One customer was at the counter, talking with Ivan. The fellow was trying to decide whether to purchase arrows fletched with highland goose quill or the teal feathers of a three-winged triad lark.
As usual Ivan was sweating heavily, his red sleeve garters ringed with perspiration. When he saw Bratach he gave a short nod. Bratach nodded back. Deciding to wait out the customer, he wandered about for a bit.
Finally the customer paid for his arrows and left. Ivan locked the door behind him, turned the sign around to read “Closed,” and drew the window shades. Then he looked at Bratach.
“She’s downstairs,” he said.
“Good,” Bratach answered.
He went to the back of the shop and down the hidden stairs, Ivan following.
Satine was sitting at the table, her long legs propped on it. As Bratach walked in she regarded him calmly. He placed his package down, and then he and Ivan sat.
Bratach poured a glass of wine. After taking a long draft, he addressed Satine.
“My confederate in the palace has confirmed that the dwarf is dead,” he said. “Congratulations.”
A smile crossed Satine’s lips. “Of course he’s dead,” she answered. “I never miss.”
She reached into her cloak and removed the two parchments that Wulfgar had given her that day at the Citadel. Removing her legs from the table, she sat upright, unrolled the documents, and unsheathed one of her daggers. With four quick, expert cuts, she excised Geldon’s likeness from the scroll. Holding the picture to the candle, she watched it turn to ash. As she let the last bit of it flutter away, she rubbed her fingers together.
“One down,” she said.
“Indeed,” Bratach answered. “However, for the time being you are to do nothing.” Casually, he began to unfasten the package’s wrapping.
Satine narrowed her eyes. “And just why is that?” she asked. “I don’t like sitting around, waiting for your orders. Even if you are of the craft.”
“For the simple reason that my spy tells me there are no available targets just now,” Bratach answered.
He reached into the package and produced a small wheel of cheese, a blood sausage, and a loaf of gingerwheat bread. He placed them on a plate that looked something less than clean, took up a knife, and cut a wedge of the cheese. He offered it to her. Satine shook her head. He took a bite, chewed thoughtfully, and then took another sip of the wine.
“It seems that, at the moment, all of your targets are either safely ensconced in the palace or out of the country altogether,” he mused.
“Common sense dictates that we wait—at least until my spy informs me of a more promising opportunity.”
Satine looked hard at Ivan, then at Bratach. “If common sense had anything to do with this, I would never have accepted these sanctions in the first place,” she argued. “I’m strictly in it for the money. The sooner I finish, the sooner I collect the other half.” She leaned back in her chair again. “The palace walls mean nothing to me,” she went on. “And my blood is not endowed. Unless I’m careless, the wizards and the acolytes will not detect my presence. And I’m never careless.”
She pointed down at the parchments. “If I can manage it, who do you want disposed of next?”
As he took another sip of wine, Bratach considered her words. What she proposed was risky. But the idea of killing one of them right under the wizard’s noses was tempting. If Satine could accomplish it, Wulfgar would be very pleased. And then Bratach, as Wulfgar’s loyal consul, could take the credit. With the return of the Enseterat, there would soon be a new order in the land, and Bratach had every intention of standing with those at the very pinnacle of power. Such an audacious act might help accomplish that.
“Very well, then,” he finally answered. “You may try. I can help your cause by providing you with detailed plans of the palace and the Redoubt. This must be planned exceedingly well, Satine. You must not fail us.”
“I never fail,” she answered. “But you have yet to tell me which one of them to kill.”
With the point of his knife, Bratach pulled the parchments closer. Pursing his lips in thought, he looked down at the likenesses. Then made his choice and stabbed the knife through the drawing and into the tabletop.
“This one,” he said. He looked over at Ivan. “A fitting choice, don’t you think?”
Ivan smiled. “By all means,” he answered.
Bratach looked back over at Satine. “As long as you are here, we might as well fill you in,” he said. “Ivan, fetch me some parchment.”
After some rummaging around, Ivan returned with several sheets and placed them on the table. Bratach looked down and narrowed his eyes. Fascinated, Satine watched as the consul began to burn an image of the first floor of the palace into the sheet.
In the end, it would prove to be a very long day.
CHAPTER XLII
_____
EVENING CAME TO PARTHALON, THE INDIGO NIGHT A COOL, comforting blanket. Having left Wigg and Jessamay to themselves, Tristan and Celeste walked side by side through the winding halls of the Recluse. This was one of the few times they had been alone in recent days, and they were thankful for the opportunity. They stopped in the grand foyer.
Torches flickered, throwing shadows across the walls and checkerboard floor. Yet another team of Minion men and women were busy building furniture, weaving rugs, and creating art for the still-unfurnished rooms of the Recluse. As he walked through the great chamber, Tristan couldn’t help but wonder how he would employ such a massive building, now that it was so close to being completed.
Alrik presented himself to the prince. Placing his fists upon his hips, the warrior smiled broadly.
“Wonderful, isn’t it?” he asked. “I estimate completion within two fortnights. Does the Jin’Sai have any other specific orders for the Recluse afterward?”
Shaking his head, Tristan sighed. “I was just thinking about that,” he said.
