“No,” Irulan said, louder this time. “That’s really not necessary.” Before the burly innkeeper could protest, she turned to the nearer of the two knights, a red-headed woman who was trying hard to hide a smile. “I’m ready to go. Now,” she added, as Norah came limping around her desk.
The woman’s smile vanished and she saluted smartly.
“At once, my lady.”
Irulan winced at the title—the same one the Keeper had asked her to use, as if she, a lowly shifter, were someone of importance. She didn’t bother correcting the knight, though. After asking both of them repeatedly to drop the honorific on the short trip from the Cathedral, she’d resigned herself to being “The Lady Irulan Silverclaw,” at least for the remainder of her stay in Flamekeep. She simply shook her head and hurried out the door before the Sellsword’s owner could catch up to her and ask for her blessing.
Outside the inn, they boarded a waiting carriage. Fashioned of the shimmering wood of the silverfruit tree, embellished with silver filigree and pulled by four gray stallions, it was a conveyance reserved for visiting dignitaries. Given her mode of transportation, Irulan supposed the innkeeper could be forgiven her sudden change in attitude.
The horses made short work of the climb up the steep, winding causeway that led to the Cathedral. Liyam was waiting for her when she disembarked. As she moved to join the young man, who she’d learned was the Keeper’s personal steward, the horses caught wind of her and whickered their disapproval. The carriage ride was a novelty to her, and this was why. She hated horses. They were the only animals she had never been able to master, despite her skill as a handler. Irulan hissed at the nearest one, causing its eyes to roll as it pranced away. She smiled in satisfaction, baring her canines.
Liyam cleared his throat, and Irulan turned toward him.
“If you’ll come this way, lady, your rooms are ready. I’ve had more suitable clothes found for you, and you should have just enough time to change for dinner.”
Irulan had cringed at the thought of “more suitable clothes,” but when she’d arrived in the lavish rooms that had been assigned to her, she was relieved to see a simple gray shirt and pants laid out for her on a bed big enough for four people, along with a pair of silvercloth sandals. On closer inspection, the clothes were spun of fine silk and embroidered with actual silver, but still far better than the multi-layered skirts and tight-fitting bodices that were popular now.
Her weapons had been returned to her, but she did not even consider belting on her longsword. One simply did not wear weapons in the Cathedral of the Silver Flame. And even if the roaming guards did let her get away with it, she had no desire to offend her host, arguably the most powerful person in Thrane and the only one willing to help her free her brother.
A large tub beckoned invitingly from within an arched doorway, but she knew she didn’t have time for that luxury. Besides, two baths in one week verged on decadence for someone who spent most of her time sleeping in bedrolls and tents.
She changed quickly, noting the blood stains on her soft leather pants. Whether the blood was hers or Skaravojen’s, she couldn’t tell, but it didn’t really matter. A week in the forest and they’d fade to match all the other stains, becoming indistinguishable from the blood of a hundred other creatures already soaked deep into the fabric. She’d have to replace the shirt the Keeper’s pet had shredded, though—while the borrowed tunic she’d worn after the attack was serviceable enough, the idea of walking around with a huge Flame on her chest did not appeal to her.
She glanced at her reflection in the floor-length mirror. Presentable, she decided, though some of her reddish-brown hair had escaped from the looping totem braids she wore and was busy curling itself into unruly spirals around her ears. With a disgusted grunt, she licked her fingers and tried to smooth the offending strands into submission, but without a comb to her name, she was fighting a losing battle. To think, some women actually paid to have their hair look like this!
As she tried to tuck the curls behind her ears, one of the braids came loose, unlooping itself to hang to the middle of her back. It was Javi’s braid, the one she’d dedicated to seeing him freed from prison. She looked forward to the day she could cut it off and toss it into the Thrane River.
She threaded the loose braid back through the knotty mass, reflecting that she looked a bit like a hairy medusa. With a laugh, she turned away from the mirror. She’d never been good at primping—the frills and fripperies that occupied the lives of so many young women were nothing but an annoyance to her. Perfume, jewelry, complicated skirts, they were all designed to do one thing—snare a mate. Thankfully, she was far more interested in catching animals.
And a killer.
A knock sounded at the door, and she crossed over a fine Brelish rug to answer it, her feet sinking into the plush weave with each step. She opened the door, expecting Liyam.
