Then she would try to warn someone with the power to act.
There was neither sun nor moons in the darkness below the earth, but the bankers kept track of time, and at noon they announced it was time to stop for food. The soldiers distributed loaves of hard bread, and a pair of large wine casks were produced and broached. Master Andrew instructed the workmen not to wander off into the Shadow Ways for their own safety but told them to attend to nature’s call in the natural cavern if necessary, otherwise they would have to smell their own filth for the rest of the day. Moriah hid a smile as she ate her bread. That was perfect. In the gloomy outer cavern, it would be easy for her to don the wraithcloak and escape.
Then she saw another party of men striding down the corridor towards the rubble.
Moriah spotted Master Cyprian in their midst. The leader of the Scepter Bank and the High One of the Drakocenti looked stern and austere in his red coat and cap with a golden badge. The other bankers somehow managed to make their official garb look ridiculous, but Cyprian looked forbidding, even intimidating. Six of the Bank’s guards walked with him, and Moriah recognized the hulking Jacob, the captain of the Bank’s soldiers and Cyprian’s right-hand thug. Several of the members of the Regency Council accompanied him – Lythan Radyr, a few other nobles, and some of the merchants.
Two of the Bank’s guards hustled Prince Tywall Gwyrdragon along.
Moriah just barely kept the astonishment from her expression.
She had been looking for Tywall Gwyrdragon, the Prince of Cintarra, for over a year, and now here he was. The boy looked terrible. He was dressed in rags, and he looked too thin, a pinched look to his face. A faint tremor went through his limbs, and dark circles ringed his eyes. The story that Cyprian had put forth was that Tywall was sick, and his physicians were attending to him.
The boy didn’t look sick. He looked terrified and half-starved. Likely Cyprian had left him locked in a cellar somewhere.
Two more of the men pulled along a prisoner, a strong-looking man in his early twenties. He wore ragged clothes, and he had shaggy black hair and icy blue eyes, a gag stuffed into his mouth. One of the guards carried a sheathed sword, and with a shock, Moriah realized that it was a soulblade.
Why the devil did Cyprian have a soulblade? Surely, he wasn’t foolish enough to keep a Knight of the Sacred Blade captive? Then the realization struck. That man had to be Sir Rufinius, Archbishop Caelmark’s bastard son. Everyone knew that the archbishop had arranged for his son to become a Swordbearer, and Moriah had heard that the archbishop had sent Sir Rufinius into the catacombs to investigate the Scepter Bank’s expeditions.
He had disappeared.
No, not disappeared. Rufinius had been taken prisoner.
But why would Cyprian keep a Swordbearer hostage?
“Who the devil is that?” said one of the workmen.
Prince Tywall turned a terrified look around him.
“Mind your own business!” said Master Andrew.
Cyprian raised a hand, and Andrew subsided. “That is none of your concern, sir. However, if you must know, he is a thief we apprehended in the vaults. We shall turn him over to the Constable of the city once we return to the surface. Back to your meals, men. You shall receive a bonus if we can clear a stable path through this rubble by the end of the day.”
That elicited a ragged cheer. Cyprian favored the workmen with a cold smile and turned his attention to Master Andrew and the lords of the Regency Council. They began speaking in low voices. Moriah very much wanted to know what they were saying.
She stood, stretched, and picked up her cup, and strolled towards the wine barrel as if she intended to get a refill. And as she did, she could just make out the conversation.
“This is the Great Eye, then?” said Lord Lythan.
The Great Eye? Was that the silvery ring? Come to think of it, something about it did put Moriah in mind a closed eye, waiting for something to open it.
“It is,” said Cyprian. “At long last.”
“Why are you showing the Prince and the Swordbearer before the rabble?” demanded Lythan.
“None of them will recognize the Prince,” said Cyprian. He turned a disdainful glance towards Tywall Gwyrdragon. “They just see a brat in rags, as they should. And it doesn’t matter. Let them tell half the city. As soon as we open the Great Eye and seize the power, we shall no longer fear our enemies. But we need the blood to work the spell, either the blood of a royal or the blood of a man who has borne a high elven soulblade. The sooner we get the Prince and Sir Rufinius to the Great Eye, the…”
Cyprian stopped talking, and though she wasn’t looking at him, Moriah felt his hard eyes dig into her. She had lingered too long by the wine barrel.
