CHAPTER 1119: A TUNIC AND BREECHES

Diarmuid had faced impossible choices before, but none of the decisions he’d encountered before had felt like the one confronting him now. He’d sat in judgment over men with considerable wealth and power, even members of the aristocracy, and his back had grown strong enough to bear the burdens of delivering judgments that would have repercussions far beyond the guilt or innocence of the people he judged.

But, as strong as his back had grown, nothing he had done before left his stomach feeling empty and hollow like this, as though he was stuck between the moment of falling from a great height and the inevitable landing. Somewhere beneath him, there was either a pool of deep water or a bed of broken stones, and he had no way of knowing what he was about to land on.

In Hanrahan’s gatehouse, when he was pinned by ice sorcery while battle raged outside, he’d chosen to save an injured acolyte over joining the fight. It had been an agonizing choice, but the right one felt clear to him, and he accepted the consequences of his decisions to preserve the lives of his acolytes, even if it meant that he couldn’t help in the battle outside.

When he sat on Dame Sybyll’s improvised court, with Head Priest Germot’s furious glare boring into him, he’d chosen truth over his allegiances and collaborated with the Eldritch to declare Ian Hanrahan guilty of his many crimes. He’d even offered testimony that led to Dame Sybyll’s brutal punishment of Loman Lothian.

Diarmuid felt the weight of those decisions like boulders resting on each of his shoulders, but they paled in comparison to what he faced now.

This should have been a simpler decision than those. He was an Inquisitor of the Church of the Holy Lord of Light! The crimson and gold robes spread across his bed weren’t just clothing but the manifestation of a lifetime’s calling. He’d worn them through investigations that sent nobles to the headsman’s block, and he’d rescued innocents from false accusations of heresy and witchcraft. The colors marked him as a seeker of truth, and he’d never wavered in that seeking.

Until truth led him here.

The chambers that Sir Ollie led him to were so luxurious that they rivalled those he would have been entitled to in the Holy City. The mattress on his bed was made of the finest linen, stuffed with goose down feathers, and covered with soft, silky sheets and a heavy, cozy blanket that would have kept him warm through the coldest night, even if the room didn’t have an iron heater that had been placed in his chambers within minutes of his arrival.

It was the outfit lying beside his robes atop that bedding, however, that brought him so much consternation.

The quality of the fabric was extraordinary, soft and supple, without any of the scratchiness that Diarmuid had come to expect of warm, woolen clothing. The style felt antiquated, with a high, stiff collar that would extend all the way up to his jaw, and a deep, knife-shaped neckline that would plunge all the way to his sternum. The tunic itself was sleeveless, allowing the undershirt’s voluminous, almost puffy sleeves to flutter freely as the wearer moved.

It was a style that hadn’t been in fashion in the Kingdom of Gaal for at least a century, but it was common enough in art dating back to the Kingdom’s founding two hundred years ago.

To most men, a plain black tunic, paired with matching breeches and a midnight blue undershirt, would have been nothing more than clothing, but to Diarmuid, they felt like an invitation to leave behind the role of Inquisitor when he met with Lady Ashlynn and the leaders of the Vale of Mists for dinner.

Just a few weeks ago, he never would have considered that he would reject the robes of his office and his faith for any reason. He’d accompanied Sir Tommin and Lord Loman to Hanrahan with a clarity of purpose that few men ever achieved. There were questions that needed to be answered, and at the time, he thought he knew what they were.

Why had ’demons’ begun to raid the hamlets of Dunn and the caravans of Hanrahan? What had caused the return of types of ’demons’ unseen in Lothian March in more than eighty years? And, perhaps most importantly, how could the march protect itself against this dangerous new threat?

These were the questions he’d prepared himself to answer, and on the journey to Hanrahan, he and Loman had discussed everything that either of them had learned from the Sealed Archives, including the writings of High Inquisitor Ignatious, the most legendary Inquisitor to fight against the ’Undying Demons’, or rather, the Vampires or the Vale of Mists.

Now, he found himself falling, without solid ground to stand on. The famed High Inquisitor Ignatious had become a vampire, one who was courting an Eldritch witch, forsaking his vows of celibacy, along with Light only knew how many of his other vows. Yet, according to Lady Heila, Inquisitor Ignatious was still able to summon holy flames, and he was able to ignite a Holy Flame Blade, something that Diarmuid himself was incapable of.

More disturbing than that, however, had been the way the Eldritch spoke of his faith. There was a sadness to Heila’s words when she spoke to him, as if he’d wandered away from the truth, and she blamed the Church for leading him astray.

Moreover, when she and Lord Jalal shared their traditions with him, he had the strangest sensation that he was hearing echoes of his own faith, altered in subtle ways, but possessing many of the same truths. As if, before the Great Prophet had visited humanity, leading them out of an era of chaos, the Holy Lord of Light had sent another prophet to walk among the Eldritch, saving them from the catastrophe that Lady Heila called the ’Age of Ice.’

But, if the Holy Lord of Light had sent a prophet to save the Eldritch people, then why did the Church order the slaughter of those very same people?

Diarmuid didn’t know. But now, lying before him on the bed was a choice. He could walk among the Eldritch as an Inquisitor, carrying with him the power and might of the Church while accepting the burdens that came with it... Or he could leave the Church behind, to walk among the Eldritch simply as Diarmuid, a man in search of the truths he couldn’t discover in the lands of his birth.

It should have been a simple decision... just a choice of clothing. Whatever he chose tonight didn’t need to become a choice he made forever. Except, somehow, he felt like the Church wouldn’t share his conclusion. His superiors would demand unwavering faith and loyalty. So, if he turned away from the robes of an Inquisitor now, even if he wanted to don them again in the future, the Church might not give him the right...

Which made the decision before him even more agonizing...