by Ashley Capes
Notch blinked. Such competitive fear... “You said, ‘here’ – is it different elsewhere in the city?”
Alosus shook his head.
The Inquisitor paused. “Gentlemen, please. I cannot have you murmuring away with those clipped words of yours.”
Notch looked to Alosus, who nodded once more. He took a breath; he had to try using the old tongue with strangers sooner or later. “I was remarking upon the impressive efficiency of the docks here,” he said slowly, hoping he’d been clear enough with the inflection. The old tongue was much more rigid than Anaskari.
The man took a moment before comprehension dawned. “Ah. It is so, yes.”
They continued on, approaching a sprawling building set beneath the walls. This close, Notch was able to make out patterns in the city-walls. The pearlescent coating seemed to be opal and it was arranged in sweeping waves, building to a crescendo near the still distant gates.
However, the building the Inquisitor led them to was not so grand, though the pale stone was by no means smeared with generations of smoke from torches either. In fact, it was the cleanest stone Notch had ever seen in a city. No torch rings or alcoves for lamps – instead, a crystal rested atop a tall pole. Was that the light source?
Their guide – or captor, perhaps – led them within. He was not challenged by the officious-looking men and women arranged at various desks before lines of people – merchants by the look – but instead the man in purple had them in a small room with a single desk and chair quite quickly.
A skeleton-hand sat on the desk, palm facing up. Its bones were yellowed with age, not unlike a Greatmask.
“You first, Alosus.”
Alosus placed his hand on the skeleton. The fingers moved, and Notch drew in a breath. The skeletal hand gripped as best it could, considering the difference in size, but Alosus showed no pain or alarm. “It is to read my past,” he said. “To help prove that I am who I claim to be.”
The Inquisitor was humming to himself – holding a bone charm in one hand. When he stopped, he looked to Alosus, expression unreadable. “Reported as royal property ‘misappropriated by Vinezi Mare’. Very curious.”
Alosus offered no answer.
The fellow continued to tap and toy with the charm. A thoughtful expression crossed his features, but he did not speak to Alosus again, only glancing appraisingly at the Tonitora. Alosus appeared to be waiting for more, as if the man would speak further, yet the fellow instead turned to Notch.
“Now you, new-world man.”
What would it reveal? Notch placed his hand on the skeleton, standing close enough so his sleeve did not ride up and reveal the bracers. With the prominent lion of the palace, it didn’t seem wise to reveal any possible link between bracers and royalty. Skeletal fingers gripped him, and he swallowed – not at the force, but at the strange, internal tapping sensation that followed. Almost as if someone was gently tapping against each and every bone in his body with a small hammer – one bone at a time.
When the grip eased, he drew his hand back quickly.
The Inquisitor sat. “Difficult to read. Warriors in your line – perhaps mountain folk. And yes, impressive feats in significant battles. War-Hero indeed... and something else, Captain Medoro. Something I cannot quite fathom.”
Notch did not answer either – if the man was speaking of the bracers, Notch wasn’t going to volunteer anything.
The Inquisitor waved a gloved hand. “No matter. For now, you will be shown to some admittedly rough accommodation and tomorrow it’s off to the palace and then you are someone else’s concern.”
Two blue cloaks appeared, and Notch sighed. They had an unmistakably humourless air about them – jailors. “Imprisoned again, I see,” he said.
“Not for long, Notch,” Alosus replied as he started after the lead Ecsoli.
“I hope you’re right about that, but who’s to say the palace won’t be worse?”
He chuckled. “In many ways it is but we have passed the first two hurdles more swiftly and simply than I’d hoped.”
“I take it you aren’t going to be reported to the palace as ‘stolen property’ then?”
“It is already done – but I am hoping that my role as your guide will afford me some time before being reassigned.”
“Can you be sure?”
“That they will eventually come for me? Very sure. The question is when, and it may not be all bad news even if it happens soon.”
“How?”
“Sometimes it is good for the mouse to keep company of the bear.”
