Each Life's Quest

part five of five

by volta_arovet

with many thanks to my beta, spacetart. Any and all mistakes or poorly worded sections are due to my ignoring her excellent suggestions.

The morning broke too soon. Eight had woken first. He was always the first one awake; why should this day be any different? The boy was out of sight, but he had left behind the folded missionary uniform, the boots, the ring, and a fresh apple on top of the pile. Marcello took a bite of it and frowned at its sweetness.

Marcello was mostly dressed when Eight returned, and his jaw dropped at the sight. Eight was wearing the fur coat, as expected, but he was also wearing a foolish pair of smoked glasses perched on his nose, and he had abandoned his red bandana in favor of a greasy pomade.

"What-a do you think?" Eight asked in a ridiculous accent. "Is my appearance, ah, molto bene?"

Marcello did not cover his eyes or pinch the bridge of his nose, but that was only because his hands were busy fixing his white boots. "You certainly look the part," he said, the 'part' being a foreign monster team owner with money to spare. "So long as you don't speak," he added.

"You do, too," Eight said, "so long as you don't scowl." He leaned in to straighten the hair by Marcello's ear. Marcello grabbed Eight's hand and held it gently.

"I don't know what we'll see in there," he cautioned. "The abbot is more concerned with gold than morals, but the captain of the knights is a true believer. Frankly, I'm not certain which is more dangerous."

Eight nodded his understanding. Marcello did not loose his hand, not yet.

"When this is through," Marcello said, and he truly had to push at the words to get them past his tongue, "you should-we should search for your dragon. If you like."

He expected Eight to beam at that, or flush, or look shocked, but instead, he just looked slightly sad. He leaned in and kissed Marcello once, lightly. "We should go," he said, and headed for the abbey.

"Good morning, gentlemen!" Marcello called, pitching his voice to a higher tone than usual. His lips were turned into a careless smirk-an expression he'd seen and loathed too many times when Angelo had used it. His step had a bit more swagger to it, and he ran a hand through his short-cropped hair.

Eight, for his part, was playing the role of the foreign tourist to the best of his abilities, staring at the abbey with equal parts curiosity and confusion.

"What business have you here?" the guard asked perfunctorily, and Marcello inwardly breathed a sigh of relief at the lack of recognition. He gave the appropriate salute and received it in kind.

"I have brought a poor sinner in search of absolution," Marcello said, subtly running his thumb across his palm. The guard's eyes widened at the signal and nodded his understanding.

"Yes, yes, very good for the soul, sir," the guard said, stepping aside.

"I always said a little absolution can do anyone good," Marcello drawled as they passed the guard, and he slipped a coin into the guard's hand.

It was another five steps until their next obstacle-two clergymen who were rather curious about the two strangers making their way through the abbey.

"La chieza e bene?" Marcello asked Eight loudly.

"Si, si, tutto bene," Eight replied. Marcello had to force himself not to wince at his accent. The enthusiasm was good, at least, and that would go far to convince those who didn't know the language.

Marcello pretended to be surprised to see the clergymen. "Ah! Hello there! We were just on our way to sign in at the waystation." He smiled ingratiatingly and stuck out a hand. "Giuseppe Firenze, of the Ascanthan Abbey." He motioned to Eight. "My new friend has recently made a good score at the monster arena and wishes to thank the Goddess for his good fortune."

"The Goddess gives in many ways," one of the clergymen said piously.

"We've been on a journey to visit all the major abbeys of the continent, so I was wondering-do you have any special sights here?"

The clergymen looked at each other. "Sights?"

"Oh, you know," Marcello said, flippantly waving a hand. "Hidden gardens, ancient relics, dusty catacombs, that sort of thing."

The clergymen shared another look.

"The abbot knows the history best..." one of them said hesitantly.

Marcello clapped him warmly on the shoulder. "Excellent! And how kind of you to arrange a meeting for us!" He steered the clergymen toward the center of the abbey. "Ottore, e pronto!" he called after Eight, who smiled inanely and hurried to catch up.

