by Barb Hendee
The young father shook his head and turned to help his wife with the children.
“Chap!” Wynn shouted again, her voice quickly weakening. “Chap . . . please . . . please come.”
Wynn felt so suddenly alone on that busy street that she wanted to sink to her knees and weep. By the time she felt tears on her face, other people were looking at her in passing.
If anyone from the guild saw her now, they wouldn’t need rumors and spiteful hearsay to think she’d gone well beyond witless. She backed away from hesitant glances and fled back toward the bailey wall’s gate.
Why was this happening to her? Why did she hear claw clicks and then wallow in yet more disturbing memories? First of an undead who drew life force from a distance, and then of another event where a vampire seemed to vanish.
Was she going mad? Were High-Tower and Sykion and all the others right about her? Had all she been through in the Farlands driven her into obsession?
In her travels with Magiere, Leesil, and Chap, she’d encountered only one Noble Dead who could drain life without breaking skin—Vordana, also a sorcerer. To Wynn’s best knowledge, his rise from death had been unique. Unlike a vampire, he wore a tiny urn that trapped his spirit and kept his corpse animate.
But Vordana had fed upon a defenseless river town merely by being present within it, draining life without touching anyone.
Wynn hurried through the gates and up the stone path.
She wasn’t mad.
What she’d lived through in the Farlands was real. And now did some creature like Vordana hunt sages and whatever lay hidden within the texts? If she wasn’t allowed to see those ancient works, there was still the wealth of the guild archives in the catacombs.
Wynn stopped before the gatehouse’s tunnel, and late autumn’s chill sank deep into her body. She turned and gazed back to the busy intersection a block beyond. Those memories, which had risen suddenly, lingered in her mind.
Even before anyone learned how sentient Chap was, what he was, he’d manipulated Magiere and Leesil with his memory play. It was also part of how he communicated with them—and Wynn. At least until a later manifestation of wild magic’s taint began to let her hear his mental voice sent into her thoughts.
From anywhere within his line of sight, Chap could call up in someone any memory that he’d dipped at some time before. He could bring it back to their conscious awareness, and he used this to influence people when necessary.
In that second, hazier memory, Wynn had recalled the hunt as if looking through Chap’s eyes. But that night Leesil, Magiere, and Chap had left her behind at an inn. Wynn stared along the bailey wall, wary of claw clicks on cobblestone.
One thing that Chap could never do was send one person’s memories to another. He couldn’t even send his own to her.
The second memory hadn’t been one of Wynn’s own, but one of his.
And that was impossible.
Outside the district nearest the sea, Rodian climbed off Snowbird before a beautiful stone mansion. From its uppermost floor one could look over the bay docks to the white-fringed waves rolling into the farther shore. He led his horse to the front walkway and whispered, “Stay.”
Snowbird put her head into his back and snorted softly. It was well past noon, and she’d had no breakfast—neither had he.
“Last stop,” he said, and walked up the triple steps.
He knocked at the ornate front doors framed on each side by triple columns, and a pretty maid with a lace cap answered shortly.
“Hello, Biddy,” he said.
She smiled. “Good afternoon, Captain. The baron wasn’t expecting you.”
“I know . . . but is he or Master Jason about?”
She shook her head. “They’ve both gone to temple. The masons are coming to redo stonework on the west side.”
Rodian sighed quietly. The last place he wanted to have this conversation was in the temple, but he couldn’t put it off.
“Snowbird is out front, and we’ve had a busy morning. Could you have one of the stable hands find her a stall and bring her some oats and water? I’ll walk from here.”
“Of course,” Biddy answered. “I’ll take her myself.”
Rodian was well-known at this house—as was Snowbird. He turned and whistled, and the white mare trotted over, empty stirrups bouncing at her sides.
“Go with her,” he said, nodding toward Biddy.
Snowbird tossed her head once and blew warm air into his hand as the maid reached for her bridle. Girl and horse disappeared around the mansion’s north side.
Rodian crossed the courtyard, out the tall iron gates, and headed up the street. He barely noticed the surroundings filled with fine townhouses and other mansions, and looked aside only once as he passed an eatery called the Sea Bounty. A bit pricey for a captain’s stipend, but occasionally he’d succumbed to the establishment’s fine cuisine.
Not much farther on he slowed before a large construction built from hexagonal and triangular granite blocks laced with faint blue flecks. Again, a trio of columns graced both sides of the landing before the large front doors.
Commissioned dwarven masons had built the temple generations past. Each one of its large wall stones fit so well that not a bit of mortar had been used to set them. Climbing roses had been carefully nurtured to twine about the triple columns’ bases and ran in trellis hedges along both sides of the path from the street to the entrance. No sign identified this sanctuary, only those trios of columns—a simpler designation of the sacred teachings of this place.
