“And now the silver dagger,” he said, switching blades once more with Greddark, while the dwarf kept his eyes on the guards and his sword at the ready.
Maellas began to struggle in earnest now, vainly pulling at his bonds and backing away from the paladin. But with Greddark’s flaming blade on one side and his own silver dagger on the other, there was nowhere for him to go, and he bumped hard into the wall after only a few steps.
Taking advantage of the elf’s momentary distraction, Andri darted forward and sliced the silver blade across Maellas’s forearm, just deep enough to draw blood. As the rich red liquid welled and began to drip on the wooden floor, Bishop Xanin gasped, and made the sign of the Flame, as did the soldiers.
“Flame forfend!” Xanin whispered, his face pale and his eyes huge. “This … this is some sorcery!” But he did not sound as if he believed it.
“Question him yourself, Your Excellency,” said Andri, “or better yet, call an Inquisitor. You will see that I am telling the truth. Maellas is a werewolf and a killer, guilty of at least twenty murders, and those are only the ones we know about. He has hidden within the very heart of the Church for over a hundred years, and no one realized his true nature. But now that his evil has been exposed, his sins cannot be allowed to tarnish the Silver Flame any further. As acting Bishop of Aruldusk, it is your responsibility to see justice done.”
Xanin drew himself up at that, his expression hardening. He turned to Hal. “Summon a carriage.” As the soldier sprinted away, Xanin gave the captain his orders. “You will transport Maellas to the Cathedral. Make sure that he is seen by no one.”
Andri noticed that Xanin was no longer referring to the elf by his title, and he realized that the Ancillary Bishop, for all his abrasiveness, was actually on their side. That, or the thought of succeeding Maellas was tempting enough that he was willing to take them at their word. For now.
“You will have him taken to the Inquisition Room,” Xanin continued, “where he will await the arrival of an Inquisitor from Flamekeep. None of you is to speak a word of what you have seen or heard in this room today, on pain of expulsion from the Church.”
The Bishop turned back to Andri.
“Your exile will be provisionally revoked until this matter is resolved. However, I request that you accompany me to the Cathedral and put yourselves at the disposal of the Inquisitor, to expedite the process.”
Both Greddark and Irulan looked at him, but Andri knew that despite Xanin’s cordial language, they didn’t really have a choice. Maellas was their only bargaining chip, and they had to give him up to prove that he was guilty. Andri nodded and sheathed his weapon, gesturing to his companions to do the same. They had to trust in the mercy and wisdom of the Church. As the guards escorted them and Maellas to the waiting carriage, Andri could only pray that trust was not horribly misplaced.
The Inquisitor was on the next rail from Flamekeep, and her questioning was not nearly as unpleasant as it could have been, at least for Andri and his companions.
Once Maellas’s guilt was ascertained, the only thing that remained was his sentencing. Though once a well-respected Bishop, he would suffer the same fate as every convicted lycanthrope in Thrane—burning at the stake. But whereas such executions were usually public, Maellas would be burned in a private chamber below the Cathedral that had been constructed during the Purge for just this purpose. The Church would punish its own, while ensuring that the public at large never discovered the true identity of the werewolf, or that he had been operating under the very nose of the Church for years. As for Andri and his companions, and those soldiers who had been in the gatehouse, their silence was insured by the judicious application of a Mark of Justice on each of their left shoulders. The Inquisitor was vague as to what would happen should they ever speak of what they knew to anyone who was not authorized to hear of it, but she hinted that Maellas’s fate would seem pleasurable by comparison.
Bishop Xanin made a statement to the public, announcing only that the true killer was a werewolf who had been caught and would be punished, and that the shifters now in custody would be freed. When questioned by chroniclers about the nature of the lycanthrope’s punishment, Xanin had responded simply, “Death.” Maellas’s absence was explained away as a long-overdue visit to his homeland of Aerenal, which the Aruldusk Archives promptly reported was due to his failure to find the real killer. The new Bishop’s staff did nothing to disabuse them of that notion.
