Chương 85: Book 2, Chapter 24: Attestation

Clara curtsied deeply.

"Your Holiness, it's good to see you again."

"Again?" The Pope's tone was mild, yet the words echoed loudly in Clara's mind. Does she not remember me? I guess I shouldn't be surprised. This was the head of a religion with millions of followers. To her, Clara's face was bound to be a drop in an ocean. Whatever weight the trial at the High Court carried for Clara, it apparently had not even registered with the Pope who presided over it. The woman in the crimson cape leaned in and whispered something into the Pope's ear, and the Pope's brows lifted a fraction.

"Ah, yes. I recall your trial now." Yet there was no flicker of interest in her still eyes.

"You've made quite a name for yourself since then, Miss Casewell." The woman carried authority in her voice.

"I have read a great deal about you."

"Then you have me at a disadvantage," said Clara.

"Where are my manners? I am Valentia, and I serve as Grand Inquisitor of Arcadia." She inclined her head.

"You have my sincere apologies for the pain our rogue high inquisitor inflicted on you. And my thanks for exposing what he was."

"You are welcome, Your Eminence." Faced with the head of the inquisition, Clara did what she could to keep a steady, neutral posture. This was the woman who was supposed to be rooting out what remained of Leofric's conspiracy, yet Clara couldn't rule out the chance of her being involved.

"I assume two of the most important women in the kingdom didn't come to see me for small talk."

"I would avoid repeating that in front of Duchess de Bragança, if I were you." The Grand Inquisitor let out a short laugh. That's probably good advice, actually.

"I am here to confirm the miracle with my own eyes," said the Pope.

"Confirm it?" Clara asked.

"I understand there are several witnesses who attest to what happened, but the Church cannot canonize on words alone. In the two hundred and nine years since the world last witnessed a miracle, many claims of such were made, yet they all failed to hold true."

"I understand, Your Holiness. What do you need from me?"

"Stand still." The Pope raised her right hand. On her ring finger was a thick gold ring with a small diamond." Reveletur gratia." Let grace be revealed. The pressure in the room, which was already thick enough that Clara was struggling to stand, was now in a different league. She tried her best, but she couldn't stop herself from collapsing to her knees. The Pope's eyes flared with light, and her gaze swept over Clara from head to toe, slowly and methodically.

"The Goddess's energy runs through you," she finally said. Then the light in her eyes faded, and the crushing pressure receded. The Grand Inquisitor's sharp gaze flicked between the two of them.

"You are certain, Your Holiness?"

"Completely. The signature of the spell is divine, and there is no trace of human intervention. Helena Rosewood has performed a miracle, and Clara Casewell has received it. The Goddess's favor rests upon them." Surprisingly, that was a comforting thought.

"Excellent. With that said, we must discuss your arrangements." Valentia produced an envelope from her cape and handed it to Clara.

"You shall be provided with the spiritual teachings necessary for a miracle recipient. The Sacred Ministry will take charge of that, and you are to place yourself under their care for three weeks of seclusion."" Three weeks?"

"In Saintess Winifred's day, the traditional period of seclusion was a full season," said Valentia with a half-smile.

"Do you take umbrage at the simplification? We can arrange for a longer stay, if you like."

"Your Eminence, with respect," Clara began carefully, "is seclusion necessary? I have pressing personal matters to attend to, and, as I understood it, my role in the ceremony is minor. I'll stand where I'm told, kneel if asked, and let the focus be on Lady Helena. Surely that could be taught without seclusion—or at least a shorter one."

"No." The Pope's answer was immediate.

"You misunderstand your position, Miss Casewell. For two centuries, the faithful have made do with nothing but stories and the scant few relics left behind by the Saintesses. Now they will have you—a living woman who was dying of corrosion yet was healed through the grace of the Goddess. Where you once may have been a private woman with a schedule, you are now a symbol, whether you wish to or not. Parents will tell their children about you, and pilgrims will travel for days to witness you.

An unprepared miracle recipient who stumbles through the rite or misspeaks a response before the faithful embarrasses the Church and herself, and wounds the very people who will look to her for hope." Well, when you put it that way. And it's not like I'm in a position to argue with these two, even if I wanted to.

"I understand, Your Holiness." This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it"Good," said the Pope.

"Surprisingly sensible, I'd say," Valentia added.

"From what I was told about you, I expected you to argue fiercely. I'm almost disappointed."

"I pick my battles, Your Eminence." Valentia's lips curled up into a small smile.

"Very wise. Now, we have made travel arrangements to take you to Mont Sainte-Michelle. I had planned to have you dragged there today, but I suppose I can give you until tomorrow, as a token of appreciation for your cooperation." Mont Sainte-Michelle. Of course that's what it's called. Clara held back a wince and filed it away with the rest of her many grievances against this world. The conversation was interrupted by a knock at the door. After waiting for permission, the chamberlain came in, bowing to the Pope.

"Your Holiness, Your Eminence, pardon me, I bring a message from His Majesty the King. Miss Casewell has been summoned to the Lesser Audience Hall." The King? I thought he wasn't interested in commoners.

"Are we to understand Diarmuid feels entitled to interrupt a meeting called by the Pope?" the Grand Inquisitor snapped.

"No, of course not!" The chamberlain bowed deeply.

"I shall wait outside until the present business is concluded—" The Pope did not turn to the chamberlain, her eyes still fixed on Clara.

"It is already concluded. You may go, Miss Casewell. The Church shall send a carriage for you tomorrow after lunch." Clara tucked the sealed envelope into her satchel, curtsied, then followed the chamberlain out.

