The door suddenly opened and Andyn swung back inside, eyes flicking suspiciously to Breshada for just a moment before he settled back into his corner. The carriage jerked into motion again, starting its passage beneath the First Shield.
“Any trouble?” asked Wirr. Normally they wouldn’t have been stopped, but the lateness of the hour meant that most travelers were expected to check in with the city watch before proceeding.
Andyn shook his head. “No, Sire. They recognized both me and the carriage. The captain was a little irritated that he wasn’t allowed to check inside, but I just told him you and Miss Deldri were both resting. Once I pointed out how … protective the nobility can be of their sleep, he agreed that it was best not to risk disturbing you.”
Wirr snorted, catching a flash of amused approval on Breshada’s face as he shook his head.
They moved on slowly through Fedris Idri, the gentle rocking motion of the carriage almost enough to lull Wirr to sleep. He only had to glance across at Breshada to regain his alertness, though. Ilin Illan would be crawling with Desrielite spies right now. Of the entire journey, this part was by far the most dangerous.
Ten minutes passed without conversation; everyone knew the plan and were content to keep the restful silence. Eventually they emerged from the pass and into the city itself, taking one of the smaller roads into the Upper District. When the carriage finally slowed to a halt again, Wirr gave Andyn a slight nod; his bodyguard slipped out the door, reappearing a few seconds later with a tired-looking Aelric.
“Your Highness,” said Aelric sleepily, peering inside. His black hair was uncharacteristically unkempt, and the clothes he was wearing were rumpled.
Wirr stared at him. “Were you sleeping out here?”
“Your message was very specific about waiting for you here. Not so much about the time you’d arrive. Or why I needed to be here.” Aelric gave him a baleful look.
Wirr restrained a chuckle. “I wasn’t sure if we’d be delayed—and I didn’t want to put too much information in the note. Sorry,” he said, mostly meaning it. “Thank you for coming.”
He glanced out the door. They had pulled to the side of the narrow street, or perhaps more accurately simply stopped; the road was barely wide enough to accommodate the vehicle. It was also, he was pleased to see, completely deserted at this hour. That wasn’t a surprise—the Upper District saw little lawlessness and was only lightly patrolled, plus its residents were fewer and less inclined to be out late than in the other districts—but it was still a relief.
Wirr glanced across at Deldri. She appeared to be sound asleep, but he didn’t want to risk her overhearing anything. He slipped out of the carriage, quickly followed by Breshada.
“Who’s this?” Aelric nodded politely to Breshada.
“This is Breshada. She’s why you’re here,” said Wirr cheerfully. “She’s a Hunter who saved my life in Desriel, and now has somehow become Gifted—don’t ask, we’re not sure how,” he added as Aelric opened his mouth. He continued, “The Gil’shar are convinced that Andarra—or more specifically, I—have been using her as a spy. And before knowing that she was here, or that she was the ‘spy’ that they were talking about, I explicitly denied any connection between us to the ambassador. So if we’re associated, it will mean … well. Bad things. War, maybe?”
“Probably war,” agreed Breshada as she straightened her clothes.
Aelric gaped at them for a good few seconds in silence, clearly fully awake now.
Eventually, he recovered enough to shake his head. “And you brought her here … why?” Breshada glared at Aelric, but the young man stolidly ignored her.
“She needs to be taught how to control her use of Essence.” Wirr had strongly considered dropping her at one of the small towns they’d passed through on the way there—it wasn’t as if one of the Gifted couldn’t have gone out to meet her—but he had nowhere private to leave her and as long as she had Whisper, Breshada would stand out to anyone with eyes. Plus, Administrators in smaller towns weren’t accustomed to their Finders going off, so any slip by Breshada would have led to her immediate discovery.
At least here in the city—where lots of people still went about armed after recent events, and with Tol Athian in the Upper District—none of that would be quite so much of an issue.
Aelric thought for a few seconds, then reluctantly inclined his head, evidently coming to the same conclusions. He held up a key, the one that Wirr had instructed him to retrieve from his office. “So where am I taking her?”
“The Administration building behind Upper Market. Two streets over from where we are now.” It was currently empty; the last month—the battle, followed by Wirr’s becoming Northwarden—had taken a massive toll on the number of Administrators residing in the city. He turned to Breshada. “Make sure no one sees you go in, shutter any lamps, and lock the door behind you. Don’t open it for anyone except myself, Aelric, or Andyn. There are comfortable couches there, and we’ll organize for some food.”
Breshada nodded impatiently; they’d been over this several times on the way here. Wirr was only repeating himself from nervousness. “I will remain hidden,” she assured him. “It is hardly in my interests to—”
She froze as faint voices trickled across to them—muffled, probably at least a street over, but too close for comfort. Aelric exchanged a look with Wirr and then ducked down a nearby alley to investigate, walking with a slight limp.
There was silence for a minute, Wirr holding his breath. Then, suddenly, the faint scuffing of footsteps on stone from behind him.
“Prince Torin? Is that you?”
