“I’m sorry, Zoden,” she said sadly, unshed tears sparkling in her own eyes. “I truly am.”
She turned to Dzarro.
“I think it would be best if you escorted my cousin back to his rooms and helped him gather his things.”
The dwarf’s eye narrowed almost imperceptibly, and then he nodded. Shouldering his axe, he bent down to retrieve Zoden’s cloak and hat, then led the weeping bard from the hall. Behind them, Diani sank back into her throne and finished the rest of her wine in one long draught.
Dzarro said nothing until they reached the small suite of rooms Zoden had been given during his all-too-brief stay. Once there, he paused and looked both ways to make sure the corridor was empty before opening the door and shoving Zoden through it. Stepping in after him, Silvervein closed and barred the door, then listened intently for a few moments. Apparently satisfied with what he heard—or didn’t—the dwarf turned to Zoden.
“You can stop the waterworks now, boy. Show’s over.”
“Wha … what?” Zoden asked, bewildered.
The dwarf walked over and dumped Zoden’s cloak and hat on a chair before pouring himself a glass of wine from a decanter perched on an ornate side table. He drained the glass in one quick gulp, then let out a deep sigh of satisfaction.
“Ah, that’s better. I thought my tongue was going to shrivel up and fall out of my mouth, watching you and Her Majesty slamming back the good stuff like a couple of fresh recruits.”
“What?” Zoden asked again. He was thoroughly confused now, as much by the dwarf’s words as by his sudden change of demeanor.
Dzarro grunted. “I said you could drop the act, boy. Ain’t none of Otherro’s lackeys here to see it.”
“Otherro?” Zoden repeated, but he thought he was beginning to understand.
“Onatar’s Holy Hammer!” the dwarf swore, exasperated. “She said you were an actor, not a fool!”
She?
Diani.
“That whole meeting was … staged?”
But for whose benefit? Otherro’s?
No.
The Church’s.
Otherro was a paladin of the Silver Flame, and loyal to the Council of Cardinals. Whatever his personal feelings for Diani, he would have to report what he’d heard in her chambers today.
So why have Otherro there at all? Surely he didn’t attend every private audience the Queen gave?
Suddenly it all clicked into place.
The paladin had to be there, precisely so he could give a report to the Cardinals. A report stating the Diani had refused aid to the Arulduskan Throneholders, and effectively clearing her of any involvement in their activities.
Plausible deniability.
Brilliant.
And, more importantly, it meant that she intended to help him, after all.
Dzarro gave him a sardonic grin. “There. I knew no relative of my lady’s could be that dim, no matter how distant the connection.
“Now, listen. I can’t spend too long here or Otherro might begin to wonder. He’s a good man, and I like him well enough, but he hasn’t figured out where his heart is yet, and until he does, we can’t risk rousing his curiosity. So. The Queen can’t give you any overt help—you know that—but rest assured that she shares your concerns and will be looking into the situation. However, she has asked me to recommend an inquisitive who might be able to help you uncover the truth behind your brother’s murder. And if, in so doing, you should happen to learn anything about the Bishop or the Church that Her Majesty might be able to use to her advantage … well, I’m certain she’d be grateful. Very grateful. And a queen’s gratitude might do wonders for improving the lot of the ir’Marktaros family, might it not?”
At Zoden’s mute nod, the dwarf’s grin grew wide enough that his lone eye was almost lost in the cavern between cheek and brow.
“Excellent. I’ve taken the liberty of contacting an old associate of mine who operates out of Sigilstar. Be on the next rail south—there will be a ticket waiting for you—and go straight to his office. He’ll be expecting you.”
With that, the dwarf handed over a small placard. Then he clapped Zoden on the back.
“Olladra’s luck, boy.”
As Dzarro Silvervein let himself out of the room, Zoden turned the card over and read aloud the words printed on the other side.
“Greddark d’Kundarak, Security Specialist, Artificer, and Master Inquisitive. Court of Leaves, Sigilstar.”
As the words echoed through the small sitting room, Zoden began to wonder just what he was getting himself into.
