Warrior Witch: Book Two, page 5
She waved the novice away when he offered to take her bag and sheer shawl. Instead, she clung to them both, eyeing the familiar sitting room she’d shared once before with the only priest she had ever called friend: Brother Doyle.
Was she about to make a new friend? Bran seemed to think so, but for some reason her stomach felt leaden at the thought. It likely had something to do with the last time she’d been in a room with a bishop. After she battled a bear demon, the former bishop tried to have her imprisoned and tested.
She swallowed hard.
Bran handed over his hat and jacket, and the novice promptly disappeared with them. The new bishop, a strikingly handsome man, swept into the room with a youthful charisma that made Marnie smile. He stood as tall as Bran but with contrasting features. Short sandy hair, instead of long and raven. His fair skin would do poorly under the capital’s tropical sun—she’d made enough balms for her mother’s light complexion to know.
Ren’s silver priest’s stole rested over clothing that looked like he had been riding recently: padded trousers and tall boots. Marnie tried not to cringe at the reminders of his ties to the Cloth, the naked tree ornamentation in particular, as Bran made introductions.
Partnering with the bishop meant getting in bed with the Cloth. Marnie touched her throat, willing herself not to gag. This had always been the plan, the best option for seeing her peacefully wed, but the execution of it . . .
“Sophia,” Ren greeted, taking her offered hand and brushing his lips over her gloved knuckles. She guessed the bishop to be thirty years old. Fine lines crinkled the corners of his vibrant green eyes. “Please sit.” He had the lilting accent of the people of Stejin. It made his words seem musical.
Having clothing that sufficiently covered his assets, Bran sunk into one of the comfortable armchairs by the fireplace. Marnie’s heeled shoes carried her across plush carpets. She sat on the edge of the suede sofa, back straight, to keep her assets from spilling out. Ren claimed the billowy armchair opposite Bran. The men eyed one another like sparring partners.
A coffee cart positioned itself central to the room on clockwork wheels that squeaked and hummed with machinery when it moved. Ren poured himself a steaming cup. “Would anyone else care to indulge? I may have something stiffer if you prefer?”
“Coffee would be lovely, thank you.” Marnie sat her handbag down beside her and took the proffered cup. It warmed her hands through her gloves. She tasted it. “It’s good. Strong.”
“Thank you.” Ren had a pleasant set of teeth. His smile was infectious. “I brewed this batch myself. You must have caught me on a good day. The other Silk District priests usually protest when I make it.”
Bran stared at her. She cleared her throat, remembering her duty. “Bishop, p-please know how dreadfully sorry I am,” she stumbled. “When I heard about my magician, Jack LaBuff, and the pastor—”
His winning smile held strong. “Sophia, please don’t fret. I’ve been reassured by our fine constable that the matter has been resolved peacefully.”
“If only I had been there,” she said disdainfully. I would have stepped on the pastor’s face. She was laying it on thick, but it seemed to please the bishop. “I’ve spoken with Jack about it.” She made a mental note to talk her mother into giving the house magician a raise.
“I completely understand, and I don’t hold you the least bit responsible. Let’s speak now of kinder subjects. That badge looks good on you, Sophia.” He toasted her with his mug.
“Hear, hear!” Bran pulled a pipe from his pocket and lit it. Marnie kept smokes in her purse, but the bishop was likely old fashioned, being from Stejin. He might not approve of ladies who used tobacco. Her mother certainly didn’t, and she was as old fashioned as a horse and cart.
“Tell me about your mountain home.” Marnie blew the steam off her coffee. “I’ve never been to Stejin.”
The bishop placed a palm over his heart. “It’s beautiful there, especially when the snow falls fresh over its peaks. Almost as lovely as you, Sophia.” He winked.
Bran chuckled, but his eyes were suddenly unkind. “Marnie and I were just discussing the marital practices in Stejin.”
“Some of them are terribly exaggerated, I’m afraid. Especially our pairings.” Ren sipped at his cup.
“Exaggerated how?” Marnie’s mechanical brace hummed. The idea of witches being bound in marriage to subdue them had her automated fingers flexing in irritation.