Rodian climbed the three front steps of the temple for the Blessed Trinity of Sentience. Before he took hold of either door latch, voices rose from somewhere around the building’s left side. Rounding the corner, he spotted a burly dwarf hefting a granite hexagon for inspection. Baron dweard Twynam and his son, Jason, leaned closer.
“Looks fine,” the baron said. “I hope these new ones hold up better.”
The dwarf huffed disdainfully. “Wind and water always get the best of stone . . . after many years.”
As Rodian approached, the mason set down the stone with a thud that shuddered through the ground.
“Siweard,” said the baron with a smile. “Good to see you.”
Baron dweard Twynam was tall and thinned by age, with hair and beard neatly trimmed—both gone steel gray. His polished boots, blue tunic, and lamb’s-wool cloak fit him perfectly, and his smile reached all the way to his eyes. His son stood in stark contrast.
Jason was barely a head taller than the dwarven mason, though solid for his size. His thick, dark hair curled to his shoulders, and his skin was dusky like his mother’s. He rarely smiled, unless he found himself at an advantage of some kind. His near-black eyes shifted constantly, as if seeking any opportunity to take offense or make a challenge.
Rodian found dweard studying him with a serious face.
“What’s wrong, my friend?”
“Is anyone else inside?” Rodian asked.
“No . . . except Minister Taultian and his two acolytes. We’ve no meetings or gatherings today. Jason and I just wanted to check on the work.”
“Can we speak inside? Something unfortunate has happened.”
“Of course.” And the baron nodded at the mason. “You have things well in hand, Master Brim-Wright. Send the final bill to the sanctuary, and I’ll make certain it’s settled directly.”
The dwarf nodded curtly and began to direct two men working with him.
The temple’s backside faced toward the sea, and though set within the city’s wealthy district, storms and salt-laden winds had eroded it as much as any other building. It had been a long while since repairs were needed, and Rodian couldn’t spot any place in the wall that showed flaws. But better to replace stones before weathering turned to some more troubling imperfection.
dweard gestured to Jason and placed a hand on Rodian’s shoulder. “Come. We’ll go make tea. My old bones could do with a little extra heat.”
Th
e three rounded to the temple’s front, passing between the paired triple columns and through the wide double doors. They stepped directly into the main sanctuary room.
Hardwood floors were polished weekly, as were the long tables stretching up both sides of the main chamber to the stagelike altar. But Rodian saw no sign of Minister Taultian or his acolytes. At the room’s far end, upon the raised platform’s central dais, stood three life-size figures carved from white marble.
A man wearing the clothes of a common laborer stood behind a woman with a book in her arms. Before the pair was a child with long hair, too young to ascertain its gender.
The Toiler, the Maker, and the Dreamer.
Swenen the Father—the Toiler—gathered what had passed and supplied the Mother’s needs. Wyrthana the Mother—the Maker—tended and prepared for what was needed at present. Méatenge the Child—the Dreamer—imagined future days and what might be.
This trinity maintained past, present, and future for all sentient beings, and always would. The sages in their scholarly fervor read too much into what they uncovered. Their eager speculations led them astray. Life, as well as sentience, had always been—would always be—ever-growing and continuous from the first spark of sentience itself. There had been no “great war” that covered the world.
Such extreme interpretation of uncovered relics only created fear and interfered with the natural order. The very idea was offensive, as Toiler, Maker, and Dreamer would’ve never allowed anything so horrible to occur.
Before stepping fully into the sanctuary, all three men paused to whisper in unity.
“By the Toiler . . .” And they raised one hand, fingers up with palm turned sideways.
“By the Maker . . .” And they each closed that hand gently, as if grasping something from the empty air.
“And by the Dreamer . . .” And they pulled their closed hands, thumb side inward, to their foreheads.
“Bless all who turn this way with heart, mind, and eyes open.”
Rodian led the way through the sanctuary. They passed around the dais and through a rear door into the minister’s office with a small hearth.
It always remained open and accessible to the entire congregation. Furnished with simple chairs with somber-colored cushions, the room also contained a wide ash-wood desk and two smaller matching writing tables. The walls were lined with bookshelves filled with carefully maintained volumes. They held the overview of knowledge and culture of the world, as well as the teachings of the faith.
Knowledge was sacred, and some of these texts contained records of the world’s true history, and the manner in which awareness came into being.
Rodian realized he was growing hungry and thirsty. He set a half-full teakettle on a hook over the fire. No one had spoken since their prayer upon entry, and Jason folded his arms. dweard cocked his head, studying Rodian with concern.
“I’ve not seen you this troubled in a long while,” he said. “And you missed the last service . . . as well as the social the night before.”