Moriah let out a long belch, turned, and took a swig of the cheap wine. She saw Cyprian’s eyes narrow in distaste, and Moriah turned to the nearest guard.
“Pardon me,” she said in her disguised voice, “but I do believe that I need to take a piss.” She belched again. “D’you mind if I do it on the rocks…”
“Go in the outer cavern,” said the guard, pointing. “Now.”
“Yes, sir,” said Moriah, and she strolled down the corridor, trying to keep herself from showing any signs of alarm. With every step, she expected Cyprian to order his guards to seize her.
But the High One of the Drakocenti turned his attention back to his conversation, and Moriah breathed a silent sigh of relief. Clearly, Cyprian had believed her to be a drunken workman and nothing more.
Which meant she was free to act.
Because she now had a witness she could bring to Prince Accolon, one who could compel him to take action.
She hesitated. The Prince or the Swordbearer? Moriah would only be able to rescue one. For a moment, she thought about taking the Prince. She disliked the thought of leaving a child in the clutches of someone like Cyprian. Yet she had to consider the decision coldly, practically. If she ran into trouble, a Swordbearer would be of more use as an ally than a terrified child. For that matter, Archbishop Caelmark would believe his bastard son, and Rufinius could provide an account of his captivity. Tywall, likely scared out of his wits, would not.
No, if Moriah wanted to help Tywall, she needed to return with aid. Before Cyprian did…whatever the hell it was he wanted to do. Opening the Great Eye? What did that mean?
Moriah had a feeling that she never wanted to find out.
A moment later she stepped into the gloom of the outer cavern, the plan coming together in her mind. The bankers had left one man-at-arms to guard the entrance, a sour-looking man with a grim expression.
“If you’ve got to piss,” snarled the guard, “do it over there.” He made an imperious gesture towards a cluster of glowing ghost mushrooms. “I don’t want to smell it.”
“Aye,” grumbled Moriah, stepping past him, her hand coiling around the dagger at her belt.
In one smooth motion, she drew the blade, whirled, and buried it in his neck. As she hoped, the guard had time to let out an agonized cry, and Moriah ripped her blade free and slashed it across his throat. Blood spattered across her fingers and coat, which was what she had been hoping for. She screamed, shoved the dagger back into its sheath, and ran back up the corridor.
Every eye was on her.
“Urvaalgs!” screamed Moriah. “Urvaalgs, urvaalgs! They killed the guard, they’re coming. Oh, God, they’re coming!”
That got a reaction.
Men shouted at each other. Jacob barked orders, and the guards rushed forward, drawing their swords. Moriah sprinted past them, and the guards paid her no heed. Cyprian shouted instructions, and several of the Regency Council lords and bankers rolled up their right sleeves, touching their forearms. Symbols of blue fire glowed there. Moriah kept running, screaming her head off, and ran right into the guard holding the soulblade.
She slammed into him, and before the guard could recover, she slugged him. His head snapped back, the shock shooting up her arm. The guard fell, and in the ch
aos around them, no one noticed. Men were shouting, and Prince Tywall was loosing a high-pitched, keening wail that sliced into Moriah’s ears.
Her hand plunged into her coat and seized the hexagon of her armor,. The armor unfolded into the cuirass and masked helmet, and Moriah slung the wraithcloak around her shoulders.
She snatched the sheathed soulblade from the floor.
“The Wraith!” howled Cyprian. “Kill him! Ten thousand gold coins to the man who brings me the Wraith’s head.”
Moriah seized Sir Rufinius’s shoulder with her free hand. Hard, albeit puzzled, eyes gave her a searching look.
“When I say run,” she said, her helmet making her words metallic, “run!”
A dozen guards rushed at her. Cyprian, Lythan, and Master Andrew all began casting spells, blue fire shining from the marks on their forearms.