So three days after their return to Aruldusk—on Initiation Day, the anniversary of the day when the priesthood of the Silver Flame declared itself a faith independent of the Sovereign Host—Andri, Irulan, and Greddark found themselves sitting in the gallery of a small amphitheater beneath the Cathedral, waiting for Bishop Xanin to arrive and set his former superior to the torch.
Maellas had not yet been shackled to the charred wooden pillar in the center of the underground chamber. Instead, he stood a few feet away, restrained at the wrists and ankles by silver manacles that were in turn connected by heavy chains to rings set into the smooth stone floor. Apparently there was some special ritual for binding a lycanthrope to the stake that only the presiding prelate could perform. Either that, or Xanin just wanted to do it himself for reasons Andri didn’t even want to try and fathom.
Andri saw that while the elf hadn’t been gagged, he did sport a new onyx amulet about his neck. Andri guessed it was to keep the cleric from casting any spells, or perhaps to prohibit him from speaking altogether. Whatever the necklace’s purpose, Maellas remained silent, for which the paladin was unaccountably grateful.
While they waited, Andri examined the room, wondering how often it had seen use since the Purge had ended. The thick coating of greasy ashes at the foot of the stake did not look a hundred and fifty years old.
The gallery consisted of five tiered benches. The trio sat at the lowest level, their feet resting on the amphitheater’s floor. Above them, the ceiling was dotted with small holes, which Andri surmised were used to disperse the smoke and convey it to the skies above the Cathedral, where it would mix with the haze from burning incense and silverburn.
Hooded acolytes in plain gray robes guarded the room’s only two entrances, and Andri’s eyes darted from the doorway at the top of the gallery stairs to the smaller one near where they sat at floor level. He wondered which one Xanin would use, and how much longer the new Bishop would make them wait.
Andri glanced over at his companions, trying to gauge their level of impatience against his own. Greddark appeared characteristically stoic as he gazed about the amphitheater with a faint look of disdain, probably thinking his people could have done a much better job carving the chamber. Irulan, though, seemed nervous, her eyes flicking from acolyte to acolyte, sweat beading at her hairline. There was something different about her, and it took Andri a moment to pinpoint what it was—one of her long, looping braids had been shorn off near the skull, leaving a noticeable gap in the intricate headdress. Ah, yes, now he remembered—it was Javi’s totem braid, and she had said she would cut it off and throw it in the Thrane River once he was freed. Andri could only hope she hadn’t also made good on her promise to kill the young shifter afterward.
There was a noise at the lower door, and Andri tensed, expecting Xanin. But instead of the Bishop, yet another acolyte stepped into the room, barring the door behind him. The sound of a second bar being shoved home came from the other doorway.
Andri half-rose from his seat, his hand going instinctively to his hilt. Something wasn’t right here.
The newly-arrive acolyte threw back his hood, revealing himself as a brown-haired shifter with braids like Irulan’s. Then he pulled a silver dagger from within his robes, and Andri realized what was wrong.
With a cry, he drew his own blade and sprinted for Maellas, Greddark at his heels. As the paladin ran, he called argent flame to his sword. Even as he did so, he wondered who had betrayed them. This execution was supposed to have been secret.
He and the dw
arf beat the acolytes to the stake and positioned themselves in front of Maellas, weapons raised. Irulan, who’d been a step or two behind Greddark, now stood uncertainly in the no-man’s land between the two groups.
“Our quarrel is not with you, paladin,” the male shifter said to Andri. “We’re here for the moontouched. Step aside.”
Andri shook his head. “I can’t do that.”
The shifter’s face grew grim. “Then you’ll go to your grave knowing you died defending a murderer.” At his signal, the other acolytes—shifters all—drew their own weapons.
Andri reached out to pull Irulan back away from the shifters, but she hesitated.
“Andri, are you sure—?” Then, as she searched his eyes—looking for what, he wasn’t certain—she seemed to reach some decision. “No,” she murmured, answering herself. “Of course not.”
Shaking her head, she moved to guard his left side, while Greddark took his right. The paladin planted his feet, prepared to shield Maellas with his own body, if necessary. The murdering elf deserved to die, because the Church had declared it so. But he would die according to the laws of the Church, and not at the whim of a group of vigilantes.
