Stolen Dagger

by Shawn Wickersheim

  Ignoring her growling pangs of hunger, Josephine ducked into an alley and passed through a series of less busy back streets until she reached one that joined with the boulevard running along the front of her father’s keep. She couldn’t help but feel hopeful. Despite what he had done to her, Lipscombe had returned her mother and sister after she had completed her first task. Perhaps her father was waiting for her even now.

  But when she approached her father’s keep, her sliver of hope died. The windows were all dark and the building seemed unnaturally still and quiet. Too quiet. Even the heated air around the keep was stagnant. And then she noticed the front door was ajar.

  A sick feeling of dread settled into the pit of her stomach.

  “Lock and bar the door . . .” Josephine whispered as she rushed forward. “Lock and bar the damn door, Mother!” Her heart hammered wildly in her chest as her mind struggled to make excuses for the open door. None came. The door was made of heavy wood and her father had created the hinges himself. It would not just open on its own.

  Without giving thought to her own safety, Josephine darted up the stone stairs and pushed her way inside. Shadows greeted her as she stepped into the small central foyer. Only a single blade of light sliced into the room and that came from the open doorway behind her.

  Why had all the candles been extinguished? And by whom?

  She paused long enough for her eyes to adjust to the gloomy darkness. The heat of the day was seeping into the keep, and the still air stank of sweat, and fear, and . . .

  Blood.

  The familiar coppery scent wormed into her nose and the hairs on the back of her neck rose. Just last night, while she lay in a puddle of her own blood, her nostrils had been filled with the same stench.

  And now, it was here . . .

  Steeling her will, Josephine darted across the shadowy foyer toward the main hall beyond. There were only three rooms on this floor besides the entry hallway; the lavatory, the dining room, and the kitchen. Edgar’s cautionary words echoed in her mind, “Check, then go,” but the desire to find her family kept her moving forward.

  Josephine entered the hallway and spied a body lying in a pool of blood.

  “Mother?” She ran forward. “Leigh?”

  She dropped next to the body and brushed the hair back away from the face. It was Esmerel, their maid. Josephine placed a trembling finger under the poor girl’s nose to check for warmth. There was none. Esmerel’s dark eyes were frozen open in a look of terror and pain.

  “You unbarred the door, didn’t you?” She glanced back the way she had come. Esmerel must have opened the door, then realizing her mistake had run into the hall and . . .

  Josephine jumped to her feet and glanced toward the ceiling. Her mother and sister! What had happened to them?

  She dashed to the stairs. Esmerel had been cut down from behind and left where she had fallen. The killer was not interested in her. The killer had been after different prey.

  Josephine charged up the stairs two at a time, her own pain momentarily forgotten.

  Half way up, she slipped on something wet. Her hand shot out and she grasped the banister to keep from falling. The sick feeling in her stomach swelled. She knew without looking what she’d slipped on, but she looked anyway.

  More blood.

  Chapter 43

  The melodious peal of the four magic carillon bells rang out across the city as Ian descended the stairs from his private chambers, bathed, redressed, and ready for his luncheon. The bells played out a harmonic tune, a grandiose march from years past. He couldn’t remember the name of the song, but he smiled nonetheless. He always smiled when the bells rang.

  The bell tower located near the center of Belyne, about a mile east of Belyne Square, had stood for over half a millennium, and every day, precisely at noon, the bells rang. According to legends, the magical carillon had altered this routine only three times. Once, while the city was still relatively young, their ominous tolling offered a warning of an impending storm which struck the coast and devastated the entire dock area. The second deviance occurred nearly two hundred years ago during an invasion of the red-haired Dardynians from the icy south. The bells had played a discordant clamor which had lasted for days and sent the horde scurrying back to their cold mountainous realm. It was the cause for the most recent variance however that brought a smile to Ian’s face.

  They had rung nearly fifty years ago to signify the end of the last Yordician-Gyunwarian war.

