by Kevin Hearne
“But you’re okay with telling me now?”
The pelenaut shrugged. “Sure. We’re going to take care of this today one way or the other. Here’s the thing: The wraiths had twisted faces—you heard Tallynd’s report correctly there—but the rest of their bodies were recognizably not from here. They were tall, thin Eculans. Every single one of them.”
“You mean the wraiths are Bone Giants?”
“Yes. And that song the bard sang a while back about mistmaidens and mistmen and how attractive they are? That was a barrel of fish heads. There is no way you’d ever think kissing them was a good idea.”
“So what are you saying, Rölly? The Wraith is somehow allied with the Bone Giant wraiths on the Mistmaiden Isles?”
“No, Dervan. I’m saying he is a wraith. He is a Bone Giant. He’s the one who sold us out, who coordinated the attack, who gave the Bone Giants everything they needed to know to wipe us out.”
It was too huge for my mind to grasp. “I don’t get it. How did we not figure out that he’s a Bone Giant before now?”
“Because he’s in a Brynt body. One that the Wraith possessed long ago. It’s why he’s been sick for decades but somehow never dies.”
A cold tremor shuddered through my body. I remembered that candlelit portrait on the wall in the Wraith’s dark room, of a ghostly wraith standing among the trees of some nameless island, and thinking at the time it was a heavy-handed scare tactic. It was far scarier now that I knew the Wraith probably viewed it as a self-portrait. And it was also infuriating—the arrogance of it, I mean—to realize he was laughing at me the whole time while I thought “the Wraith” was just a name he’d adopted rather than his actual nature.
“Never dies?” I said. “How long have you known this?”
“We didn’t know for sure he was the traitor until just now, when you identified his handwriting. We’ve only suspected. His reports are always written by someone else. And it’s taken a long time to confirm things and investigate in a way that didn’t alert him. He has people everywhere.”
“Okay…wow. Walk me through how you got there?”
Röllend leaned back and gestured to his lung, and Föstyr took his cue.
“After the first attacks on our cities, we knew there had to be a traitor, because the strikes were too well timed and executed not to have been made based on inside information. We began with the hope that the traitor couldn’t be a Brynt who agreed to plan their own people’s genocide. That code name for a contact that Tallynd found—Vjeko—seemed to confirm this, since it wasn’t a Brynt name. That meant the traitor had to be either a Bone Giant or some other foreign national. We were pursuing the foreign-national idea, obviously, until Tallynd reported that the wraiths were Bone Giants. We talked a lot about what that might mean, but Könstad du Lallend—our top military adviser, in case you haven’t heard of him—pointed out that maybe a wraith could escape the island if it had a body to ride along in. And if that happened, then…it could potentially live among us and we’d never know.”
“That sounded improbable to me at first,” Rölly interjected. “I didn’t think possession could be so subtle as to escape notice. But I didn’t want to dismiss anything. I wanted everything investigated. So we went back to that master of charts Tallynd mentioned in her story and asked her if she would mind running up to Festwyf and seeing if they had anything in their archives.”
“You sent the master of charts to a dead city all by herself?”
“No. With Tallynd. The archives were untouched; the Bone Giants just killed everyone and moved on. So she found a record of the pelenaut’s request to survey the Mistmaiden Isles from a hundred twenty-seven years ago. The quartermaster at the time did send out a crew of ten volunteers. But only two returned—a man and a woman, both mariners—and the report said they were raving mad, speaking words that made no sense, and they had not completed a survey of any kind.”
“Holy turtle balls,” I said, my horror growing.
“It gets more interesting,” Föstyr said. “Because I did a little digging. A lot of digging, really, in our archives here. Turns out that a man named Ursen du Mylseböck and a woman named Ysabel du Köpen came to Pelemyn from Festwyf one hundred twenty-five years ago and made themselves very useful to the government. They were former mariners. That man is now known only as the Wraith.”
“Kraken cocks! And the woman?”
“Still using the same name. You’ve met her.”