He knew Xanin would summon soldiers when he found himself unable to enter the amphitheater, but as Andri parried one sword aimed at his head and felt another duck past his guard to score his ribs, he realized they might not make it that long. The shifters outnumbered them two to one. He hadn’t imagined things would end this way when the Keeper had first summoned him and introduced him to the feisty but beautiful Irulan Silverclaw. He wished he’d had the opportunity to get to know her outside of this investigation, then wondered what his parents would have thought of his feelings for a shifter. At the thought of his father, he had a sudden vision of Alestair laughing as he watched his son die defending a werewolf. The image was so strong that he thought he could even hear the pyromancer’s sardonic chuckle.
And then he realized it wasn’t some specter of his father laughing. It was Maellas. Apparently the amulet didn’t keep him from talking, after all.
“Is this what you die for, Andri? Keeping me from death at the hands of vengeful shifters, so I can burn at the stake instead? Why bother? Let them have me. No one would blame you—you were ambushed and overpowered. I know I need to die for what I’ve done, but why does it matter whose hand it is that takes my life? As long as I die, justice is served.”
Andri did not answer immediately, blocking a sword stroke aimed at his knees. As he saw Irulan take a knife in the thigh, he thought that perhaps Maellas was right. Why should anyone have to die simply to delay a murderer’s execution?
No. The cleric might not be able to charm him with a spell, but he’d been influencing his flock from the pulpit for over a century. He didn’t need magic to be persuasive. Andri shook the priest’s words off. He’d been charged with a duty, and he would fulfill it, or die trying.
As if sensing the paladin’s resolve, Maellas pressed him again. “If it is so important that my executioner be an agent of the Flame, then kill me yourself. Are you not the hand of the Keeper? Kill me, and save these innocent lives, shifter, human, and dwarf.”
At Maellas’s words, Andri glanced over to see the braid-wearing shifter maneuvering behind Greddark. Just as the shifter was preparing to plunge his dagger into the dwarf’s back, Greddark spun and sunk his own blade deep into the shifter’s shoulder. Then he primed his blade, and alchemist’s fire ran down the length of the metal, burning the hapless shifter from the inside out. The shifter howled in agony, dropping his weapon and falling to the floor, where he rolled about in a vain attempt to extinguish the flames.
Irulan, distracted by the shifter’s wounding, sidestepped a thrust at her midsection. The movement brought her too close to Maellas, and the werewolf didn’t hesitate. He lunged at her, grabbing a mass of braids in his mouth and hurling her to the floor. Her sword skittered across the stone and then Maellas was on her, his powerful jaws tearing into the soft flesh of her throat.
“Nooooo!”
Andri turned and rushed at the werewolf, his sword raised, leaving his back unprotected. He felt shifter blades penetrating through the joints in his armor, but the pain was as nothing to him as his entire being focused on one thing.
Irulan.
Maellas’s jaws came away bloody as he drew back, preparing for another bite. Irulan’s eyes met Andri’s over the werewolf’s blonde head, and for a moment he was transported back to his mother’s bedroom in Flamekeep, watching as another woman he loved was ravaged by a lycanthrope. But where Chardice’s eyes had held resignation, Irulan’s held only fury. She fought to push Maellas off her, to get her hands ups between his muzzle and her throat, battling to the last. She would never give in to her fate like his mother had. When she died, she would be cursing, kicking, and screaming as death came to claim her.
But that would not be today.
Bellowing with a rage he’d been holding in check for five long years, Andri brought his sword down in a mighty arc that cleaved Maellas’s skull in two, spraying pink and gray matter everywhere. As the werewolf’s dead body slumped atop Irulan’s, Andri tossed his sword aside. He heaved the cleric’s corpse off Irulan, then knelt down next to her and gathered her up into his arms. As the light faded from her brown eyes, she looked up at him and smiled.
“Proud … of you,” she whispered, then her eyelids fluttered closed, as if she were simply asleep, and Andri crushed her to him, hot tears coursing down his cheeks.
Epilogue
Mol, Eyre 16, 998 YK
Greddark watched as Andri tethered a fine gray stallion to the post and entered the small teahouse. It looked like the paladin had finally gotten his mount. Apparently, in Andri’s black-and-white world, killing a Bishop was less sinful than killing your parents—or at least more easily forgiven.
