by Barb Hendee
"Chlâyard… do not!" il'Sänke whispered.
For an instant Wynn was lost by that one word, though she knew what it meant—the high tower.
It had been so long since she'd heard anyone utter the domin's name in Dwarvish, and her gaze flickered between High-Tower and il'Sänke. What was happening between these two?
"What's in those texts?" Rodian shouted, and his voice echoed about the still hall. "Why do you throw away more lives in your denial and ignorance… and deceit?"
High-Tower's face flushed within his red beard and hair.
"Captain!"
Wynn turned at the sharp female voice. Duchess Reine and three of the Weardas stood in the main archway.
"I heard—and came straightaway," she said more softly.
She wasn't dressed in her split gown this time. Beneath the sea green cloak of the royal family she wore a leather vest over a stark cotton shirt, and leather breeches tucked into high riding boots. She looked far more like one of her own, the horse people of Faunier, than a member of the reskynna family. Her gaze drifted to settle upon Nikolas's frail form.
How had she learned of this tragedy so quickly?
Rodian's jaw tightened, and he looked baffled by the sight of the duchess.
"Highness," he said, with only a curt half bow. "How…?"
Wynn sensed a battle of wills about to smother all else.
"We must get Nikolas to the ward," she urged. "There's no time to waste"
High-Tower's hands were tightened into fists the size of sledgehammers, but he seemed to hear the sense in her words. He quickly dispersed the cluster of apprentices and initiates.
"Get the boy proper help!" Rodian spit. "Then you and I will talk."
High-Tower glared back and took a step around the table's end. Il'Sänke pressed a restraining hand to the dwarf's shoulder, but it didn't slow him. Il'Sänke ended up stumbling aside. In that instant Wynn feared for Rodian's safety.
"Captain," Duchess Reine repeated, and she stepped between the two. "These people have suffered again. Any necessary discussion will wait."
High-Tower held his place with deep, slow breaths and finally turned aside.
"Apologies, my lady," Rodian answered coldly. "But it is a tragedy of their own making… and it's time I was given a free hand."
"The king might feel differently," she said softly.
Rodian's angry expression wavered. "Pardon, but feelings have nothing to do with the law."
"The king is offering his assistance," the duchess went on. "A royally appointed physician has returned from a journey south. A Suman, one who knows toxins. The king has asked him to visit the barracks tomorrow to… examine bodies and provide any information he can for your investigation. For now, leave the sages be."
Rodian breathed in twice and shook his head, and Domin il'Sänke watched him carefully.
Wynn didn't know what to think. Clearly the royals wanted these ugly murders stopped, yet again they shielded the guild from the captain of the city guard.
She should've been relieved—and part of her was. People like Rodian wouldn't understand the breadth and importance of the project. But if he were kept from delving deeper into these horrid events, he might never uncover what she already believed. The killer was unnatural, and sages would keep dying and pages would keep disappearing, unless someone pulled the truth from denial.
The apprentice il'Sänke had sent off came running back with two others dressed in brown robes. They settled a stretcher on the bench beside the table. Premin Adlam entered on their heels. All activity in the room focused on getting Nikolas to the hospice for proper attention.
Nikolas never even moved as High-Tower and Adlam lowered him onto the stretcher and the apprentices rushed him off. But there was nothing to be done for Miriam or Dâgmund.
"As you wish, Highness," Rodian said. Without even a nod to her, he backed toward the hall's main exit.
"Expect the royal physician tomorrow," Duchess Reine told him.
The captain turned and left without another word.
After polite farewells, the duchess and her bodyguards followed. Wynn stood uncom Knn divfortably with silent High-Tower and il'Sänke. She wasn't certain whether fear, anxiety, or denial was thickest in the hall.
"I must report to Premin Sykion," High-Tower muttered.
"May I go to Nikolas?" Wynn asked.
"No!" he growled. "Premin Adlam doesn't need you. Return to your room."
Stung, almost hating him, Wynn stalked out and down the passage to the front doors.