Wirr’s heart sank as the call rang out across the empty street. He recognized the distinctively scratchy, gravelly voice straight away. Lyon was the captain of the city guard—a good man, one who had worked willingly with Wirr on plenty of separate occasions over this past month. Wirr had known that he took it upon himself to do late-shift patrols, but the chances of him happening upon them here, now, had been slim. Lyon would have at least another man with him as well, probably two.
“This is going to be awkward,” he murmured to Breshada, not turning but listening helplessly as footsteps began echoing toward them.
Before he could react or resist, Breshada was suddenly grabbing and kissing him.
He went stiff with shock, both at the act and the passion with which Breshada had planted her lips on his. In the background he thought he could hear a couple of soft, uneasy chuckles; after a stunned second he instinctively jerked away but by the time he was able to look around, Lyon and whomever had been with him was gone.
He staggered away from Breshada, putting his hand to his mouth in bewilderment. “What in fates …” He stared at the Hunter, shaking his head. “Why?”
Breshada wasn’t looking at him, her eyes instead on the road. When there was no movement, she turned and gave Wirr a satisfied nod.
“Your people find public displays of passion … embarrassing,” she observed, looking for all the world as if nothing odd had happened. “It’s something we Seekers know to take advantage of, now and then. A lover’s embrace already hides the features, and your people tend to avoid looking too closely into the bargain.” She jerked her head toward the main street. “They will not remember my face. We are safe to proceed.”
“Safe?” Wirr stared at Breshada, wide-eyed. “Safe?” He ran his hands through his hair as he thought through the consequences of what had just happened. He groaned. “In less than a day, every House in Ilin Illan is going to know that I was in a back alley in the darkest hours of the night, kissing some mysterious dark-haired girl. And they’re going to want to know who it was.”
“But I very much doubt that the Gil’shar will make the connection.” Breshada sighed at his expression. “You complained to your sister for a full quarter of the journey here of the vapid women pursuing you. Would this not dissuade some of them?”
There was motion to Wirr’s left and Aelric emerged from the shadows, still
slightly favoring his left leg, a vaguely puzzled expression on his face. The look only deepened when he saw Wirr’s scowl. “What happened?”
Wirr shook his head. “Remind me next time that you’re a much better swordsman than scout,” he said drily. “They came from the other direction.”
“Oh. The acoustics must have …” He frowned. “Someone saw you?”
“They saw only two lovers locked in an embrace,” said Breshada cheerfully.
Wirr rubbed his forehead, waving away Aelric’s confused look. “It was Lyon, of all people. He recognized me, so Breshada here decided that kissing me would be the best way to avoid being identified and make him go away.”
Aelric stared at him for a long moment, then abruptly guffawed. “You’re serious. Did it work?”
Wirr glowered at him. He wasn’t sure what reaction he’d expected, but that certainly hadn’t been it.
“It did,” said Breshada with satisfaction.
“Then what’s the problem?” asked Aelric, still grinning.
“Bah.” Wirr just shook his head. “You know where you’re going. Try not to let anyone know you were even out of bed tonight—the fewer questions, the better. I’ll speak to you in the morning.” He hesitated, then gave Aelric a serious look. “Be careful.”
“Of course.” Aelric gave Wirr a casual mock salute, then nodded to Breshada and started down the road.
Breshada gave Aelric an appraising look as they walked off. “Perhaps there are other patrols around?”
Aelric’s sudden look of panic as Wirr shut the carriage door again was just enough to redeem his mood.
Wirr collapsed onto his bed, the tension of the past day easing a little now that he was back in a familiar environment.
His arrival at such a late hour had caused a minor stir, but he’d eventually convinced the guards that no one needed to be woken or immediately made aware of his arrival. Deldri had woken up enough to make her way to her old rooms, and Wirr had gladly headed straight for his own. Though the journey itself had been easy—riding in a carriage was hardly a great exertion—the constant strain of having Breshada there as well had taken its toll. He was ready to sleep.
Still, as he began putting the few things that he’d brought on the trip back in their places, and the Oathstone from his pocket into his personal safe, he couldn’t help but stare at the thick notebook he’d taken from his father’s safe. Curiosity had been eating at him for close to the entire journey, but with Breshada there, he’d felt the need to stay fully aware of his surroundings the entire time.
Plus—though he didn’t want to admit it to himself—he felt a good deal of trepidation about actually reading it. Scyner had pointed him in this direction, and Wirr couldn’t help but wonder why.
He reached over, moving to open the leather-bound book, and then brow furrowing when it remained shut. He turned it to its side, remembering the red wax that sealed the tome. It was still completely intact.
He poked at it to no avail, eventually fetching a letter opener from his desk and carefully piercing the seal. It was harder than he’d thought, and a couple of moments after finally making the first incision, he hesitated. The red surface looked as if it were rippling.
Then he dropped the letter opener and nearly the book, too, as the wax abruptly melted away, seemingly into the book itself.
He stared at it, frozen, hand shaking a little and unsure how to react. Eventually, cautiously, he opened the heavy tome and slowly began flipping through it.
Nothing else strange happened. The pages were filled with his father’s familiar, neat lettering.