“There is something else it would be my honor to show you,” Alrik said. “In addition to the Recluse, we have completely rebuilt the horse barns. I think my lord and his lady would find them interesting.”
At the mention of the Recluse stables, Tristan’s face lit up. Horsemanship had always been one of his and Shailiha’s greatest joys. The chance to see what the clever Minion carpenters had done with the barns seemed just the tonic he needed. He glanced at Celeste.
“I’d love to,” she said. Smiling, she laced one arm through his.
The two of them followed Alrik out of the Recluse and back over the drawbridge.
As they went, Tristan was reminded of the day Geldon had stolen a team and wagon from the Coven stables, so that they could race back to the Ghetto of the Shunned. It would be good to see him again when they returned to Eutracia.
At the end of the drawbridge, Alrik led them around one side of the Recluse. At the sight of the refurbished stables, Tristan’s heart began to lift.
At least a dozen large paddocks surrounded the stable buildings, lit by flickering torches. The split-rail fences had been painted bright white, and beautiful horses milled about within their confines.
A large brick building sat in the center of the manicured grounds. Looking closer, Tristan saw that his family crest had been painted on its double doors. Several smaller buildings were attached to the central one. Even the royal stables in Tammerland, before their destruction, could not have surpassed these.
“It’s magnificent,” he told Alrik. “I hadn’t expected this.”
Alrik’s chest swelled with pride. He gestured to the doors. “If my lord will allow me?”
Tristan nodded. “By all means.”
Alrik pushed the doors apart, and familiar equine smells and sounds greeted them.
Stalls of highly polished wood lined both sides of the barn. Horses neighed and snorted as the three of them walked into
the barn’s cool darkness.
Turning to his right, Tristan walked over to one of the stall doors. A bay mare stepped forward and stuck her head out over the top. Neighing softly, she shook her head, sending her mane flying about. Smiling, Tristan grasped her bridle and rubbed her forehead.
“Are they all this magnificent?” he asked.
Alrik smiled. “Indeed they are. They have to be, to qualify for this place.”
Then the Minion did something strange. After turning to Celeste, and giving her a quick, conspiratorial wink behind Tristan’s back, he nodded toward the rear of the barn. Celeste turned to see that a large group of warrior stable hands had quietly gathered, all on bended knee, their heads bowed.
Celeste gave Alrik a quizzical look. But before she could speak, the warrior placed a forefinger against his lips. Still confused, she nodded back. Alrik turned back to the prince.
“If my lord would allow me, there is something else that I would be pleased to show you,” he said.
“Of course,” Tristan answered, his full attention still upon the mare.
“What is it?”
“It is my understanding that the Jin’Sai recently lost his favorite mount,” Alrik said gently. “Is that true?”
His back still to them, Tristan lowered his head. “Yes. Pilgrim was killed during our battle to secure the Scroll of the Vigors. There will never be another like him.”
“With all due respect, my lord, you may be in error.”
Turning around, Tristan scowled at him. “What do you mean?” he asked.
Alrik turned and gestured to the kneeling warriors at the other end of the barn. As he did, they rose, and their ranks slowly parted. One of them walked forward leading a horse.
The magnificent black stallion was easily as tall as Pilgrim had been, but he looked younger. His mane and tail were exceptionally long. Large, spirited eyes sat on either side of his wide, beautifully shaped head. As he walked, taut muscles swelled beneath his shining coat. He wore a highly polished black bridle and saddle. The pure silver hardware of the horse’s tack was adorned with the lion and the broadsword.
Tristan had always believed that he would never again see a mount as magnificent as Pilgrim. But standing here in the light of the torches, he knew he had been wrong.
“We understand that we cannot replace Pilgrim,” Alrik said humbly. “It would be presumptuous of us to try. But on behalf of myself and the Minion stable hands, please accept this stallion as a token of our admiration and our loyalty. Trained by the best of our handlers, he is the finest horse in all of Parthalon.”
Tristan didn’t know what to say. He looked at Alrik and Celeste, and then back at the stallion again. Fighting a lump in his throat, he walked over to the horse and accepted the reins from the groom. As he stroked the stallion’s neck, the horse rubbed his head against his new master’s shoulder. The bond was immediate. Tristan looked at the warriors again, and then to Alrik.
“I accept,” he said softly. “And thank you.”
Alrik and Celeste joined him. Celeste put out a hand to stroke the horse’s silky nose.
“How did you know I was coming to Parthalon?” Tristan asked.
Alrik smiled. “We didn’t,” he answered. “We have been training this stallion for months in the hope that you would soon visit. As the First Wizard and I walked over the drawbridge together and into the Recluse, it was he who mentioned that you had lost your previous mount. So you see out of darkness there comes a bit of light.”
Celeste smiled at Tristan.
“He’s beautiful,” she said. “What will you call him?”
Tristan looked back down the length of the barn, and to the torches that burned so brightly. As they cast their flickering shadows across the walls, he made up his mind. He turned back to Celeste.
“I will call him Shadow,” he said.
Tristan placed a foot in the stirrup and swung himself up into the saddle. The leather was soft as butter, and he immediately felt comfortable. Shadow began to dance about beneath him, telling his rider that he was eager to go. The prince easily stayed with him. He smiled.
