“And is it really breaking and entering if she doesn’t know it exists?” Amelie said.
Grier rolled his eyes. “For the record,” he said, “this is insane. But give me a moment.”
He went off to his bedroom and returned fully dressed.
Amelie stood and stretched. “Thank goodness—neither of you offered me smokewine and frankly, I was getting bored.”
“You two don’t need to come along,” Wil said.
Amelie and Grier exchanged a look.
“One of us needs to,” he said.
She shrugged. “Why not both?”
* * *
* * *
Letti’s tenement had an inside staircase with landings on each floor for the individual flats. No locks on the entry—the three of them entered unchallenged, navigating the creaky steps to the top. The lack of good egress made Wil’s skin crawl. One overturned candle, and frantic tenants piling down the narrow stairwell through the equally narrow door would turn the cramped enclosure into a death trap.
Like the stairwell, the landing didn’t provide room for more than two of them. Grier held up a lantern while Wil examined the door.
The first thing he noticed was the lack of dust or dirt on the lock and handle—in fact, someone had oiled them recently. Wil touched the handle, and it turned.
It can’t be this easy, he thought, opening the door on the darkened room.
Wil caught a glint of metal from the glow of Grier’s lantern just a moment before Tharg, the sister thug, appeared not eight feet away with something in her hand.
The Herald didn’t think—he dropped his shoulder and threw himself at her.
They landed in a heap—Tharg swearing and yelling, “Get off me, dammit! I ain’t fightin’ no Herald!”
Grier had stepped in, and now Wil could see that the metallic glint came from a ring of keys in Tharg’s hands, not a weapon. He rolled off her.
The woman stood up, glowering. The four of them crowded into the flat. Wil could see shelving and rows and rows of bottles along one wall. The air smelled musty and a little floral.
“Yer a Herald, yeah?” Tharg said.
“I. . . . am,” Wil said.
“Wish ye hadn’t run off,” she said, rubbing the back of her head. “Been tryin’ to talk to ye since that first night.”
“What?” Wil said.
“Ye heard me,” she said. “E’er since the rich lady’s money ran out, this ain’t been worth m’time, and I’m tired of scarin’ off the squatters.”
“Hah!” Grier said, and stamped his foot. “Knew it.”
Wil ignored him. “What rich lady?”
“The one ’at killt Yelyza,” Tharg said.
* * *
* * *
They came back with more lanterns to light the room fully. Along the way, Tharg spilled everything she knew.
She’d been paid by Madra to watch the flat and make sure no one disturbed it. The handsome advance had come with a promise of bonuses for good work.
Except those never materialized. Madra had vanished nearly as soon as she’d given Tharg the money—after spending a few nights in the room, rifling around for something. Tharg knew this because she had been the one asked to keep watch.
There was more.
“Yelyza and ’er drank toge’er,” she said. “The fancy lady’d come ’ere wit’ a bottler two, they’d have a time o’it, whoopin’ and talkin’. I’d keep watch then, too.” She looked uncomfortable. “Don’ like what she did t’Letti. Jest glad she didn’ do nuttin to me.”
That you know of, Wil thought.
He moved around the small apartment, trying to find—what? Something. He quickly deduced why Madra had left it intact and guarded—the room was practically an apothecary, complete with Yelyza’s notes. The dusty bottles had held up well. Yelyza had capped them and sealed them in such a way that the contents hadn’t dried out. All had labels glued to them, with tidy script indicating the contents, and then painted over with a wash of clear resin so they wouldn’t run if they got wet. A complementary label on the back even listed the ingredients and what they were dissolved in. What Grier knew, he described. Most of them seemed to be soporifics and hallucinogens, a smattering of deadly poisons.
The only items out of order were a few bottles that had been smashed against a wall. Stains still marked the wood, and glass glittered on the floor.
He couldn’t imagine Yelyza doing that. The tidy room, the neat handwriting, the resin that kept the labels from bleeding—all this indicated a woman who loved details and order.
As she’d done with her labels, so Yelyza had done with her notes, painting them with a thin resin to prevent smearing. It made them stiff, but Yelyza’s tiny handwriting fit neatly on pages the size of his palm, and all fit into a single leather-bound folio.
But after a candlemark of cursory examination, they came to a realization: All her research, while interesting, was for well-known cures and curiosities. None of it fit the bill for “Gift-stripping poison.”
When it became clear this wasn’t leading anywhere, Wil inspected the floors and walls, looking for hidden caches, tapping for false or loose boards. He imagined Madra doing the same thing three years ago, growing more and more frustrated until she took her rage out on a few helpless bottles.
Didn’t find what you were looking for? he thought. Neither can I. And we still don’t know what you did with Yelyza.
Defeated, he slumped on a rickety chair. A series of pegs hung by the front door. The motheaten remains of a cloak clung to one, its lining cleverly sewn with empty pockets. Then an empty peg. Then another disintegrating cloak. And caked, dried mud below them where boots should be.
You put your cloak and boots on. You went out the door one last time. Where?
It would have been spring or late fall, judging by the mud.
Talia said she was last seen three years ago . . .
