The Wounded Shadow

by Patrick W. Carr

  I nodded, finding fault in nothing he’d said. “Do you think Gehata already knows the person possessing the crown of Aille and is holding them prisoner?”

  “It’s a better than good possibility,” Bolt said. “A dwimor didn’t kill Chora. Someone hamstrung her to make her fall. For all we know she might have survived long enough to pass her gift before they finished her off to make it look good. Gehata might have arranged as much.”

  Gael took a breath. “She might not have had time to pass on the gift.”

  “Even if she didn’t,” I said, “the rightful heir is out there somewhere and you want to run?” I asked Bolt.

  He shook his head. “Gehata has the city sewn up tight. He’s got the church and the cosp and the gift of domere under his thumb.”

  I nodded. “You’re right. We should leave.” I ignored Gael’s look of disbelief and the subtle shift in Bolt’s countenance that suggested hope. “The only problem is that we can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because whether the dwimor was successful or not, Cesla was trying to kill Chora. Ealdor said we would know how to stop him by what he attacked. What was it about Chora that threatened him?”

  “You mean besides commanding the largest army of the northern continent?” Bolt asked.

  “Yes, besides that,” I said. “Vyne is the real power here. You said so yourself and Cesla would have known that. He’d already agreed to send the army north.” I waved my arm at what I hoped was a northerly direction. “Their forces were already gone when Chora was attacked. Stopping it couldn’t have been Cesla’s goal.”

  “So,” Bolt asked, “what was?”

  I sat down. “I don’t know. Something else.”

  “If we stay here, sooner or later Bishop Gehata is going to scoop us up in his net and make us disappear,” Bolt said. “The fact that I’m the last Errant won’t save me. If he knows you’re with the Vigil, you’re his biggest threat. Searching for that ‘something else’ sounds like a good way to end up dead.”

  “What about finding the rightful heir?” I asked.

  “Not my problem anymore,” Bolt said. “My loyalty to the Vigil precedes that request. My job is to keep you alive.”

  I nodded. “And what’s my job?”

  He opened his mouth to speak, though I already knew what he was about to say. “Curse you,” he muttered. “It’s like you planned the whole conversation to force me to say it. Alright, confound your stupid, stubborn hide, I’ll say it. Your job is to fight the Darkwater.”

  “And to do that, we need as many Vigil members as we can get.”

  “You can’t do that job if you’re dead!”

  “Then let’s persuade Serius to get us into the cathedral,” Gael said.

  “You’re supposed to be my apprentice,” Bolt said to her, “not his. You’re picking up bad habits.”

  She nodded. “Inevitable, I suppose.”

  We returned to court and took our place on the dais next to the empty throne we were trying to fill. For hours we listened to the pleas, impassioned or logical, of nobles vying for Bolt’s blessing to take the throne, and I swam in the thoughts and memories of each, but my own thoughts were west, in the cathedral with Rory. Bolt adjourned court at midnight, and we returned to our rooms.

  Rory was waiting for us. “I came here instead of court,” the thief said.

  “Why?” I asked.

  He smiled at my ignorance. “One way to make sure people notice you’ve been missing is to show up late.”

  “Well?” Bolt asked.

  Rory shrugged. “Mostly what you expected. Gehata and his soldiers took a carriage back to the cathedral. I followed on foot.” He laughed. “There’s so much traffic in this city, I could tail anyone and they’d never see me. I don’t think I had to break into a run more than half a dozen times.”

  “That’s it?” Bolt asked.

  Rory nodded. “I tracked them around to the south side of the cathedral where they left the carriage and entered through an entrance guarded by a dozen of the cosp. I couldn’t follow, so I came back here.”

  “The south side?” Bolt asked. “You’re sure?”

  Rory nodded. “Gehata and everyone from his entourage entered, and all the cosp guarding it followed them inside.”

  “You saw this?” Bolt asked. “The whole time?”

  “I said so, yah?”

  Bolt turned to me. “Delve him. It’ll be quicker.”

