CHAPTER 823: ACCUSATION (PART ONE)

The doors to the Marquis’ chambers opened with a crash as guards stationed nearby rushed into the room.

Leading the way was a man with tanned, leathery skin and sun-bleached hair who moved with a quick, rolling gait as he shouldered his way past the other soldiers to be the first one into Bors’ bedchamber.

"My Lady!" Captain Albyn shouted when he saw blood running down Jocelynn’s chest from a ragged wound above the neckline of her dress. "What demon did this?" he shouted as he drew the heavy, curved sword from his hip and searched around the room for any sign of a threat.

One look around the room told him very quickly that something was very, very wrong. He’d heard Lord Bors call of ’demons in the keep’, but there was no sign of demons anywhere in the room unless you counted the mounted horns or the other trophies scattered around the room.

Instead, he found Lord Bors curled on himself in what looked like incredible pain, a bloody dinner knife on the floor, and Lady Jocelynn shivering in the embrace of Confessor Eleanor.

It was a scene that couldn’t be more familiar to a man who had spent a lifetime in ports where he’d been called to brothels to sort out the problems caused by drunken sailors who pushed a working woman too hard or tried to take advantage well beyond what the lady of the night was offering.

Only, when he’d arrived at scenes like that, it had been the man who was wounded and the woman who was clutching a blade. For Lady Jocelynn to be injured while there wasn’t a single drop of blood flowing from Lord Bors, despite the look of pain on his face... Something didn’t add up.

"Secure the room," a booming voice said from the doorway as a weathered knight with salt-and-pepper hair swept into the room. Sir Gilander was a member of Bors’ old guard who had fought with him in the War of Inches and commanded the Lothian Marquis’ personal guard for decades.

Though he was older than Captain Albyn by more than twenty years, his eyes missed nothing as they swept the room, searching for ways that demons might have entered or escaped. His ears strained for the slightest out-of-place sound, and even his nose twitched as he scowled at the room, finding none of the signature scents that so often accompanied demon kind.

Finding nothing else to explain what happened, Sir Gilander quickly rounded on Jocelynn and Eleanor, only to find the swarthy sea captain blocking his path as he stood protectively over the two women.

"My Lady," Eleanor said to the pale-faced and trembling woman in her arms as soon as Captain Albyn positioned himself between the pair of women and the Lothian Marquis. "Let me tend to your wound," she said, looking at the ghastly injury where the tip of the knife had clearly skipped off her breastbone as it cut across her chest, leaving a flap of skin hanging that exposed the meaty tissues and a touch of bone beneath.

"H-him, f-f-first," Jocelynn stammered, pointing at Bors as Sir Gilander knelt carefully at his lord’s side, rolling him onto his back and searching for any signs of wounds. "He, he... something, something is wrong with, something..." she said weakly as her knees buckled and she slumped into Eleanor’s arms. Her eyes fluttered closed, and her head hung limply to the side like a rag doll, supported only by Eleanor’s embrace.

Blood continued to flow from her wound, and the neckline of her dress had gone from pale, icy blue to dark crimson red by the time Eleanor laid her down on the floor. Moving as quickly as she dared, Eleanor knelt beside Lady Jocelynn and pulled out a well-worn gilded amulet in the shape of a sun with rays beaming down.

Confessors weren’t healers, but offering comfort was part of their creed. For those who had wandered from the path of Light, a Confessor was supposed to be a beacon who could help guide the lost back onto the path.

People who were in pain and suffering from a life of struggle they couldn’t meet often needed at least a bit of healing and comfort, and so Eleanor had learned the basics of caring for the injured and the sick. She only hoped it would be enough to save Lady Jocelynn’s life now.

"Holy Lord of Light, I humbly pray,

Heal this wound and stop the bleeding.

If a price is due, then let me pay,

Take my strength to aid her healing."

For a moment, pain flared in Eleanor’s chest, sharp and burning as she felt the soft golden glow of the Holy Lord of Light envelop Jocelynn’s chest. The pain was part of the price that the Holy Lord of Light always demanded for healing.

Anyone who would beg for the grace of the Holy Lord of Light had to be willing to join their patient in their struggle, to suffer the agony of their wounds along with them. It was a test of the healer to prove themselves worthy of being a vessel for the grace of the Holy Lord of Light.

The pain in Eleanor’s chest grew more and more intense until she felt as if someone was attempting to carve her heart from her chest. Just when it felt like it couldn’t get any worse, the pain spread throughout her entire body, searing her flesh as if she stood naked before the holy light of a summer sun.

Eleanor’s complexion faded, becoming wan and pale, and her eyes took on a sunken, dark look as though she hadn’t slept in days. Still, the price of the healing had to be paid, and she clutched her medallion tightly as the burning sensation grew even more intense. In a handful of heartbeats, her body took on a frail appearance, as though she hadn’t eaten in days. Her lips grew chapped and her throat parched by the time the light faded away, leaving her worn and exhausted.

It was one of the most intense healings she’d ever performed, and it would take her months to recover from this moment, assuming she was able to recover completely at all. But one look at Jocelynn’s peacefully slumbering figure was enough to make the pain and the price she’d paid more than worth it.

Where there had once been a ragged, bloody wound deep enough to expose bone, now, only a bright red and pink line of a freshly healed wound remained, and the look of pain and fear on Jocelynn’s face had faded completely.

Over time, the mark would fade, and it was certain to leave a scar, but the scar would be thinner and paler than if the wound had been stitched by the hand of a physician. At the same time, unnoticed by Eleanor, the cut that ran around the back of Jocelynn’s neck from the necklace biting into her flesh also healed, leaving behind only a faint, pink line.

But even though Lady Jocelynn had healed, the danger they were in was far from over as more than half a dozen soldiers crammed into the Marquis’ chambers, most of them with weapons drawn, and ready to fight against whoever had injured Lord Bors... while Eleanor and Lady Jocelynn had only Captain Albyn to protect them.