A young man stood there, resplendent in a tabard so white that it hurt her eyes. He was tall, almost a foot taller than her, and had dark brown hair, cut short, and a strong, aristocratic chin with a slight cleft. Handsome, even for a human. His tabard, embroidered with a single small silver flame over the left breast, was worn over a long-sleeved silvercloth shirt and gray leather pants like her own. A slender silver chain, the expensive sort often used by wealthy women for holding dainty charms, circled his throat and disappeared beneath his shirt. He wore knee-high black boots, and a longsword in a jeweled scabbard belted at his waist, its pommel a stylized silver wolf’s head with two rubies the size of grapes for eyes.
“Lady Irulan,” he said with a bow, “I am Andri Aeyliros. Her Holiness, Jaela Daran, has asked that I escort you to dinner.” As he inclined his head, the movement dislodged the necklace he wore, and the “charms” spilled out. A simple silver flame bracketed on either side by claws.
Shifter claws.
As she took Andri’s proffered arm, her mind and heart raced. Instead of the steward, the Keeper had sent a warrior, who, while clearly not one of the regular guards, still wore his sword in the Cathedral.
Not only a sword, but shifter claws.
Was he leading her to her death? Did the Keeper intend to betray her?
But why? And why like this? If Jaela Daran had wanted her out of the way, why not just have her imprisoned? After her abbreviated fight with Skaravojen, no one in Flamekeep would believe she hadn’t meant the Keeper harm. Not that Jaela needed a reason—if she decided Irulan was a threat, or an enemy of the Silver Flame, there would be thousands of faithful in the city ready and more than happy to tear her to shreds on the Keeper’s word alone. Or she could have just let Skaravojen finish the job.
No, it didn’t make sense. Why go through all the trouble of dressing her up and feeding her, if Jaela simply meant to have her killed? There must be something to this she wasn’t seeing.
Wary, but not willing to abandon her trust in the Keeper just yet, Irulan allowed Andri to lead her through the Cathedral to Jaela’s own private dining hall. After his initial introduction, the tall young man did not speak again, though Irulan could not help but notice the odd looks they received from guard and servant alike. Or, more accurately, the looks Andri received.
Swift recognition, followed by … what? Dislike, certainly, even disgust. Open hostility in some cases. And fear.
Who was this man Jaela had sent to be her escort?
Andri Aeyliros. She thought she recognized the name, though she had no great knowledge of the Cathedral’s inhabitants. Was he the son of a Cardinal?
She had no more chance to speculate as they arrived at their destination, a set of unguarded double doors. Andri released her arm to knock once, then pushed one of the doors open and stepped through. Irulan followed him, tensing. Was he leading her into an ambush?
The room was empty, save for a long table set for four. Closing the door behind them, Andri took her arm again and led her to the seat to the right of the table’s head, where she assumed the Keeper would be sitting. After
holding her chair for her, a courtesy to which she was unaccustomed and that made her feel oddly embarrassed, he took his own seat across from her. The fourth place setting was to his left.
Liyam appeared as if summoned, bearing a crystal decanter of wine from which he poured them each a glass without asking. Aundairian Windshire, it changed colors as it filled the glass, from rose, to plum, to indigo, and finally to a deep red-black.
“Her Holiness will be with you shortly,” he announced, then promptly disappeared before either of them could ask any questions.
Irulan looked at her wine glass, the silver place setting with its crisp white linen napkin and more different-sized forks than she would have guessed existed, and the ornate Flamic candelabra that acted as a centerpiece. What was she doing here?
Saving Javi, she reminded herself sternly.
She glanced at the man across from her, but he seemed disinclined to conversation. She noticed, thankfully, that he’d tucked his necklace back under his shirt.
Aeyliros. She wondered again why the name was so familiar, and was actually on the verge of asking him, if for no other reason than simply to break the uncomfortable silence that had settled over them, when Jaela Daran entered the room unannounced through a servant’s door, Skaravojen at her heels.
Andri stood a fraction of a second more quickly than Irulan, and when they knelt, their foreheads touched the floor in unison.
“Please. If I’d wanted my dinner guests fawning over me, I would have dined with the Diet,” Jaela said as she walked over to stand in front of her chair. Her words were harsh, but her tone was gentle and amused, removing their sting.