“Run!” shouted Moriah, and she drew on the cloak’s power.
She brought Rufinius with her into immaterial form, and they sprinted through the wall.
But something was wrong. The soulblade glowed in her hand as if the weapon and its scabbard had been wrought from frozen white fire. It felt…heavy, somehow, as if it was dragging at her. It was taking more of the cloak’s power to bring the soulblade and the Swordbearer with them.
Too much. They would not be able to flee far.
Moriah ground her teeth and pushed on, feeling the cloak’s power drain.
Then they were in a section of the elven ruins she recognized, one of the hallways she had explored with Gunther and Delwen. It was a lofty corridor of white stone, the walls carved with reliefs of elves in armor and robes. Moriah released the power of the cloak with a gasp, and a wave of fatigue went through her. She fell to her knees, the soulblade dropping from her hands, and Sir Rufinius fell on his side with a groan.
Moriah sent a mental command to her armor, and the helmet retracted.
“Hold still,” she said, drawing out a dagger. “I’ll get those ropes off you.”
Rufinius nodded, and she slashed through the ropes binding his wrists and pulled out the gag.
“Thank you, my lady,” said Rufinius. His voice was a deep rumble, and he sat up with a wince, stretching cramped muscles. “I suspected that this day would end with my death.” His mouth twitched into a grim smile. “I did not expect that I would be rescued by the legendary Wraith.”
Belatedly Moriah realized that she should not have removed her helmet.
“Well, life is full of strange surprises, isn’t it?” said Moriah. She took a wary step back. “Are you going to try to kill me?”
“No. Should I?” said Rufinius. He got to his feet with a groan, and then picked up the soulblade. “My father would say that ingratitude is the worst of sins. And I am not a fool. I know I would have died there without your aid.”
“Why?” said Moriah. “What do you matter to the Drakocenti?”
“If you will pardon my question,” said Rufinius, “why did you rescue me, Wraith? That seems a peculiar act for a Cintarran master thief.”
Moriah laughed. “I only became the Wraith because the Drakocenti murdered my two best friends. I wanted to bring them down in repayment for my grief.” Rufinius offered a nod. His expression was solemn, but Moriah suspected that was how he usually looked. “I have been stealing from and spying on the Drakocenti for a year, trying to find proof that would bring down Cyprian and his gang of would-be sorcerers. I was also trying to find what happened to you and Prince Tywall, and then you both walked in front of me.”
“Very well,” said Rufinius. “Cyprian and his men have grown a little too free with their tongues in front of me, and I have learned much. The Drakocenti are a cult founded by a dark elven sorcerer called the Theophract. I have never seen him, but Cyprian talks about him a great deal. The Theophract taught Cyprian and the other Drakocenti that they can become dragon gods who will rule over the rest of mankind.”
“Dragon gods,” said Moriah. “What the hell does that even mean?”
Rufinius shrugged. “From what I understand, the Theophract has promised his followers that they will become immortal and shall have the power to take the shape of a dragon at will. To do this, they need to open something called the Great Eye…”
“I’ve seen it,” said Moriah. “It’s an elven relic on the other side of that rubble.”
“Then the Drakocenti have found it,” said Rufinius. “To open the Great Eye, Cyprian needs to cast a powerful spell fueled either by royal blood or by the blood of one touched by high elven magic. Such as a Swordbearer, though I suppose a Magistrius might work as well. In exchange for that spell, the Theophract required that the Drakocenti bring Cintarra to revolt and ruin. Hence, the sheep enclosures and the displaced villagers.”
“I knew it wasn’t just for greed,” said Moriah.
“Most of the enclosures were done for simple greed,” said Rufinius. “There are only a few dozen Drakocenti. Many of the nobles followed out of mere lust for gold, save for those who heeded my father’s counsel and refused to enclose their lands.” He looked at her. “Do you know the path back to the surface from here, my lady? I do not, and I must warn my father at once. Perhaps we now have enough proof to convince the High King to act, though I fear we are out of time.”