“I have? I don’t recall meeting her.”
“She’s his assistant. Surely you’ve met. Acts like she’s heard of emotions but can’t seem to imitate them properly.”
“Oh, drown me! Approval Smile!”
“What?”
“That’s what I call her. She smiles only when you do what she wants.”
“That’s the one.” He waggled a finger at me. “That’s an astute observation.”
“So they’re both possessed by wraiths?”
“We think so,” the lung affirmed. “It would fit with the description of them speaking a strange language upon their return to Festwyf. And it would account for the fact that they’ve been working in Pelemyn for a hundred twenty-five years. We have records to prove it. Scattered and fragmented, and some records that should be there are missing, which we find suspicious, but if they did try to purge records, they missed some. They’re probably one hundred fifty years old, or else very close to it.”
“And the wraiths that possessed them are keeping their bodies alive?”
“It would seem so.”
I rattled my chains on the table as I attempted to throw up my hands in frustration and failed. “How have you two not soiled your pants yet? Because I’m experiencing both a fight and flight response right now. This is the most horrifying thing I’ve ever heard. Are the original Brynts even still alive, or are the wraiths fully in charge of their minds?”
“We don’t know.”
It made me wonder what else they did or didn’t know. I’d assumed that the Wraith was sharing everything with Rölly and Föstyr, but if he was a traitor, that might have been a foolish assumption.
“Rölly…were you aware of a recent operation in Rael in which Nara du Fesset managed to steal the journal of Clodagh of the Triune Council?”
“Yes. I’ve read it.”
“The whole thing?”
“Yes.”
“Then you know she ordered the death of my wife, Sarena.”
The pelenaut blinked. “What? No, I don’t recall reading that.”
My jaw dropped, and another cold shiver racked my spine. “There wasn’t a passage in there about a poison crafted in Aelinmech for a Brynt spy?”
“No. It was almost uniformly boring. Clodagh is mired up to her neck in Raelech internal squabbles, railing against the other members of the Triune.”
“There was nothing about Sarena in there? Nothing that could remotely be attributed to her?”
“No. Why would there be?”
“Because the Wraith—that bloody bastard Wraith—said there was! And whatever is in there, Clodagh thinks it’s embarrassing. Because she told me as much through Fintan.”
Rölly frowned. “Are you saying she sent a message to you through Fintan?”
“Yes. Numa was here recently, right?” The pelenaut nodded and I continued. “She relayed a message from Clodagh to Fintan, and he relayed it to me: She knows the journal was stolen and she threatens retribution if we try to use it against her.”
Rölly blew a raspberry. “Well, I can understand that. It’s seedy. Unseemly. Even gross, maybe. Not sure what the right word is. But it’s all Raelech drama and none of our concern. I don’t have any interest in sharing its contents. I only wanted to know if she planned on using the Raelech reinforcements on their way here to overthrow our rule, but if that’s the case, she didn’t write it do
wn.”
“So she’s not plotting the murders of our spies?”
“No.”
“You’re positive you read the whole thing?”
“Yes.”
I thought of that convenient Brynt translation the Wraith had inserted in the journal. He had already known I couldn’t read Raelech very well. He’d made it all up. “The Wraith lied to me.”
Rölly nodded. “It would seem so.”
“That means I still don’t know who poisoned Sarena. He just used me. Why? To buy my loyalty?”
Föstyr nodded. “To put you in his debt. So you’d do something for him later, like drop a traitorous letter. And maybe you’d try to do something rash to Clodagh, thinking you were getting revenge, but really you’d be starting a war between Rael and Brynlön.”
I clenched my fists and flicked my eyes at Rölly. “Bryn’s balls, I really hate this spy shit. This kind of thing is exactly why I told you I wasn’t prepared for this. Are you going to kill him? And if so, can I help?”
