“You gave up your children the moment you laid a hand on them. On their mother.”
Distant movement caught Aisa’s eye: Maman, standing at the mouth of the hallway, her arms folded. Kibb had not noticed her—or was pretending not to—and Aisa said nothing either. How could the Mace know about Maman? Had she told him about those days? It seemed unlikely. They didn’t get on at all.
“My daughter stands there!” Da snapped. “Ask her! Ask her how badly she was treated!”
Aisa froze, for all eyes in the room were suddenly upon her.
“Your daughter works for me,” the Mace replied quickly, and Aisa could tell that he had not been prepared for this turn of the conversation. “She speaks on my command, not yours.”
Aisa met Da’s gaze and found triumph there. Da still knew her well. This was a well-calculated gamble he took, that she would not want to reveal her own misery, their terrible past. To tell her shame to strangers, so many of them staring at her now . . . how could she do that and then go on? Even if they believed her, how could she go through the rest of her life, knowing that this was the first thing everyone would know about her: that she had endured these things? Who could do that?
The Queen, her mind answered suddenly. The Queen would speak and face whatever came afterward.
But Aisa couldn’t.
“Aisa has been through enough,” the Mace said. “And no true Christian would force her to recount the tale here.”
“Indeed, God loves children,” the Holy Father replied, nodding. “Except the liars.”
“Watch yourself, Father.” The Mace’s voice had dropped a note, a danger signal to those who knew him, but the Holy Father didn’t seem to care. Aisa wondered whether the priest meant to get himself beaten here, or arrested; that would surely be a useful event for the Arvath. The Mace was too smart to oblige him . . . or so Aisa hoped. This low, quiet anger was much worse than when he yelled. She felt Da’s eyes on her again, and resisted the urge to meet his gaze.
“Surely if the child had an accusation to make, she would make it,” the Holy Father remarked, his voice dismissive. “These baseless charges against Borwen are meant to obscure the fact that the Queen’s laws are arbitrary, designed to serve her own needs. All men of God should defend him.”
“Her own needs. When the Mort came, the Queen opened the Keep to over ten thousand refugees. How many refugees did the Arvath take in?”
“The Arvath is sacred,” the Holy Father replied, but Aisa saw, relieved, that the Mace had broken his rhythm again. “No layman may enter God’s house without the Holy Father’s permission.”
“How convenient for both God and Your Holiness. And what does Christ say about taking in the homeless?”
“I would like to return to the Apostate, Lord Regent,” the Holy Father said quickly. Aisa stole a glance at the crowd, but she could not say whether they had noticed the man’s quick retreat. Most of them merely stared at the dais with open mouths.
“What about Father Tyler?”
“If he is not handed over by noon on Friday, the Church will excommunicate all employees of the Crown.”
“I see. When all else fails, blackmail.”
“Not at all. But God is disappointed in the Crown’s failure to address sin in the Tearling. With the Queen gone, we had hoped that you would take this opportunity to criminalize unnatural acts.”
Elston twitched beside her; Aisa sensed rather than saw it. But when she looked up at him, he looked the same as ever, his face blank and eyes pinned on the crowd.
“How’s the money for that property tax payment coming?” the Mace asked suddenly. “Going to be ready for the new year?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” the Holy Father replied, but his tone was uneasy.
The Mace burst out laughing, and at the sound, Aisa relaxed a bit, the tension easing from her shoulders. She stole another glance across the room and found Maman’s eyes pinned on the Mace, a tiny smile curving Maman’s lips.
“You know, Anders,” the Mace said, “for a few minutes, I wasn’t sure what you were doing here. But now I see perfectly. Let me take this opportunity to tell you plain: come hell and vengeance, that tax payment will be due on February first.”
“This is not about money, Lord Regent.”
“Everything is about money, always. You impose a tithe on the Tear and then seek to keep it all, pouring money into luxury, feeding off the credulous and the starving. You profit.”
“People give freely for a holy cause.”
“Do they now?” The Mace’s face broke into an ugly grin. “But I know exactly where the money goes. We picked up two of your enforcers last week. You’ve been doing business in the Creche.”
At this, a ripple went through the crowd, and the Holy Father’s smile slipped a notch before he recovered.
“Baseless accusations!” he cried. “I am God’s messenger—”
“Then your God is a trafficker in child flesh.”