“Tharg,” he said, “why do you think the fancy lady killed Yelyza?”
“Cuz one night they went off drinkin’ tog’e’er,” she said. “An’ Yelyza di’n’t come back.”
Wil stood and approached Yelyza’s wall of tinctures and potions. The containers weren’t uniform, but then, he imagined Yelyza probably used whatever bottle she could find—and saved her coin for the contents. “Did the fancy lady ever bring over bottles like these?”
Tharg shrugged. “Mebbe?”
The bottles were all shapes and sizes, but some of them Wil knew. He’d poured smokewine out of one tonight, and Grier had done his tasting out of some that could have been twins to these.
Where would you take someone to guarantee they weren’t found again?
An odd thought occurred to him. It didn’t seem likely, but then—this was Madra. What slices he’d seen of her indicated she had a perverse sense of humor.
“Grier,” he said. “I need to see your basement.”
“Why?” And then, in a low moan, Grier whispered, “N-o-o-o. . . .”
* * *
* * *
Wil walked past the barrels in Grier’s wine cellar, pretending he wasn’t a ferrymaster’s son and that he knew what to look for.
“The mansion is empty during late spring and summer, right?” he asked.
“Usually,” Grier said. “The family only occupies it in fall and winter.”
Wil studied the line of wine barrels. “Which of these has been here for at least three years?”
Grier gestured to a number branded into the side. “That’s the year it was barreled. So, anything from this section—” he pointed, “—on.”
“And which tasted off when you did your sampling the other night?”
Grier pursed his lips in thought, then walked over and tapped one.
“I see a plug in the top. Can you open it for me?”
Grier
pushed a step stool up against the barrel and pulled the plug out. Wil peered inside, but he saw nothing but darkness. He looked around and saw what looked like a glass stick; he grabbed it and lowered it into the hole, rotating it around until he felt it bump against something . . . soft.
When he pulled the stick out, a small scrap of half-disintegrated fabric clung to it.
“What the hells is that?” Grier asked.
Wil stepped down. “Did your sister have access to the mansion three years ago?”
Grier nodded, all color draining from his face.
“I think you should open up that barrel,” Wil said.
It took some effort. Wil stood by as Grier and his people conducted the task.
And when they did, they found Yelyza.
* * *
* * *
Wil sat with his daughter on a freshly made bed. Sunlight streamed in through the window, and bits of dust danced through the sunbeams.
The morning he’d been dreading for weeks had finally come. He had worried less over his words than how Ivy would react.
It all came down to this: He had to choose between being a Herald and a father.
And he had made his choice.
“But why can’t I go with you anymore?” she asked, clinging to him.
“Because the bad lady is . . . very bad. Badder than I realized when we started. If she hurt you, it would break my heart into a thousand pieces.”
She started to cry.
Vehs. It hurts so much. I wish you could hear me right now.
Someone knocked on the door to his quarters, right on cue.
“Let’s go see who that is,” he said, gently.
She snuffled and wiped tears away as they went to answer it. Then she opened the door, and in the entry stood Langfirch, her grandfather.
“Ho, little,” he said to her. He nodded to Wil. “Son.”
“Grampa!” she exclaimed, and embraced him.
“Papa,” Wil said.
“Glad to see you’re not dead,” Langfirch said to him, scooping up his granddaughter.
“Doing my best, Papa,” Wil replied. To Ivy he said, “Liebshahl, what if you stayed with your grandfather for a while?”
* * *
* * *
“Well, if my sister was trying to get me to swear off wine, she accomplished it,” Grier said.
“Do you think that’s what she meant to do?” Wil asked.
“Who knows? It probably made her laugh silly to stuff Yelyza in a wine barrel that she knew I’d eventually sample, or at the very least discover the contents of. Anyway—” Grier held up a stiff slip of paper. “This was in the barrel.”
He handed it to Wil. The botanist’s notes. A little grimy, but legible, thanks to the thin wash of resin.
“‘Take,’” Wil read.
“The opposite of ‘Gift’,” Grier said.
“Thanks, I hate it.” Wil turned the page in the light. “So, Madra meets the botanist Selenay’s tasked with finding Gift-blocking poisons . . .”
“Yelyza shows her ‘Take,’ Madra gets the one bottle she has—”
“Which has the ingredients written on it,” Wil said, remembering Yelyza’s labeling system.
“Mm-hm. But Yelyza has the notes for making it on her. Madra brings her over for a drink, kills her to keep the research out of the Queen’s hands, but inadvertently stuffs her into the barrel with her research. Then Madra goes back to the apartment, thinking she’ll find the notes there, and runs out of time looking for them, so she just . . . seals off the room, intending to come back for them eventually.” He shook his head. “If she’d taken just a few moments to search Yelyza’s pockets . . .”
“Maybe she did? Yelyza’s sleight-of-hand may have been as much for fun and games as it was to protect her research from being filched.” Wil mulled this. “Then again, maybe Madra didn’t. I don’t mean this as a slight against your house, Grier, but criminals aren’t always the smartest lot.”
