Ferenc spoke up, and she heard her name mentioned. Father Rodrigo swung his head toward Ferenc like a dog finding a scent, and the priest blinked heavily as he listened to Ferenc’s words. “Yes,” Father Rodrigo said, “I do remember you.” He straightened, his face brightening, losing its slackness as he tightened his mouth into a smile. “Have you come to join us on our crusade?”
Ocyrhoe glanced at the cup sitting on the satchel. It had lost some of its luster, as if the sun—which had been previously shining on it—had slipped behind a cloud. It was, as Frederick had mentioned, a silver cup, and not one of gold. She shivered, feeling nothing but apprehension about the cup. “What... what crusade?” she inquired, using the question to cover her nervousness. To give him more time to remember her because she was still not sure he did.
The first day she had ever laid eyes on the priest had been at the market near the Porta Tiburtina, and he had stared at her as if he knew her. His gaze had been wild and feverish, and while he seemed to recognize nothing else, he had known her. Now, his eyes were unclouded by fever, but he kept peering at her as if he thought she were someone else. So little has changed since that day, she thought, and yet so much too.
“The cedars,” the priest said, his voice slurring. “I must save the cedars.”
Ocyrhoe glanced around, not seeing the sorts of trees he was talking about. “Father Rodrigo,” she said softly. “This crusade is—”
“What?” Father Rodrigo answered with a harsh, mocking laugh—unlike any sound she’d heard him make before. “I am the Summus Pontifex Ecclesiae Universalis. I am bound to serve God, and He has revealed His plan to me. To me. Not Fieschi. Not any of the others. I was the one who carried His message from Mohi. I was the one who suffered. I am the one who is strong enough to carry it farther, and that is what I intend to do.”
“Why?” Ocyrhoe asked in a plaintive voice. She wandered closer to Ferenc, resting a hand on his shoulder. He stirred beneath her, a shudder running through his body. “You want Ferenc and I to join you on this crusade, but where are you taking us? What are we supposed to do?”
“You are supposed to serve God. We are going to drive out the infidels.”
“How?”
He gestured at the cup which brightened visibly as he paid attention to it. “The Grail will provide a way,” he said thickly. His hand shook.
Ocyrhoe recalled Léna’s words back in the room Father Rodrigo had stayed in at the Castel Sant’Angelo. What you need will be offered to you, in unexpected ways and times. Father Rodrigo had the same faith. But she and Frederick had talked about faith too, in relation to the Grail. In a flash, she understood why Frederick had talked her into chasing after Father Rodrigo. Her faith in something else might be strong enough to withstand the Grail.
Her faith in her sisters.
She walked past Ferenc and knelt on the ground beside Father Rodrigo’s satchel. “Will it?” she asked, peering up at him. She reached out her hand to touch the cup.
“Don’t touch it,” Father Rodrigo shrieked. He lunged for her, meaning to shove her away from the cup, and she spun away from him. She tumbled across the satchel, knocking the cup over.
Father Rodrigo loomed over her, his face blotted with shadows. “You will not take what is mine! You will not!”
She raised her hands defensively, alarmed by the change that had come over him. The cup rolled away from her, and she saw that it was nothing more than a plain silver cup. Identical to the one Frederick had drunk from during the meal they had shared. She kicked it and it bounced across the dry ground.
“God owns me. Only an agent of the Devil would try to take what belongs to God,” Father Rodrigo shouted as he scrambled for the cup.
Ferenc finally shook himself free of whatever torpor had held him in place, and he grabbed Father Rodrigo, keeping the priest from reaching the cup. “Father Rodrigo,” he pleaded, trying to get the priest’s attention.
Father Rodrigo whirled, his hand striking Ferenc across the face. “Stand not in the way of God, heretic,” he screamed. “Vade post me Satana!”
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
The Flight of the Khan
The shaman’s saddle was too narrow for ?gedei, and he perched on it awkwardly, half sliding off the side of the pony as it ran as fast as its short legs could manage. It was a bony animal too, and it ran with a stiff-legged gait that made ?gedei’s teeth clack together noisily.
Chucai’s powerful stallion was already pulling away from him, and the Khagan wanted to shout after his advisor. How dare Chucai leave him? But his own nauseating fear provided the answer: Chucai wanted to live too.
He was running away. He could not pretend otherwise as he bounced atop a short-haired pony, shrieking at it to run faster. It didn’t matter what sort of image he presented to his men. None of them were pointing and laughing. They were all either dead or engaged in the same headlong rush for safety.