“The Hole?” Niklas asked, although he could formulate a guess.
Dawe shot a glance at Mari as if unsure how much to say. “Prokief’s oubliette. A pit in the ice where the guards would throw you after they worked you over. If you didn’t bleed out or freeze to death, they’d haul you back out later – assuming they remembered to come back for you.” Mari shuddered but said nothing and looked away.
“By the time I met Mick, he and Piran and Kestel were pretty thick. Mick met Verran on the ship to Edgeland, so that’s their history. Mick and I spent a couple of years sharing a cell, then chained together on a work crew. You get to know someone pretty well when you’ve only got a few feet of chain between you and them,” Dawe said. He withdrew the iron bar, gave it a practiced glance to determine whether or not it was ready to be worked, and put it back in the fire.
Niklas debated how best to ask the question on his mind. “So Kestel and Blaine are friends? Lovers?”
Dawe didn’t answer, and Niklas wondered if he had intruded too far on the group’s secrets. Dawe eyed Niklas for a moment, then chewed his lip, as if trying to figure out what to say. “Kestel kept all of us at arm’s length at the homestead, but I always figured that if she’d have made an exception for anyone, it would have been Blaine.”
“He wasn’t interested?” Niklas asked.
“Why do you want to know?”
Niklas looked away. “She’s a very pretty woman.”
Dawe sighed. “If you and Mick weren’t old friends, I wouldn’t say anything and just let you figure it out the hard way. Seein’ how you go back so far with him, I’ll give you my opinion. I think there’s a powerful attraction between Mick and Kestel, always has been. At the homestead, it kept the peace to keep it friendly.”
Dawe stared out over the courtyard for a moment, then went on. “Mick was all torn up over losing the girl he was betrothed to when he was sent away.”
“Carensa,” Niklas supplied.
Dawe nodded. “After Selane died of fever, Mick didn’t let anyone get too close.”
“And Kestel?”
Dawe looked away. “Kestel fancies Mick. I don’t think she realized how much until he married Selane. Kestel spent their wedding night out in the barn, crying, although she’d probably slit my throat if she knew I told anyone that.”
“She was the most sought-after courtesan at the castle,” Niklas said. “Surely she knows how to let a man know when she’s interested in him.”
Dawe glanced at Mari and his cheeks colored, as if the conversation had edged into topics improper for a lady’s ears. Mari picked up on it immediately. “I’m a widow,” she snapped. “I’ve got a son. I know what goes on between men and women.”
“Kestel told me once that she could seduce any man she set her eye on,” Dawe said. “And I think that was the problem. She wanted more than that from Mick. I think she didn’t trust anything that would come from her advances. She wanted him to make the first move.”
“And knowing my brother, he was being all honor-bound because he’d agreed to just be friends,” Mari chimed in.
“Yeah,” Dawe said with a grin. “That’s Mick. The most honorable convict I know. He didn’t want to mess up what we had at the homestead or lose her friendship.”
Niklas sighed. “I was afraid the story would be something like that.” He frowned. “Now that you’re all here in Donderath, do you think things will change?”
Dawe shrugged. “I guess that’s up to Mick and Kestel.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
S
ilence fell over the group as they resumed their journey. The wind was cold, sweeping down the mountains toward the river. Blaine pulled his cloak closer around him, trying to ignore the pain of his injuries. The road was rocky, and their horses picked their way carefully on the steep ascent as the wagons clattered and jostled along the rutted surface.
“We’re making enough noise that we’re not going to surprise anyone,” Piran grumbled.
“If it’s a mages’ lyceum, maybe that’s a good thing,” Kestel replied.
Piran grimaced. “I’d worry about that if magic still worked. What are they going to do? Throw rocks?”
Verran sat up straighter in his saddle. “I’ll thank you not to impugn my rocks. A few of them distracted that gryp you were fighting.”
Piran rolled his eyes and turned away. From the set of his jaw, Blaine guessed that the failure to prevent Kata’s death still bothered Piran more than he chose to let on.
The trail wound through the forest. While they rode on alert, watching for the approach of either men or wild animals, nothing stirred. Borya hiked ahead of the group, scouting the road. Not long after they reached the cover of the forest, Blaine looked up to see Borya striding their way, looking very unhappy.
“Someone beat us here,” he said grimly. “The road was too washed out before to see the hoofprints. Their bodies are in the clearing up ahead.”
“Bodies?” Kestel echoed.
Blaine and Piran immediately turned to scan the tree line, expecting an attack. “How many?” Blaine asked.
The distaste on Borya’s face was clear. “Hard to say. The gryps didn’t leave much of them or their horses.”
“How old were the corpses?” Piran asked.
“A day or two at most. What the gryps didn’t eat, the wolves and scavengers picked clean. But what’s left hasn’t been out in the weather too long, and there’s still enough of the soft bits left to rot and stink,” Borya replied.
“Does it look like they were attacked on their way to the lyceum, or on their way back?” Kestel asked, eyeing the road ahead.