  Ian had heard the story told many times over the years and had read about the tale often in his grandfather’s journal. Alan Weatherall had lost his father, mother, two uncles, a handful of cousins and his older brother to the war, leaving him utterly alone with nothing except the tattered remains of a battered country and the precarious title, High Lord of Gyunwar. Always considered the wild, adventurous and irresponsible one of the family, Alan struggled for two years to tame not only his own unrestrained nature, but also his bloodthirsty countrymen. In a surprising move, Alan pursued peace with King Henrik, an ideal that was alien to most fighting men at the time, but eventually, the two young rulers agreed upon a truce. As a show of faith, Alan traveled to Belyne to sign the treaty with only a small contingent of armed guards, Peace Walkers they were called, to protect him on the long journey. Had King Henrik chose to betray Alan, all hopes for peace would have died, but instead, Alan reached the city gates unharmed and unmolested and the treaty was signed in the middle of Belyne Square.

  With his signature boldly on display next to the Yordician king’s, Alan had placed the quill upon the makeshift desk and at that moment the melodious bells had begun to ring joyfully. Later, Alan had written in his journal, it was then he knew the war was over. Peace would return to the land and for that he openly wept for joy.

  And every day when Ian heard the bells, he was reminded of his grandfather’s bravery and his unlikely story, and for a moment, all things seemed possible.

  But when Ian reached the bottom of the stairs and spied the hard look on Wynston’s face, he knew today’s moment of all things seeming possible would be a brief one.

  “M’lord, I have a message from Lord Orrington.”

  “I wasn’t expecting a reply so quickly.”

  Wynston reached into his coat pocket and retrieved two sealed scrolls. “Not a reply, M’lord.” Ian recognized one of the two as his own. “I was about to summon a runner to deliver your message when this one showed up.” He handed Ian the foreign scroll. “Also, your guests have begun to arrive. Captain Kylpin Caleachey is waiting for you in the sitting room.”

  “Thank you, Wynston.”

  Had Cecily decided to communicate with him from Orrington’s home directly? Ian examined the gold wax seal. A roaring lion. No, the scroll was from Lord Orrington himself.

  Ian broke the seal. The note was written by a gifted artist, but the beautiful penmanship did little to mask the ugly message.

  “M’lord?” Wynston stepped closer. “What is it?”

  Ian unclenched his jaw. “Orrington has challenged me to a duel, tomorrow, out by the ruins.”

  Wynston’s face grew taut. “The king has forbidden dueling.”

  “Yes, I know that,” Ian sputtered. “Orrington is with Cecily, and yet . . .” His eyes drifted over the message again, “. . . and yet, somehow I have dishonored him?”

  “You cannot accept.”

  Ian crumpled the scroll into a ball and shoved it into Wynston’s hands. “Burn this!”

  “M’lord, put aside your pride for a moment. You cannot-”

  “This is not open for debate!”

  Wynston smoothed the front of his white shirt. “M’lord, send Denton if you must, but do not go yourself.”

  Love and concern shone in the old man’s eyes and because of that, Ian bit back his first response. “Burn the letter, Wynston.”

  “M’lord . . .?” Wynston pleaded.

  “I will bring Denton with me,” Ian conceded. When he saw Wynston open his mo
uth, he added, “But if I hear another word about this matter, I will leave him behind.”

  Wynston’s mouth closed. He offered a curt bow, spun around and left.

  Ian took a deep breath and tried to push the foul matter of Cecily and Lord Orrington out of his mind, but the harder he pushed, the more his thoughts focused on them. Besides the embrace at the Spring Joust, he had seen them together at the King’s Dinner, and at the Winter Festival, and . . . and . . .

  Ian grimaced at all the memories. At nearly every event, dinner, party or gathering at the castle over the past year, Cecily had spent time with Orrington. He would often see them whispering conspiratorially in a corner. At first, he had thought nothing of it, but every time he approached them, they would clam up and Orrington would retreat with a scowl splattered across his powdered face.

  Ian shook his head trying to rid his mind of all the memories, but the images persisted. Finally, with a sigh, he paced toward the sitting room. Perhaps his luncheon would provide him with a bit of much-needed distraction.

  The ringing sound of swordplay drew him out of his thoughts. The noise was coming from the sitting room. An intruder!