  Rory shrugged and held out his arm. I’d already been through half a dozen sets of memories, and the mental fatigue coupled with my injury made me long for bed, but Bolt’s curiosity fired my own.

  I dropped through his eyes and into the memories of his run through the streets of Cynestol, moving forward in time until I came to the point where Gehata’s carriage stopped in front of a pair of heavy double doors at the base of the cathedral and disembarked before entering. Three of the guards, swords bare, hopped down from the top and sides of the carriage, while the other three and the bishop disembarked. I knew what I was seeing, but I traced Rory’s memory back and forth twice, searching for details.

  The doors on the south side of the cathedral were heavy, insanely thick, and horizontally banded with iron in half a dozen places. I’d seen their kind before, but not on churches and certainly not on the entrance we’d used upon coming into the city. It seemed a prison more than a place of worship.

  I came out of his mind. “Mirren rode in the carriage with Gehata, not on the outside.”

  Bolt squinted at me. “What happened when the carriage stopped? Tell me exactly what the guards did.”

  “They formed up around Gehata and escorted him inside,” I said.

  “Rory?” Bolt asked.

  He nodded.

  “If Gehata was concerned about her escape,” Bolt said, “wouldn’t they have formed up around her?”

  I nodded as I searched Rory’s memories again. “She still had her weapon. Even if she’s not gifted, Gehata wouldn’t have allowed it unless he was sure of her.”

  “Which brings us to the question,” Bolt said with a sigh.

  “Who is Gehata holding prisoner?” Gael asked.

  “It appears we’ll be staying in Cynestol after all,” Bolt said. “Tomorrow, before court opens, we’ll approach Serius and petition him for his aid.”

  “Only after I delve him,” I said. “I have no intention of blindly trusting anyone outside of this room.”

  Gael favored Bolt with her most winsome smile. “You see. He’s learning discretion already.”

  “Humph. Let’s see if it sticks. You know what they say—‘Good habits are hard to keep and bad ones are hard to break.’”

  Chapter 31

  I woke at the first ray of dawn, sweat drenched and gasping from exertion. I reached up, felt Bolt’s arms pinning me against the sheets. I muttered something uncomplimentary, but the curse wasn’t for Bolt and he knew it. He moved away to stand by the bed.

  “It’s a big city, Willet. “There’s bound to be a murder some nights.”

  I was winded, but I didn’t feel the bone-numbing exhaustion that came with most of my night-walks. “When did I try to leave?”

  “About an hour ago.”

  A weight settled into my soul, or maybe I just became aware again of a burden that never left. “I wonder who died,” I said. “What did they find waiting for them on the other side of eternity?”

  “I hope we never know,” Bolt said.

  When I looked at him in surprise, he held up a hand. “I only meant that I hope it’s a stranger who’s been killed—unrelated to our investigation. We have enough on our plate.”

  The door to Gael’s room was still closed, as was Rory’s. I tried to force a measure of levity into my voice. “What shall we do today, Errant Consto?”

  He looked at me with all the warmth he might spare for a weevil in his porridge, only southerners didn’t really eat porridge. Perhaps the squint of mild disgust would have been for a fly in his wine.
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br />   I didn’t have the opportunity to ask. From the direction of the cathedral across the city, I heard the tolling sound of heavy iron bells. The color drained from Bolt’s face but his reserve never deserted him. Dread hollowed me out from the inside. I knew what the bells meant. “Archbishop Vyne is dead.”

  A nod. “Bound to happen. He was old, and old men don’t usually recover from a stroke.”

  He didn’t say what we both had to be thinking. “It could be a coincidence,” I said. “In a city this size, it’s almost certain to happen that a murder would happen on any given night. It doesn’t prove someone killed the Archbishop.”

  Bolt looked at me without blinking. “I can’t get this picture out of my head of someone—Gehata or one of his cosp—holding a pillow over that poor man’s head. The bishop doesn’t strike me as a patient sort of man.”

  I sighed. “They will assemble all of the Merum bishops so the council can choose the next Archbishop. The trip south from Collum and Frayel will take weeks.”

