by Ulff Lehmann
“The rumor, sister.”
“What rumor?” None of the priesthood was permitted to spread rumors; rather, the doctrine was to pay attention to them and filter out those bits of truth hidden beneath.
“Danaissan, sister.” The girl almost leapt toward her.
“What about the High Priest? I haven’t been in town for a while, remember?” It wasn’t customary for outlander priests to announce their departure from a city, but Rhea had always done so.
“Sorry,” the lass said.
“Tristess, is it?” The Lawspeaker nodded. “Well then, Sister Tristess, what rumor is true?”
She heard the strangest tale. It was about Ralgon, interrupting Upholder Coimharrin’s judgment and meting out the sentence for High Priest Danaissan. His verdict had been brutal, yes, but the bigger surprise was that Coimharrin had let Ralgon proceed. “The Upholder never denied nor verified the rumor,” the Lawspeaker said. “I saw Danaissan crawling across Old Bridge this morning.”
“Why would Coimharrin allow such a thing?” Rhea mused loudly, wondering if the old Upholder had lost his mind.
“Why don’t you ask him yourself?” a familiar voice asked from the inner door. Both women turned, stood, and bowed automatically to their superior. “Tristess, make yourself useful, lass. It ain’t rumor mongering, but unless you know the full truth, be quiet about it. There are some files that need carrying to the Palace.” To her he said, “Ah. Princess, I was expecting you sooner.”
Sooner? She had been waiting for almost an entire day, and was about to say as much, when she saw Coimharrin’s mouth curve. “I tried, brother, but business delayed me.”
“Doesn’t it always? Come in, lass.”
”In” was a short walk across an inner yard and then into the kitchen. The path was familiar, well-trodden stone amidst a tangle of shrubs and grasses. If this place had ever been a real garden, it must have been when Rheanna had still lived in Ma’tallon.
“Sorry, lass, was busy,” Coimharrin finally said when they entered the kitchen. Whenever Rhea came here, the Upholder’s daughter, Morwyn, was stirring one pot or the other. “Hungry?”
She almost couldn’t suppress her laughter. As always, Coimharrin looked for an excuse to eat in company other than his daughter. Not that Morwyn minded; she had once told Rhea she was relieved her father ate at all. Sometimes, when working a case, the Upholder plainly forgot to eat. “Sure,” she said, sitting on one of the two benches that were placed on each side of a rustic table. Coimharrin, she knew, could have lived in better conditions, but, as he was fond of saying, “a church is only as honest as its leaders. Bugger the gods, sorry folks,” he made a quick bow, “but if you want to uphold ideals you can’t do so without living them yourself.” Time and again, Rhea found herself agreeing with him.
“What’s cooking?” the older priest asked. “Ralchanh’s daughter survived and gave birth to a son,” he continued, this time addressing her.
“Turnips, cabbage, some meat, it looks ugly but tastes great, da,” Morwyn said.
As Coimharrin was nodding his head, apparently at the prospect of a good dinner, Rhea said, “You knew the old Justiciar better, brother.”
At that the older Upholder scoffed, “Could be your father almost, lass—you’ve not forgotten salt and garlic, have you?” He scratched his chin and stood. “Thirsty? And, aye, the old Ralchanh was my friend, teacher, and all that good stuff. Tea? Wine? Mead?”
“Mead if you please.” To those who were hardly familiar with Coimharrin, his antics had to appear on the verge of madness, but Rhea knew better. His mind was always in motion, ever attentive.
“Always wondered if Cat made it out of your home, guess she did. You didn’t forget garlic and salt, lass, did you?”
“No, father,” Morwyn replied with a tired sigh.
“Names are similar enough, probably didn’t want to be known as Ralchanh to the world—bread? When I first laid eyes on him… he surely has his grandda’s eyes, eh?”
“Yes, and bread would be nice,” replied Rhea. “Thank you.” She took the mug the Upholder had filled with mead and drank. “Aye, the name sounded curious, when I first heard it. Couldn’t place it, really, not until I saw him.”
“What for? Some cheese would be good.”
“Father, dinner is almost done, no cheese!”
