Well of Sorrows by Benjamin Tate Read Free Book Online

square, the Proprietor’s estate on the far side surrounded by another stone wall, higher than those of the lesser nobles. Diermani’s church sat to one side, a graveyard in the back. There were more people here: townspeople, women walking in pairs, headed toward the mercantiles, children with dogs in tow, a few men. Colin wove through them, trying not to be seen, ignoring the occasional look of disdain, the furrowed brows, the sniffs and huffs of the women. He’d intended to pass through the square quickly, there and then gone—
    But he slowed before the church, halted. He stared up at the steeple and the tilted cross against the clouds and sky, and hesitated.
    “It always calms me, even in the worst of times.”
    Colin ripped his gaze away from Diermani’s cross and spun toward the voice, his heart thudding hard in his chest. His hand tightened on the sling, then relaxed as he spotted the priest standing a few steps behind him, watching him solemnly. About the same age as his father, the priest’s eyes were dark, his face tanned, but his hair was fair, and a smile touched the corner of his mouth. Dust from the marketplace coated the bottom of his black robe, but the white length of cloth draped over his shoulders was pristine and vibrant in the sun.
    Wrinkles creased the priest’s brow as he regarded Colin a moment, then cleared. “You’re from Lean-to,” he said. “That’s why I don’t recognize you.” He hesitated, half turned toward the Proprietor’s manse, then halted. Irritation flashed across his face, as if he were angry at himself, and then he smiled. “Would you like to see inside?”
    Colin frowned in suspicion, but his heart quickened. Everyone in the guild back in Andover had spoken of the great churches, of the work they’d been commissioned to do inside them, some of the finest that the guild had to offer. No one but a master could take on such an endeavor. His father had been awestruck for weeks after gaining journeyman and being allowed entrance into the cathedral in Trent. “Yes, Patris.”
    The priest’s eyes widened slightly. “So you know a little of the church.” He stepped forward, one hand guiding Colin toward the steps and the entrance. “I am a Patris, yes, but here in New Andover we aren’t as formal. You can call me Brindisi.”
    They’d reached the main wooden doors, built of heavy oak. Brindisi opened one side, motioning Colin through, then followed, swinging the door closed behind him. Brindisi stepped forward, but he paused partway into the sanctuary and turned when Colin did not move to follow him. “What’s wrong?”
    Colin didn’t answer. He breathed in the scent of newly worked wood thickened with the heavy taint of oil and some type of incense. A wooden lattice, intricate in detail, separated the entrance from the main sanctuary, where pews formed neat ranks between high, arched windows and heavy banners, all beneath a vaulted ceiling. A huge cross filled the recess behind the altar on the far side of the room, draped with thick folds of white and red cloth, the central beam tall and straight, the crossbeam tilted downward. Below, a long, narrow basin of water gleamed beneath the light of dozens of candles, separated from the pews by another carved railing of wood. Everything had the mark of the carpenter’s guild on it, intricate and fine, the pews solid, all of it worked with fine oils to a polished sheen, even the recesses of the windows.
    And his father hadn’t had anything to do with it. Because his father belonged to the Bontari Family.
    Brindisi took a step toward him. “You can enter the sanctuary. Diermani accepts everyone.”
    He turned a harsh glare on Brindisi. “Even a Bontari?”
    Then he turned and fled the heady scent of worked wood, a scent he thought he’d forgotten on the three- month voyage to the New World and the time they’d spent here. He heard Brindisi call for him to wait, but he ignored him, shoving through the door into the