“I see,” Notch said. “A dangerous game, but at least we’ll be approaching them from a position of strength and not as prisoners in all but name.”
“Trust me, Notch. I will find a way.”
19. Seto
Seto slid a glass of fire-lemon across the polished table. “You’re looking old all of a sudden, Danillo. You need to rest.”
Sofia’s father smiled, raising a hand to the additional grey at his temples. The afternoon sun streamed through the window, setting the liquor afire. Danillo leant back in the armchair to move his face from the glare. “And I see you’ve forgotten the saying about the pot calling the kettle black.”
“Perhaps. But perhaps, when you get right down to it, that is precisely why I wanted to see you right away,” Seto said. He met the man’s eyes. “We both know I will have no successor of my own.”
Danillo lowered the glass. “If you are asking what I think you are, I refuse.”
“I’ve missed your tact.”
“I mean what I say. You must find someone else. I am not the man for the job.”
“Then who is?” Seto said, leaning forward. “Despite the toll of your grief, you are younger than I. You are the only one who can use Argeon – truly, who better?”
Danillo said nothing.
Seto pressed on. “Would you have me approach the ruins of Casa Cavallo? The dullard who heads Tartaruga? Or perhaps the untried boy of Stallion House? You must admit, Danillo, you are the logical choice.”
“That I accept,” he said. “But it is a burden I do not seek. I have enough responsibility rebuilding the Mascare, helping forge your peace.”
Seto nodded; he’d expected no less. But the world was oft a bitter place, and there were few chances to choose the quieter path. “And I hate to pile more weight upon your shoulders, even though, admittedly, I am not dead just yet. Nor planning to die.”
Danillo drank. “Good.”
Seto hesitated a long moment. “You leave me little choice, but understand it offers me no pleasure in saying this; I wish I did not have to suggest it at all—”
“Then let me stop you. No.” Danillo’s voice was firm.
“The state of the Kingdom does not afford either of us any luxury. You know that. If you will not take the mantle when I am gone, you must be Custodian until your issue takes the throne.”
The Lord Protector stood. “I have no issue.”
Seto pushed himself out of his own chair. “That I know.”
Danillo shook his head, eyes dark with repressed fury and pain. “I will not do that to another woman, simply for the sake of keeping a noble line on the throne. We are not animals fit to rut whenever it takes our fancy.”
Had he pushed his old friend too far? It was unkind of course, but necessary. Seto kept his voice soft. “It is not about a noble line. It is about stability, Danillo. I cannot have my city fall into ruin again.”
His old friend exhaled heavily. “This is not the answer.”
“Then I require you to help me find another.”
“Fine.” Danillo sat again. “But not today.”
“Very well,” Seto replied. “What of the Bloodwood and the Oyn-Dir?”
“The Amber Groves are coming under control and the Sap-Born do seem scattered. Three more breeding camps have been uncovered and liberated but they found few like Catrin.”
“And that troubles you?”
“Perhaps more assassins like
her exist and are en route to Anaskar now. Or have been since last winter. Or earlier, perhaps several are already in the city and have been for months?”
“We are watching.”
“Of course,” Danillo said. “That I am aware of. The Oyn-Dir has people searching out rumours of seemingly resurrected Ulag Clan. I personally examined a corpse myself and it was certainly old enough... yet the woman who saw it move, at least the one I spoke to, was not convincing.”
Seto frowned. More strange occurrences? “You think she was lying?”
“No. Only that she had little compelling evidence – something about it made me think she was being duped into believing the Ulag were returning. There was a bone altar involved and it seemed quite sophisticated, I fear an Ecsoli influence.”
“Something similar may be occurring here,” Seto said, outlining the Ecsoli sightings. “Is it simply an unhappy coincidence, I wonder?”
“You suspect something larger afoot?” He sighed. “We haven’t even had a season of respite after the greatest threat to the world in centuries and you’re already looking for another dark motive behind the two events?”
“Well, let me say that I would not be surprised if it were so.”