“You’ve been out of touch,” said Moriah. “The High King sent Accolon Pendragon to correct the disturbances in Cintarra. The Shield Knight and the Keeper came with him. Your uncle, I suppose. Queen Mara has been working with them. Accolon has been reversing the enclosures one by one.”
“Then we can act,” said Rufinius. “If the Shield Knight and the Keeper are here, they can ask the aid of Anathgrimm soldiers. We can return to the Great Eye and stop the Drakocenti.”
“Assuming they listen to you,” said Moriah.
“They will,” said Rufinius. “Or, rather, my father will, and he will convince my uncle and the Keeper. Will you lead the way to the surface, lady Wraith?”
Moriah laughed. “Lady Wraith?”
Rufinius shrugged. “I am uncertain of what to call you. No one thought the Wraith was a woman. But we must hasten. Better, I think, to stop the Drakocenti before they can get to the Great Eye.”
“Agreed,” said Moriah, looking up and down the corridor. “And we haven’t gone that far. Cyprian will have sent men after us.”
“I hope so,” said Rufinius.
She looked askance at him. “Why?”
“Then I might defeat them in battle, weakening our enemy.”
Swordbearers, Moriah reflected, tended to take the direct approach to solving a problem.
Then again, that was what she needed right now, wasn’t it? To find some Swordbearers and point them at Cyprian and the Drakocenti.
Then, at last, Gunther and Delwen would be avenged.
“This way, sir knight,” said Moriah, and they jogged down the corridor.
***
Chapter 17: Measures of Blame
Aeliana paused in the tavern door and looked at Gregor.
The tavern’s common room was crowded, with men sitting at long tables of pine planks, drinking and talking in low voices. There was an edge of tension in the air. Rumors flew like smoke around the city. Some men thought Accolon was going to depose the Regency Council and order their arrest and execution, while others claimed that the Regency Council was preparing to assassinate the Crown Prince. There were claims that the Mhorite orcs were about to descend from the north, or that the Red Family had slaughtered the Regency Council and Accolon Pendragon, or that a horde of red-skinned orcs was about to attack from the forest to the east.
That rumor was closer to the truth than they knew.
But Aeliana didn’t care what the sheep of the city thought. They would find out the truth soon enough, and likely the hard way.
Instead, she looked at Gregor and remembered how he had humiliated her in front of the Matriarch and the Red Family.
She felt no fear. Nor did she feel any anger. No, she felt only cold, icy ha
tred like iron in the depths of winter. And growing, eager anticipation. Aeliana had gone to Urd Morlemoch to seek vengeance on Ridmark Arban. The Warden had agreed to help her…and he had shown her his vision, his true plans, his purpose. Now it was Aeliana’s purpose as well. She supposed it had been like a religious conversion, though she was helping to create her own god.
But she still wanted vengeance on the Shield Knight.
And come to think of it, she wanted vengeance on the Red Family as well…and it was at hand.
The common room was crowded, but no one sat by Gregor.
Aeliana crossed the room and sat across from him.
He knew she was coming, of course. One did not survive to middle age as an assassin of the Red Family without constant vigilance. But Gregor gave no sign that he saw her, and only looked up from his wine after a few seconds.
“It’s been three years, Gregor,” said Aeliana. “I’m afraid you’ve aged horribly.”
“Aging horribly,” said Gregor, smiling behind his iron-gray beard, “is better than the alternative. Which I am afraid you are going to experience very soon.”
The dark soulblade whispered in her mind, filling her thoughts with its hunger.
“Really?” said Aeliana. “Is that a threat?”
“Merely an observation,” said Gregor. He took a sip of his wine. “The Matriarch doesn’t forget, and she doesn’t forgive. You know this as well as I do. If you start running right now, you might make it to the Great Northern Gate or the Eastern Gate before she catches you.”
“I’ve been walking around Cintarra for weeks,” said Aeliana, “and none of you have noticed.”
“Are you so sure of that?” said Gregor. He took a longer drink of wine. “You were the one who killed Hadrian Vindon, weren’t you?”
Dragontiarna: Thieves Page 27