My friend shook his head. “I don’t know. Consider, Dervan: If wraiths are already dead, can we really kill them? I mean, sure, as a tidal mariner I can rip the water out of the body’s blood, but will the wraith possessing that body be destroyed at the same time? Or will that wraith simply be free to possess someone else? What if that someone else is me, Dervan? What if I go to kill the Wraith and, as a result, a wraith becomes the pelenaut of Brynlön?”
“Oh, drown me. I take it back, Rölly. Do not try to kill the Wraith.”
“I’ve never met him in person, you know. We’ve always used go-betweens. I’m worried that a face-to-face is what he’s waiting for.”
“Oh, yeah. That makes a very scary sort of sense. Definitely stay away.”
“I will. Or I will until we have him secured. But I worry about our people getting hurt. I don’t think he’ll go quietly. Okay, listen. We are going to move as quickly as we can, but I need to keep you here until this is over. I am sorry you got roped into this.”
“I am too.” I ducked my head. “I don’t know if I’ll ever get over disappointing you.”
“No. It’s not you. It’s not any of us, really. It’s him. Or them. It’s the unreasoning hatred of someone who has decided against all evidence that we do not deserve to exist because we are not the same as him. We’re going to try to contain him now, and some of Föstyr’s people will have some additional questions for you. I can’t say when you’ll be out but hopefully soon.”
“So I won’t be meeting with the bard anymore?”
“Well…not for now. We will make excuses and apologies on your behalf.”
I nodded dumbly, but as they got up to leave, I remembered something. “My account of the Wraith—my meetings with him and the lies he told me about Sarena—it’s in my manuscript.”
“Thank you,” Föstyr said.
They exited, and the clang of the cell door closing only made the subsequent silence more pronounced. I didn’t even know what they meant when they said they would try to “contain him” but figured I would learn later. Maybe.
In that cold metal pool of silence, I wallowed in the knowledge that I had been legendarily gulled by the Wraith, though I suppose that didn’t separate me from the rest of the government very much; he’d apparently been playing a very long game and had safely operated against us under the noses of multiple pelenauts for more than a century.
With hindsight, it was appalling. Any work he had done to weaken Rael or other countries was as much in service to Ecula as it was to Brynlön. And, of course, he had been learning everything he could about Brynlön for decades and passing that information on to the invaders so that they moved through our country with confidence about where and how to strike.
I worried about Gerstad Nara du Fesset. Had she been duped like me? Or was she somehow complicit in the Wraith’s schemes? I would not believe it without proof and would not have had cause to wonder, but when one is so masterfully fooled, one begins to doubt even bedrock beliefs, questioning everything that had previously been believed on faith.
There was no way to judge the passing of time until I heard the bard’s magical voice reach me in the cell, and while I knew I was going to miss being on the wall and seeing the forms he took, I was relieved that I wouldn’t miss any of the tales. He sang a song and took a break, and I wondered if the Wraith and Approval Smile were listening now in some other cell somewhere, frustrated and justly worried about their fates. I hadn’t heard anyone clanking around in the dungeon, but they might have them imprisoned elsewhere. Or else they hadn’t managed to catch the Wraith after all.
Fintan’s voice reached me again. “I’m going to begin today’s tales with Fornish ambassador Mai Bet Ken—perhaps you remember her from earlier, when Melishev Lohmet described her strong scent of floral perfume.”
There was a pause, no doubt while he took the form of her seeming, and I wished I could see it but did my best to picture a green-robed, diminutive Fornish woman, pale skinned and…brunette? I couldn’t recall if he had mentioned it before.
When walking among the weeds, which one do you pull up first? Begin anywhere at random, since they all must be plucked eventually? At the periphery of the infestation, methodically progressing in a certain direction? The biggest first? Start in the middle and work out in a spiral?
In truth it does not matter. What matters is persistence. Determination to prevail. Cultivation of a garden does not require a blessing so much as sweat. Growing up in the Red Pheasant Clan taught me that. I worked in the fields and greenhouses like everyone else, looking after Sif Tel tea bushes and the various herbs we grow for medicinal purposes. I always preferred the tea; it smelled more pleasant than the medicinal plants and didn’t make me think about disease.