“Was sent to return his sword,” said Reah. “Idiot threw a dwarf made weapon away.”
“Knowing what happened to him, no small wonder he tossed the blade,” Coimharrin said. Now the aging Upholder sipped of his mead as well. “Good stuff, not as sweet as some others. He’s a poor bastard, Cat’s son, I mean.”
“Why’s that?”
Instead of answering, her friend stood, walked to a bookshelf and retrieved some paper, ink and quill. Then he sat down again. “More trouble in this one’s life than in most others, yours included, lass.” He turned his attention to writing. “That is only from what he told me.” He continued writing.
“The dwarf said something similar,” she muttered. “He found the sword, saying it belonged to one who has done terrible deeds and atones for them.”
“Oh!” Coimharrin exclaimed, not looking up.
“No doubt he has done terrible things; the dwarf said the sword remembers.”
His writing apparently done, her superior put aside his quill and looked at her. “A dwarf. Curious. Aye, I’ve heard it said that what they’ve made or came in contact with recalls what it has done.”
“So, what is it that Ralgon has done?”
“Used that same sword to butcher his betrothed. Cherkont Murder it was called.” His upheld hand stopped her from asking another question. “He’s innocent, never did the deed, he himself that is. Someone else is responsible for it, used his body as a vessel so to speak. And before you ask—more mead?—he speaks the truth.”
She held out her mug. “So, who is responsible?”
“No idea,” he said, refilling it. “But whoever they are, they should be quaking in their boots. He’s got Her on his side and both of them are pretty angry.”
“Lliania has an eye on him?” Rhea asked, dumbfounded.
“I’d say so, aye. Otherwise I would’ve thrown him out of Eanaigh’s temple when he took over my trial. He has his grandda’s gift, I daresay.” At her confused look, he chuckled and added, “Amhlaidh Ralchanh was favored by Lliania, not like them Chosen, mind, but”—he halted in midsentence and added something to the note he had written—“he could tell right from wrong on instinct, even if the evidence spoke against it, and by the gods, he never erred.”
“Is that why you let Ralgon proceed?”
“That and the fact that he got the others to spill their guts and commit themselves to the defense of the city. All of them! Only person who stood by his lies was Danaissan, and Ralgon gave him what he deserved. Ah! Supper’s ready. So you met a dwarf, eh? What are they like?
While Morwyn put filled bowls before them, and then joined them at the table, Rhea recounted her encounter with Hranthor. Once or twice during the telling did Coimharrin return to his notes, scribbling down several lines on fresh paper. She finished with “What do you think, brother?”
The older priest sipped his mead then shrugged. “Duasonh knows of the trouble, I assume so does the Chosen, not much else to do. Though I think you should cherish that meeting, not many have the pleasure of encountering a Smith.”
“And Cat’s son?”
“Oh, I don’t know, he might need some help should he ever get to the people responsible for the killing.”
“From what I’ve heard,” Morwyn said, “those he goes after might need help.” The younger woman smiled.
Rhea hadn’t heard Coimharrin’s daughter speak more than two or three words at a time and was unsure of what to make of the statement. She decided to remain silent. Her fellow Upholder, however, looked at his daughter and grinned broadly. “Aye, lass, I guess they will need all the help they can get.”
At that fa
ther and daughter began to chuckle, and Rhea began to understand there was much more to quiet, unassuming Morwyn than she had been led to believe. She didn’t share the humor of this odd pair though. Whoever had been responsible deserved what was coming to them, for the pain they had caused, not to mention the innocent life they had taken. For what? It made little sense to her. Besides, if Coimharrin was right, Caitrin Ralchanh’s son was looked after by Lliania herself and hardly needed anyone’s help. Why return someone from the dead? That, at least, was not Lady Justice’s style. She asked Coimharrin.
“Returned from the dead, eh? Aye, heard about that, didn’t believe it until I saw the boy. Maybe the goddess has some higher purpose in mind for him?”
“But why not prevent such harm coming to him in the first place?” Morwyn said. “Kind of pointless, really. I mean if I were to take special care of someone, I’d not let him come to harm at all.”