Two more of their own were dead! A third barely clung to life, struck down by something no one would admit was real. And she was sick of being treated like some addle-brained mental invalid who should be shut away.
She nearly ran across the courtyard and up to her room, slamming the door behind herself. Sinking onto her bed, she felt her anger drain away, but despair rose in its wake.
She tried not to imagine what had happened to Miriam and Dâgmund, and what it meant when Rodian said only one had died like Elias and Jeremy. Why hadn't the captain sent his guards to protect them? Or had he, and they arrived too late? Had they seen anything to shed light on the murders and who—what—kept after the folios?
Wynn sat there, sinking in hopelessness for so long that her cold lamp's crystal nearly winked out.
A soft knock came at her door, but she had no wish to see anyone, except perhaps the captain.
"Who is it?" she called weakly.
"Open up," il'Sänke answered.
Wynn remained where she sat, uncertain whether she even wanted to see the one person who believed any of her "wild tales." She finally rose to let him in.
Domin il'Sänke pushed her back as he entered and turned to close the door. He held something long in his hand, nearly as tall as himself, but it was hidden beneath loose wraps of dull burlap. He glanced toward the dwindling cold lamp on her table.
"Fix that," he said with a curt gesture.
Wynn was staring at the strange long bundle, but she couldn't bring herself to ask about it yet. Hope was something she'd grown wary of, but she went to the table-desk and rubbed the lamp's crystal back to life. As light filled the room, she found il'Sänke standing by her bed, gazing down at the unwrapped item laid there.
Amid the folds of opened cloth lay a polished oak staff. One end was sheathed in a long, loose leather sleeve, held closed around the wood by a drawstring.
"Such an item takes time," il'Sänke said. "And cost, in trial and error as much as resources… more for as much as I hurried."
Moons had passed since Wynn had first gone to the domin. To her, that hardly seemed like a hurry. But she now understood what was beneath that leather sheath.
"Finished?" she breathed. "Finally finished?"
"Finished?" He snorted. "Perhaps… but there is no more time to test it further."
Wynn swallowed hard. "I'm not complaining, just—"
"Come here," he commanded.
He reached down and gripped the staff's tawny shaft, lifting it. Turning it over, he let it slide through his soft grip until its butt thumped upon the floor. And finally he pulled the sheath off its top end.
Mute glimmers exploded around the room as light struck the sun crystal. Its prisms played multicolored wisps upon the walls. Wynn was so mesmerized, she barely heard the domin's warning.
"Do not judge High-Tower," he said harshly. "He is stricken by Miriam's death… as I am by Dâgmund's."
Wynn's gaze shifted to his face, seeing cold anger beneath suppressed grief. She'd had no idea that Dâgmund had any close association to the visiting domin. But her eyes quickly returned to the crystal.
"This will take time and practice to use," he said. "And you will treat this object with great care, as a replacement might not even be possible. Are you prepared for a first lesson?"
Wynn was suddenly hesitant, especially when he looked down at her.
Domin il'Sänke's dark brown eyes held none of their habitual
sly humor. They were hard and frightening. But she reached out and grasped the polished staff.
"Yes… I've been ready all along."
Chapter 9
The following afternoon, Rodian barely listened as Garrogh went over the latest barracks issues to address among their own contingent. "And some of the men are complaining about the new cook," Garrogh went on. "Lúcan says she drinks. Should I look into it or just have her replaced?"
Rodian glanced up from his desk. After a nearly sleepless night, he hadn't heard most of what Garrogh was saying. He'd spent the day trying to occupy himself while waiting for the appointed royal physician to determine Miriam's official cause of death.
As for the other dead sage found in the alley, a journeyor named Dâgmund, the cause was obvious—head trauma. The young man was barely recognizable, his face caved in by a hunk of brick wall.
