I came out of the delve to see Aellyn on the bed in front of me, curled and sleeping, her fist close to her mouth as if she might start sucking her thumb at any moment. Bolt and Rory looked at me in expectation. Jeb’s gaze shifted back and forth between us, failing to find purchase.
“What happened to you in there, Dura?” I heard Jeb growl. “What happened in the Darkwater Forest?”
“I wish I knew.”
In her sleep, Aellyn turned toward the sound of Jeb’s voice and her arms reached for him. A moment later her eyes opened and her fingers curled and opened again. I waited for the growl of Jeb’s anger, but it never came. Instead he sat on the edge of the bed and scooped Aellyn up from her blankets and held her close. She nestled into his arms, and I watched as her gaze darted back and forth around the room, making more of those disjointed threads of memory that led nowhere.
“What did you see?” Bolt asked. Evidently he’d decided to abandon his pretense.
“Nothing useful,” I said. “Her memories are fractured into such small pieces of time that she doesn’t have a sense of her past.” I didn’t mention the scroll. I didn’t want to know what had been done to her to make her create a vault, and at the moment I had no way of getting to those memories to see if aiding her was even possible.
I kept my distance from Jeb and the girl, thinking. “I wish Pellin or Bronwyn hadn’t left,” I said to Bolt. “I’m out of my depth.”
“They often felt the same way.”
I sighed. “That’s disappointing. I’d like to think this gets easier over time. She had to pull those memories together to draw those two pictures.” I gestured toward Aellyn. “There isn’t any way she could have done it if her memories are fractured all the time.”
I had assumed Jeb was focused on Aellyn, wasn’t listening to me, but a moment later he lifted his head and sought my gaze. “Do you want to tell me what you’re talking about, Dura, or are we going to play the guessing game?”
I pointed to the girl, balled up and snuggled against his chest. “Aellyn doesn’t remember things the way normal people do. For most of us, our memories are like threads in a river, leading back to previous events. Pick a spot on a thread and follow it one way and you go back in time; go the other way and you go forward.” I shook my head. “Aellyn’s memories don’t connect to past or future. They’re disjointed images that have no context.”
Jeb’s face darkened. He’d seen enough of what the war had done to a lot of men and women who only looked like they’d survived it. He knew the cause of Aellyn’s fractured mind. “Do you know who caused it?”
I shook my head. If he ever caught the people responsible, he’d beat them to death. Under the circumstances, I might watch and applaud. Wispy tendrils of an idea coalesced into awareness. “No, but I think there might be a way to get to the information I need, and it might help her piece her mind back together.”
I looked around the room and spotted a charcoal stick, parchment, and drawing board on a small round table next to a broad chest. I brought them over and put them in Jeb’s free hand. “Ask her to draw again, the same thing you asked before, but I need to see Viona before she died. I need to know what she looked like as she ran from the Hawker.”
His eyes narrowed, but a moment later he accepted the implements and set Aellyn upright on his lap. “Little one, would you draw the woman who died again? Would you show me the way she looked as she ran out of the inn?”
She accepted the tools that allowed her to speak to the present, her eyes darting. For an instant, she reminded me of Custos searching the contents of an entire library kept within his mind. I stored that impression away. Perhaps there might be a way to heal Aellyn someday.
The charcoal made scratching sounds on the parchment as she drew. Carefully, as though I were trying to sneak up on a grazing fawn, I inched forward until I came within reach of her bare feet. Without haste or hesitation I stretched out my hand to touch her sole.
And there was Viona, looking behind her in terror at a man no one else but Aellyn seemed to notice. The memory didn’t move, but I found I could move within it, shifting through the figures as though they’d become statues. It appeared the assassin had come for Viona through the back door by the kitchen and he was in the midst of shifting to avoid bumping into patrons by the bar. His hands were empty, but his eyes held surprise.
Viona had a short dagger in one hand—blood streamed down the other one.