“If you will excuse us, Shadow and I are going to get to know each other better,” he said. He looked at Alrik. “You will see that Celeste is safely escorted back to the Recluse?”
Coming to attention, Alrik clicked his heels. “On my life,” he promised. The prince nodded back gratefully.
Saying nothing more, Tristan wheeled Shadow around. Without looking back he galloped the stallion out of the barn and into the moonlight.
CHAPTER XLIII
_____
“NOW THEN,” FAEGAN SAID. “LET’S BEGIN, SHALL WE?”
The wizard had chosen this chamber of the Redoubt because it had gone unused for centuries. It was dark and unfurnished, save for the simple table and five chairs he had requested. Moisture seeped freely from the walls. Mildew had crept in long ago, making the place smell musty and abandoned. A single wall torch burned quietly.
Faegan, Abbey, and Adrian sat on one side of the rectangular table. Next to Faegan was Lionel the Little—the wizard’s herbmaster and the trusted keeper of the herb cubiculum in Shadowood. Since arriving at the height of their trials with Wulfgar, Lionel had stayed on at the palace.
The Valrenkian captive sat across from them. Bound to his chair by a wizard’s warp, he glared at Faegan with venomous eyes.
The prisoner was of average build. He appeared to be about forty-five Seasons of New Life. His blond hair was thinning at the top, and he still wore his bloody butcher’s smock. A purple bruise had risen on his jaw from Ox’s blow; his broken ankle had been set by the wizard. He had remained unconscious all of the way to this room.
After placing him in the chair and securing him with the warp, Faegan had carefully examined the Valrenkian’s blood signature. Sure enough, it revealed him to be a partial adept. The abbreviated signature had possessed curved lines, indicating that the man’s gifts had been inherited from his mother rather than his father. His examination complete, Faegan had then employed the craft to rouse the man.
Summoning all of the saliva he could, the Valrenkian spat at them, then sneered arrogantly.
“What do you want with me?” he growled. “I demand to know why I have been brought here!” Pausing for a moment, he looked around the bleak, unforgiving room.
“Wherever this might be,” he added nastily.
“Where you are is not important,” Faegan said. “We require answers from you. We can either do this the simple way—with me asking the questions and you answering them honestly—or we can proceed the hard way, through my use of the craft. First of all, you are a Valrenkian, are you not?”
The man just spat at them again.
“What is the name of the assassin who was hired to kill the inhabitants of the royal palace?” the wizard pressed. The prisoner again remained silent.
Abbey placed her mouth near the wizard’s ear. “This is getting us nowhere,” she whispered. “Time is precious.”
Faegan nodded. Narrowing his eyes, he called the craft. Almost at once the Valrenkian’s eyes widened with surprise.
“What are you doing to me?” he shouted.
“Enhancing your willingness to comply,” Faegan answered calmly.
The man’s head suddenly snapped back and his eyes opened wide. Abbey realized that Faegan had just successfully entered the Valrenkian’s mind. The captive’s rebellious attitude might remain, but now he would be forced to answer their questions—and truthfully.
“Let’s try again, shall we?” Faegan asked. “Are you a member of the rogue Valrenkian community?”
“Yes.”
“What is your name?”
“Uther, of the House of Kronsteen.”
“Tell me, Uther of the House of Kronsteen, what is the name of the assassin hired to kill those l
iving at the royal palace?”
“The only assassin I know of is called Satine. She buys her wares from Reznik.”
“So this assassin you speak of is a woman?”
“Yes.”
Thinking for a moment, Faegan sat back in his chair. “Who is Reznik?” he asked.
“He is a most accomplished Valrenkian. He leads us. Satine buys the tools of her trade from him.”
“Where is Satine now?” Faegan asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You have seen her?” Abbey asked.
“Yes. She visits roughly every three moons, to purchase fresh goods from Reznik.”
“Please describe her,” Abbey asked.
“Satine wears black leather clothing and a gray cloak. Her dark hair is long and braided. One of her arms is tattooed with a serpent, the other with a sword. She carries four daggers and a short bow. It is said that she has additional weapons at her disposal, but I don’t know what those might be.”
Faegan lifted his eyebrows. “How is it that you know about her tattoos?”
“Last year, one hot afternoon during the Season of the Sun, she rode into Valrenkium with her cloak removed. Her shirt was sleeveless.”
“What goods does she purchase from Reznik?” Adrian asked, leaning forward and resting her forearms on the table.
“I do not know,” Uther answered. “That is kept strictly between Reznik and her.”
“Who is her next target?” Faegan asked.
“I do not know.”
“Tell me about the Valrenkians,” Faegan said. “Is it true that you practice the Vagaries?”
“Yes.”
“The Minion warriors said that human body parts were in evidence in Valrenkium, and that people were being systematically tortured and killed,” the wizard said. “Is this true?”
Uther managed a slight smile. “Yes,” he answered. “We sometimes kidnap people for our needs. Some of us also unearth corpses from graves. We sell our endowed wares to the highest bidder. Those of us who practice this subdiscipline are also known as Corporeals.”
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