by Delia Castel
He entered the study and inhaled the scent of leather, parchment and griffins. From the patio doors, the last vestiges of crimson sunset reached over distant mountains, turning the magnolias in the garden fuchsia. This was the kind of view Mother had loved. With a sigh, he sat at Father’s large, oak desk and penned two letters. The first was to the High Sheriff, informing him of the situation and requesting that he bring his team of forensic wizards to investigate the murder of his parents. The second was to Uncle Herz with similar news but adding an inquiry about the existence of a recently released prisoner named Marigold.
When he finished, he rolled the parchment, walked to the patio doors and whistled. Blacksmith, the oldest of Father’s griffins, glided down from the roof, folded his mahogany wings, and landed on his back paws. Standing five feet in height, the creature tilted his eagle head in inquiry.
“Tragedy has struck our family,” said Polaris.
Blacksmith’s fathomless, black eyes widened. “Squawk?”
“Mother and Father have been slaughtered in this very house.”
The beast reared back, wings spread, front talons raised.
“I take it from your reaction that you saw nothing?”
Blacksmith nodded and let out a sad squawk.
Polaris pursed his lips. “Do not fret, old friend. I need two of your fastest children to send messages to Uncle Hertz and the Sheriff.”
The griffin inclined his head. Polaris left the two scrolls at his feet and turned back to the study. As the creatures were the fastest, strongest winged beasts in the world, Polaris could be assured that the letters would reach their destinations faster than any swift.
He sat at the desk and buried his head in his hands. Who in the name of Vulcan would harm his parents? They weren’t the warmest of people, but they were fair Governors, who had improved the lives of the citizens of Austellus. In the South, even humans were afforded trials in the minor courts. It made no sense, as there had not been an inkling of political dissent. A lump formed on his throat. If only he had arrived earlier. He ran his hands through his hair and shook his head. Such thoughts only lead to madness.
Matheson walked in, his face blotchy with tears. He ran his hand through his rust-colored strands and scowled. “What are you doing behind Father’s desk?”
“Writing,” he said without acknowledging his brother.
“Why aren’t either of you two upset?”
Polaris clenched his jaw. “Not all of us wear our hearts on our scales, brother.”
“What does that mean?”
He had no time for Matheson’s emotional outbursts. The boy was always hotheaded and undisciplined. Most of the time, he acted younger than Berrin. Polaris flared his nostrils. “Those of us capable of controlling our impulses tend not to bellow our feelings from the rooftops.”
Matheson narrowed his eyes. “You’re trying to take over, aren’t you?”
Polaris stood and walked around the desk. Matheson took one step back, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Standing at just five feet ten, his younger brother was the shortest of the family. With his hardest glare, Polaris said, “May I remind you that I am a soldier of the King’s Regiment. As such, I am prohibited from inheriting property. If the Auburn fortune is your biggest concern, I hope this reminder has laid your fears to rest.”
A flush spread across Matheson’s face. “How dare you?” His voice was thick with tears. “You think that I would rejoice in Mother and Father’s death so I can spend their money?”
A lump formed in Polaris’ throat, and his chest tightened. He didn’t know why he had said such an awful thing. Of course, Matheson would never hurt their parents. Mother and Father had spoiled Matheson ever since he had been cursed as a child by an enchanted sword. Not even the most learned of wizards could reverse its effects, and even after the malediction had worn off, they had still coddled Matheson. At the time, the way they would neglect Berrin in favor of Matheson had sickened him, so he had resolved to help his youngest brother as much as he could. Polaris cleared his throat. “Forgive me, brother. Tempers are burning, and harsh words are flying like embers from a wildfire. I did not mean any of that.”
Matheson offered a shaky nod, and Polaris exhaled with relief. He unbuttoned his jacket, returned to the desk and sat.
“I say we call the inquisitors,” said Matheson.
Polaris shook his head. “If you knew what they did to a person, you wouldn’t suggest such a fate to a girl so young.”
“But you said—”
“The mention of assassins from Habilis was a bluff to encourage her to talk. Marigold is obviously hiding something, and I wanted to know what.”
“But—”
“No.” Polaris held up a quelling palm. “When she calms, I will question her again myself. She must have seen something that would lead us to the true killers.”
Matheson folded his arms. “And if that story about her exploits in Boreas are true?”
“Then I will congratulate her for a successful escape from the north. It was bad enough that she was jailed for retrieving her mother’s heirloom, but that so-called parole was reprehensible. I have a good mind to report such atrocities to the King.”
“The Queen, you mean.”
Polaris pursed his lips, rubbing the back of his neck. He knew exactly what Matheson was implying. King Vulcan had become somewhat of a political recluse, only venturing out for social functions. Ever since remarrying, he had lost focus, deferring to Queen Grimalda on all matters. Although she claimed to be the daughter of Old King Hydrus of Chrysos, no official records existed of her birth. As the entirety of Chrysos was now encased within a magical bubble, there was no way to confirm the veracity of her claims. He couldn’t complain, however. Queen Grimalda was a formidable leader, making reforms across the country, taking steps to stifle human rebellion. Polaris shook away those musings. Voicing or even thinking suspicious thoughts against a member of the Royal Family was treason.