Chapter 15
I came out of the delve, leaving memories behind that were nothing more than bits of shattered glass in her mind, but before I left I looked back and saw the strand of memory she’d held, healthy and intact, extending back and forward in time. I stepped back from the bed to see Aellyn bent over her parchment, focused on re-creating the image she’d seen. Time passed, kept by the sound of charcoal strokes against the parchment. I knew what I’d seen, but it only made sense to a point. I had everything I could get from Aellyn, but I waited for her to finish.
I didn’t have Pellin’s, Bronwyn’s, or even Toria’s experience with all the facets of brokenness that walked around on two feet, but it seemed to me that there might be hope for Jeb’s newfound daughter. When she finished and held the drawing out to Jeb, it showed a part of the image I’d seen within her mind, a view of Viona Ness fleeing from the Hawker, blood pouring from her hand.
But now I knew the context.
Jeb looked at me, his voice the soft rumble of a mountain as Aellyn burrowed back into the safety of his embrace. “Did you get what you needed, Dura?”
I nodded, accepting the drawing he offered. “I don’t understand it yet, but I got it. Get her to the healers, Jeb. Go to the Servants. The browns did the best with those of us who made it back from the war.”
He scowled, but his voice remained soft. “I don’t like church people. I’ll take care of her.”
“This isn’t about what you like—it’s about healing her mind. The Servants are the best healers in Collum.”
He shook his head. “I’ve seen what they do to patients like her. They’ll take her off someplace quiet and fill her with potions anytime she even looks like she’s upset. Away from the city.” He might as well have said “away from me.”
I put my hand on Aellyn’s shoulder. “You may have to go with her, but I won’t let them take her from you.”
Jeb shifted on the bed to look at Bolt. “He can do this?”
Bolt nodded. “Not all by himself, but yes.”
After a moment Jeb gave me a grudging nod. “If it means keeping her, I’ll leave the city. Gareth’s a good man. He can be chief reeve in my stead if they need to take Aellyn someplace away from Bunard.”
“And take plenty of parchment and drawing sticks with you,” I added. “It’s the key to piecing her memories back together.”
We walked away from Jeb’s quarters in the tor, my feet wandering the hallways without a destination as I tried to make sense of everything I knew. I couldn’t make the pieces fit. Without warning, Bolt’s hand knotted in my cloak and pulled me back into a storeroom where the three of us stood, hardly breathing, as the sound of boots grew nearer and then fainter. The scent of onions and turnips hung heavy in the air, and in the half-light from the torches in the corridor, I could see burlap bags piled close to us.
Rory snuck a glance out the door at the retreating figures. “Merum.”
Bolt grunted. “The guards at the back of the tor have gone off duty. They’re probably all filled with ale someplace with their tongues wagging.” He looked at me. “You need to learn discretion. You can’t do this if half the guards in Bunard look at you as a form of entertainment.”
“Entertainment?”
He nodded. “You leave a trail of chaos a mile wide in your wake, Willet.”
Rory laughed. Usually the sound of a child’s laughter is joyful and comforting.
I shook my head to clear the distraction of the guards searching for me. The pieces to Viona’s death were in my mind, and I neede
d to make them fit. For almost the past year and a half I’d developed a habit of talking through my thoughts whenever circumstances had me stumped. Longing opened a desperate hole in my chest. I wanted more than anything to do that again. “I need to see Gael.”
“This isn’t exactly the time for romance,” Bolt said.
I shook my head. “The first time I met Gael and her sister at court, they introduced me to their ‘game.’ They would look at a noble or servant and with a single glance unravel their circumstances and past.” The image of Viona Ness I had painted in my mind troubled me, and I couldn’t understand it. “She helps me think.”
“I’m sure,” Bolt said. Rory’s laughter didn’t help. “But we may not be able to get out of this room, much less the tor.”