“You’re right, daughter,” Coimharrin conceded. “Besides, if what the Cahill’s servant blathered whilst in his cups is true, Ralgon was under no such protection when he was attacked in Cahill manor.”
“He was attacked?” Rheanna asked, astonished. “I saw him yesterday and he seemed fine.”
“A week ago, or something like that,” the older man said.
“Really? That’s odd; there was not a scratch on him.”
“I heard a rumor he had eaten half the contents of Úistan Cahill’s pantry a few days ago,” Morwyn put in, much to her father’s annoyance. She fell silent immediately afterward.
Coimharrin put down his mug and glanced at his daughter. “Rumors unconfirmed help no one, girl.”
“But you haven’t confirmed the battle at Cahill manor from a week ago either, father!” she retorted, and for the first time Rhea saw what strength lay beneath Morwyn’s demure exterior.
“A small army of carpenters and window makers entering the manor with tools and supplies and leaving without same supplies is almost the same as a confirmation, daughter.”
“We’re talking about nothing,” Rhea intervened. Her hosts fell silent, apparently realizing that both their arguments were on shaky ground. She decided to change the topic, slightly at least. “Should he know?”
“Who? What?” Coimharrin asked.
“Ralgon, da,” his daughter answered.
“Oh. About his ancestry? I don’t know.”
“Would it help?” Morwyn said as she stood and gathered their bowls and spoons.
The question was valid. Rhea considered her own situation and compared it to Drangar Ralgon’s. Their lives had been so very different, and she knew she could have lived very well without her knowing she was the crown princess of a nation already subsumed into another. Had someone given a silver leaf for every time she had wondered what might have happened, she would be rich by now. With the killing of his betrothed, Ralgon had to already have his own collection of regrets and what-ifs. It would be cruel to add one more sad part to his story. Not much good would come of it. “No,” she finally said. “It never helps, just adds more pain.”
“Oh, he already carries more than enough of that,” Coimharrin confirmed.
“Still, I’d like to talk with him again, just to see if he needs help one way or the other.”
“No dessert, Upholder?” Morwyn asked, and Rhea knew exactly from which side of the family this randomness came.
It was during dessert when a booming knock on the door caused everyone at the table to jump up in alarm.
“Sounds like somebody is banging on the gates of the Bailey Majestic,” Coimharrin muttered.
His daughter stood and headed for the rear door. She opened, gasped and took a few steps back into the kitchen, stammering, “Da, I think the… visitor is here to see you.”
Both Upholders turned to scrutinize the new arrival. Rhea was as confused as Morwyn, but, much to her surprise, Coimharrin remained calm. “Ah!” he exclaimed, rising. “Thought you wouldn’t come.”
Her meeting with the dwarf was already a tale worthy of telling grandchildren. Someone else’s grandchildren, she reckoned, having none of her own and quickly approaching infertile age. Seeing a Deathmask outside Coimharrin’s abode was just as amazing.
“You asked me here,” the priest of Jainagath stated, his voice echoing hollowly behind his mask.
“Aye, that I did, come in,” the aging Upholder repeated. “Daughter, let him in.”
The sense of discomfort most people had when around a Deathmask was alien to her. One of her father’s advisors had been a death priest, but she still couldn’t stand the odor that perpetually surrounded them. Morwyn fared even worse. The younger woman stood next to the door, hands wringing her blue apron, eyes wide with fear. Rhea stood, bowed to the newcomer then said, “I think it best if your daughter and I leave you two to your business.” Even though she was curious as to what the two wanted to discuss.
The Deathmask’s hidden face turned toward her. “You will find out soon enough, Upholder.”
Could all of them read people’s minds? A slight nod of the hooded head was all the answer she needed. “I’m patient,” she said, forcing a smile on her face. To Coimharrin she said, “Brother, we’ll speak more of this later.” He nodded. To Morwyn she said, “Come, let’s go.”
When the door was firmly shut behind them, Rhea took a deep breath of cold air. Immediately she felt refreshed. Morwyn, wrapped in a long brown wool coat, shivered beside her. She patted her on the shoulder. “I think you could use a drink,” she said encouragingly.