Borya put his hands on his hips and surveyed the forest around them. “My guess is that they were on their way to the lyceum when they were attacked. I went up the road a piece looking for tracks, and even under the trees where the road’s been protected from the rain and snow, I didn’t see any.”
“Someone could have escaped on foot, gone through the forest,” Kestel said, turning in a slow arc to look at the dense woods around them.
Borya shrugged. “Maybe. But I’d have guessed from the bones that there were ten of them, and the number of bones for horses and men were equal.”
“Anything left – saddlebags, weapons, packs – to indicate who they were?” Blaine asked, although he could guess.
“From what’s left, I’d say they were friends of those dark riders who chased us a while back,” Borya replied. “They beat us here, maybe intended to wait for you,” he said with a pointed glance toward Blaine.
“Or the timing’s a coincidence, and they came to loot the lyceum or search for clues about Quintrel,” Kestel said.
Borya stole a glance back to where Zaryae, Desya, and Illarion waited with the horses. “After what happened to Kata, I want to get the others past that place as quickly as possible.” He paled. “Bad enough that I saw it and thought of what might have happened to her —”
Kestel laid a hand on his arm. “She was spared that, at least,” she said quietly.
Borya nodded, tight-lipped. “Let’s get moving.”
It was impossible to ignore the smell of the dead soldiers, but Blaine and his friends made sure they rode on the side of the road that had a view of the corpses, shielding the others from having to see the carnage. Even so, it was all too easy for their imaginations to fill in the details, and Zaryae sobbed quietly as she rode, letting her long dark hair fall over her shoulders, guarding her mourning like a veil.
“I led us here because that’s where the clues seemed to point,” Blaine said to Kestel as they rode up the rocky trail. “Between the maps, the disks, Grimur’s book, and the other things we’ve pieced together, it made sense.” He sighed. “But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe we don’t have all the pieces yet. I don’t know how I can live with it if I’ve cost Kata her life for nothing.”
“Vigus Quintrel hasn’t made it easy to figure out how to bring the magic back,” Kestel replied. “The gryps exist because m
agic was broken. If the magic stays broken, how many more monsters will appear? And how many more people will die?”
The same questions had badgered Blaine’s thoughts since they left the bridge. He shrugged in reply, at a loss for a better answer. “I guess we’ll have to see what we find when we get there.”
The sun had passed its highest point by the time the road reached the lyceum. It was a three-story stone building set among the trees. Most of its roof was burned away, and scorch marks marred the walls. The group came to a halt a distance from the building’s front entrance. The road in front of the lyceum did not look as if anyone had passed this way all season. Many of the building’s windows had been shattered and the rest stared at them like eyeless sockets.
The lyceum was built in the shelter of a high cliff, with rocky outcroppings on the north and east, the forest sprawling down toward the river on the west and south. The grounds included several outbuildings. Cut into the rock behind the lyceum was a set of steps leading up to a squat stone building perched on the edge of the cliff.
“Borya and I will scout the buildings and grounds before we go farther,” Piran said.
Blaine nudged his horse out of the riding order to draw up alongside the lead wagon where Illarion sat and peered up at the lyceum while Piran and Borya completed the search. Nothing stirred beyond the darkened windows. “Doesn’t look like there’s anybody home,” Blaine said.
“There’s no sign that anyone’s been here recently,” Borya called as he and Piran returned.
“Not entirely true.” They startled as Zaryae spoke. She was staring at the lyceum with an expression of concentration. “There is no one here. And yet, they have not gone.” Her gaze seemed fixed on something no one else could see. “The bones of the dead still protect this place.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Piran muttered.
Kestel led her horse up to stand beside Blaine and Illarion. “Hush, Piran.” She looked up at Zaryae, who still sat in the wagon driver’s seat. Zaryae’s dark hair fell across her shoulders, accentuating her high cheekbones and angular features. Her eyes were red-rimmed from crying, and the grief made her look older, tired. “Do you mean that the people who lived here are buried on the grounds? Did they become talishte?” Kestel asked.
Zaryae had a faraway look in her eyes, but she shook her head. “Not talishte. And not buried. There was no one left to bury the bodies.” Her gaze remained fixed on the windowless ruin. “But their spirits remain. The bones still stand guard.”
Kestel looked at Blaine. “Didn’t you say that the lyceum’s keepers thought the relics they kept would protect them?” She shivered. “Maybe those are the ‘bones’ Zaryae means.”
“Let’s go see what we came to see,” Blaine said. He dismounted from his horse and led it over to a small copse of trees, where he lashed the reins to one of the tree trunks. The others did the same while Illarion and Desya drove the wagons up.
“Desya will stay with the horses,” Illarion said.
“I’ll stay with him,” Verran volunteered. “If you need me to steal something or pick a lock, you’ll know where to find me. I’m in no hurry to meet dead mages.”
Illarion looked to Zaryae. “Do you feel up to —”
Zaryae waved away his concern. “Of course I’m going in. I’m the one who can sense the spirits. The magic may be dead, but spirits walk, regardless of magic.” Despite her protest, Blaine thought that Zaryae looked worn.
