Free Saint's Blood: The Greatcoats Book 3 by Sebastien De Castell Page A

attached to each wall.
    ‘The cleric rings them in preparation for prayer. Each particular God has a different set of bells,’ Kest replied. He walked over to one of the walls and pointed to a bare oval patch underneath the bell. ‘There should be a large cameo here, depicting the relevant God.’
    I glanced around the room. All the cameos had been removed, though I couldn’t tell if it’d been theft or vandalism. I turned my attention to the centre of the cavernous room and the opening in the floor, ringed by a wooden banister, that led down the winding stone stairs of the passari deo: the dark passage that led to the main chapel some twenty feet below.
    Why is it that religious people build these grand palaces to the Gods and then feel the need to burrow underground in order to pray to them?
    Brasti kicked a broken wooden candleholder, sending it skidding across the floor and into the passari . We heard it clatter down the stairs. ‘You’d think the clerics would do a better job of keeping their house in order.’
    ‘I doubt anyone has lived here in some time,’ Kest said. He brushed his fingers across the dusty surface of one of the walls. ‘I came to a place like this during my Saint’s Fever, but it felt . . . different.’
    ‘Different how?’ I asked.
    ‘I’m not sure I can put it into words. I think perhaps this place has been . . . disturbed somehow.’
    ‘The word you’re looking for is “desecrated”,’ said a voice from the shadows at the bottom of the stairs.
    ‘Who’s there?’ I called down, my hand on the hilt of my rapier.
    The three of us waited as a man in his later years, stoop-backed and barefoot, ascended the stone steps. ‘Probably best not to stab an unarmed member of the faith,’ he said. ‘Or if you absolutely must, at least wait until I’ve emptied this.’ He lifted up a pail. ‘If you do decide to kill me, please be so kind as to bring a fresh pail of water to the Lady downstairs so she can continue ministering to our guest.’
    ‘You seem a little old to be wearing the grey, Quaesti ,’ Kest said politely.
    The monk set down the pail and pulled at his plain grey robe as if he’d only just noticed it for the first time. ‘Alas, none of the Gods have called to me yet. I keep hoping to hear the summons of Coin as I’ve always looked good in green. “Obladias,” he’ll say, “get yourself some fine silk robes in seven shades of green and come and live a life of wealth and prosperity in my name.”’ The old man shrugged. ‘Black would be fine, too, though Death seems a harsh master. Really, I’d be happy with anyone except Craft at this point.’ Obladias winked at us. ‘Orange robes would look terrible with my complexion. Now blue, there’s a fine—’
    ‘You said this cathedral was desecrated?’ Kest interrupted.
    ‘Technically it’s only the sanctuary that can be desecrated,’ the monk replied, looking towards the black hole of the passari. ‘Someone shattered the prayer-stones down there, years ago. The rest of this place is just an old building, really.’
    ‘You don’t sound upset by all the destruction,’ I said.
    Obladias smiled wearily. ‘You get used to it, son. I knew a man once – a good man, a religious man. Then one day his family gets sick.’ He shook his head. ‘Worst thing you ever saw. The children . . . well, I won’t grow your sorrows with the details, but this fella, he prayed to the Gods to stop it, over and over. In the end he was praying to Death himself, just to ease his family’s suffering.’
    I held the old man’s gaze for a moment, wondering if perhaps the story was his own. ‘And did the Gods answer?’
    The monk shrugged. ‘Only in the way that they always do – by telling us to find our own answers.’ He turned and looked around the dusty chapel. ‘I suppose it’s not hard to imagine why people get angry at the Gods. Oh, speaking of which’ – he looked up at the sky peeking through the glass in the