As Irulan stood, Jaela greeted her warmly. “Irulan. Thank you for coming. I hope I will be able to help you.” She turned to Andri, who had not yet risen. “Oh, Andri,” she said softly, reaching out a hand to touch his head tenderly, as a mother would do to a beloved child. “It is enough. Get up.”
Andri stood—reluctantly, it seemed to Irulan.
“It will never be enough,” he replied morosely, moving to pull her chair out for her. When she was seated, Irulan and Andri sat as well.
Liyam appeared with wine and a platter of Karrnathi ved cheese, beesh berries and silverfruit. After setting the platter down and filling Jaela’s glass, he bent down to whisper quietly in her ear, stepping over Skaravojen’s bulk to do so. She said nothing, merely nodded, then dismissed him with a smile of thanks.
Irulan was about to reach for a slice of the cheese when she noticed that both Andri and the Keeper had bowed their heads. She quickly followed suit, joining them in the traditional dinner blessing, a nicety she usually forewent when eating on her own.
Dinner progressed at a leisurely place, with Liyam and assorted servants periodically clearing plates and bringing in new courses. As they ate, Jaela filled Andri in on the murders in Aruldusk, pausing now and then to let Irulan explain a point or make a comment. The story advanced with each course, like some macabre dinner theater. The first known murder coincided with the delicate mollusk soup, the first arrest with the sparkle mushroom-garnished salad. Javi’s arrest was accompanied by thrakel-seared beef in red sauce, and Irulan’s own arrival was heralded by the advent of beesh-berry sorbet and silverfruit pie. Andri would occasionally ask a question, but primarily listened in silence, eating little and drinking not at all. Irulan, on the other hand, ate her fill and then some. She’d seldom feasted on such rich food, and Flame knew when she’d get the chance again. She wasn’t about to waste the opportunity.
Throughout the meal, the seat on Andri’s left remained conspicuously empty. Irulan was trying to figure out a discreet way of asking about it—perhaps it was customary for Keepers to set a place for Tira Miron at their table—when the fourth guest finally arrived.
The double doors opened wide and Cardinal Riathan hurried into the room, his face wreathed in an apologetic smile.
“Forgive me, Your Holiness. I was detain—”
He stopped abruptly when he realized he was not alone with the Keeper. His smile wavered when he saw Irulan, then evaporated completely as his gaze fell on Andri.
As anger and worry chased themselves across his features, Irulan realized that the dinner had been an ambush after all—for Riathan.
Belatedly, Irulan and Andri made as if to rise, but Jaela waved them back into their seats.
“Cardinal Riathan,” she said coolly, and Irulan had to remind herself yet again that this girl was only eleven years old. “How good of you to join us for dinner. What a shame that you seemed to have missed the main course.” Even Irulan could not fail to miss the double meaning in her words.
Riathan blanched and prostrated himself on the floor. “Your pardon, Holiness! I—”
“Enough. Get up.” The same words she had said earlier to Andri, but short and hard this time, holding none of the affection.
Riathan stood, using the edge of the table to help himself up.
“I trust you’ve met my guests already?”
The Cardinal forced a smile. “Yes, Your Holiness.” He inclined his head toward Irulan. “It’s a pleasure to see you again,” he said to her, though it was obviously anything but.
He turned to Andri, and the smile became thin and strained. A single droplet of sweat formed at his temple and rolled slowly down his cheek.
“Aeyliros,” he said, as though unable to bring himself to say the man’s given name. With that, Irulan abruptly remembered where she’d heard it before.
Lukar Aeyliros had been a renowned lycanthrope hunter during the Purge. Not so well-known as her own ancestor, but famous for slaying the family of Zaeurl, a vicious werewolf who once terrorized the Eldeen Reaches and was now rumored to reside in Droaam, under the protection of the Daughters of Sora Kell. That might explain the claws Andri wore—perhaps they belonged to one of his great-grandfather’s victims, and not to a shifter at all. And … wasn’t there another Aeyliros who’d gained notoriety some years back, when Irulan had first come to Thrane? A massacre of some sort, wasn’t it? In Flamekeep, maybe even in the Cathedral itself? That would certainly account for the unfriendly reactions that seemed to follow Andri wherever he went, if his father were some sort of mass murderer. Maybe even why he wore his sword in the Cathedral, when both decorum and common sense advised against it.