  Bolt nodded. “How many of the Archbishops have come from Cynestol?”

  He couldn’t help but know, but I answered him anyway. “Most,” I said. “That’s all the more reason to get to Bishop Serius and put an end to this.”

  Something that had been bothering me about the events in the throne room the previous evening clicked into place—at least I thought so. I turned to Gael. With her practiced eye, she would have noticed. “Mirren,” I said.

  “What about her?” Gael asked.

  “Tell me everything you noticed about her in the throne room.”

  Gael closed her eyes, and I saw Bolt looking at me with that squint of his that might mean anything from curiosity to irritation. After a moment my betrothed opened her eyes and looked at me with a shrug. “I don’t think I noticed anything that you wouldn’t have.”

  I nodded, more confident in my suspicion. “Tell me anyway.”

  “Alright,” Gael said as she started to pace the room. “She’s young, older than a decade and a half, but less than a score. She’s pretty, but not remarkably so, with a steady gaze and a self-assurance that older women might envy.” Gael lifted her hands, conceding. “I don’t know what you’re looking for, Willet.”

  “That’s alright.” I waved. “You’ve already said it.”

  Rory lounged near the door, watching our discussion as he spun a dagger on the back of his hand, making it look easy. “How many times did Mirren delve people in the throne room, Rory?”

  His shoulders made the trip to his ears and back. “Twice that I saw, but she tried to hit you a couple of times before I got you away.”

  I shot a glance at Bolt. He was looking at me in expectation.

  “How long did each of her delves last?” As much as I wanted to, I didn’t add any qualifiers to the question. I didn’t want to prejudice his answer.

  “About as long as yours, maybe just a bit longer, but she was pretty deft with her touch so it was hard to tell.”

  I looked at Bolt. “Fess has Bronwyn’s gift,” I said. “He has to. It came to him as soon as she died.”

  He nodded. “And we now know Cesla’s gift didn’t go free. That traitor is still running around with it.”

  “That leaves only two possibilities,” I said. “Either Mirren came into Laewan’s gift after Bas-solas, or she came into Jorgen’s gift when Fess killed him.”

  Bolt gave me one solemn nod. “I still need to thank him for that.”

  “I hope you get the opportunity,” I said, “but either way, Mirren is too good.”

  “What do you mean, Willet?” Gael asked.

  Bolt answered for me in a voice raspy enough to peel the bark off a tree. “He means that she could never have learned how to use the gift that well on her own in such a short amount of time.” He looked at me with murder in his gaze. “I’m going to kill him this time—mark my words. I should have done it already.”

  “Kill who?” Rory asked. “Stop talking around the answer and just say it, yah?”

  “Volsk,” I said. “He’s the only one who could have given Mirren the training she needed to keep from breaking her own mind.”

  “There’s another possibility,” Gael said. “If Mirren has one of the two missing gifts, couldn’t the holder of the other one be her trainer?”

  I shook my head. “That just forces the problem back a generation. Who would have trained that person?”

  “Maybe Cesla,” Rory answered.

  “If she were working for Cesla,” I said, “she wouldn’t be walking around in the daylight.”

  “Maybe she doesn’t have a vault,” Bolt said.

  “Either way I think I need to have a look inside Mirren’s mind.”

  Bolt’s expression turned even more stony than usual. “What are the chances that you’ll be able to do that without Mirren or Gehata knowing you’ve done it?”

  “Virtually nil,” I said.

  He nodded. “Then as soon as you do, you’ve signed your death warrant. Gehata won’t rest until you’re dead. What he’s done is punishable by death. He’s taken the gift of domere and turned it into a tool to exercise his power. If Pellin or Toria Deel were here, they’d put their hands on him and snap his mind like a dry twig. So should you.”

  He shook his head as if struggling to refocus. “We have to get into the cathedral and persuade Bishop Serius to aid us.” He cocked an ear, listening to the bells outside. “The nobles will be gathering at the cathedral to mourn. We should be—”

  A thumping at the door that began close to the top and dropped toward the floor interrupted him.

