Sicard thought, as he walked, of William de Laurent. The archbishop had been one of his teachers and mentors in the seminary, and-though they'd never been that close-a friend. He'd survived a lifetime of laboring on behalf of the Church; two wars; half a dozen attempts on his life; and decades of the political infighting that plagued the clergy despite their best efforts to squelch it.

He'd survived everything the world could throw at him, until Davillon.

William would never have approved of what had happened in Davillon since he died; of this, Sicard was absolutely certain. He could only hope that the venerable archbishop would have understood what Sicard had to do to make things right.

The house, when he reached it, was-well, a house. Old but sturdy, small but comfortable, with once-fine paint only slowly starting to peel from the facade. A mundane, commoner's home in a mundane, commoner's neighborhood, it was one of many properties the Church owned throughout Davillon-one that had been left to them in the last will and testament of a devout parishioner, back when the city was on better terms with its shepherds.

A quick glance either way was enough to convince Sicard that he hadn't attracted any undue attention, and then he was across the street and through the door. The carpet and the sofas were thick with dust, save for those spots where the small group awaiting his arrival had seated themselves.

He didn't explain himself; if they were here, they already knew why. He didn't introduce himself; he'd never heard their names, and he had zero intention of telling them his. No, Bishop Sicard removed the old parchments from his satchel-parchments that were very clearly not liturgical or sacred in nature-and then, after a simple, “Does everyone know what's required of them?” began to read.

CHAPTER TWO