Chapter Eighteen
“I apologize we can’t offer you more luxurious accommodations,” the Kirshane monk said, “but as you might expect, we don’t get many visitors here.”
“It’s plenty, thank you,” Rook assured him, taking in the cozy dormitory-style room with a single glance. Calling it spartan would have been a grave understatement; it had a bed, a single dresser, and that was it. The room was duplicated eight other times, split evenly between sides in the corridor. On a positive note, though, the monks had already dropped off the rest of their belongings for them.
“Smells funny in here,” Van commented from the hall. “Actually, it smells funny in this entire place.”
Rynne sighed. “He isn’t normally this rude. Traveling gets him all riled up.”
The monk smiled. “No offense taken. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“I don’t think so,” Rook told him. “I imagine we’ll just clean up and relax before dinner.”
“It should be ready within the hour. I will send someone to come get you.”
“We can find our way, but thank you.”
The man bowed and left, and they were finally alone. Rook let out a deep breath and leaned a hand against the wall. He wasn’t even sure where to start with all of this.
“We should set up a watch tonight,” Van said softly. “Just in case.”
“I don’t think they mean us any harm. Not at the moment, anyway.”
“You’re not telling me you trust this Bale guy?”
Rook shook his head. “No. His story has holes—some pretty significant ones, at that. I’m just not sure what to do about it yet.”
“I feel bad for Tiel,” Rynne whispered, walking over and sitting down on the edge of the bed. “I didn’t think anyone could get that pale.”
“His boss just turned his entire world upside down right in front of a group of strangers,” Van agreed. “Not exactly the easiest way to break news to someone. I’m surprised the kid didn’t run over and punch the old man in the face.”
Rynne grunted. “Give him time. I’m sure they’re having a pleasant conversation right now.”
Rook looked past them to Selaste. She stood stiffly by the doorway, arms crossed. Her brow was furrowed with tension, and her eyes flicked about in confused desperation. On impulse, he reached over and squeezed her arm.
“We’ll get your memory back,” he soothed.
Her turquoise eyes latched onto his. “You think he really wants to help? He could barely stand to look at me.”
“He wants to know who put you in that coffin, and the best way to learn that is to help you.”
“Not very reassuring,” she said, shaking out of his grip. “It’s not your mind he’s about to screll with. The looks on all their faces…they think I’m some type of monster.”
“I still wouldn’t put it past him to be making this whole thing up,” Van commented. “No offense to you, but the entire notion of someone being stuck inside a coffin for a thousand years is so ludicrous I can’t possibly take the idea seriously.”
“You wouldn’t believe him no matter what he said,” Rynne grumbled. “And his story wasn’t exactly flattering. I mean, he just described the fall of his entire order because the Messiah they had spent a thousand years searching for turned out to be a normal woman.”
Selaste raised an eyebrow. “Does that make it more or less believable?”
Van snorted. “Good point. Anyway, I get that he has this entire sob story, boohoo. But think it through the rest of the way: with all this speculation about how Selaste ended up in that coffin, who stands to gain the most from the Kirshal’s return? An ostracized Darenthi prince, or the secret order of monks who have been worshipping her for a millennium and have nothing to show for it?”
“The thought had crossed my mind,” Rook said darkly, glancing down the corridor to make sure no one was nearby. “It’s not outside the realm of possibility that Bale is behind this whole thing.”
“He did seem to recognize me,” Selaste pointed out. “Though he recognized all of you, too.”
Rynne shook her head. “I don’t know, that seems like a stretch. You’re accusing him of manufacturing a fake Messiah for what? What’s his endgame?”
Van shrugged. “Ego. The Kirshane are essentially irrelevant, and Bale despises it—you could see it in his eyes every time he spoke about his people. The return of the Kirshal could vault them back into the spotlight again. It might even give them clout in the Haven Assembly. I mean, you can’t tell me it isn’t convenient that no one else in the world seems to know the Kirshal returned.”
“It would certainly help explain why Tiel didn’t know anything,” Rook mused. “If Bale really is a kindly old monk, then lying to his apprentice so grievously seems out-of-character. If, on the other hand, he’s trying to propagate an enormous conspiracy…well, then his apprentice just becomes another tool.”
Rynne ran a hand through her dark hair and leaned forward. “All right, let’s say that’s true. Say he wants to vault the Kirshane order back into the spotlight, and he was willing to create a fake Kirshal to do it. How in Shakissa’s name did he set that up in the first place? And then how does Selaste play into all of this? Does he just find some woman off the street, draw a bunch of tattoos on her, and stuff her in a coffin?”
“If you believe it’s all a deception,” Selaste said, “then no matter who set it in motion, I’m probably an accomplice. I just don’t remember it.”
“Not necessarily,” Rook told her. “You could easily be an innocent victim pulled into this. But again, we’re just speculating. We don’t know anything yet.”
“Right,” she breathed.
“We’re not exactly bolstering her confidence in Bale and whatever spell he comes up with to restore her memory,” Rynne pointed out.
Selaste sighed. “It’s fine. It needs to be said. I just…” She clenched her fists together and swallowed heavily. “I just wish I could remember.”
Rook resisted the urge to squeeze her arm again. She didn’t seem like the type who responded all that well to physical comfort—that, or she just recognized it for the empty gesture it was. No matter how much he might want to, he couldn’t help her. It was entirely possible no one could.
“Well, wild speculation isn’t getting us anywhere,” Rook said after a moment, “and Kastrius could just as easily be blamed for all of this.”
“Let’s not forget the fact Selaste here can obliterate Faceless on command,” Rynne added. “And she doesn’t seem affected by the Flensing. We still can’t explain any of that right now.”
“I’ve actually been thinking about that a little,” Van said, rubbing his chin.
“That’s scary,” Rynne muttered.
“Cute. Anyway, I’m no expert on weaving or anything, but it isn’t possible that she—that you—have a Siphon and don’t even know it?”
Rynne shook her head. “No. Drawing on that connection produces a very obvious sensation in both parties—or so I’m told. Besides, that still doesn’t explain her ability to melt a Faceless.” She reached out and grabbed Van’s hand. “High marks for effort, though.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbled.
“I mean it,” she insisted, squeezing him gently before turning to the others. “But at any rate, it’s just another unanswered question. I don’t think we have enough of those.”
“If any place is going to have answers, it’s here,” Rook said, glancing to each of them in turn. “Talk to people, look at books, do whatever you can to get some answers—and no matter what else happens, keep your eyes peeled. Try not to go anywhere alone if you can help it.”
Van shuffled. “You know, as much as I hate to admit it, the kid may be our best bet to get some answers. Whether Bale or Kastrius is behind this, Tiel’s been screlled either way.”
“I’ll talk to him after dinner, see what I can find out,” Rynne said. “But I think you’re right.”<
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Rook nodded. “All right. Well, I’m going to wash up before dinner. I’ll take it on faith they aren’t so petty as to poison our bathwater.”
“Clearly you haven’t read enough Sunoan crime novels,” Rynne replied dryly. “But it does sound like a good plan.”
Rook started to turn away but stopped when his eyes reached Selaste. She hadn’t moved much, and he could tell she was desperately trying to put all this together in her mind. He couldn’t begin to imagine her confusion. After Lurien died, he’d tried to lose himself in alcohol and fighting and a number of other self-destructive things. She actually had lost herself, and if Bale was right, she might never be able to get it back.
And in the end, there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. Sighing softly to himself, he stepped over to one of the empty rooms and started to unpack his things.
The Last Goddess Page 44
