by Claire Luana
“Would your mistress, Sable, be amenable to our cause?” McArt asked. “We’ve been hesitant to approach her. But she may have connections that can help us discover the truth.”
“I… I think so,” Wren said. “I think she can be trusted. But… I can’t be sure.”
“We’ll have to take the risk,” Bruxius said.
“If she’ll come, bring her here tomorrow night at the same time. We’ll share our intelligence openly, and see if we can piece the puzzle together,” Chandler said.
“All right,” Wren said, standing, sensing that she was being dismissed. That was fine by her. She wanted out of this room, to be away from these men. To be able to breathe and think.
“And Wren,” Chandler said. “This time you can come in the front door.”
Chapter 32
Chandler’s men escorted Wren up the long gravel drive and out the front gates. They offered to take her back in a carriage, but she insisted upon walking. Finally, reluctantly, they abandoned her, depositing her on the long tree-lined street.
Wren began walking back towards Guilder’s Row, keeping her steps slow.
A man dropped down in front of her onto the sidewalk from a tree branch. Wren gasped and reared back in surprise, clutching her chest. “Lucas,” she said. “You scared the sugar out of me!”
“Now you know how I felt when I saw you go tumbling headfirst into the hermitage! Gods, Wren, how reckless could you be?”
“I didn’t do it on purpose,” she said, sullen at his reproach.
He let out a deep breath and took her face in his hands. His touch was gentle, reverent. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” she said. “I promise. I’m so glad you stayed out of sight.”
“I felt like the biggest coward east of the Cerulean Sea, just sitting there and watching them hurt you. They could have poisoned you!”
“But they didn’t,” she said, taking his hand in hers and beginning to walk again. “And we learned so much. It’s a blow, realizing that it’s not Chandler, but at least we have new allies in the hunt. We’ll figure it out,” she said with more certainty than she felt.
“Wait, you aren’t telling me that you believe all that business. It’s obviously Chandler! He concocted a great story, sure, even with all the nonsense about Gifts and cures and whatever else he was babbling about. But there’s no way my father would kill a guild head.”
Wren stopped in her tracks, her hand halting Lucas like a tether. “Wait, what? It’s not Chandler,” she said. “That wine they made me drink…” She felt her throat tightening. Curses! She thought him overhearing about Gifts would loosen her tongue. No such luck, apparently.
“I don’t know what they made you drink, except that it made you retch like poison. That doesn’t prove him innocent—that he forced some strange substance down your throat.”
“He drank it too,” she said. “He…” Blooming flaming wine! The words roared within her, on the tip of her tongue. She had to tell him! To make him understand.
“The Gifted…” She doubled over, one hand on her knee, another on her burning throat.
“Wren, you’re not well. Let me get you back to the Guildhall. We’ll figure out a way to put the case together against Chandler.”
“No,” she cried, tears prickling in her eyes from the pain of the wine that sealed the truth in her. “It’s… your father.”
“No?” Lucas said, his hands forming into fists at his sides. “I’m telling you, my father may be obsessed with power and even cruel at times, but he has to be to do his job, to keep the country secure against his challengers. He doesn’t resort to political assassination. If you think otherwise for some mad reason, then tell me why I should believe you right now. Tell me what was going on in there. What all of that meant. Gifts and infusions and wine that makes you wretch. Tell me the truth. Or I can’t help you.”
“Lucas,” she croaked, taking a shuddering breath. Tell him anything! Something! She tried to skirt the truth, to find the edges of the hold the power had on her, words she could say, clues she could give him. But all she could manage is “I… can’t.”
His face hardened. “Then I’m done helping you. Because if you can’t trust me, Wren, how in the Sower’s name can I trust you?”
He whirled on his heel and stalked down the street, leaving her clutching her throat under the dark boughs of an elm tree.
Wren walked back towards the Guild Quarter with only her misery for company. Lucas hated her. His final words—the fury and hurt in his expression—twisted at her gut. She didn’t know what was worse, her panicked realization that she had lost one of her few allies when she needed him the most, or the ache in her heart left by his absence.