  Ian charged forward, pushed through the sitting room doors and found Kylpin and Tyran exchanging blows. The two chased each other across the room, darting around the furniture, leaping over a settee, each making grand flourishes and sweeping attacks. Ian couldn’t help but laugh. Over the past few years, the two had perfected this rousing routine. The battle was now a spectacle to behold. Ian watched as the playful fight unfolded.

  “I shall cut ye from ear to ear,” Kylpin growled at Tyran.

  “Not before I cut ye belly open, ye lily-livered land-lubber!” Tyran replied in a close imitation of Kylpin’s exaggerated tone and accent. He dove forward, feigning an attack aimed at Kylpin’s head, and thrust instead toward the sea captain’s exposed torso.

  Kylpin turned aside and awkwardly parried with an unrehearsed block using his superior strength rather than any kind of skill to push the offending blade away. The parried sword came dangerously close to a suit of armor that had been in the Weatherall family for centuries.

  “Each time I see this routine,” Ian said, clapping and hastily bringing an end to the mock battle, “you two make it more outrageous!”

  “Kylpin thinks I’ll soon be ready for the stage.”

  Ian raised an eyebrow and shot his friend a withering stare. “Does he indeed?”

  Kylpin grinned sheepishly and offered him a shrug. “Perhaps not the royal theater, my friend, but your boy does handle a sword well. I know a theater owner, Neko Blood. She is always looking for . . .”

  “I’m sure he’s quite talented,” Ian cut him off. “But I don’t think the theater is-”

  “Denton has been practicing with me,” Tyran boasted, and then just as quickly, he clamped his mouth shut.

  “Denton has been training you?” Ian turned his penetrating stare onto his suddenly red-faced son.

  Tyran chewed on his bottom lip. “I’m not getting in his way, or anything. He only trains me after hours. After he’s trained the guards.”

  “And who gave you permission to learn the sword?”

  “I did, M’lord.”

  Ian turned. Alysea Littleton, Tyran’s tutor, entered the room behind him. She was Dardynian, but at Cecily’s stubborn insistence, she hid her heritage well. Her flaming red hair was cut short and tucked discreetly beneath a prim hat and a pair of smoky glass spectacles balanced on the bridge of her nose neatly disguised her icy, pale blue eyes. Though Ian hated to impose such demands upon such an intelligent woman, Alysea had complied without complaint.

  “Forgive me, M’lord, if I overstepped my duties,” Alysea spoke gently. She crossed into the sitting room, offered Kylpin a shy smile, and placed a hand on Tyran’s shoulder. “I thought it wise to exercise his growing body as well as his ever-expanding mind. We would not want him deficient in any aspect of life, would we?”

  “No, I suppose you are correct.”

  Tyran whooped and rushed forward to give him a hug. “Thank you, Father.”

  “Just don’t pester Denton or get in his way too much.”

  “I won’t.”

  “I thought your attacks were more precise, Master Tyran,” Kylpin said. “You are very sly, my young friend. I must remember that.”

  “He’s too sly if you ask me.” Ian tousled Tyran’s dark hair and then headed toward the polished bar. “I keep warning him about sneaking into the kitchen, but he won’t listen.”

  “Gertrude can’t catch me. I’m much too fast for her,” Tyran boasted. “She’s just an old woman.”

  “Tyran, be nice,” Alysea scolded.

  “What did I say? I am being truthful. She is an old woman.”

  “Old or not, she still deserves to be respected.” Ian placed the bottles of wine under the bar, out of sight.

  “She is a servant and Mother says servants should respect us.”

  “Yes, they should.” The door behind Tyran opened and Gertrude stepped into the room. “But she is also an adult, and you still have so much to learn.”

  “What could I possibly learn from an old woman?”

  Gertrude’s clawed, wrinkled hand landed on Tyran’s shoulder. “To watch your back and mind your naughty little tongue!”

  Tyran shrieked and ran out of the room. Alysea smiled apologetically at Ian, offered those in the room a slight curtsy and quickly trailed after him.

  “Gertrude, he meant no disrespect,” Ian said.