“Usually exaggerated, I should say. Pairings between witches and priests are common and encouraged.” He plated his cup and balanced it on his knee, eyes turned to the ceiling in thought. “It began as a means of reaching a hand down to pull young witches out of the gutter. Most of them were strapped for work and lacked solid magical training. The ones I’ve arranged, both the husband and the bride were extremely pleased. But occasionally, you will hear stories of a bad egg taking on several witch brides. I wish I could say those weren’t true.”
Marnie frowned into her coffee. Her automated appendages sputtered. “Several witches?”
“Two or three at a time.” He grinned at Bran. “Can you imagine? It’s discouraged, even in the mountains. In most circumstances, pairings are intended for the witch’s own good. To help her, not to trap her.”
“Yes, I’ve heard that.” Her lips pursed. “To educate and regulate her.” Then she chuckled to herself.
“What amuses you?” He raised his mug to his mouth, studying her over the rim.
“I was just thinking a witch like me would need several priest husbands to accomplish something like that. Two or three might not be enough.”
Ren choked on his drink, laughing, and had to cough to clear his throat. Bran joined, chuckling around the stem of his pipe.
“I’d wager I could find several willing priests, Sophia, to share that burden,” the bishop quipped.
She crossed her legs, amused that both men tracked the shift of satin with their eyes. “Wouldn’t it be better to offer the mountain witches the same opportunities as the male magic users so they can pull themselves out of the gutter? Jobs? Places at your universities? That sort of thing?”
Bran cast a warning glance at Marnie, his fingers steepled in front of his mouth.
“What you suggest would be better,” Ren said, surprising her, “but change is a slow-moving machine. For now, marriage, nursing, and domestic service are the only opportunities the mountains will offer to their witches. It is a far cry better than the indentured servitude of the past, but not quite as advanced as our more sophisticated island capital. One can dream, though.”
Marnie shut her mouth around her initial reply. She bit her lip, and then couldn’t help herself. “Do the people of Stejin believe there’s a difference between witches and priests? Both are magic users. One is usually just wealthier than the other and, in the case of priests, always a man.”
Bran’s eyes widened with caution. He chewed worriedly on the end of his pipe.
The bishop chuckled, and the emperor’s posture relaxed. “You are a firebrand, Sophia. It’s what I admired most when I saw you at the delegation.”
“You did not answer my question, Bishop.” She crossed her arms, then realized it pushed her breasts together and above the low neckline, so she quickly uncrossed them again and tugged her shawl around her instead.
His green gaze was ablaze with amusement and intrigue. “The only difference between a witch and a priest is the witch dabbles in all magics while the priest limits himself to rites cast with the help of God’s spirits, or saints as we call them in the mountains.”
Marnie smiled fondly. “That is my definition as well. That and a vast difference in socioeconomic standing is usually a good indicator of which is which. And, of course, women aren’t permitted to become priests.”
“A priest’s education is quite expensive.” Ren shook his head. “It confounds me that there are still people among us who believe there is some spiritual or biological difference between priest and witch.”
She laughed. “I wholeheartedly agree.”
Ren abandoned his mug on the cart and produced his own pipe. He gestured at her with its stem. “Where you and I will likely disagree is the safety of natural magics. I find them too risky to dabble with, too attractive to demons.”
“A subject we will no doubt debate spiritedly whenever we have the pleasure of each other’s company.” Marnie finished the last of her coffee and sat the cup down on the cushion beside her.
“Agreed! I look forward to it. I hope you don’t mind if we indulge around you, Sophia.” He patted his pockets searching for his matches.
“Please enjoy yourself.” Marnie whispered a prayer to Tortua, and his pipe lit with a spark of blue flame.
“Ha! Now, you’re just showing off,” he teased.
She responded with a demure smile. “Not at all, Bishop. If I was showing off I’d . . .” Marnie focused on her magics. They swam before her, bands of brightest gold. She sent some into his pockets; the others she wrapped around herself.
In a heartbeat, she was standing before him, his misplaced matchbook in the palm of her extended hand. “Here you are. Courtesy of my natural magics.”