What chance did she have against a foe like King Imbris? She had never paid much attention to politics, and now, for not the first time, she wished she had. She knew of his brutal colonization of the Magnish Clans in the South—an entire civilization sacrificed for minerals and glory. She knew that he handpicked boys as young as ten to train for his legendary Black Guard, leaving their families with nothing more than conciliatory words of duty and honor. She had heard that his aggressive trade deals with Tamros had weakened its economy and peace-loving people to the point where Aprica saw it was ripe for the picking. The rumors said there hadn’t been a day since he had been crowned where there wasn’t the head of at least one “enemy” staked by the palace gates. The man was a locust, gobbling up Alesia’s plenty with a ceaseless appetite. As far as she could tell, his only redeeming feature was that he had managed to father children as kind as Lucas and Virgil.
Wren’s rumbling stomach steered her to a restaurant open all night. After sliding into a wooden booth in the back, she ordered a bowl of lamb stew. The stew was greasy and the crust of bread was hard, but she finished it all and ordered another. She was famished.
The lone waitress took pity on Wren, and after clearing her dishes, left her alone to marinate in her dark thoughts. Wren’s body felt heavy and tired, and her eyes scratchy and raw, but she couldn’t go back to the Guild and sink into her heavenly bed. A cell and a date with the inquisitor waited for her there. Somehow, she had found herself homeless on the streets of Maradis once again. She had meant what she’d said to Mistress Violena. It seemed the gods were punishing her.
By the time the sky began to lighten in the east, Wren knew what she had to do. She needed to get into the Guild to talk to Sable, to share what she had learned from Chandler and the others. At this early hour, no one should be up. It was a risk, but she didn’t know what else to do.
Wren circled around the back of the Guildhall, using the servants’ entrance. The hallways were dark and silent, lit only by the watery light coming through the windows. Wren padded up the stone steps, keeping to the shadows as she poked her head around the corner to survey the second floor hallway. It was deserted. She slipped silently to Sable’s door, knocking lightly.
No one answered. She couldn’t risk knocking any louder. Wren tried the knob and found it unlocked. She opened it, peeking her head inside.
“Sable?” she whispered, peering through the dark open doorway into the shadow of the bedroom. The large four-poster bed was just visible through the doorway. She could see Sable’s foot resting on top of the white cotton duvet.
“Sable?” Wren hissed, slipping into the room and silently closing the door behind her. Her mouth had gone dry and her senses were firing with alarm. She tried to dispel the sinking sense of wrongness that crept over her. Sable was sleeping on top of the covers. Nothing unusual about that in the late-August heat.
“Sable!” Wren said, moving to shake the woman awake. She froze, her hand hovering inches from Sable.
Sable was lying on top of the bed, her bare foot and one arm hanging off. Even in the dusky light, Wren could see that the tips of Sable’s extremities were tinged a macabre gray. Her skin was pale, and her eyes were open, staring vacantly at the ceiling.
Sable was dead.
C
hapter 33
Wren flew from the room, her heart thunderous in her chest. She slammed the door shut behind her, sinking back against it once she was safe in the hallway again.
Sable was dead. Dear gods. And from the strange color on her fingers and toes… it didn’t look natural. A servant turned into the hallway at the far end, carrying a tray. Wren lurched into action, turning the other way and striding away. She had to tell someone. But if she was the one who’d discovered the body, they might suspect her. They already thought she had murdered one grandmaster. But she couldn’t just leave poor Sable there to rot… how long would it be before someone discovered her?
Her mind grasped for a solution and latched upon one with a death grip. Hale. He would know what to do. His room was a few doors down the hallway.
She reached his door and pounded on it, trying to hold in the tears that were threatening to spill down her cheeks. “Hale,” she cried, her voice choked. She pounded again.