Rodian hoped this Suman physician might tell him something of use, at least more than the city ward's healer had concerning Jeremy and Elias. He still remembered the instant that tall black figure had broken a brick wall with only its cloth-wrapped hand. Who—or what—had killed those young sages? And he couldn't stop thinking about the last of the trio, the one named Nikolas Columsarn.
Any living witness was worth more than the word of a dozen Suman physicians, royally appointed or not. But it was too soon to know whether Nikolas would recover enough to answer questions.
"Should we stop for today?" No aGarrogh asked, dropping the stack of reports on the desk.
Rodian looked up. Two whitish stains stood out on the lieutenant's tunic from last night's seafood stew. He was suddenly disgusted with his second—with the entire lot of sages—but most of all, with the interference of Duchess Reine.
Garrogh must've mistaken his expression for frustration and leaned forward. "They say this Suman knows more about poisons than anyone."
Rodian glared at him. "And who are 'they'?"
His second in command shrugged, clearly having achieved the wrong effect. "A couple of the royal guards… just what I've heard."
"You've been talking to the Weardas?"
"A few asked about our progress," Garrogh said. "I wouldn't make much of it. With sages being murdered in alleys, the whole city is starting to talk."
Rodian sighed. Rumors were like a disease upon wisdom. And he would look like a fool for his failure. But if this physician was indeed an expert on toxins, why was he employed by the royal family? The reskynna had little to fear of being poisoned. They were beloved by all, with a few exceptions in their ancestry. Perhaps this foreigner had other skills they valued, like that strange and silent elf the duchess kept in her company.
A knock came at the door, and both Rodian and Garrogh sat upright, exchanging expectant glances.
"Come," Rodian called.
Guardsman Lúcan stuck his head in the door. "Captain, are you free? That Suman physician is asking for you."
Rodian ducked around his desk before Garrogh made it off his stool.
"Get a journal," he told his second, "and take notes."
He didn't wish to be distracted by doing so himself. An instant later they were out the door and hurrying down the twisting passageways toward the kitchens. The bodies had been temporarily stored in the cold cellar.
Rodian walked as quickly as he could without appearing anxious, slowing only as he passed through the large kitchens to the scullery beyond. Pulling open the heavy door to the cellar, he was down the stairs, boots clomping on the stone floor, before Garrogh even closed the upper entrance.
The physician stood with his back turned, leaning over a short chopping-block table.
Rodian had met him earlier that morning, but they'd exchanged few words. The man was slender, with dusky skin, dark hair, and a neatly trimmed goatee. He wore clean muslin robes of a sandy color, and a cloth wrap was held about his head by a twined braid of amber cord. He didn't look old enough to be an expert on anything.
Miriam's pallid body was laid out naked upon the chopping-block table, like some unskinned side of pork.
All Rodian could see around the physician's bulky robe were her head and shoulders and her thick calves and feet. Her eyes had been closed, but this did nothing to soften her twisted features locked in horror. Shots of ashen gray ran through the natural brown of her hair.
And then Rodian noticed a bloodied curved knife. It lay near where the Suman leaned a hand upon the table. But Rodian was too eager for answers to give it immediate thought.
"Well?" he demanded without a greeting, for he was tired of remaining polite.
The physician turned, exposing a clear view of the table, and Rodian's mouth went dry.
The girl's torso was split open from her throat to her privates. The skin across her chest and abdomen had been peeled back, exposing internal organs and ribs.
Behind Rodian, Garrogh whispered something under his breath.
"What have you done?" Rodian began, and then he went mute.
The Suman frowned, openly perplexed by his visitors' reactions. "I was told to make a thorough examination."
Rodian found his voice. "Yes, examination… not mutilation!"
This young girl had died horribly. She'd been violated enough in that alley. And now he'd unwittingly authorized this butchery.
"Without an internal assessment," the physician said coldly, "I cannot provide any dependable conclusions."
Rodian took three weak breaths, trying to regain his calm.
He was dealing with a Suman—like il'Sänke—who saw no connection between the body and the sentient spirit. Humans of all races, and dwarves and elves, were the highest of living beings in the eyes of Toiler, Maker, and Dreamer. Even the body—the vessel—was sacred. This Suman could never begin to comprehend such truth.