  “A servant?” Gael asked.

  I moved to rise as Bolt and Rory pulled weapons. “Only if they decided to fall against the door instead of knocking on it,” Bolt said. He motioned to Rory. “You stay between me and Willet.”

  He unbarred the door and opened it just enough to peer through the crack before opening it wide. Hradian lay on the floor, his arms and legs moving as if each of them belonged to a different person.

  “Rory!” Bolt snapped. “Is anyone else in the hallway?”

  Our thief peered out the open doorway, a knife in each hand before he stepped over the lieutenant’s twitching form to check the length of the corridor. He pointed to the left and stepped back as if preparing to run. “I hear someone running.”

  “Stand!” Bolt said. “They’re too far away by now.” He motioned Rory back into our quarters as he grabbed one of the lieutenant’s arms and dragged him inside.

  Hradian peered up at Bolt, his face knotted in confusion. “Errant Consto?”

  Bolt lifted the lieutenant and put him on one of the couches. “Delve him.”

  I was already moving, peeling the gloves from my hands. I placed my fingertips on his brow and tunneled through his brown eyes and into his thoughts, expecting the river of multihued threads that comprised the lieutenant’s memories. His current flowed before me, eddying and swirling, agitated. Instead of the distinct colors I’d come to expect when delving, his stream of consciousness held the singular hue of mud. I reached into it for one of the threads that constituted Hradian’s most recent memories. Nothing but disconnected impressions came to me, sounds without meaning, smells without context, flashes of multicolored light instead of vision.

  Vertigo took me, and I slipped deeper into Hradian’s mind, carried along on the tide of memory. A recollection floated past, whole and green like a promise of spring, and I grabbed it. I, Hradian, stood in a line of similarly attired men, all of us gifted, but it was my name that had been called. I stepped forward in response, called to be a successor to the Errants. I would be one of the cosp.

  With an effort, I came out of the delve, the room pitching sideways as I straightened. Gael caught me, her face etched with concern, and set me upright. She didn’t let go until I nodded.

  Hradian still lay on the couch, blinking in puzzlement.

  I pointed at his head. “His most recent memories have been scrambled.”

&nbs
p; “What does his mind look like?” Bolt asked.

  “Like a creek that someone stirred from the bottom.”

  “Will he be alright?”

  “He’s fine now,” I said, “just a little disoriented. He doesn’t remember how he got here, so everything seems more than passing strange to him.”

  Bolt shook his head in resigned disgust. “I guess there’s no point in asking who did this. The question is why was Hradian coming to see us?” He turned to me. “Is it possible for you to piece his memories back together?”

  I stared at my guard. “Could Pellin do it?”

  Bolt shrugged and favored me with a noncommittal nod. “Probably.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t have seven hundred years of experience. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.” I started for the door. “But as a reeve, I’d find out exactly who came here with him. We’re in the queen’s palace. You can’t cross the hall without bumping into a guard or servant.”

  We left our rooms and made for the nearest entrance, the south one, where a pair of ceremonial guards with sparkling swords that never needed sharpening stood like tailor’s dummies. I nudged Bolt and pointed in their direction. “I think the last Errant has a better chance of getting the truth out of those two than a minor lord from a northern backwater.”

  I stepped across the grand entrance to a pair of servants who were busy polishing the brass of the candelabra along the wall. I stepped to the side, pretending to focus my attention on the brilliantly colored tapestry to their right. I reached into my purse and dropped a silver half crown on the floor, the quiet ring of the metal pure and sweet against the polished stone.

  I bent to retrieve it, but instead of picking it up, I flicked it toward the servants. One of them glanced at me before dropping her polishing cloth over the coin. She made no move to return it to me, but both women had their heads cocked in my direction.

  “Beautiful,” I gestured toward the tapestry. “A visitor to Cynestol would be so caught up in its detail they might not notice the comings and goings in this very hall.”

  One of the women, short with close-cropped brown hair, nodded without looking my way. “Aye, Cynestol is full of sights that might distract a visitor.”