"One last thing, Miss Casewell," said the Grand Inquisitor just as Clara was about to close the door.

"Mont Sainte-Michelle is the very heart of the Sacred Ministry, with everything that entails. It is no exaggeration to call it the fortress from which the entire Church is governed, and the sisters charged with its safekeeping have little patience for cleverness. I understand some visitors find this challenging, and I suspect you will be no exception. You would do well to behave yourself." That's not ominous at all. Clara swallowed. But I can worry about that later. Time to find out what the King wants with me.

As Clara made her way through the depths of the Arcadian royal palace, she wasn't sure what part of the Lesser Audience Hall was supposed to be lesser. Could it be the room's tall, arched ceiling, supported by rows of green marble columns? Or maybe the beautiful fresco painted on the walls, depicting what she could only assume was the first King of Arcadia receiving his crown from Saintess Elowen? Or was it perhaps the two life-sized marble wolves on either side of the entrance?

If this is lesser, I kind of want to see the Great Audience Hall. At the far end, on a raised dais painted by sunlight shining through colored glass, was a man in a green-and-gold frock coat with a golden diadem upon his head. King Diarmuid of Arcadia. He appeared younger than she'd expected, with a neatly trimmed auburn beard and wide, toned shoulders. All in all, a surprisingly athletic build for a monarch.

But perhaps the greater mystery was what the King was doing: kneeling on the floor next to his throne while holding what appeared to be a large peacock.

"—so you see, that's the marvel of it. Would you look at those legs—not a scrap of magic in them," he said to the nobles lined up around him, which included everyone who'd come from Fontaineux plus Duke von Rhenia and Duchess Adelheid.

"Clockmakers, if you don't mind! My court mages said it couldn't be done, and says I to them, 'that is precisely why I am the King and ye're only mages.' Watch this now." He reached out to the side of the bird and twisted a tiny key on its torso. The mechanical bird tottered forward with a rhythmic gait, moving from the King toward Duke von Rhenia. When it was about to hit his leg, it abruptly halted and fanned out its plumage.

"Charming, isn't it, Duke?" said the King.

"Quite, Your Majesty." Based on Duke von Rhenia's tone, Clara guessed this was not the first time he'd said this today. After the King called a servant to pick up his automaton and sat back down on his throne, the chamberlain stepped forward and announced her.

"Presenting Miss Clara Casewell." Clara walked five steps forward, just as she'd been instructed, then curtsied.

"Your Majesty."

"Ah!" The King turned to her, a delighted smile on his lips.

"The famous advocate herself. Come in, come in. You're late, which I'm told is the fashion, so fair play to you." She still wasn't sure what she was here for, but seeing Iris and the von Rhenia couple reassured her that she had allies in the room. Actually, now that Clara stopped to look, wasn't Iris smiling a bit too much? In that ' I know something you don't' way she so enjoyed. Suspicious.

"Clara Casewell," said the King.

"I'm after hearing your name for months, which is an oddity in itself. Most names come attached to tedious persons, so they fly straight past me. Tell me this—how many barons does Arcadia have?" He paused, his eyes staring straight into hers. He let the silence stretch, showing no signs of continuing. Clara realized he was enjoying watching her decide whether this was a real question. … Does he actually expect me to answer this? After another uncomfortable beat, she realized she had no choice.

"I'm afraid I don't know, Your Majesty."

"Sure, neither do I!" He slapped his thigh and let out a boisterous cackle, and dutiful laughter rippled through the room.

"And still yours is the name that keeps coming back with the grandest tales hanging off it. Corrupt inquisitors, eldritch monsters, finger-pointing at Byzottoman royalty." He leaned forward.

"Is it true you called their witness a—what was the phrase again?"

"Second-hand yapping, Your Majesty," said Bel.

"It was a real spectacle." The King laughed again.

"Goddess's mercy, I'd have paid half the treasury to see the face on Murad. Though I suppose he was hiding behind one of those dainty screens of his. No humor in the man at all—I met him once and had my best jester juggle for him, but he looked at it the same way I look at Duchess Valois." He waved a hand.

"Don't be telling her I said that. Anyway. Lord Warren here has been telling me all about your exploits. I used to think he was tedious, but it turns out he can spin a yarn when he seeks favor." Clara's eyes flicked to Warren. He stood closest to the throne, his hands clasped behind his back, wearing a particularly satisfied grin.

"Your Majesty is generous," said Warren.

"Generosity is often more entertaining than the alternative." The King clapped his hands together.

"Here's what I'm thinking. You saved a former duke of Arcadia—and by extension, Arcadia itself—from a humiliating trumped-up charge in a foreign court. You exposed a corrupt high inquisitor. And to top it all off, you embarrassed the Sultan-Basileus. A lesser monarch might send you on your way with a purse of gold, but I hear my son has already done that, so, after due deliberation with my vassals, I have settled on a much more suitable reward." The King rose.

"Clara Casewell. Warren Righton. Approach." Approach? Nobody told me there was going to be an 'approach' part! How close am I even supposed to get? She glanced at Warren, who had placed himself only a few paces away from the King, and fell into step beside him.

"Kneel," Warren whispered when she got close enough. He knelt, and so did she. A guard came forward and offered a longsword. The King raised it high.

"In recognition of services rendered to the Crown," the King announced, "through the exposure of the traitor Leofric, who committed crimes against the Kingdom and the Goddess alike, and for the defense of Lord Pedro de Bragança, it is our pleasure to bestow the rank and dignity of knighthood." I'm sorry, the what?