Chapter
THREE
Mol, Therendor 16, 998 YK
As the creature reared back, Irulan rocked forward on the balls of her feet, ready to dodge to either side when its head descended. But the charge never came. Instead, the six-legged monstrosity opened its mouth wide, revealing rows of wicked-looking teeth, and an explosion of pure sound erupted from its throat like a divine roar. Irulan had only an instant to react, throwing herself to one side in an effort to avoid the blast.
By the Flame! Not only did the thing look like some crazy magebred cross between a dragon and a hound, it actually was, combining the most dangerous features of both—the breath weapon of a great wyrm with a dog’s unflagging tenacity.
She rolled away, but not fast enough. The wave hit the side of her head, and a sudden stabbing pain shot through her ear. Irulan fell to her knees, her heartbeat thundering inside her skull. She clutched at her head, and her left hand came away slick with blood.
As she struggled to her feet, dizzy and disoriented, the beast swiped at her with its forepaws, its claws slashing across her unprotected side, ripping through fabric and flesh as if both were butter. Closing her eyes against the pain, Irulan let her other senses guide her, spinning with the blow and lashing out, her own claws raking ineffectually against the creature’s tough hide.
With an indignant bellow that Irulan felt more than heard, the dragonhound slapped her to the floor, pinning her arms with its middle set of limbs as it brought its four massive horns to bear. But the beast could not know its foe was as much animal as human. With a howl of her own, Irulan brought her knees up and kicked out with all her remaining strength, the long claws on her sandaled feet stabbing into the creature’s exposed underbelly.
Screeching, the monster reared up and back, batting her legs away from its abdomen as it prepared to blast her again with its cacophonous roar.
Exhausted, nearly deaf, and bleeding profusely from her own wounds, Irulan knew she could not avoid the full fury of the beast’s breath a second time. Commending her soul to the Flame, she clambered up on all fours, intending to die on her feet, when a high, feminine voice that she knew she should not be able to hear somehow pierced the fog of agony in her brain.
“Skaravojen, hold!”
Baring its sharp teeth at her, the creature obeyed, sinking down into a sitting position, while its owner, a young dark-haired, dark-skinned girl in a simple gray shift stepped up beside it and scratched behind its ears.
“Good boy.”
The girl regarded Irulan curiously as the shifter rose unsteadily to her feet. Her stone-colored eyes took in Irulan’s wounds, the wild look in her eyes, and the long, sharp claws that shed crimson drops with her every shuddering breath.
“Hold,” she said again, softly, and to Irulan’s surprise, she could not only hear the girl clearly, but she found herself becoming calmer, her breathing slowing, steadying, the adrenaline draining out of her muscles. Without intending to, she shifted, her claws retracting. Magic, she thought as she straightened to stand, but she felt no compulsion on her. Rather, she simply felt safe. At peace.
Though the girl did not touch her, Irulan could feel strength flooding through her, and the pain in her side and head abated, replaced with a spreading warmth.
“Skaravojen and I do not usually wander these halls, but today I felt drawn here, almost as if the Voice were whispering to me, guiding my feet.
Now I know why.”
At her words, Irulan realized, belatedly, who the girl must be. She fell to her knees, her forehead pressed against the cool marble floor.
“Your Holiness,” she said, awestruck, as she knelt before Jaela Daran, the Keeper of the Flame.
“And this packet you were unable to show Cardinal Riathan—may I see it?”
They were seated in a private sitting room, deep in the heart of the Cathedral. Jaela had led her here after her encounter with Skaravojen, finding a servant to bring Irulan fresh clothing along the way. She’d allowed the shifter to clean up in a small washroom that connected to the parlor, and now they sat on comfortable chairs in front of a black marble fireplace, their feet resting on a white bearskin rug. The room, like Jaela herself, was simple and unadorned, save for a masterwork tapestry that hung above the mantle. The luxurious wall hanging depicted a collage of all the previous Keepers, from Maliah Sharavaci to Jaela’s predecessor, Lavira Tagor. Tiny silver flames traced the tapestry’s borders, seeming to flicker in the light of floating everbright lanterns, and at first Irulan thought the effect was the work of magewrights, but closer examination revealed that the only magic was in the shuttles of the craftsmen who had woven the intricate piece. Set below the Cathedral’s main floor, the room had no windows, and a faint humming seemed to emanate from the walls. It took Irulan several moments to realize what it was she must be hearing—the roar of the Silver Flame itself, muted by distance and thick stone walls.