Grier snorted. “I’d drink to that, but—well.”
Wil studied the ingredient list—ridiculously, three items long. Two of them he knew—spirits, angelica root—and one he’d never heard of.
“What’s cauldroncap?” he asked.
“Seems that mushrooms are not our friends,” Grier said. “Like goatsfoot, it’s a fungus. And it grows in exactly one part of the Pelagirs.” He pointed to a map on his wall. “Here.”
Wil let out a long, slow breath. “There it is.” He nodded to himself. “Right. I’ll talk to Cyril tomorrow. There’s going to be signs of her and that construct of hers if they’re there. This feels right.”
“You don’t have your Gift anymore.”
“It still feels right.”
Grier abruptly brightened. “So . . . we’re leaving soon, right?”
“We?”
“Well, as you like to remind me, this is my sister’s collateral damage. Also, you keep needing my help.” Grier rubbed his hands together. “And this way, I get out of having to run the Baireschild Estates for a little while. My wife’s better at it than me, anyway.”
Wil started to answer when the door opened and Amelie bounded through.
“Did you tell him?” she asked, excited.
“We were just getting to it,” Grier said.
“Wait, you told her before me—” Wil said.
“I’m all packed,” she said.
“You—what are—”
“You need me,” she said. “You’re really bad at falseface, Wil.”
Wil put his head in his hands.
“We want to go soon anyway, before Haven goes full riot,” Grier said. “The Heir just showed back up in Forst Reach out of thin air, no one knows how, and rumor has it there are gryphons flying around.”
Wil lifted his head again. “What?”
“That’s what the emergency Council was about.” Grier raised a brow. “Strange things are afoot, Herald. I have a feeling we need to find Madra now more than ever. We should go. Preferably tomorrow.”
Wil narrowed his eyes. “Before your wife’s party.”
“That’s just serendipity, that,” Grier said.
* * *
* * *
Out in Companion’s Field, Wil stood silently with one hand on Vehs’ shoulder and watched the sunset.
His Gifts wouldn’t be coming back. His daughter had started a long journey to Cortsberth. And tomorrow morning, he’d start in the opposite direction, toward the Pelagirs.
Cyril had been in touch with a Herald who had reported some odd goings-on in the parts of the Pelagirs where cauldroncap spoored. Dead livestock found half-eaten or bloodless, and something large moving about that fit the description of Lord Dark. It wasn’t ironclad because, well, the Pelagirs, but it was still better than anything else Wil had to go on.
:Congratulations on finding the botanist,: Vehs said.
:What’s left of her,: Wil replied.
:You still did better than any of her friends. No one thought to check the madwoman’s wine cellar.:
:Guess I’m still a Herald after all, even without—:
:Wil.: The thought hit him so fiercely it rolled him back on his heels. :Gifts don’t make you a Herald. Your heart does. The Choice makes the Chosen. Sight and Mindspeech do not.:
Wil bowed his head, too overwhelmed to reply.
Aubryn approached and came to flank him, so that he stood between the Companions. He reached out and touched her as well.
:Is Vehs giving you a hard time?: she said. She had the power to project into minds, and he could still hear her, too, if they touched.
:Not without just cause,: Vehs replied.
:Hmph. I should come along with you too, then,: she said. :Keep you in check, old man. Also, I have a feeling my new Chosen is where you’re headed. At least,:
she added, slyly, :that’s what I’m telling Rolan.:
Vehs touched Wil’s forehead with his muzzle. :Wil. No matter what, you are my Chosen,: he said. :You will always be my Chosen.:
Wil nodded, silent, not sure why he needed to hear it but grateful for it anyway.
:Now let’s go save the realm,: Vehs said.
“Together,” Wil said.
:Together.:
Trial by Reflection
Terry O’Brien
Shasta sighed when she looked up from her reading chair across her small workroom at the calendar chalked on the slate on the wall over her desk and at the circle around tomorrow’s date. She knew that tomorrow, at breakfast, her tutor, Timiyon, would ask if she was prepared to take her Journeyman’s Trial that day, and she would just shake her head. She knew he would nod and offer her chalk and a cloth to change the date to when she felt comfortable. After all, that is what he did after the last time she put off her Trial, and the time before that and . . . She pictured counting the number of times on her fingers in her head, stopping when she ran out of fingers to count.
She just didn’t feel ready. She couldn’t quite understand the difference between an Apprentice Mage and a Journeyman, or what happened during a Journeyman Trial, only that she desperately wanted it, and needed it to help her understand how to use the magic that surrounded her. Timiyon was the smartest man she ever met, but he once told her that what little he knew about learning magic was drawn from his frequent interactions with military and Court Mages as a member of the General Staff of Lord Martial Daren, now Prince Consort. The two Mages who came to examine her didn’t even get beyond introducing themselves: one refused to work with her until she was “cured” of her deafness, and the other blasted her with incomprehensible chaos in her head that only gave her a raging headache. She loathed the idea of facing other Mages, and Timiyon agreed; fortunately, the general Royal offer that all Mages come to Haven for training was not yet a specific Royal command.
Passages Page 24