It was then she noticed an odd thing about the bishop. Magic hung around all people and things. It was everywhere. Witch or not, its scent was always clear to her from the start. She smelled nothing on Ren. Not a hint of magics.
“Bravo.” The bishop clapped his hands. “A woman of so many talents. You will make a fabulous councilor. I look forward to working with you, Sophia.”
She found her seat. Bran nodded his approval of the display, dipping his chin subtly, for her eyes only. Then he blew a cloud of smoke.
The bishop added to the fog in the room. “Majesty, could I trouble you for a few private moments with our Sophia? Do you mind?”
Bran turned to her, eyebrows raised. “Do I mind?”
Marnie knit her fingers together in her lap, her brace humming under the glove. “He does not mind,” she said finally.
“I’ll have a tour of the libraries, then.” Bran climbed to his feet, shook the bishop’s hand, and meandered out of the room, smoke trailing him.
The bishop waited. Marnie straightened her skirts, staring pointedly at her shoes.
“You’ll have to forgive me, Sophia,” Ren said, his voice low. “I’m about to do what all good, well-meaning priests are obliged to do.”
“And what is that, Bishop?”
“I’m about to offer you advice that you did not ask for and most likely do not want.”
She chuckled, surprised at the kinship she already felt with him. He seemed honest, and she enjoyed making him smile. Working together would not be intolerable. “I appreciate the forewarning. Go on, then, let’s have it over with.”
“Young men are too often a slave to the baser, more selfish instincts. I should know—I was one quite recently . . . The emperor is still a young man.”
“Oh dear—”
“A casual tryst shared so brazenly with the world dishonors you, Sophia.”
Marnie played with her hair, curling and uncurling the chocolate strands in her fingers. “Rest assured, Bishop, I’m extremely content and don’t feel dishonored in the least.”
Her brash words had him smiling in a way that suggested he was accustomed to bold talk. She wondered if anyone could make the bishop blush. The witch in her liked the challenge and wanted to test the theory.
He puffed on his pipe, blowing smoke out of the corner of his mouth. “Do not misunderstand my meaning, Sophia. It isn’t that you aren’t deserving of the affection of kings and emperors and more. You are a rarity amongst the fairer sex. I worry in the way a good priest ought to that Lord Bran has been too flippant in his relationship with you because he lacks the correct aptitude to properly care for you, to interact and bond with you in the way a woman of your talents requires.”
“You mean that he isn’t a priest?” Marnie’s laughter shook her shoulders. “You can’t pair me like a witch of the mountains, Bishop. Why, for a moment there, it almost sounded like you were suggesting the emperor isn’t worthy of me. What a shock. I assumed you would feel very differently, the opposite in fact. Surely to your mind, a witch isn’t deserving of the Lord of Loreley?”
“On the contrary,” he said, voice low and a touch huskier than before. “Without witches, there would be no priests, no Church of the Cloth, no continuation of magic users, no saints. A woman like you should be treasured, set apart. I do not protest his attraction to you. Who could help that? What I do not like is the casual nature in which he engages in his affair with you, the insouciance by which you were treated at the delegation. You’re a Sophia and an heiress. You set an example for the treatment of other witches. You shouldn’t tolerate it. I won’t. It isn’t good for witch-kind, and it isn’t good for you.”
Her foot tapped the floor, a staccato of exasperation. She couldn’t decide whether she was more flattered or flustered by him. Was his attempt at being protective kind or presumptuous? Could it be both? “You let me worry about my honor, Bishop, please and thank you.”
He continued undeterred. “Even if His Majesty was ready to do the right thing by you, he would have to be extremely selfish or very foolhardy. It would endanger you.”
Her face fell. “And now it feels like you are threatening me.”
“Absolutely not!” He slid to the edge of his seat. Marnie thought he might reach for her; his hands clenched as if he wanted to make use of them. “There is still too much fear and misinformation in Loreley. Should he attempt to set you apart, treat you the way you deserve, make a commitment to you, accusations would fly. There would be unrest. You could be hurt. How would you ever leave your home peaceably again in such circumstances?”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Marnie murmured.