At the Keeper’s request, Irulan handed over the packet she had guarded so vigilantly since she left Aruldusk. Skaravojen looked up from his place near Jaela’s feet, blinking his small silver eyes in her direction before putting his head back down, apparently asleep. But Irulan could sense the creature’s alertness, and she knew that, even though Jaela had healed her monstrous hound when she had healed Irulan, he would relish the opportunity to pay her back for the pain she’d inflicted on him. The slightest move in the wrong direction would have the magebred pet at her throat again before she could so much as scream, and this time the Keeper might not be quick enough to stop him.
Jaela took the packet from Irulan’s outstretched hand and opened it, shaking its contents gently onto her palm. A tuft of ivory fur floated down to land softly on her chocolate-colored skin.
The Keeper examined the fur for a moment, then looked at Irulan quizzically.
“It was found on the body of one of the victims, Your Holiness, a minor noble whose death left his three children orphans.” Irulan couldn’t keep the anger out of her voice—she knew how those poor children felt, and what they now faced. “This was not the noble my brother supposedly killed, but one who was killed a week later.”
“And you believe this fur belongs to the murderer?”
“I do, Your Holiness, though I can’t prove it. It was caught beneath the man’s fingernails, probably while he was trying to defend himself.”
The Keeper did not ask how she came to be in possession of the tuft, for which Irulan was grateful. Somehow, she did not relish recounting her stint as a grave robber to the spiritual leader of the entire Church.
“I took it to a friend of mine, a bounty hunter from House Tharashk, but he couldn’t determine its origin. I didn’t have the money to have it checked for spells, but I’d be willing to bet it can’t be traced magically, either.”
Jaela returned the fur to its packet and handed it back to Irulan.
“I can have it tested, but if a Finder had no luck with it, I’m not sure if the wizards here will be any more successful.”
She sat back in her chair, chin on fist, a frown creasing her forehead. Irulan was abruptly saddened by the deep lines she saw there. No child should have to bear the weight those lines spoke of—at least not alone. So many thoughts of children could not help but bring Javi to mind, and she swallowed the familiar lump of guilt thinking of him always evoked. She had tried to watch out for him, but she was barely more than a youngling herself when their parents died, and certainly not equipped to be a surrogate mother to such a wild cub.
“Tell me again what it is you hope to prove with this … evidence.”
Irulan leaned forward, eager to turn her thoughts toward something other than her own shortcomings. The sudden movement earned her a one-eyed glare from Skaravojen.
“Well, for one thing, Your Holiness—”
“Jaela, please. Or ‘my lady,’ if you must insist on an honorific.”
“My lady,” Irulan acceded. “If the fur does belong to the murderer—and why else would it be cloaked so thoroughly from even a Finder’s detection?—then it rules out every shifter in the Bishop’s custody. Including my brother Javi.”
“How so?”
“Fur this color is very unusual. A white-haired or blond shifter would stand out like the Flame in the pits of Khyber, if you’ll pardon the analogy. They might be common in places far colder than Khorvaire, but I’ve never seen a shifter with that coloring, not in Thrane, not even in the Reaches where I grew up. And certainly not in the jail cells of Aruldusk.”
“I see.” The Keeper bit her lip as she thought it over, reminding Irulan again how very young she actually was. “And you informed Bishop Maellas of this?”
“I did, my lady.” The Bishop had been … less than appreciative. Or rather, his Ancillary, Xanin, had—she hadn’t even been allowed to talk with Maellas. But she assumed Xanin spoke for the Bishop. He’d certainly implied as much.