The abbot's office was empty when they arrived, so Marcello settled himself in the most comfortable guest chair while Eight admired a large tapestry on the wall.

"He should be back momentarily," one of the clergymen said.

"Always so busy, aren't they?" Marcello said, and debated resting his feet on the desk. It was a very Angelo thing to do, but he decided against it. Best not to push things too far. "Come, sit." Marcello motioned to the other chairs. The clergymen hesitated, unwilling to break the bonds of formality. "Oh, don't just stand there. What are your names?" he asked, although he already knew one.

"Rodrigo," said one, and "Manuel" the other.

Marcello's eyes lit up. "Brother Rodrigo! I thought you looked familiar! How long has it been since you were last in Pickham?"

The shorter of the clergymen choked, and Marcello bit back on a triumphant smile. "I think you have me confused-" Rodrigo began.

"No, I'm certain it was you," Marcello said, giving him a knowing wink. "Lola says she's missed you, by the way."

Rodrigo backed away. "Ah, pardon me, I think I must attend to the gates."

As he headed to the door, Marcello turned to Manuel and said, "Have you met Lola? She's a sweet girl, but after three drinks, she-"

"Perhaps you had best come with me," Rodrigo said loudly, grabbing Manuel and all but forcibly dragging him out of the room.

"Well," Marcello said, the foolish smirk falling from his face, replaced with its usual expression. "That went easier than I expected."

"Buona fortuna," Eight said, and ignored Marcello's annoyed glare.

"Have you found anything of interest?" Marcello asked, making strides towards the abbot's desk.

"Not yet."

He pulled on the desk drawer. It was locked. "Drat. We don't have time for this."

A golden key landed with a clink on the desk. Marcello tried it, and the drawer opened without fuss. He looked at Eight, who was innocently perusing the bookshelf.

"You continue to surprise," Marcello said, almost in admiration.

The drawer was filled with ledgers, all leather-bound with gold filigree. Marcello opened one and saw it filled from page to page with lines of bribes, trades, and acquisitions of questionable morality, all neatly noted in an elegantly-rounded script. The abbot was exactly the type of greedy, corruptible authority Marcello so despised, and so depended on when he was clawing his way through the ranks.

He tsked to himself and sucked at his teeth. "We may be searching the wrong man. Jewels, jobs, priceless relics, but no note anywhere of children." He flipped another page, and was nearing the end of the correct time window. "Even selling the boys wouldn't bring in a tenth of his weekly profits. He doesn't even appear to be in the abbey on the dates of some of the abductions. What the devil are they doing with the children?"

"Ah!" Eight yelped, and Marcello saw the boy scrambling at some scraps of paper that had fallen out of an ancient-looking book. They were folded unevenly, like someone had quickly tucked them into a hiding place.

The notes were barely intelligible, scratched in a spiky, backwards handwriting that leaned to the left. There were some symbols drawn in a circular pattern, many of them crossed out or fixed, with a few question marks dotted across the page. In the margins were scribbled notes, short lists of minerals or supplies, "wood chair-psbl int.?" was circled, and under that, sharply underlined, was "male, 10yo max."

Marcello felt his heart catch in his throat. "Human experimentation?" He frowned at the patterns. "The theory is beyond me."

"Do you know who?" Eight flipped the page, searching for a name.

Marcello shook his head. "It must be someone of importance, with access to valuable books and theory, someone who would feel comfortable waiting in the abbot's office while working on illicit plans. Someone who-" A thought caught at Marcello's mind. He cracked open the abbot's door and was pleased to see the two clergymen were still within earshot.

"Ah, Rodrigo!" Marcello called out, and grinned inwardly when the man flinched. "Our guest has expressed an interest in supporting the Templar knights as well. I don't suppose you could fetch someone for him to speak with?"

The man looked skeptical. "Our Captain doesn't normally..." but Marcello was already waving that thought away.

"Oh, Captains will rarely meet to press the palm. Hasn't he a Second who could be of assistance?" Marcello suggested. "One on whom he usually foists such tasks?" he prompted when Rodrigo seemed unsure.

