The abandoned rainwater water tank beneath the Western Cloister was silent, cold, and cavernous.
Fifty feet beneath the cobblestones of the Upper Terraces, the massive brick chamber had once stored water for the cathedral above. Built two hundred years ago during the reign of Patriarch Malachi, the water tank was engineered to withstand ground-shaking tremors, its thick granite stone props heavy with high-pressure lime that had hardened into white stone. Now, it stood half-dry, its curved walls lined with thick calcium deposits that glittered like salt in the amber light of a single animal fat lantern. A thin layer of stale rainwater covered the floor. It reflected the ribbed vaults like a black mirror. The air smelled of old stonework, dry sand, and the faint, bitter scent of Brother Ren’s vinegar compresses.
Ren Vale lay on a pallet of dry straw and rough burlap sacks, his back propped against a dry brick stone support prop.
His right arm was wrapped in heavy linen bandages soaked in vinegar and willow-bark tea. The limb felt heavy as lead, numb from the fingertips to the elbow, throbbing with a dull, sickening heat. Every time he tried to twitch his fingers, a bolt of cold lye shot through his forearm, reminding him of the terrible decree of the Exclusion Axiom. writing was now poison. The skin beneath the linen was dyed a deep, indelible violet-black, the tiny blood vessels permanently scarred by the backflow of dark oak-ink.