Hale pulled the door open as she was poised to pound a third time. He was shirtless, his hair disheveled. For once, it had no effect on her. She barreled past him, her hands flapping uselessly, feeling the grip of panic pull her wits from her.
“Wren!” he said, capturing her hands in a firm but gentle grip. “What in the gods’ name is wrong with you? Why aren’t you at Mistress Violena’s?”
“Sable.” The word ripped from Wren’s throat in a keen that sounded half-animal.
He stilled. “What about Sable?”
Wren hitched in a breath, trying to get control of herself. “I went to see… her…” Wren managed. “She was lying there… She’s dead…”
“What?” His grip tightened painfully and a black cloud passed across his face. “Are you certain of this?”
“She was… so pale… I think she was poisoned,” Wren managed.
Hale stood for a moment, his eyes darting about, a man poised on the edge of a cliff. And then he exploded into action. “Stay here!” he bellowed before tearing from the room, the door slamming behind him.
Wren looked around the room helplessly, tears flowing freely, her breath coming in jerking gasps. She finally collapsed into one of his chairs, drawing her knees up to her chest and burying her face in them. She wished she could sink into the ground, wished that the earth would swallow her up so she didn’t have to face the horror of this reality. Kasper had tried to help her, welcome her into the Guild. He had died. Now Sable, her protector—almost her friend—had succumbed to the same fate. The killer had struck again, and Wren had no idea who they were or why they had killed Sable.
“Damn it!” Wren screamed, hurling one of the glasses on the nearby table into the fireplace. She had never felt so impotent, so ignorant. She had thought she was beginning to understand this world, the games they were playing, the puzzle pieces, but she had never had a chance. She would be executed for Kasper’s murder, and Lucas too. She was cursed. Everyone who got close to her died. Her mother. Hugo. Her wretched father. Kasper, Sable. And soon, Lucas. She knew she shouldn’t have let them in, should have kept them at arm’s length. Their names and faces circled in her head, a macabre parade that crowded in, threatening to suffocate her. She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing that the darkness would take her.
Her hysteria had calmed by the time Hale returned. She stood as he closed the door behind him, his chest heaving.
Wren looked at him with misery in her eyes, wondering if she should try to comfort him. “Hale—” she began softly.
“What kind of poison was it?” He looked up, meeting her gaze. His eyes flickered dangerously with barely-restrained malice.
She stepped back involuntarily. “What? I don’t know.”
“Is there an antidote?” he asked, taking a menacing step towards her. She had always seen his size as an integral part of the cheerful package that was Hale, but now his towering height and solid muscle exuded danger. His face—his face was a thunderstorm she had never seen before. Gone was his golden sunlight, in its place… gray wrath and sharp lightning.
“An antidote?” Wren stuttered, taking another step back. “Wait… she isn’t dead?” Hope blossomed in Wren’s chest.
“No, she isn’t dead. But she’s dying. I guess you weren’t as thorough as you were with Kasper.”
His words froze her where she stood. “Hale,” she said. “I had nothing to do with Sable—”
“Then why did they discover a knife with a poisoned blade in your quarters? The servant was removing a tray of dishes and there it was—a dagger where there should be a butter knife! A foreign coloring on the blade!” He advanced on her and she backed away hastily. Her back thunked into the wall.
“That’s crazy! I haven’t even been to my room,” she protested. “Someone must have planted it!”
“Fool me once, Wren,” Hale said, towering above her, “shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. You really expect me to believe that you happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time twice? At some point, coincidences stop being coincidental.”
“Whoever killed Kasper is trying to frame me, just like they did before!” Wren’s mind was whirling. A poisoned knife? In her room? Someone really was trying to frame her!
“How could you, Wren?” Hale’s fist hit the wall next to her head, punctuating the ice of his words. “Sable took you in! Trusted you! You were family!”