"I suppose Esteban..." Rodrigo said slowly.

Marcello clapped his hands. "Yes, that sounds perfect. Fetch him for us, will you?" He shooed Rodrigo off with a little flip of the wrist, then shut the door.

Eight looked at him quizzically.

"Just following a hunch as to whom is the author of our note," Marcello said. "I wouldn't be surprised if the entirety of the knights were behind this, but we've got to catch one of the higher-ups if we're to get any information about where the children are being held."

"Can you get the information?" Eight asked. He started rummaging through his pouches.

"We've come so far on a cold bluff, I don't see why that can't continue," Marcello said a bit proudly.

"You must get it," Eight said.

He pressed something into Marcello's hands. It was a small, silver case. The metal was cold, but he could already feel it warming under his touch. His mouth went dry.

"Oh," Marcello said in a small voice.

He wondered wildly where Eight had found this case. It was unlikely that Angelo had kept it as a keepsake, like the other articles. It was unlikely that anyone would want to keep these tools-anyone who was a good person, anyway.

The door slid open again. A Templar knight stepped inside, and Marcello was shocked at the rush of longing that shot through him-not for the uniform or the air of authority, but for how the young man seemed so calm, so confident that he was on the right track in life. There was a sense of purpose about him that few men carried, that Marcello remembered having.

Marcello didn't remember Esteban having that drive when he had met him last, but his memory was correct about the young knight wearing his sword on the sinister side.

"Buon giorno!" Eight said loudly, clasping the knight's hand between his own and shaking briskly. It gave Marcello enough time to compose himself and fall back into his role.

"Yes, yes, very pleased to meet you," Marcello said, smiling ingratiatingly. He would have taken Esteban's hand, but Eight was still shaking it. "Giuseppe Firenze of the Ascanthan Abbey. This is Ottore Principia, the famous Monster Arena player, perhaps you've heard of him?"

Marcello noticed Esteban's slightly panicked look and gave him a pointed stare as if to say, 'I know he's not famous, please go with it.'

"Ah, yes, of course. Such an honor, to be sure."

"As a fellow warrior," Marcello said, letting his voice carry just a hint of irony at his companion's expense, "he wishes to help fund your noble efforts."

Esteban finally rescued his hand from Eight's enthusiastic grip and used it to smooth the front of his uniform. "I'm afraid all donations must go through the abbot, to be distributed as he deems fit," Esteban said, the sweet piety in his voice setting Marcello's teeth on edge.

"Of course, of course, but..." Marcello slid in closer, and noticed that Eight was moving to a less-noticeable position to complement his own. "If the donation were an object or tool particular to the Templars, the abbot wouldn't choose to give it to anyone but yourselves." He could see Esteban's willpower weakening, just a bit. "Surely, you must have some trinket, some tool or article of war you've always wished for but never seemed to have room in the budget? Allow a rich sinner to help your cause."

Esteban smiled for the first time-a weak-willed, foolish little smile that reminded Marcello of Eight for some reason. "We have been wanting a Flying Jenny..."

"Excellent!" Marcello grabbed a pad of paper and quill. "Never heard of the thing, of course, but a Fighting Jenny it is."

"Flying Jenny," Esteban corrected.

"Your pardon. Flying...is that with a 'j' or a 'g'? Or perhaps a 'dj', sounds quite foreign to me..." Marcello pondered vapidly.

"With a 'j'. It's a sort of chair where the legs..." he began to describe, but Marcello cut off his description of the torture device.

"Would you?" he said, holding out the paper and quill.

Esteban took them and neatly printed the name of the device in spiky, backward-slanting letters. Marcello noted the familiar handwriting; so, apparently, did Eight, who slipped away and quietly locked the door behind them.

"Please, do sit down," Marcello said, motioning to the seat.

"No, many thanks," Esteban said, setting the paper back on the desk. "My duties-"

Marcello punched the knight-once in the gut to silence him, and once in the jaw to knock him back. "Sit," Marcello hissed, drawing and placing his sword at Esteban's throat.