“She’s enchanted Berrin, you know,” said Matheson.
Polaris gave his brother an absent nod. Even he could see that beneath the unkempt appearance and servants clothing was a rare beauty. What dragon could resist emerald eyes, hair that shone like dragon’s gold, pretty, plump lips and a curvaceous figure? If he was a younger, less disciplined dragon, he might also fall at the girl’s elegant, little feet. “She trusts him. I will leave it to Berrin to get the rest of her information.”
Matheson snorted. “That baby doesn’t have a single dishonest scale.”
“Perhaps not, but if we allow her the illusion of freedom and leave her under Berrin’s protection, she will confide in him.”
“So, we are keeping her here?”
“Indeed.” Polaris leaned back in the leather seat. “I wish to uncover all her secrets.”
Matheson leaned over the desk, eyes narrowed. “She’s enchanted you, too.”
“Nonsense.” He waved his hand in a shooing motion.
Matheson smacked his fist into his hand. “Something has to be done about that wench now!”
Propping his elbows on the table, Polaris sat up, regarding Matheson over his steepled fingers. “Perhaps a slow roasting in the garden will extract information like drippings from a boar?”
“How could you make jokes at a time like this!” He slammed both fists on the table. “They’re dead! Lying in a pool of their own blood.” His face crumpled, and tears streamed down his cheeks. “The King’s Regiment has turned you into a cold, unfeeling monster!”
The words were like a foray of daggers to the heart. Polaris had joined the Regiment because Father had favored Matheson so much. He left to avoid being disinherited for not being as handsome or as vulnerable or as lovable as his younger brother. His first years at the Regiment had been a struggle, and the humiliation of falling behind his older colleagues had been worse than being overlooked by Mother and Father. He had regretted joining the King’s Regiment for years until coming into his own power at the age of twenty-f
ive.
Of course, Polaris was upset, but a decade of dealing with death and war on a near daily basis tended to dampen the emotions. If Mother and Father had been to him the same parents that they had to Matheson, perhaps he, too, would be distraught. His natural defensive instincts reared forward. “Where were you when Mother and Father were being killed?”
Matheson staggered back, eyes widening. “What?”
Polaris stood. “How many days were you away, drinking and womanizing?”
“I—”
“Do not dare to make accusations when you left them alone and vulnerable.”
Matheson turned his head and drew his shoulders up. His chin rested on his chest, making him a picture of defeat. He whispered, “I did not leave them to die on purpose.”
Polaris steeled himself against the guilt gnawing at his belly. “Of course, you didn’t. No one can predict the future. But you see, anyone can hurl blame and accusations. Focus your anger and efforts into finding the responsible killer. It is not the girl cowering in the wine cellar.”
“You are so—”
“This is unproductive!” Polaris slammed his fist on the table, making the writing instruments jump. “While you’ve been venting your spleen like a fledgling, I have made inquiries about the girl and contacted the authorities.”
Berrin rushed into the room. “Are you really going to hand Marigold over to the inquisitors?”
Polaris shook his head and leaned back. “The High Inquisitor is a butcher sadistic enough to extract a confession from a stone. Marigold didn’t commit the murder, but I’m certain she knows something.”
Berrin’s face twisted, and he opened his mouth, presumably to protest. Polaris raised a palm. “I’m not saying she’s associated with the killers. And I cannot explain why, but I have a feeling that she will lead us to whoever is responsible.” He fixed his two brothers with a hard stare. “And this is why we will not tell the High Sheriff about the human girl we are keeping in the wine cellar. Or the fact that we have a wine cellar at all.”
Berrin and Matheson exchanged confused glances, but they turned to him and nodded. Polaris exhaled, and a slither of tension fell away from his shoulders. In today’s political climate, the government was more likely to parade the entrails of a suspected dragon slayer as a warning to humans. Justice and investigating the truth was a much lesser concern.
The bell chimed to announce the High Sheriff’s arrival. He was a dragon around Father’s age, who wore his ash-gray hair in a severe bowl cut that ended inches above his ears. Polaris presumed it was to highlight his dedication to his role as the head of the Sheriff Court. He wore the same lightweight steel breastplate and charcoal-colored breeches of the dozen officers accompanying him, distinguished only by a simple, gray cloak.
Two long-haired forensic wizards stood amongst the officers, each clad in graphite, floor-length robes. Polaris explained that the three of them had arrived around the same time to find their parents slaughtered in the parlor. The High Sheriff clucked his tongue and blamed assassins from Habilis. After recording the crime scene with their magic, the wizards cleared the carnage.
At the end of the preliminary investigation, the High Sheriff bowed. “I am sure that His Majesty will afford them an official state funeral.”
Polaris inclined his head. “Thank you.”
“I will return later with the results of the magical forensic study and autopsy.”
His jaw clenched. The thought of Mother and Father’s remains dissected and examined made his stomach turn. “Let me see you out.”