I do not live in the Canopy anymore, and while I do miss it, I am proud of the garden I’ve built here in Hashan Khek—a literal one on the Fornish grounds and a metaphorical one of contacts in the Nentian government. A garden of relationships, I suppose, that I’m nurturing as the Fornish ambassador to Viceroy Melishev Lohmet. Tending to him requires quite a bit of work and a lot of floral spritzes applied to my person. If I give off a strong odor, it usually repels advances and shortens my meetings; it’s both convenient and efficient, if pungent. Unfortunately, he makes me think of disease rather often, since he’s visibly afflicted with something.
This posting has proven to be anything but the sentence to boredom I thought it was going to be. I’d hoped my study of languages and cultures would earn me a posting in Kauria, where I could revel in their universities and libraries and still enjoy fantastic teas, but I got assigned to Ghurana Nent instead, where until recently nothing of import ever happened. We have only three posts in the entire country.
And then Mount Thayil erupted, Gorin Mogen invaded down by the Godsteeth, and suddenly I’m in a hot spot—though only a metaphorical one, thank sun and rain. And my colleague in Khul Bashab, Jes Dan Kuf, is in another. While Melishev marched south with the king’s tactician, Diyoghu Hennedigha, in front of a huge army sent from Talala Fouz, I received word from Jes that there are credible reports of some kids finding the Sixth Kenning!
If true, then Ghurana Nent will be changing profoundly. It might change for the better—we can only hope—or it might change for the worse. Forn must be prepared for either eventuality. And I am improbably, terrifyingly, thrillingly, one of the people who can make sure Forn is prepared. I can almost see the elders of my clan reaching for emergency mango juice at the thought of that grimy, sunburnt girl from the fields being in charge of anything. I sometimes wonder if their buds have ever blossomed: The assumption that manual laborers cannot lead rich intellectual lives is offensive. My best thinking usually occurs while working outdoors—so much so that my office is a solarium with the windows open as much as possible.
While Viceroy Lohmet was absent at t
he Godsteeth, I wrote letters to colleagues throughout Forn, explaining my thinking and arguing that we needed Fornish ambassadors in all Nentian cities to gently push for policies that will not only protect the Canopy but help it thrive with the advent of the Sixth Kenning. We cannot bear to have an inimical neighbor to the south in Hathrir and another in the north.
I sent another batch of letters to the leaders of my clan, specifically arguing that expanding our tea interests would be good for both the Canopy and the Red Pheasants. I haven’t heard back yet, but Lohmet has returned, victorious, and summoned me to an audience.
When I enter and see him sitting on his throne, he is as triumphant as a corpse flower, which takes years to bloom and, when it does, smells of death no matter how beautiful the blossom. He smirks while the muscle underneath one eye twitches. He is sweating a little, even though it is cool, a late-summer prelude to autumn. He is still very ill and in need of a Brynt hygienist to cleanse him of contagion. To his left, behind him, looms the tactician, Hennedigha, at parade rest, his face unreadable.
“Ambassador Ken,” he says, then coughs a couple of times. “How lovely to smell you again.”
“Welcome back, Viceroy. How may I serve?”
“You’ve no doubt heard of our victory against Gorin Mogen.”
“I have. Congratulations.”
“It is truly I who should be congratulating you. The Fornish forces led by your greensleeves did most of the work. One of them was personally responsible for slaying Mogen.”
“Yes. Nel Kit ben Sah of the White Gossamer Clan. She will be honored for generations.”
“Tell me, have you heard from your contacts in Pont about the Brynt hygienist stationed there?”
“I have. They tell me that the hygienist has returned home to Brynlön, called back by the pelenaut himself. I’m sorry to deliver such disappointing news. We are all bereft.”
Melishev Lohmet’s fingers clutch at the arms of his throne, the knuckles turning ghastly white, and his jaw clenches hard to contain some stream of rotted curses. I drop my eyes and wait, because I know there’s more.