He sat there in shock, a comical expression of surprise stuck on his face, and Marcello wondered if it was because of the unexpected attack, or because a missionary had actually used his fist on a Templar.

"Tie him down," Marcello directed Eight, who did so.

"You don't want to scream," Marcello said, very quietly, his voice dropping into his normal octave. "In a moment, you won't be able to scream, but right now, you don't want to scream because if you do, there are only two sorts of people who will come to your rescue: good-hearted people who will be most curious about what you've been up to in the shack under the hill, and your allies, whom we will not hesitate to cut down for the child-stealers they are. Now. Do you know who I am?"

Esteban nodded, unthinking, and winced when the blade bit into his neck. "You're the ones searching for us. From the village."

"Half right," Marcello said as Eight tugged the last knot tight. "Now. We would like to know where the children are. You probably suppose we will use the traditional method of torturing you until you speak."

He opened the silver case and inspected the blades-all gleaming, sharp, in pristine condition. Marcello continued, "You know as well as I do that torture rarely presses someone to tell the truth, so much as it encourages one to say anything which may please those in charge. I generally do not torture to interrogate. I torture to punish."

Marcello selected one of the tools, shaped like a curved pair of scissors, a nutcracker with blades. Its weight was horribly familiar in his hand.

"This is a little-known secret of mine," he said, almost conversationally. "When someone has done something like...well, like what you have done, I make it so you will be able to recognize each other for what you are when you meet."

He took Esteban's right hand and separated the fingers, pulling the smallest away from the others. "You are fortunate. This will not affect your swordplay."

"Don't-" Esteban pleaded. "Please."

"I'm afraid this is non-negotiable," Marcello said. "What I do after this, perhaps you can persuade me one way or the other. Open your mouth." He took a strip of cloth and wadded it into a ball.

Eight was watching him. The boy's face was blank, impassive, unreadable. Marcello thought it strange he had ever believed the boy wore his heart on his sleeve.

When Marcello approached with the gag, Esteban obediently opened his mouth, eyes cast downward.

"No more struggles?" Marcello asked in surprise.

Esteban's eyes flicked up, just for a moment, and they held a resigned recognition. "Against you, Marcello?" he asked, voice cold and dead. "But the children serve a higher cause; I will not give them up."

He did, eventually. It took more time than Marcello had wanted, more tools than he'd liked. Eight watched him the whole time, impassively, and Marcello's hands never shook, never hesitated under his gaze.

There was blood on Marcello's hands and cuffs when Esteban broke, revealing the location of the hidden door beneath the embroidered rug on the floor. There were sigils worked into the grain of the wooden floor, subtle enough that few would notice them at a glance.

Marcello slid the Templar's ring off of Esteban's unresisting hand. He touched the mark shaped like a flame, then pressed the sword and shield at the same time, and finally pressed the ring into the eye-shaped whorl at the center. The floor hummed for a moment, and then the planks parted, revealing a dark staircase.

"Is anyone down there?" Eight called, to Marcello's annoyance. A chorus of young boys' voices answered him. He darted down the stairs without even a nod to Marcello.

"Don't disturb the circle," Esteban said, voice thick and slurred.

"You're in no position to make demands," Marcello reminded him, picking up the gag again.

"Please," Esteban said, and it was a different kind of pleading than before. "We need him now. For our faith to survive, we-"

"I don't care for your excuses," Marcello said.

Esteban started to laugh. "Captain Marcello, forever styling yourself as the hero, when all you're good for is-"

The pommel of Marcello's sword was just as effective at silencing the knight as the gag, Marcello found. Esteban slumped in his chair, which Marcello knocked behind the Abbot's desk, out of sight.

The underhall was dark as Marcello had expected, but lacked the usual community of spiders, ghouls, and dust he remembered in other catacombs. Eight was there, using his golden key to unlock the boys in the cells. He had removed the foolish bunnicorn coat and had placed it on one of the boys' shoulders.