Andri surprised her by ignoring the Cardinal completely. Instead, he took his wine glass, which had remained untouched throughout dinner, and drained it.
“It has come to my attention, Riathan—as I know it has come to yours—that there is a situation of some concern in Aruldusk. Since it affects the shifters of that community, a people for whom I know you have a special affection, I have decided to assign you to help uncover the truth behind these awful murders.”
“I’m honored, Your Holiness, certainly, but—”
“You will not need to leave the Cathedral, of course. Andri and Irulan will go to Aruldusk to investigate. You will give them whatever assistance they need, up to and including letters of credit issued in your own name, and drawn on your own accounts, not those of the Church. As both an advocate of the shifter people and a personal friend of Bishop Maellas, I know you will be happy to help resolve this issue in any way that you can.”
“But, Your Holiness, with all respect, I hardly think—”
“Enough!” Jaela’s small fist slammed down on the table’s surface, making the wine glasses jump. She drew herself up to her full height, which suddenly seemed much taller than four and a half feet. Skaravojen rose as well, growling at the Cardinal, who took an uncertain step back.
“Any unlawful persecution of shifters brings us one step closer to repeating the evils of the Purge. I will not allow this to blossom into a second such horror,” she said, enunciating each word with cold precision. “I would sooner see one of my own Cardinals stripped of his rank and banished. Am I understood?”
Riathan’s face was a white as his robes.
“Yes, Your Holiness,” he replied weakly, looking as
if he might be ill.
“Excellent,” she replied with a faint smile that did not reach her eyes. She turned to Irulan and Andri. “Gather your things. You’ll leave on the next lightning rail for Aruldusk.”
Chapter
FOUR
Mol, Therendor 16, 998 YK
Zoden relaxed on the plush couch, easing his boots off and putting his feet up with a contented sigh. He hadn’t expected a first-class rail ticket, but on reflection, he shouldn’t have been surprised. Silvervein had said Queen Diani would be grateful if he could find anything that might incriminate the Church in the rash of murders plaguing Aruldusk—no doubt, this was a taste of that gratitude, meant to motivate him and keep him hungry for more. And, he had to admit, it was doing the trick.
Except for a somewhat ragged-looking gray tabby curled up on a rug, he had the four-passenger compartment to himself. But House Orien wouldn’t have booked a first-class cart if they didn’t have the passengers to fill it, so he knew his solitude wouldn’t last long. Not that he cared. He intended to spend a good part of the nine-hour trip to Sigilstar sampling the fine array of complimentary drinks set out on a side table. He’d already begun with a glass of fruity Aundairian Orla-un wine, and planned on continuing with the Nightwood Ale and then perhaps some of that bottle of Frostmantle Fire he’d noticed in the back.
His brother would have enjoyed the delicate Orla-un, Zoden thought as he took another appreciative drink of the exceptional vintage. His twin had always enjoyed the finer things in life, though his tastes ran more to art and literature, while Zoden preferred the wine and women end of the spectrum. Host knew, they’d seen little enough of either since their father had lost his luck, along with their wealth.
Which had led directly to his own involvement with the Galifar loyalists—or Throneholders, as they were more widely known. The Throneholders were a motley group, made up of those who’d lost faith in the rule of the Church, petty criminals who felt their businesses interests would stand a better chance of survival under a monarchy than a theocracy, and nobles whose families had served the Wynarn line faithfully for generations before the advent of the Silver Flame, and continued to do so even now, though secretly, for fear of reprisal. He’d first worked for them out of necessity, drawn in by a drinking companion who knew he was badly in need of the coin they offered. But as he’d gradually come to understand their goal—a Thrane united under the banner of the Wyvern and not the holy standard of the Silver Flame—he’d discovered within himself a deep love for his country and a passion for the reforms the Throneholders advocated. He had no problems with the Church, but when the mayor was also the voice of the gods, or the priest also commanded the city watch, it was just too easy for justice and freedom to be sacrificed on the altar of personal aggrandizement. Both governments and religions were hotbeds of corruption, and the marriage of the two could only lead to decay, eroding the very foundations of Thrane until there was nothing left but scraps for the carrion birds to fight over.
The Inquisitives [3] Legacy of the Wolves Page 5