After a few seconds, he went back to the first page, frowning as he saw the red writing. It was dated close to twenty-two years ago—before the beginning of the war—but the handwriting, unlike the rest of the book, was not Elocien’s.
He tentatively touched the lettering with a fingertip. The letters were raised, dully reflective.
Written in the same red wax as the seal.
This confirms that the contents of this notebook have been independently assessed and verified by Elocien Tel’Andras, in the presence of Mirin Siks and Jakarris si’Irthidian. During the assessment, at no point did Elocien Tel’Andras display indicators of deception or have any external influences affecting his judgment.
There were three signatures beneath, again all in slightly raised red wax—his father’s and then two others, presumably those named in the text. Frowning, Wirr carefully flipped forward to the next page, where his father’s handwriting began in regular ink.
I am recording here the events that have culminated in my being brought before the Augurs tomorrow, so that I might again know the truth of our efforts once my Reading has taken place.
Hello, Elocien.
By now, presumably Jakarris has guided you to the safe and will likely also have told you some things that are difficult for you to believe—confusing, even, given that you will not have any memory of what has led us to this point. It was necessary to take those events from your mind as well, I am afraid. Given the situation and the suspicion that has fallen upon you, even a hint of rebellious thought during the Reading could be dangerous.
Because of this, I know that you will be wondering how you could have possibly chosen to start down the drastic and distasteful road of organizing a coup.
The short answer is: though they have been hiding it, something has happened to the Augurs. New visions are scarce compared to last winter. Three weeks ago, Eleran even took the extraordinary step of retracting a vision—despite it having gone so far as to be confirmed in their Journal and publicly announced by Therius. They have explained the decrease as a sign of generally calm times ahead, and the latest embarrassment as a miscommunication in the chain of verification.
Do not listen to them. You have already been able to confirm that both problems are far more serious than they are letting on.
Though these events being kept from you and Kevran is disturbing, more so is the subsequent rise of criminality amongst those wielding Essence. With the Augurs now focused almost entirely inward—seemingly isolating themselves as they search for a solution to their issues—the Gifted have realized that they are now all but without oversight. I have collated reports of public humiliations, beatings, even rapes and killings by Gifted who now believe themselves above the law. Despite my efforts to bring this to the Augurs’ attention, no justice has yet been administered.
Because of this, away from the false calm of the palace, you will find that there is great civil unrest. Deranius’s recent speech to the Assembly has apparently become infamous amongst the people and has already earned the Gifted a new nickname; his refutation of the claim that some of the Gifted are abusing their powers—declaring that they use their power for Andarra alone, and that they all but bleed for the good of the people—has been widely mocked. Now, when one of the Gifted is said to be bleeding for his countrymen, it is commonly taken to mean that they are using their power for their own gain.
The Gifted, needless to say, have started to realize that this is not a compliment. Outbreaks of violence over the term have been reported.
To indicate the extent and severity of the problem, the following is a list of crimes perpetrated by Gifted individuals that I have independently verified occurred and that went unpunished over the past year. It is hard reading, but I urge you to be thorough, as each one provides motivation for the difficult choices that we have made, and that we will continue to have to make. If you need further proof after reading this, pick any of these crimes at random and quietly verify the details that I have noted. You will quickly discover that they are accurate.
Wirr paused, frowning at the page. He’d heard plenty about the war and the reasons behind it, of course—but always framed a certain way. His father had told him stories of what it had been like before the rebellion, but after three years at Caladel … he’d found them difficult to believe.
Yet his father’s words here—written to himself, appare
ntly—were clearly not rhetoric. He seemed to be recording the facts, nothing more.
He flipped forward, scanning page after page with steadily increasing horror. His father had been right—they were hard to read. Massive corruption, oppression, rapes, and murders by the Gifted, all unpunished. There had even been two violently suppressed riots in the Lower District—described initially to Elocien and Kevran as “minor disturbances”—and scattered others throughout some of the other major cities in Andarra.
Soon enough, Wirr’s father had painted a clear but graphic picture of the collapse of the rule of law—and the way in which the Gifted had taken advantage of it—during the period leading up to the war.
Eventually, Wirr’s vision began to blur from tiredness and he pushed the thick notebook away, trying for a moment to envisage what it must have been like. The political structure of the day had been so similar to what it was now—and yet completely different. Currently, the Houses made up most of the votes in the Assembly; otherwise, the king held two votes, Administration held two, and the two Tols had only one each. Back then, each Augur had been given a vote, as had each of the five Tols. The Great Houses and the king had had a single vote each, with the minor Houses having had none at all.
Despite what Elocien had been accustomed to by the end of his life—the system that Wirr had grown up knowing—the circumstances in which he had written this account were as different as they could possibly have been.
Wirr rubbed at his eyes again, wanting to keep going but reluctantly conceding that he could not. Judging from the size of the book, he had hours upon hours of reading still ahead. This was something important, clearly—exactly what he’d been looking for—but the words were beginning to blur together, and he was already having to read sentences three times over in order to comprehend their meaning.
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