The Upholder’s daughter shook her head. “Thank you, but I reckon you have more urgent business than to care for me. I’m fine, just a bit rattled.”
“There are few enough who can stand being around a Deathmask, even at a funeral.”
Morwyn gave a weak smile. “At ma’s funeral I wept, not only for grief. I was just a child.”
For a moment, Rhea was at a loss. When she had joined Nerran’s Riders, her first time away from Ma’tallon, she had met Coimharrin again, after a very long time. Back home when he had visited Justiciar Ralchanh he had been alone; when she had seen him again he still was only with his daughter. “Well,” she decided, “if there’s nothing I can do, I leave you to your thoughts. You’re right; I have other things to tend to.” She gave Morwyn another pat on the shoulder and left.
It was past the evening gong when her meanderings took her to Cahill manor. Lost in thought she had wandered through Dunthiochagh, trying to make sense of everything she had experienced and heard in the past few days. Caitrin Ralchanh’s son, his legal verdict on Danaissan, the dwarf telling them Ralgon’s sword remembered the pain and hope for atonement. It made a marvelous puzzle with either far too many pieces to form a coherent picture or with so few pieces that no real image could yet emerge. Dead and returned from death, supposedly no divine intervention when Ralgon was again assaulted, she trusted Coimharrin in that matter. If he said no deity had his hand in saving Cat’s son, then no god had lifted a finger. It just made no sense.
Her tug on the bell pull was answered only moments later. “Yes?” the woman behind the gate asked, blue eyes piercing through the small opening inside the door.
“Upholder Rheanna to see Drangar Ralgon,” she replied. It still felt strange to use this bastardization of Justiciar Ralchanh’s name, but had she another choice?
The small panel slammed shut and the gate grated open. “You know the way?” the woman-at-arms asked.
“Aye,” she said and headed for the main entrance.
CHAPTER 44
He felt the troops’ unrest, knew he had to do something and soon. If he didn’t, House Argram’s warriors would not be the only ones to be disciplined. The crossing at Ondalan was still contested, and now bands of bowmen were harrying his lumber parties. Maybe the idea of an easy victory was nothing but an illusion. The quick succession in which they had taken Harail and the northern holdings had been possible thanks to the old Elven Road; every other street not belonging to this ancient n
etwork, whether it was here or in Chanastardh, was nothing more than a trodden-out game trail. Supplies were fast to get to Harail, but the carts and the oxen that pulled them took their bloody time to reach his camp.
Urgraith Mireynh looked at the reports before him and willed himself not to topple the table. More than a week they had attempted the siege, and what a weak attempt it was. He should not have relied solely on the knowledge that a traitor had agreed to open the doors. It had worked magnificently in Harail, and since no further orders had been sent his way, he had assumed the traitor inside Dunthiochagh would still open the gates. How utterly naïve he had been.
Furious, he pounded his fists onto the table. “Damn those traitors! Damn those bloody bureaucrats! And damn the bloody Danastaerians for not rolling over like they should!”
“Sir?” Black Bastard number one asked, poking his head into the tent. Mireynh had started calling them Black Bastards or Bitches, even though he didn’t address them that way. He didn’t want to lose favor with either King Drammoch or the High Advisor. If he did, his wife and children were dead.
“What is it?” he snarled. He was in a foul mood and would not pretend to be otherwise.
“Lady Killoy to see you, sir.”
“Send her in!”
Killoy entered a heartbeat later, with several arrows in her left hand. She slammed her right fist against her chest in salute and stood at attention.
“Come to bring me even more dire news?” he asked glumly.
The noblewoman shook her head with the hint of a smile on her lips. “No, sir. During last night’s fog we sent some soldiers closer to Dunthiochagh to retrieve a few corpses.”
“And?” he asked, wondering what new revelation Killoy would bring him now.
“They found not only corpses, but enough arrows on the ground to supply a whole warband.”
Sure, he thought, we shot them down. Why did this woman think arrows on the ground were exceptional? “Our Bows are good and fast shots,” Mireynh grumbled. “So what?”