  Gertrude cackled. “All little boys think they can outwit me.” She raised a leathery finger and pointed it at him. “Even you.” Her eyes narrowed on his waistline. “Don’t think for one minute you’ve fooled me either. I know where all those missing fruit pastries have gone!”

  “Would you have any more of those delicious delights lying about downstairs?” Kylpin asked smoothly. He strolled over and placed an arm around Gertrude’s bony shoulders. “I haven’t eaten since last night.”

  “You, my dear, are too sweet already.” Gertrude gave him a once over and boldly pinched his backside. “Besides, it will spoil your lunch.” She headed back toward the dining hall. “If I were just a couple of years younger, you’d be in trouble, mister.”

  “Gertrude?” Ian stepped out from behind the bar. “Was there something you came up to tell us?”

  Gertrude hesitated by the door. “I heard Master Tyran speaking about me.”

  “From the kitchen?”

  Gertrude glared at Ian. “I may be old, but I still have my hearing.” She pushed through the door. “Your lunch will be served shortly. If your friends are late, they will eat it cold and I’d better not hear any complaints.”

  “As feisty as ever, I see,” Kylpin said with a laugh.

  “Shhhhhh!” Ian cautioned. The two waited to see if she would return. When she didn’t, Ian leaned forward and whispered, “I think she likes you.”

  A wry smile spread across Kylpin’s face. “All the ladies like me, my friend. You should know that by now.” He headed to the bar. “Where’s the wine?”

  “I put it away. Glavinas will be here soon.”

  “Ah . . .”

  “There is much to discuss, and I want everyone clear-headed.”

  Kylpin snorted. “Then perhaps you should not have given me that bank note last night.” He dropped into a chair and leaned his head against the plush cushion. “I’m still tasting something foul and not just when I burp.”

  “From the way you and Tyran were dueling, I would not have guessed.”

  “I had no choice, my friend.” Kylpin pointed at the small alcove beside the door. “Your son was waiting for me there and before I could even remove my cloak, he attacked.”

  “Tyran ambushed you?” Ian’s eyes went wide.

  Kylpin patted the air. “It is all part of our game. Do not be harsh with him. He caught me unaware, nothing more.” The sea captain leaned forward and stroked his beard. “And he nearly ran m
e through at the end, too, did you see? But-”

  “I will talk with him.”

  “I did not tell you this to fault him,” Kylpin said. “I am praising him, my friend. Six months ago, he was sloppy with his sword work. Now, he handles the blade better than most men.” A twinkle appeared in his dark eyes. “Definitely better than you.”

  Ian opened his mouth to refute his friend’s claim but the doors from the foyer burst open and Lord Glavinas Roth blundered into the room like some raging valley oxen. His eyes were wide. His red nostrils were flared. Wynston came in right behind him.

  “Ian!” Glavinas shouted. He pulled his coat tails out of Wynston’s hands. “Tell your man here I was invited!”

  “M’lord,” Wynston addressed Ian, “I was simply following your instructions.”

  “Thank you Wynston, I will take it from here.” Ian dismissed him with a smile and a nod.

  “Instructions?” Glavinas bellowed. “What instructions?” He staggered toward a crushed-velvet chair and flopped into it with a mighty grunt. His long, unkempt blond hair fell into his face and he tossed it back with a shake of his head. “He should be the one instructed on some manners.”

  “I’ve told you before, if you showed up drunk today, I would send you back home.”

  “Bah!” Glavinas slapped the air with his hand. “I haven’t had a drink since . . . since I left home. And I didn’t have any on the road either.”

  Ian sighed. He could not remember the last time he had seen his friend sober. It had to have been before Leorna was killed. The alcohol . . . and the recent burglary . . . had only made him more peevish.

  “Why don’t you have any wine out, Ian?” Glavinas eyed the empty bar suspiciously. He grunted and tried to rise. His great bulk and his intoxication kept in the chair. “Ni biswail!” He muttered an old Yordician curse. “Kylpin, be a good fellow and bring me something to quench my thirst.”

  “No!” Ian stated. “You’re not drinking any more today!”