They approached the door to the lyceum carefully, weapons at the ready. No sounds broke the forest stillness save for the wind in the branches. The forest was a mixture of tall pines with some leafless hardwoods. Wind skittered the dry leaves across patches of hardened snow in the shadowed places. Blaine felt a chill run down his spine that had nothing to do with the temperature.
The double main doors opened when Blaine pushed them. “Not locked,” he mused. “Whoever left was either in a big hurry or expected to come back very quickly.”
“Or no longer cared,” Kestel murmured.
They stepped into a large entranceway worthy of any manor house. The mosaic floor was elaborately tiled in a variety of hues, testimony that whoever had established this lyceum had spared no expense. Enough light streamed in through the windows that they could see well despite the gloom of the unlit interior. A damp chill permeated the space, and Blaine wondered whether the coldness ever really went away, even when the lyceum was populated and its fireplaces were lit.
“So a lyceum is a school?” Piran asked, looking around himself warily. The entranceway walls were covered in murals that looked very old. Some of the murals showed the gods. A few panels venerated Torven, god of illusion, patron of the dark places, the god scholars beseeched to find out hidden truths. Other panels honored Esthrane, goddess of life, and patron of the souls that wandered in the Unseen Realms, the favorite of inventors and explorers. Yet another panel showed Vessa, goddess of fire, patron of knowledge. The murals were beautifully done, and it was obvious that, whatever neglect they had suffered recently, they had been tended faithfully for a long time.
“A lyceum is a school and a library,” Kestel replied. “And often an alchemist’s laboratory as well. It’s a place dedicated to knowledge. The university near Castle Reach was a lyceum founded by King Merrill’s grandfather.” She cast a meaningful look at Blaine. “I believe Vigus Quintrel was on its faculty, until he disappeared.”
Blaine moved around the entranceway, engrossed in the mural. After the tribute to the gods, a panel showed Esthrane handing a set of keys to a robed man. The lyceum building was depicted, along with elaborate grounds with gardens, mazes, and statuary. In the background stood several men in chain-mail armor, holding a furled flag. “Look there,” Blaine murmured, pointing to the armored men who were nearly hidden in the shadows of the forest.
Kestel nodded. “The Knights of Esthrane?”
Blaine shrugged. “That would be my guess. It might also explain why someone built this lyceum so far away from the palace and the major cities.”
Kestel frowned. “Then where are the Knights? Why did they leave?”
Blaine followed the murals to the next panel. It showed a bloody battle, one with hopelessly unbalanced forces. The armored figures from the previous panel were hunted down by men on horseback, impaled with pikes, chained in the sun, or forced to kneel before the executioner’s ax. In the background, the lyceum sat upon a hill, and the robed figures around it appeared to be weeping. Off to one side, a handful of the armored men trudged off toward the horizon, into exile.
“Maybe that’s your answer,” he said quietly, pointing. “The Knights were killed by the king’s men or forced into exile – somewhere even more remote than this. I imagine that once your patrons have been executed, it makes a place like this much less popular.”
The next panel showed men and women in scholars’ robes about their daily business, milling flour, baking bread, harvesting the vineyard, and pressing grapes. Other figures sat at the feet of teachers, studied from manuscripts, or handled the instruments of astronomers and alchemists.
“Look there,” Kestel said. In the final mural, a much-reduced number of scholars tended the lyceum, and the artist showed them grayed and bowed with age. Both the drawing of the building and of the dependencies made it clear that the entire complex had fallen on hard times. The last drawing lacked the skill and finish of the other murals. It showed several scholars bedridden, being cared for by their comrades, and then finally, a funeral procession.
Kestel lifted a hand to touch the rough drawing. “I can almost imagine the last survivor, deciding to leave a record of what happened,” she said quietly. “You can tell whoever did the last panel wasn’t an artist, but you can almost feel the desperation.” She was quiet for a moment. “It’s almost as if, once the Knights were destroyed, everyone forgot about the lyceum. So nobody persecuted them —”
“But new members didn’t come, either,” Blaine finished her sentence. “Even if th
e scholars weren’t celibate, their numbers were bound to dwindle.” His gaze lingered on the drawing of the sickbeds and the funeral. “Perhaps an outbreak of something hurried them on their way.”
Blaine’s head throbbed. Though Kestel had done an excellent job binding up his injuries, Blaine knew he was warmer than he should be on such a cold autumn day. His wounds ached, and he feared the gryps’ talons had carried infection. He gritted his teeth and wondered whether Illarion and his group had any remedies, or whether the mage-scholars had left anything behind. The cuts weren’t that deep. I survived three years in Velant. I’ll get through this. He looked up to see that Kestel was watching him closely.
“I need to put a poultice on those wounds,” Kestel said archly. “Piran dear, please fetch me some water,” she added. Piran grumbled but went back outside toward where they had seen a well.
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