Greddark raised his hand in greeting, and the paladin nodded, crossing the room and taking the seat opposite him. Greddark summoned the waitress and ordered another cup of Silverleaf. Though this was supposedly one of the best tearooms in Flamekeep, neither the tea nor the service was as good as in Sigilstar. But what the shop lacked in amenities, it made up for with an atmosphere of studied serenity. And, frankly, after the events of the last few days, he could use a little relaxation.
Xanin’s men had broken through the doors shortly after Maellas’s death and the shifters who still lived had been taken into custody. Andri had been able to heal the worst of Irulan’s injuries, and she’d been taken to the House Jorasco enclave to recuperate. Xanin had cleared Andri of all charges and revoked the edict exiling them from the city. He had, however, suggested that Andri might like to go back to Flamekeep sooner rather than later, and the paladin had been more than happy to take his advice. Greddark had offered to accompany him back to Flamekeep. He needed to report to Dzarro anyway, and the information he had for the older dwarf was best told in person.
As he’d expected, the news that the murders had been committed by a high-ranking member of the Church, but one that was acting alone, was a tale neither Dzarro nor Queen Diani wanted to hear. It wasn’t a tale he particularly wanted to tell, either, once the effects of the Mark of Justice had begun to kick in, but Diani’s wizards had been able to lift the curse before any of the damage became permanent. And since Andri had elicited a promise from him not to reveal the existence of the Burnt Woods werewolf pack or the Silver Circle, Greddark had precious little else to offer, though the young queen did express an interest in the activities of the Arulduskan Throneholders. In the end, though, her compensation had been generous, even if remorse had compelled him to have half of it sent anonymously to Zoden’s mother. The lad had been bright, if overeager, and his poems hadn’t been half bad. Perhaps Lady ir’Marktaros would use the funds to set up a scholarship in her son’s name at the local bard’s college. Or perhaps she’d follow in her estranged husband’s footsteps and gamble it all away. Either way, Greddark’s guilt would be assuaged.
“
Did your meeting go well?” Andri asked, sipping from his own steaming cup. The paladin had exchanged his armor for a brilliant white tabard and gray leather pants, though he still wore his father’s sword. Greddark imagined he probably slept with the thing.
“As well as could be expected.” Andri had figured out that Greddark’s true employer was higher up the Throneholder chain than Zoden, but if he suspected how high up, he was keeping it to himself. “Yours?”
“The same.” Andri had had to make his own report to the Keeper of the Flame and the Diet of Cardinals, something he’d been more than a little concerned about. But apparently the greater good of ridding the Church of a murderous—and embarrassing—canker had outweighed the evils of consorting with necromancers, defying a Bishop’s edict, and raising a weapon against a superior. Either that, or the Keeper’s favor had protected Andri from any punishment other than what the paladin would heap on himself—not even Jaela Daran could shield him from that.
“The Cardinals were very … lenient. Especially since I couldn’t tell them the one thing they really wanted to know.”
“Which was?”
Andri frowned, his forehead creasing with residual frustration. “Why. I mean, I realize that Maellas needed the other werewolves for his potion, and I even understand him hating Pater for infecting him. But surely he could have come up with some other way to draw the pack out? Why did he have to kill all those people? I just don’t understand how he could go from being such a good man to such an evil one. His prejudices aside, he was a good Bishop. It doesn’t make any sense.”
Greddark sloshed the dregs about in the bottom of his cup, considering. “Well, I’ve been thinking about that. I had a chance to visit with my wizard friend when the rail stopped in Sigilstar. He speculates that it was a side effect of the potion—that by using it to suppress his lycanthropic nature, Maellas was actually losing his ability to control himself whenever he did change and reverting back to the way he was immediately after he was infected, before his own better nature had a chance to reassert itself. Basically, the longer he used the potion, the more evil he became, but because of the effects of the spell, that evil only became apparent when he changed. He probably wasn’t even aware of it himself when he was in his humanoid form. Except maybe near the end.”
The Inquisitives [3] Legacy of the Wolves Page 30