The Priest of Blood by Douglas Clegg

slightly. He whispered something, and gestured for me to draw close to him. As I approached, he swiftly picked me up and swung around, holding me over the well. I became frightened, nearly out of my wits, sure that he would drop me to my death in that awful place.
    “You do not know why you are with me. You do not know what your mother has done in her past. But had I known you would bring us to find a demon, I would have left you in the mud, no matter how well you speak to birds, boy.” His harsh words beat against me, and I fought back tears. I did not understand this sudden change of heart. I did not understand what curse this winged demon brought with it.
    Finally, he set me back on the ground and spoke softly. “I have seen demons before,” he said. “They bring ill winds upon those who witness them. I know it is not your fault. But it may be in your blood to know where they live. To bring them into the light of day.”
    He spoke more, about the Devil, about what he regretted without mentioning these regrets by name. I felt as if I watched a man I had admired and respected grow mad, mumbling words about the past, about his youth, and the wars he had seen when he had been but little older than I.
    Finally, wearily, he began walking back to his huntsmen. As he passed me, he gave me a cold glance and said, “Corentin was right about you. From the start.”
    The words chill me now as they did then. My worst enemy had begun to destroy me in small ways, and my greatest protector had begun to turn against me.

    4

    The story of the demon spread like fire across the village and abbey. Fears of plague arose, then died down again, as no one seemed to be getting sick, and though a woman died from drowning in the marsh, and at first this was seen as the Devil’s work, such rumors were whispered rather than shouted. The priest and the Brethren blessed the land and the abbey and the village and the baron’s household, and soon all returned to normal for us.
    Except for me. At the time, I could not know what mechanism had turned my master against me, other than Corentin himself. Days went by when Kenan did not speak to me, nights passed when I could not sleep, rubbing my grandfather’s blue stone, praying that my master would have a change of heart.
    One cold morning, my mother arrived at the courtyard, riding in the back of a wagon with other beggars. When I found her, I went to get bread and what scraps of meat I could find, for she had nothing to feed my younger brothers and sisters. But when I returned to her, Kenan Sensterre was there, waiting for me. He came up to me, slapping the food from my hands and pushing me to the cold ground. “She is a bad woman,” he said. “Do not feed her. Do not clothe her.”
    I gathered up some of the bread, hiding it under my cloak. “Why have you changed, Master? What have I done? What has my mother done?”
    Without answering, he left me there, and I took what I could to my mother, who shivered at the gates.
    “He cannot forgive,” she said.
    “What have I done to him? And why should he hurt you?”
    I remember her face so clearly: it was filthy, but shone with an inner light. Her hair, though matted, seemed to catch the sun’s glow, and her small hands held mine briefly before taking the bread from me. She had the heat of fire, even in her cold hands. “He has helped us. Even though he is angry now. He has blessed us. Do not forget that, ever.”
    She leaned into me to kiss me on the cheek, but I drew away. I felt confused and unhappy, and unsure of anything I had believed. “You must accept life,” she told me. “The way it is.”
    “Grandfather once told me we were from a noble line,” I said.
    “He was a liar,” she said, and what light I had seen in her eyes grew dark as she turned to go. Her feet were wrapped in bandages, and her cloak was torn and ragged.
    “I will come one night with shoes, and clothing,” I told her.
    She glanced back, briefly. “Do not risk