“What was that?”
She plastered on a pretend smile, one that hurt her cheeks. “What I meant to say was, you have nothing to worry about, Bishop. Lord Bran and I are not having a casual tryst.”
“How long has that been so?” His attractive green eyes lit with energy, and Marnie was uncertain what she had done to galvanize him.
“Since always.”
“A part of me wondered if his declaration was a ploy, but then His Majesty truly seems fond of you . . .” He dropped back into his chair, stroking his chin.
“Bishop, please rest assured, you have nothing to worry about when it comes to me or my reputation.”
“Sophia, please call me Ren.”
“All right. If it pleases you, Ren, you may call me Marnie.”
He reached across the coffee cart and squeezed her hand, unaffected by the brace underneath or the three hard automated fingers. She was struck again by the strangeness of his lack of scent as his thumb brushed over her knuckles. There was something intimate in the gesture. Her face warmed.
“It truly has been a pleasure, Marnie.” He said her name like he was tasting it. “May I call on you soon?”
She touched her badge, seeking the witch ink beneath it for comfort. “We are to be friends, I’m told. I think I could tolerate that. You are more . . . honorable than I wanted to give a man of the Cloth credit for, I have to admit.”
“Friends,” he agreed. “You are more . . .” His terse guffaw cut off his words. “Just more, Marnie. You are more than I was ready for, and I was already impressed by you. Thank you for being forthright with me.”
“Rest assured I’ll always be frank with you. I’m not capable of anything else.” She fingered the golden lion, already feeling the apprenticeship in an aching knot in her neck. “You may call on me as you see fit.”
“I’ve another engagement this afternoon and can’t stay as long as I’d like to. I’ll call on you soon,” he said reluctantly.
When he was out of the room, Marnie opened her handbag and rolled a cigarette with agitated fingers. She lit it using a Tortua prayer and puffed on it earnestly. Distant voices exchanged pleasantries about the bishop’s other engagements, followed by hollow footfalls and farewells in the foyer. She heard the front door open and exiting footsteps.
Bran hurried into the sitting room. He planted himself next to Marnie with enough force to rattle the sofa, then he snatched her cigarette and stole a long drag before returning it.
“What has you so frazzled?” Marnie knocked ash off her cigarette into a ceramic tray on the cart.
“Ren seems to think we aren’t having an affair.” He eyed her. “He was cheerful about the whole thing. I was commended for being a clever, honorable young man.”
She choked on her own air. “Clever . . . honorable?” She thought back on her earlier conversation. “When I said—Oh, Bran, I only meant that what we have isn’t casual. He was lecturing me with priestly advice I did not want. Good lord, what did he say to you exactly?”
His lips quirked. “He mentioned he plans to have tea with your mother soon, and he wanted to be sure I had no qualms about that. He said you welcomed him to call on you.”
“Why on earth would you care if he had tea with—” Her mouth fell open. She looked at the ceiling and cursed. “He isn’t . . . surely he would not dare . . . ?”
“Ren did not say it outright, but I believe he intends to discuss his interest in you with your mother. An interest that goes well beyond the political.” His smirk spread into a taunting smile. “How could you miss the look of affectionate awe in his eye? It should have felt familiar. I imagine I frequently look at you the same way.”
Marnie stabbed out her cigarette in the tray on the coffee cart, rattling the cups with her ferocity.
Bran threw his head back and laughed. Rich cackles tumbled out of him, echoing off the pale walls. His eyes watered. Marnie wanted to squeeze his neck.
“This is not funny!” She slapped his arm. “Why didn’t you correct him?”
“The words popped out of him so fast.” Bent in half by chuckles, Bran could hardly breathe. “What he meant hadn’t quite settled in before he was already gone. Wait till Jack hears this.” He gasped for air, brown eyes glittering. “I never enjoyed the rumors we were having an affair anyway. Why not let word spread that you tossed me aside for not making an honest woman of you? It would raise you in the people’s esteem. You know I hate that I’ve sullied your reputation.”