The guards would be looking for all three of us. At least, I hoped so. I dug into my purse, pulled out a pair of silver half crowns, and handed them to Rory. “I want you to bring the first servant you find who’s close to my size. If he asks—no, when he asks—for more money, tell him it’s waiting for him here.” I sighed. “People say servants are invisible. We’re about to put that to the test. The last time I tried it, it didn’t work out so well.”
Rory nodded. “From what I heard, you went out of your way to throw wine on Duke Orlan.” He unclasped his damp cloak and let it drop to the floor.
As we waited in the darkness of the storeroom, I sifted through the facts, rearranging them like mismatched puzzle pieces. Viona had been attacked and killed by the dwimor, her body found in the street a few dozen paces away from the Hawker. Jeb’s other witnesses had seen her running away, even if they hadn’t been able to see the man who killed her.
I’d hoped Aellyn’s memories would explain why the dwimor had targeted a shy, introverted daughter of a minor noble, but nothing fit. Even the memory of what happened in the tavern seemed at odds with itself. Viona had her dagger out, running from the dwimor across the room.
“How did she get away?” I muttered, but my voice still sounded loud in the silence.
“Willet?” Bolt asked.
“The image in Aellyn’s mind doesn’t make sense,” I said. “Viona was already bleeding when she ran from the tavern. The dwimor had already laid her arm open, but the image in Aellyn’s mind shows Viona at the door with the dwimor on the opposite side of the room.”
“Second attacker?”
I pulled up the image in my mind, moving among the figures as if I were walking among statues, but nothing about any of them indicated malice or even awareness. “No.”
“The girl’s mind is broken, Willet,” Bolt said. “She’s not a reliable witness.”
I wasn’t convinced. According to Jeb, his adopted daughter had a perfect ability to re-create what she’d seen. That led me to believe Aellyn’s memories and drawings were the only reliable witnesses I had.
“You’ve never seen or heard of Viona before?” I asked. “She’s not associated with the Vigil?”
“No,” Bolt said. “Maybe the dwimor was there to kill someone else and killed Viona because she’d spotted him.”
I nodded. “Perhaps, but the dwimor that came after me didn’t behave that way.”
“She never had the chance,” Bolt said. “Nobody saw her before she had a couple of marks on you, and Rory had a knife in her before she knew he was there.”
There was a soft knock on the door before it opened to reveal Rory standing in the dim light of the hallway with a servant in a red vest over a white linen shirt, his eyes darting, searching for discovery.
“Do you know who I am?” I asked him.
He bobbed his head. “Aye, you’re Lord Dura.” His gaze drifted across mine at intervals before returning to the floor.
“Perfect,” I said. “What’s your name?”
His head dipped again. “Stefan, my lord.”
“I need to switch clothes with you, Stefan,” I told him. “I’ve got some people looking for me in the tor, and I’d rather not be found just yet.”
He shifted his feet, clearly uncomfortable with the idea. “Um, you’re not planning on killing anybody, are you, my lord? I could get in powerful trouble for helping you kill someone you’re not supposed to.”
I shook my head. “I just want to leave the tor, Stefan. I don’t even want to draw my sword, which is why I want to switch clothes with you. If you look at it that way, you’re helping to keep the peace.”
He gave me another of those fleeting glances and spared a second one for Rory. “He said you’d pay another pair of half crowns if I agreed.”
I pulled the coins from my purse and put my hand in the light so Stefan could see them. “And he was correct, but I should apologize in advance. My clothes are a bit damp.”
His eyes were still on the money I held as he unlaced his vest. “No need to worry about that, Lord Dura.”
I waited until we’d finished our swap before turning to Bolt. “You and Rory take Stefan back toward the north pier. Avoid detection as long as you can. I’m going to try and walk out the front gate. I’m hoping they won’t expect that.”
“What do you want us to do when they see us?” Bolt asked.
I thought about that. “Run, but don’t make them mad enough to pull weapons on you.”
Rory snuck a glance into the hallway. “It’s clear.”
“Luck,” I said. “You know where to meet me if you get clear.”