Rodian breathed in twice, uncertain where to begin. This would be far different from questioning citizens at large. These two were more than friends—they were brethren. They shared his beliefs that higher thought and its moral processes were the prime virtue that raised humanity to its cultivated state. And knowledge belonged to those who possessed true ability and clarity to use it.
Other members of the order included nobles, politicians, men and women of the legal fields, and even a few prosperous merchants. New members had to be sponsored for a period of two years. dweard had sponsored Rodian, with the added advantage of becoming closely connected to elements of the city’s elite.
But regardless of discomfort, truth mattered most, even if it meant interrogating two of his own. And if Jason had anything to do with the death of two misguided young sages, then that truth had to be exposed.
Rodian put tea leaves into three cups and poured the softly boiling water.
“I’m conducting an investigation for the sages’ guild,” he finally said.
Jason’s brow wrinkled over a sneer, and even dweard couldn’t quell the cinch of his brows. The congregation’s members viewed the sages as indiscriminate when it came to their choice of initiates, much as they recognized that the guild had also done great good for the people. But they exposed weak-minded initiates to their inflated and imaginative interpretations of history.
“The sages—” Jason began, his voice low and venomous.
“Two journeyors are dead,” Rodian cut in, watching him intently. “One was a young man named Elias.”
Jason swallowed hard. “Dead? How?”
“Murdered, possibly by poisoning, in an alley near a scriptorium. Do you know a girl named Elvina?”
Rodian fired his final question before Jason responded to anything else. He watched the young man’s eyes widen in silence. Jason dropped his arms, turning wary and frightened.
“What is this about?” dweard asked sharply.
For the first time Rodian regretted his position. “There is a claim that Jason made threats against Elias . . . because of this girl.”
“Who?” Jason demanded. “Who said that?”
“Did you threaten him?”
“He shouldn’t have even been speaking to her! A sage . . . not even that, just a journeyor still in—”
“Answer me!” Rodian ordered.
The steel gray of dweard’s hair echoed suddenly in his hardening gaze, but his son still rambled angrily.
“Someone had to protect her name,” Jason growled. “You of all people should know that.”
“This is my duty,” Rodian returned. “And I am trying to help you. Where were you the night before last?”
dweard stared in shock and then ran a hand over his face. “Of course, Siweard, as captain of the guard you must follow this through. Faith as well as duty demand it.” He settled slowly into a chair. “Drink your tea. You look tired.”
Tension faded as Rodian sat and took a long sip, the liquid’s warmth flowing down his throat. He took another sip.
“Jason was with me that night—and Minister Taultian,” dweard said. “As well as many others here in the temple. We first went to the Sea Bounty for an early supper, and then came here for a social to plan the next gathering. Later we went home.”
“How late?”
“Near the mid of night, the fourth bell. Much later than old Taultian could stand. He retired earlier, once ceremonial considerations were in order.”
Rodian settled back in his chair and couldn’t stop a long exhale of relieved tension.
As with Selwyn Midton, Jason’s alibi didn’t exonerate him. He could’ve hired someone else to kill Elias. A father’s witness would be suspect, but it was a start. Jason was accused of threatening a young sage, and crimes of passion weren’t usually carried out by hired thugs.
“So,” dweard said, “you now have my word, though you could certainly ask after others of the congregation.”
Rodian nodded and waved off the suggestion. Jason was far from a paragon of the congregation, and too sly for his own good. But Rodian didn’t believe the son of Baron Twynam capable of such cold-blooded brutality. A petty whelp and a bully, but rarely would that kind go as far as murder.
“I’ll need written statements from you both,” he said, “and one from Minister Taultian. That should be enough, if any further pursuit of Jason arises. If I can solve this soon, the statements will be filed away without undue attention.”
Jason puffed a breath and turned aside, averting his indignant gaze.
“Thank you.” dweard sighed. “Two young sages murdered. I cannot see why. What do you believe was the true motive?”
“A folio of scribed pages,” Rodian answered. “Have you heard anything concerning a translation project at the guild?”
The baron frowned. “Whispers concerning some old find . . . but no more. The royal family has no idea how deluded these sages and their ideas can be. If not for the
ir public schools and pragmatic services, I couldn’t see why the king continues to fund them.” He shook his head. “If this project is the cause of deaths, perhaps someone in power will put a stop to it.”
Rodian blinked and stood up as his thoughts turned inward.
Perhaps the true motive wasn’t acquiring the folios but destroying them? This hadn’t occurred to him before. He’d considered only greed or desire for secret information.
dweard hadn’t realized what he suggested and spoke only from an intellectual perspective. On second thought, Rodian considered the motive unlikely. Destroying the transcribed passages still left the originals and the sages’ own notes intact at the guild.