When the officials’ vehicles had cleared the grounds, Polaris walked down to the wine cellar to visit Marigold. The girl looked comfortable enough in her little prison, surrounded by food, water, and blankets, presumably provided by Berrin. As soon as they locked eyes, she rushed to the bars. “I didn’t do it!”
He tilted his head to the side, scrutinizing her anguished, tear-streaked face. What about her fascinated him so? Berrin appeared to be already smitten. Marigold was pretty enough, but there had to be more to her than just beauty. He flared his nostrils, and with the full extent of his dragon senses, sniffed the air above her head. All he could smell was fear.
“Is there anything you forgot to add to your statement?” he asked.
She stared up at him with eyes that glistened like emerald pools. “No, sir.”
“I have written to my uncle, the Governor of Boreas. If you have failed to disclose anything about your past, I will hand you to the High Inquisitor myself.”
She gulped. “The gold I used to bribe that official came from Lord Arctos’ vault.”
Polaris frowned. That wasn’t exactly the confession he sought. “Who are your parents?”
“I-I didn’t know them. My mother died in the Priory Orphanage after giving birth to me, and she didn’t tell the sisters the identity of my father.”
A frustrated growl rumbled in Polaris’ throat. The girl’s mouth dropped open, and she retreated to the back of her cell, chest heaving. Polaris cursed himself and left. He would have to leave it to Berrin to uncover whatever she was hiding.
Chapter 4
Once she was sure the General had left, Marigold sat on the floor of her cell, leaning her head against the wall. She closed her eyes, drawing in deep breaths through her nostrils to create a semblance of calm. The dragon must have left a door open, because she had heard the sounds of the three brothers arguing over her plight. Although the words were muffled, their tones of voice told her enough to work out what was happening. Matheson still blamed her for the murder of his parents, while the General was holding off judgment, and Berrin was pleading her case.
She hugged her knees and shifted on one of the cushions Berrin had provided. If it hadn’t been for his protective presence, she probably would have gone out of her mind with fright. Although she had faith that Berrin would do his utmost to save her from the inquisitors, she was aware of his limited influence over his brothers. This was why she had to leave before they changed their mind about keeping her as their prisoner.
It was hard to doze, as their argument became heated, and Matheson’s rage-filled rants rang in her ears. At any moment, he could storm down to the cellar and beat a confession out of her. She trembled at the thought of being alone with that maniac again. To be safe, she would stay in the corner of her cell until she was sure that the brothers had retired for the night.
Hours later, the lanterns on the wall had burned out, plunging the wine cellar in darkness. Marigold fumbled in her hair, pulling out two of the few remaining pins she had kept since being incarcerated. Casting her mind back to Holle’s instructions on how to pick locks, she bent the first ninety degrees and straightened the second.
After twisting the end of the straightened pin to create an L shape, she padded towards the bars and groped her way to the lock. Fortunately, it was a standard lock, similar to the one that secured the door of her cell in the House of Corrections. She had practiced on that many times, always making sure to restore it afterwards. Sucking in a fortifying breath, she inserted the first pin and twisted. Predictably, the lock jammed, but it acted as proof that the first pin was strong enough to rotate the barrel and gain her freedom… If she succeeded in picking the lock.
Readying the second pin, she squinted. In the darkness, the action had no effect, so she closed her eyes and relied on her other senses. With this straight pin, she would need to recreate the effect of the jagged teeth of a key. The barrel of the lock consisted of five spring-loaded mechanisms that each required a specific amount of tension to allow the lock to turn. Sliding the longer pin into the lock, Marigold bit down hard on her bottom lip, fumbled for the first mechanism and pushed.
Click.
The barrel moved a fraction, only to catch on another lock mechanism. Marigold exhaled, and her shoulders relaxed. The first mechanism had locked into position. It was just a matter of repeating this process until she had set the other four.
Click.
Click.
Click.
She twisted the first pin, and the lock opened. Her heart drummed in her chest, and triumph radiated throughout her body. She would have jumped up and down, but that would only wake the dragons. It was time to leave, and there was still the matter of opening the iron doors without causing them to creak.
She scrambled back to the water jug and drizzled its contents on the door hinges. As quietly as she could, she eased the door open, cringing at its quiet groaning. Seconds later, she stepped out, her heart singing. Padding across the wine cellar in the direction of the dim light, she held out both arms and splayed her fingers. The last thing she wanted was to crash into a display of bottles, alerting the sleeping brothers of her escape.
Gulping, she wondered what Berrin would think when he found her empty cell. Would he interpret her escape as proof of her guilt? She hoped he would understand that Poda might be dead, and she needed to leave before anyone from Boreas discovered her location.
Strong arms grabbed her from behind, pulling her into a hard chest. “I knew you were no ordinary servant girl,” hissed Matheson. “And now you are going to lead me to your accomplices.”
Shock hit her stomach like a lead ball, stealing the air from her lungs. His arms squeezed her so tight, she screeched, “Let me—”
“Did they teach you to pick locks at the Assassin’s Guild?” he snarled.
“I learned at the House of Corrections!”
“You lying, murdering scum.” When she kicked back at his shins, he yanked her off her feet, making her stomach lurch. “What’s wrong, assassin? Are you weak without your accomplices?”