I picked up a sack of onions, threw it over my shoulder to help obscure my face, and started for the front of the tor with my head down. Church guards in red passed me by, their gaze sliding from me after seeing my uniform. No one asked to see my face or whether I’d seen the men they were looking for. Menials weren’t seen and didn’t see.
When I was too far away from the storerooms to maintain the fiction of bringing supplies to the kitchens, I left the bag of onions in a closet and made my way toward the front gate. I felt exposed without them and my fingers twitched as I searched the hallways for something, anything to carry to help me escape notice.
But for once, luck seemed to be with me. The men on guard duty seemed more interested in looking for their relief than searching for three sodden river rats. I waited just inside the main entrance, busying myself with pretend tasks that kept my face hidden, until a squad of guards approached.
When the conversation turned from three people the church wanted to find to the destination for the night’s libations, I walked around the knot of guards with my head down and kept going until I caught up with a rickety farmer’s cart waiting to head back into the city. Bending low, I crawled underneath to clutch the splintered frame, my arms straining, until it crossed the bridge into the nobles’ quarter.
Aer must have decided to bless me, because the wagon stayed intact and when it slowed to take a turn in the road, I dropped and rolled to safety. Ten minutes later, I stood at the gate to Gael’s estate—or more accurately, the estate of her uncle—my livery dirty and torn.
The guards at the gate, a pair of furloughed soldiers named Aran and Gilliam, knew me, knew I still retained, however temporarily, my title. They barred me from entering anyway. Gael’s uncle had tried to scuttle our engagement, seeking the wealth that would come from aligning his niece’s gift to a profitable house from one of the southern kingdoms.
He hadn’t appreciated Gael’s response to his attempt to marry her off to Rupert, Kera’s grieving suitor. Gael had done the unthinkable; she’d passed her gift to her uncle, destroying his hold over her. He’d never imagined she would voluntarily surrender her status to marry an ungifted, barely titled man like me.
“Please inform Lady Gael that Lord Dura requests an immediate audience, if it suits her,” I said. I stood on the street as if I belonged there and tried to avoid looking guilty.
The guards exchanged a glance before turning their attention back to me. Aran licked his lips before ducking his head to speak. “Begging your pardon, Lord Dura. We’ve been forbidden to allow you onto the count’s estate.”
I heard the other guard mutter something under his breath with the count’s name attached that didn’t sound very complimentary. “Are you forbidden to take messages to Lady Gael from me?”
Both guards nodded, but it was Gilliam who spoke. “Aye, Lord Dura. Our esteemed employer has made it clear that he hasn’t hired us to think but to follow his orders to the letter.” He paused to give me a direct look. “To the letter, Lord Dura. No more. No less.”
I smiled and gave Gilliam a bow of thanks. “I knew men like that, officers, in the last war who wouldn’t trust their subordinates to think. They usually ended up face down in the mud. So, the count’s orders forbid you from taking a message to Lady Gael.”
They both nodded. “That is so,” Gilliam said.
“Are you forbidden from taking a message from me to any of the count’s servants?” I asked.
Gilliam shook his head. “No. Evidently the count can’t conceive of a situation where a noble would desire to engage a servant in conversation.”
“Well,” I smiled. “Would you please tell Marya—” I stopped. Marya had died during Bas-solas. “Would you please tell Padraig that I am at the gate and wish to speak with him?”
Aran nodded, winking. “Is the message of a private nature, my lord?”
I shook my head. “Not overly so. I see no reason to disturb the count, but if other members of his household are present, I don’t mind if they overhear my request.”
Aran and I exchanged bows, and he turned to make his way up the cobblestone path that lead through the manicured gardens to the count’s estate. I spent the next ten minutes trying to ignore the itchy feeling between my shoulder blades whenever I heard hooves or boots on the street behind me. The church guards searching for me in the tor would figure out I wasn’t there any minute now, if they hadn’t already.
The Shattered Vigil Page 14