Sorcerybound (World's First Wizard Book 2) by Aaron Schneider (best color ereader .TXT) 📗

instead to be a man who was acutely aware of everything around him and therefore acutely displeased.

“Deacon Saba, the lumbering dolt,” he hissed between the few teeth that remained in his mouth, “should have shot you at the door. It would have been kinder than anything I have to say to you, young pagan.”

“Pagan?” Milo asked, unable to stop himself. “That’s an interesting insult. I’m not sure it’s accurate, either.”

The priest gave a hacking exhalation that took Milo some time to recognize as a laugh.

“What else would you call a young fool dressed like a soldier who comes looking for heathen gods?”

Milo frowned, wondering if he needed to reassess his estimation of the priest’s faculties.

“I’m not sure I understand, Father,” Milo said, attempting to strike a gentler tone. “We were sent to look for the marquis. I’m not sure gods, heathen or otherwise, were part of that.”

The next bark of laughter could have been a muddled cough, and the small, shriveled man shook his head hard enough to make his jowls swing.

“Disaster is the companion of the aimless traveler.” Milo assumed it was a proverb. “Yes, the Marquis of Veils is one of the names he wears among his Dobilni kin, but it is not the only one. Among the superstitious fools down in Gergeti and other small hamlets, he is whispered to be Ochopintre, the wooded god of the hunt, or some other petty deity for savages to make bloody offerings to.”

Milo blinked and exchanged looks with Ambrose.

“How does a priest know about all this?” Milo asked, the words coming out blunt and terse, but as such honest.

“Why would a priest not know the superstitions of the ignorant fools he serves?” Father Zoidze asked, thrusting a stubbled gray chin at Milo. “To save their souls, you must know what holds their hearts, and on this God-cursed mountain, that Dobilni with divine aspirations has had these ingrates in the palm of his hand. Sixty years ministering to them, and in all that time, only those two idiot deacons to show for it!”

The priest rocked back in his chair and crossed his arms as though suddenly cold, looking more shrunken and mean for the change.

“Ochopintre still gets his sacrifices, and I still get to see the heathen on Sunday, half-asleep in the pews from their late-night revels,” he spat before his seamed face molded into a frown that he leveled at Milo. “Is that what you’ve come for then, to make a red offering on one of his stones in the valley?”

Milo paused for a moment, unsure of what to say. The bitter old man seemed to be no friend to the marquis but didn’t seem opposed to talking about him.

“We need to contact him,” Milo said, choosing his words carefully. “Our friend the contessa is in need of his assistance.”

“Contessa?” The old man sniffed. “One of the slatternly females of the wicked Dobilni, no doubt.”

“Yes.” Milo nodded, assuming that “Dobilni” was analogous to fey. His elixir translated well, but sometimes the proper names of things could trip it up.

“It makes sense that she would send you here,” the priest muttered, rocking slightly as he tightened his grip around himself. “God must know my sins need further penance.”

Again, Milo stole a glance at Ambrose, who simply shrugged. He remembered that Ambrose didn’t speak Georgian, so was at best reading the priest’s body language.

“Listen!” Father Zoidze said sharply, drawing Milo’s attention back to him. The priest’s brows were raised, and Milo got his first and only look at the man’s startlingly brilliant blue eyes.

“If you are seeking the marquis, you are going to need a map,” he growled and reached inside his desk to produce a small sheet of parchment and a quill writing set. “If you get out of here quick enough, you may be able to reach it as the sun is setting because the passage to his home is most easily seen at sunrise and sunset. You’ll be able to tell by the mists, I expect.”

The old man began to scratch on the parchment in short spidery strokes.

“Not to be ungrateful,” Milo began, unsure of how to phrase his concern, “but you seem awfully helpful in finding the marquis when you clearly don’t like him.”

“Is that supposed to be a question?” Father Zoidze asked without looking up.

“If you hate him so much, why tell people how to find him?” Milo asked. “Why help the Dobilni?”

The old man frowned down at his hastily scrawled map, the quill poised for another dip in the ink.

“It’s the deal we struck,” he said softly. “A long time ago.”

A few more scratches of the quill and the map was done.

“Take it and go,” Father Zoidze muttered as he held it out to Milo. “I’ll pray you renounce your wicked ways, but I doubt it will do much good. If you're already this far down the Devil’s path, there seems little hope for any of us.”

Milo took the map and looked it over. It was crude, but he could clearly see the church and trace a route along the mountainside to a narrow valley filled with sentinel pines.

“Thank you,” Milo said and made to rise.

The priest’s hand shot out, snaring Milo’s wrist with surprising strength.

Milo felt Ambrose surge up behind him, but he waved him away with his free hand. Something in the old man’s grip told Milo this wasn’t a threat but a plea.

“Dealing with their kind never ends well, my son,” Father Zoidze said in a husky whisper. “Whatever your aims, however noble, just remember that. Take it from someone who knows.”

With that, the old man released Milo, sank back down behind his desk, and would say no more.

Milo and Ambrose were a half-dozen strides from the church doors when Ambrose grabbed Milo by the shoulders and bore him to the ground. Both men hit the stone floor together, and quick as thought, the bodyguard had them rolling behind a wide stone column resplendent with iconography.

“What the—” Milo snarled before Ambrose’s