Rodian would have to go to temple and pray for this mistake of oversight.
"What have you learned?" he demanded. "How did she die?"
The physician wiped the girl's gore from his hands with dampened burlap. He stepped to the table's head, scowling down at Miriam's tormented face. About to speak, he stopped and leaned lower, as if inspecting some overlooked detail. Then he shook his head and began again in his thick accent.
"Upon initial examination, I felt certain the cause was poison. You must have noted the grayed flesh and lack of injury?"
Rodian didn't respond. He could only stare at Miriam's split flesh.
"I searched for methods of introduction," the Suman went on, "hoping to lift traces of any substance used. There are quick-acting compounds that can be introduced by breath, contact with the skin, or even through orifices other than the mouth."
"You found something?" Rodian asked, his anxiety building. "You must have."
Some gain had to be achieved for this atrocity.
"No," the physician answered.
Rodian forced his eyes to follow as the man pointed inside the girl's opened torso.
"Her lungs are whole and healthy," the Suman continued, "as is the lining of her throat. There are no signs of chemical or particulate damage to her internal organs. I found nothing in the nostrils or ears or anywhere upon her skin. Anything introduced to the eyes might have thinned in tears but would also have left traces for such a quick death."
The physician shook his head, huffing through his long beak of a nose, and his frown deepened.
"Then what?" Garrogh demanded, the journal and a shaft of writing charcoal in his hand.
"I do not know what killed her and caused such discoloration and discomfort. She simply died suddenly."
Rodian felt his throat closing up.
The girl had been mutilated for nothing, and the sound of Garrogh scribbling notes didn't resume. Rodian whirled for the stairs, hurrying to get out of this cold, dim space.
"Sir," Garrogh called. "Where are you going?"
"The guild. Please see our guest back to the royal grounds."
He nearly ran up the stairs, out through the scullery and kitchen, not caring if the staff s
aw his state. He didn't slow until he reached the courtyard and the stables along the south wall. Breathing fresh air as fast and deep as he could, he strode past the stable warden and saddled Snowbird himself. He patted her when she tried to nuzzle him, but then quickly swung up on her back.
Rodian tried to wipe the image of the cold cellar from his thoughts as he urged Snowbird into a canter down the second castle's gatehouse tunnel. He couldn't get the sight of Miriam out of his head, but he felt equally tangled in the strands of some web. It held him in place, forcing him to do little but watch, like a bound and useless spectator.
How could Duchess Reine, or the rest of the royal family, send him that Suman butcher?
The Numan Lands had seen no war in Rodian's lifetime, but he had seen battle in his younger days. One tour of duty had placed him near, and even beyond, Malourné's far eastern border. Even farther out were the Broken Lands—wild terrain with little to no civilization, stretching nearly to the eastern coast. Sometimes straggling bands of hulkish little beasts on two legs wandered into the farthest farmlands and forest communities.
He had seen soldiers bashed and torn apart, for those things ate nearly anything digestible. Hence their name—goblins… the little "gobblers."
They weren't so little. Ranging up to two-thirds the height of man, they hunted in packs, like wild dogs, and could tear apart a man, hauling his pieces away for their food.
But it wasn't the same as that girl cut open in the cold cellar.
He'd never thought how different these southlanders, the Sumans, were from his people. How could anyone in Calm Seatt expect such foreigners to exhibit decent moral reasoning, let alone ethical behavior?
Rodian tried to call up an image of the Trinity set in white stone upon the temple's dais.
"Forgive me," he kept whispering, "for my ignorance and failing of foresight."
As Snowbird's hooves clopped on cobblestone, Rodian was barely aware enough to steer her course. He tried to clear his thoughts with what few facts he possessed.
The killer knew about the sages' project and could read their symbols. The translation had been ongoing for perhaps half a year. The killer had waited, seeming to know—or guess—which folios to go after.