"One's missing," Eight said in lieu of a greeting. Marcello did a mental count of the boys and agreed with Eight's assessment.

"Pieter's in the other room," the oldest boy said. "I saw him yesterday, when they brought me in, but..." The boy frowned. "He's different."

"How so?" Marcello asked. The children turned to look at him, and the closest few drew back. Marcello hid his bloodied hands and cuffs behind his back.

"He didn't recognize me," the boy said, "and all he'd say was that he was sorry. Not sorry like he felt bad he couldn't help, but sorry like it was his fault." He glanced furtively between Marcello and the stairs. "Can we leave? Now? Please?" he said, clearly doing his best to clamp down on a panicked urge to run.

Eight moved in close to the boy, squeezing his shoulder in a comforting but respectful manner. "We'll leave when we're all together, Tomas. We can't leave anyone behind. Can you keep the younger children calm while we help Pieter?"

Tomas nodded, biting his lip. Eight clapped him on the shoulder again before boldly moving into the next room. Marcello followed.

The missing boy was seated on a wooden chair in the center of an elaborate seal drawn on the floor. He looked at them, smiling brightly. "Greetings, Lord High Priest, Prince," he said.

"Wrong on both accounts," Marcello said, voice rough.

The boy cocked his head, smile turning a bit sheepish. "Am I? I apologize. Information is sometimes so hard to come by."

"You aren't Pieter," Marcello said, hand moving to his sword. Eight ignored all this and was bent over, examining the seal.

The boy pressed his palm to his chest. "Pieter sleeps. I am Eagus, the Sage." His eyes lowered. "Forgive me. All this is my fault."

"You compelled them to call for you?" Marcello asked.

Eagus shook his head. "No, that was their fancy, to call the Seven Sages to heal the world's faith. It was only a fancy; the summoning would not work without our consent, and what good sage would dare break the natural cycle of death?"

His words were bitter, and he looked away. "I'm sorry. I'm not like the others. I was so young when I became a sage, so young when I died, I only wanted a taste-" His voice broke off. He locked eyes with Marcello. "Please. Forgive my weakness."

"It's not my place to forgive," Marcello said, his bloody hands twitching.

The sadness faded from the boy's eyes, just a bit. "No, I suppose not. Will you release me?"

"Of course," Eight said. He touched one of the braziers at the far side of the circle. "I think removing these will do it."

"Yes. Thank you." Eagus folded his hands neatly, closing his eyes and leaning back in his chair. "Ah, yes. I have a message for you, from Regnar's heir." He paused. "He said, 'Thank you, Marcello.'"

Marcello's heart caught in his throat. He shook his head as he tried to remember how to breathe. "I don't-I don't understand what he means."

Eagus opened his eyes, smiling helplessly. "Neither do I," he said simply as Eight blew out the last brazier. The boy's eyes closed and he slumped in his chair, breathing deeply as though he had always been asleep.

"Will you take him for me?" Eight asked.

Marcello moved to pick up Pieter, but paused when he looked at his smeared, gummy hands. "I don't want to touch him," Marcello said quietly. "You-"

Eight took one of Marcello's hands and rubbed it softly with a bright yellow cloth. Marcello realized a moment later that it was Eight's coat, that Eight had removed it and was using it as carelessly as a rag. Eight was now only dressed in a deep, Templar's blue.

"I don't love you," Marcello said.

Eight moved on to his other hand.

"I never loved you, never cared at all, it was all about-"

"Angelo. I know," Eight said. He kept his eyes on Marcello's hand, cleaning it with quick, efficient swipes. "But I didn't mind." His eyes flicked up briefly, and they were as dark and affectionate as ever.

Eight released Marcello's hands. "We should go. We need to get the children out of here before anyone raises the alarm. Can you fight while carrying him?"

Marcello's mouth was dry. He had to swallow twice before he could say, "Yes, I believe so."

Eight smiled at him. The expression was blank for all its sweetness. "Good."

Eight left the room. Marcello picked up the child and followed him, and he felt nothing, absolutely nothing.