She cringed beneath the weight of his anger, closing her eyes. And then she was eight again, back in the little bedroom she and Hugo had shared, cowering in the corner. She could smell the stale sweat on her father’s skin, the liquor on his breath. She could feel the heat of his anger radiating off him as he shouted at her for hiding his booze. She hadn’t hidden his liquor, she’d begged him to believe her, tears and snot streaming down her face. He had just drunk it already and was too drunk to realize it.
Hale’s words pulled her back to the present. “If Sable dies, I will kill you myself. Now tell me what poison you used! Give me the antidote!” His eyes were blazing now, feral. His hand closed around her throat.
Her hands clutched around his thick wrist, trying to lever herself so she could draw in a breath. “If I poisoned her, why did I come here? Why didn’t I run?” Wren croaked, struggling to stay in the present, to keep herself from shutting down completely. “Think!”
His grip loosened slightly as he seemed to consider this.
A mad idea sprang to her mind, which was quickly darkening due to loss of oxygen. “Guildmaster Pike,” she said. “He said he would give me aid. He knows… poisons. Antidote…”
Hale released her and she curled into herself, clutching her neck, pulling in a ragged breath.
“He never gets involved,” Hale said.
“For Sable,” she wheezed, “he will. He said I could seek him if I needed aid.” She prayed it was true. It had been a gallant comment at a fancy ball. Had the man meant it? But he did seem fond of Sable. It would have to be enough. He had to help them. He had to save her.
“We go now,” Hale said, wrenching her arm and hauling her to her feet. He spun her to meet him until their noses were inches from each other. “You better hope you can convince Pike to give you an antidote,” he growled, “or Sable’s fate will seem kind compared to yours.”
Hale dragged Wren through the servants’ hallways out the back of the guildhall. His grip on her wrist was tight and chaffing, and she tried to keep up with his long strides. The manhandling didn’t wound her nearly as much as the thought that Hale was lost to her. That he now saw her as an enemy. He had grown on her until his friendship had become a light in the storm, a constant to count on. Its absence left her situation feeling all the darker.
The Spicer’s Guildhall was nestled in the heart of the Port Quarter, rather than on Guilder’s Row. Just another way the Spicer’s Guild held their guild apart, adding to their air of mystery.
The ambulance carriage for Maradis Hospital had just come to a clattering stop in front of the hall as they scuttled around the corner. Three i
nspectors galloped to a stop behind it, vaulting off their horses and running inside.
“They can arrest you later,” Hale spit. “After we save Sable.”
He pinned her against the side of the Guildhall with an outstretched arm while he considered. “I’m taking a horse,” he said. “Wait here.” He turned, leveling the full force of his baleful gaze on her. “Don’t test me.”
She shrank against the wall. “I’ll wait.”
Hale stood and sauntered down the stairs, grabbing the reins of one of the inspectors’ horses that was milling about. He swung into the saddle with an easy grace and motioned her to follow.
She looked about and darted down the stairs, praying that no one happened to look out the front doors. She scurried around the far side of the horse and Hale leaned down, hauling her up painfully by her armpit into the saddle behind him.
He kicked the horse into a gallop before she got her seat and she grabbed his waist to keep from falling off. The horse’s hooves clattered on the stones, sending pedestrians dodging out of the way.
In a matter of minutes they came to a screeching stop in front of the slate gray monolith of the Spicer’s Guildhall. The building loomed above them, its walls colored dark from the rain of a hundred seasons.
Wren leaped down from the horse before Hale could throw her off, stumbling unsteadily after the mad dash of the ride.
Two guards pulled the door open before them, one blanching at the furious expression on Hale’s face.
The Spicer’s Guildhall couldn’t have been more different from the white marble and chocolate brown carpets of the Confectioner’s hall. Wren saw it all through a daze of shock and pain and fear. The inside of the Guildhall was dark and moody, red light emanating from elaborately-filigreed lanterns. Tapestries depicting swirling scenes of naval battles and sea monsters adorned the walls.
A guild member met them at the back of the antechamber, a bearded man with a thin silver hoop in one ear. “What business do you have here?” he asked, standing in their path.
