ll use my way to make the people lean more in your direction by nightfall tomorrow.”

  Draka huffed at her. How do you plan to do that? He hoped crossing his arms at her beneath an expectant frown was enough to convey that.

  Nina grinned, her green eyes twinkling, “Oh, you shouldn’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to. But there’s something else. Come with me, I have someone waiting.”

  She didn’t wait for Draka to agree. She grabbed his hand and dragged him to the doors of the inner courtyard.

  Outside, sitting alone on a bench surrounded by the greens of the garden within, was Valmond with a rimmed felt hat hanging in his hands between his knees. Unlike the last time Draka had seen him, his hair wasn’t slicked back but was hanging over his brows in a scraggly mess, his rimmed glasses were pressed all the way up his nose, his shirt was barely tucked into his belted trousers that had a matching coat he had decided not to wear. Even his shoes looked clogged with mud.

  As Nina pulled Draka to in front of him, Valmond stood. His eyes were drooping shadows. He had bags under them. Draka felt his stomach churn at the sight of this man’s sleepless suffering that he knew all too well.

  “Your Majesty,” Valmond did a near perfectly eloquent bow.

  Draka met it with a nod and a wave for the man to straighten.

  “Go ahead, he’s listening,” Nina said, her own voice portraying the same sympathy that Draka felt.

  “Yes, of course,” Valmond stared down at the hat in his hands, turning it and turning it with his fingers as he spoke, “I came to plead to you for Alice’s—Alicia Reneaux’s release. The Baron refuses to let her go. He has her imprisoned still. I resigned when he told me. If there is any mercy in your heart, your Grace, I beg you. I will gladly take her place, if that is required for her crimes against you…”

  Draka put a hand on his shoulder. He looked to Nina. If only he had a way to…

  “She wasn’t put away for him, Valmond. It was because she wore the Baroness’s dress. The Prince wanted her released.”

  Valmond looked into Draka’s eyes, dumbfounded. “Is this true?”

  Draka nodded, grinning warmly as he could muster.

  “Then you’ll…”

  Draka’s shoulders sank. The Baron will likely find a way to defy him on that, no matter what he tries. Valmond must have understood because he, too, darkened where he stood.

  “No, it’s never that easy is it?” Valmond returned to staring at his hat.

  Nina met Draka’s eyes, then rested a hand on Valmond’s shoulders. “He’ll do what he can.”

  She pulled Draka away from him, out of earshot, much to Draka’s continued shock. Not because she was touching him or grabbing his hand, but because he felt like a passenger in whatever rollercoaster she was piloting.

  She made him look into her eyes, “I have an idea but it’s one I’m afraid you might not like.”

  Draka blinked at her. A rollercoaster headed into disaster, very likely.

  “The Baron knows you will hold the city soon enough. You’re the religious head and king—Prince, whatever—so, he’ll do anything to make sure you acknowledge his power. Killing Alice will be the smallest of prices he’s willing to pay. But I know a way for us to get her out.”

  Draka stiffened his jaw and raised a single brow at her.

  Nina hesitated. “Okay, now that I think about it, it’s not going to sound great, but it will kill two—maybe three—birds with one stone. She’s in the prison on the southeastern side of this quarter. It will be a fight if you try to ‘decree’ your way to get her out and she will—mark my words—will be killed before you even reach her cell. But I know another way. The prison is heavily guarded, but they are also part of the Baron’s garrison.”

  Draka crossed his arms at her. This is not going in a good direction.

  “Don’t look at me like that! Hear what I have to say, then decide, you little temperamental pally,” she crossed her arms right back. Then, she continued at an almost whispered tone despite his infuriated wide eyes, “With your move to feed the people, they’ll be more in line with your rule. All we need is a few sparks. I have the people in my pocket needed to make it happen. By nightfall tomorrow, the whole city could be rallied against him…here. Well, not here, but in the square. And, when the garrison is called to put them down, you move the Paladinate to protect them. Yes, I know—it means you’ll be openly fighting his men, but it will be to defend the people and the people will see it. The harder you make it on him, the more you push, the more he will call to reinforce them. That’s when a small force—and myself—will go through the underground passages and sneak her out with as few casualties as there could possibly be. I know all the tunnels.”

  Draka lifted his head sideways at her.

  “I can get them in through a canal passage, get her out the same way, while you show the Baron who the true power of the city is. And, not going to say that you should or shouldn’t—that’s up to you and…” she crossed herself, as a nun should, “…God—but you could use this opportunity to storm the palace and remove the headache once and for all. In his personal chambers are documents entailing how he’s been lying about his treasury, the taxes he hasn’t paid, and other correspondences that would justify your actions if you move fast enough.”

  Draka mulled it over for a moment.

  Nina cupped his hand tightly, “Please. Let me save her. She never deserved any of this and Valmond is a good man, if ever I met one. I just need a few of your best fighters. Clerics, preferably, in case things don’t go completely to plan. Five, at most. I’ll have the part of the people ready to be played. You’ll have to do the rest.” Her pretty face was begging more than her words, “She’s an innocent and we can save her, my Prince. By doing this, you will have the city united under you and, trust me, you’re going to need that more than anything else very soon.”

  Draka swallowed it down. He nodded.

  “Great,” Nina took a step back from him and did another nun’s bow. “I’ll come to you after midnight mass. Five would be best, but have who you can spare selected for me by then.”

  Another nod from Draka and she was walking as humbly as any other nun into the doors of the Cathedral dormitories, leaving Draka still blinking in shock at it. A novice nun. She’s on her way to becoming a nun. He started counting on his fingers. A palace staff servant. A spy. Pretty sure she might be a trained assassin. And a nun, or close enough, in Draka’s mind. What else could this woman possibly be?

  He couldn’t think of anything, but at this point, if he discovered any other role she might be filling, he hoped that he could at least feign less surprise next time.

  Now, he had even more to pray about!