“And yet he remains convinced that the weretouched are responsible for the murders,” Jaela said, using the ancient name. “Why?”
Irulan shifted uncomfortably in her seat. This part was hard to explain away.
“Some of the earliest victims were members of the Church. Bishop Maellas performed their last rites. Before he sent their souls to join the Flame, he said he was able to question them about their attackers, and get descriptions.” She paused for a moment, but could see no way around it. “They described shifters,” she admitted.
“I see,” Jaela said again, her eyes taking on a far away look, and Irulan had the sense that she did, indeed, see far deeper into the mystery than the shifter could even fathom. She cocked her head to the side as though listening to voices the shifter could not hear. And, given their proximity to the Chamber of the Flame, perhaps she was.
Jaela’s gray eyes cleared, focusing on Irulan with an eerie intensity. When she spoke, her voice was sharp, almost angry.
“Tell me plainly why you have come seeking help from the Flame, Irulan Silverclaw.”
Irulan took a deep breath. There was nothing for it.
“Because I’m scared, Your Holiness. Bishop Maellas is imprisoning shifters for murder with little or no proof, and the people of Aruldusk have become hostile toward us. Just last week, a shifter woman selling herbs in the Market District was attacked in broad daylight, and no one lifted a finger to help her. The shifters who live in the city are afraid to leave their houses, and those who live outside the city can’t even trade for basic necessities. With every new murder, things get worse. Many shifters have begun packing up and moving away, to Aundair, and Breland—even back to the Reaches. Anywhere but Thrane. They’re worried that if the real murderer isn’t caught soon, something terrible is going to happen … that it’s going to be the start of a second Purge.”
The word hung in the air between them like some unforgivable insult.
Purge.
The blackest stain in the Church’s oft-sullied history, a period of fifty long years in which religious fanatics hunted lycanthropes nearly to extinction. Even shifters were not immune from the zealots’ silver blades, as the crusaders made no distinction between true lycanthropes and their more civilized cousins. Some historians claimed that more shifters died in those first years of the Purge—before heroes like Irulan’s own ancestor, Bennin Silverclaw, convinced the Church that shifters were in fact a separate race from lycanthropes—than died during the entire century of the Last War.
And now
it was about to begin again, unless Irulan could stop it.
Jaela had sucked in her breath and closed her eyes at Irulan’s words, as if they pained her. Now she let the breath out in a long sigh and opened her eyes again. They were steely with resolve.
“That can not be allowed to happen,” she said, and stood, forcing Irulan to clamber hastily to her feet as well, much to Skaravojen’s displeasure.
The Keeper clapped twice, and a servant appeared at her elbow, dancing back quickly to avoid stepping on Skaravojen’s tail.
“Please conduct our guest back to the Cathedral entrance, and have the knights provide her with an escort back to her lodgings.” As the young man bowed, Jaela turned to Irulan. “Please gather your things and return here. Liyam will have rooms ready for you in the Psalmist’s Tower. You’ll dine with me this evening.”
It wasn’t a request, and Irulan would not have argued in any case.
Finally, someone was taking her seriously! There was hope for Javi yet.
“Of course, your Holiness,” she replied, bending automatically to kiss the Keeper’s ring before realizing that the barefoot girl did not wear one.
Jaela startled her by placing a hand lightly on her head and murmuring a blessing in the harshly melodic language of the dragons. Irulan made the sign of the Flame and straightened, allowing Liyam to lead her from the room. As she reached the door, Jaela called out one last instruction.
“And, Liyam? Summon Andri Aeyliros.”
Back at the Sellsword, Irulan gathered up her few belongings while the knights waited for her. When she came back downstairs to settle her debt, Norah waved away her coin.
“Personal guests of the Keeper do not pay at the Sellsword,” she said, somehow managing to sound both chiding and fawning at the same time. “If I had but known when you arrived.…”
“I didn’t know when I arrived,” Irulan muttered, not quite inaudibly, but the proprietress seemed not to hear.
“… refund what you’ve already paid, of course.”
The Inquisitives [3] Legacy of the Wolves Page 4