Archbishop Heron's manor was befitting of his title. A two—maybe three-story home carved from wood and stone. It sat on the southern outskirts of Tairos, not too far off from the ocean, behind a guarded gate. The sun was beginning to set, even though no sign of it showed through the clouds that shielded the sky from the land. Kael and Marcus exited their carriage, meeting the guards at the entrance to the manor.
"How's the manor?" Marcus shouted. The rain was especially loud that afternoon, pelting the Sentinels. The guards, luckily, had a cover attached to the gate.
"Untouched, Sentinels," the guard said equally as loud. "We haven't come inside. Just kept it safe from trespassers."
"Alright," said Marcus, "grant us entry."
The guard nodded and then turned to his partner, who stood next to the gate. He said something Kael couldn't discern over the rain. The other guard nodded, then slid the gate open. The Sentinels entered the property, passing trees and foliage as they made their way to the door to the mansion. The latch closing the entrance was locked. Marcus bent down and shuffled through his satchel. He took out his silver picks and got to work.
Marcus was used to this kind of work. For his last couple of years as one of the Church's Sentinels, he found himself picking locks and sneaking into homes, hunting for heretics. This was the life he was beginning to get used to, the better life. For him.
The lock came undone, along with the latch. Marcus pulled the door open, and the two entered the dark home. It was deathly quiet, with the only sound being the rain outside. They searched the bottom floor and the cellar, finding nothing of value. The Archbishop seemed to live as a minimalist, unreflective of his spacious home. They moved upstairs. Bedroom, nothing. They moved down the second-floor hallway. At the end stood a closed door. When they entered, they found the biggest room in the home.
The Archbishop's study was well organized. Bookshelves lined the walls parallel to his writing desk. A large window sat behind the desk, rain trickling down. The Sentinels paced around the room, scanning the area.
"Kael, take a look at his desk," said Marcus, studying a lamp by a bookshelf.
Three objects sat atop the desk: a quill stand, an inkwell, and a penknife. Kael moved around it; two drawers lay on the underside. He opened the one to his right; a leather-bound book sat inside. He picked it up and examined the first page. "Aemir's Word," he called out.
"Expected," Marcus said from away.
Kael opened the second drawer, revealing multiple papers. He took them out, flipping through each. "Organization of the midyear fair, letters of thanks, reports from the bishops..." He ran his hand across the drawer floor, pressing it at the corner. He went back to the first one and did the same. As he pressed the corners, he felt the bottom shift. He ran his free hand across the bottom of the drawer. His finger slid into a hole. Kael grabbed the penknife from the desk and aimed it below the hole, pushing the false bottom open. Below it lay another leather-bound book. "Sir," he said, holding the book beside his face, "this was under a false bottom."
Marcus came over beside Kael as he opened the book. It contained multiple logs from different dates. Each described a different day, some describing difficulties at work, people in need.
"A personal journal," Kael noted.
They flipped through to the last log. "Interesting," Marcus remarked, reading over the last writing.
79th of Dusk, 102,
I have made a severe lapse in my judgment. I have given into lust aggressively and inappropriately. This action is unbecoming of my stature, and therefore, I cannot, in good conscience, continue my work as Archbishop. I am to leave tomorrow by daylight and will never return.
"Well, it correlates with Cara's story," said Marcus.
Kael narrowed his eyes. Multiple pages had been ripped out before the last; on top of that, the words 'judgment', 'inappropriately', 'Archbishop', and 'return' were blurred as if they came in contact with water. Kael brushed over the words with his finger. They were rough, each one, and had a darker shade of cream color. "Some of these words are wet."
"Maybe they got excited," joked Marcus, nudging Kael on the shoulder. He looked over the words Kael pointed to. "Maybe he was crying."
"Sweat at the fingertips," said Kael.
"What do you mean?"
"The droplets are on every period." He pointed to each one, one by one. "At every period, he would dab the quill down, and sweat would drip off onto the page. This is too precise for it to simply be tears."
"So he was stressed, is what you mean."
"Multiple pages are torn out exactly before this entry, as if he rewrote this multiple times. That would explain the sweat, he was most likely here for a very long time writing this."
"Who rewrites a personal journal entry?"
"It could mean many things. It could mean he was a perfectionist. It could also mean he was forced to write this…" He studied the stubs along the binding. "Many times."
Marcus frowned, taking the journal. "Forced by who?"
"Whoever would benefit from getting rid of him."
"If he were, it makes sense. Everything about this circumstance has been odd. An Archbishop, the most powerful man in the city, left town for what? Forcing himself on a woman? He could have had this whole situation covered up the next day." But he felt this sense of righteousness… The same man who could commit such a sin could not bear its weight and left his duties permanently. It does not make sense.
"I believe we should investigate the legitimacy of the story we have been given," Kael decided.
Marcus furrowed his brow. "What do you have in mind?"
"I would like to speak to Cara Amsat once more. I don't believe her story was genuine."
"You want to speak to her alone?"
"Yes. Alone."
Marcus nodded. "Well, I was thinking of meeting with the other bishops. I don't trust Ovince Kallo. We'll split up tomorrow."