Danillo took another, longer drink. “Sadly, nor would I. It has been a bleak year. In any event, Nia will keep us appraised – about the altar too, which I mean to disassemble soon. Your other concerns, are they going well enough?”
A rapping on his door echoed.
“A message, Your Majesty. It is most urgent.” It was a page, and the lad’s voice seemed to have climbed a register or two. Probably afraid to interrupt – Seto almost let a flash of guilt come to the fore; he’d been quite terse with the last servant who’d interrupted for something rather trivial.
“A moment.” Seto crossed the heavy rug and reached the door.
Outside, a page in orange and grey waited between two Shield, a sealed letter in hand. The wax seal was a vibrant green – most unusual, and the seal was a pair of wings. Not of any House he recognised. Seto accepted it and sent the lad away, returning to Danillo, where he opened the letter. Seto handed the seal over. “Do you recognise this?”
“No-one uses wings like that,” he said. “And the wax is... gaudy, isn’t it?”
Seto lost the flow of Danillo’s words.
The letter was a reply from the Son of the Crown of the southernmost lands, Jin-Dakiv. At the top of the letter, a dark pair of wings spread wide, wingtips pale.
“Seto?”
He gestured Danillo come nearer. “Read this; it’s from Jin-Dakiv. I did not think they would even reply to our missive.”
King Oseto,
We would welcome a closer relationship between our two nations, certainly. I am comfortable speaking on behalf of my mother the Queen, when I say she appreciates your overtures. Please consider sending a deshi to further open discussion and perhaps even, if the Nine Gods will it, a state visit. Many are the wonders of Jin-Dakiv and I am personally most keen to see the famous city by the sea and its dread Greatmasks.
If this is agreeable, please send any such envoy to the Crystal Gorge, three days south of Mattehus. A guide will await you on the caravan trail in anticipation of your arrival.
Shinsal
Son of the Crown
Seto placed the letter on the table. “A warm, if eager response.”
“Too eager?”
“I cannot say. Can you? Have you travelled so far?”
Danillo shook his head. “No, not to the Crystal Gorge, though I have heard it mentioned by merchants given the required pass to travel so deep. All of the trade I witnessed happened within sight of the border.”
“The merchants I spoke to and who agreed to take the letters were rather reticent to say the least, about what they had seen. One of the conditions of their access, so I did not push them. But one did pass on a rumour. Nothing he had seen with his own eyes, of course.”
“And so such rumours multiply and distort to something far beyond their former selves.”
“Of course. But even a kernel of truth must lie somewhere within. This one spoke of a mythical bone cradle, hidden deep in the ruins of Jin-Dakiv’s Sand Temples.”
Danillo raised an eyebrow. “A cradle made from bone?”
“Said to be the one used to soothe the first child of the Nine Gods, their hero; I cannot recall her name.”
“A slim chance.”
“Yes,” Seto said as he sat. He spun the letter in a slow circle with one finger. “But the expansion of trade and allies is not a poor consolation.”
“Who would you send?”
“I do not know. I feel we are spread thinner and thinner... I might have once sent Notch; he has worked on a caravan to Jin-Dakiv before.”
“Hmmm.” Danillo made no mention of Notch’s foolhardy quest. In fact, he had barely spoken a word about the loss of his daughter either. Seto assumed the man had searched the Greatmask for her and found nothing. “I could recall Emilio?”
“From Hol City? I do not know if we ought to wait so long. Especially as his last letter suggested some progress in his own search.”
Danillo nodded. “I may have someone else.”
“A new recruit of your own?”
“More of an old recruit whose talents had been long overlooked. Though ‘old’ is misleading – he is in his prime.”
“Good. Send him to me when you are ready, and make sure he’s prepared for a long journey.”
20. Flir
Flir sat across from Aren in the rear of Grav’s Ocean Wave, the chatter of cultists and possibly even regular customers blending with the soft flute. The musician had returned and was playing a song about two lovers fleeing into the night. The small table was a little crowded with Kanis beside her and the wreckages of their meals before them. Aren had four helpings of deer and chicken, his appetite finally sated.
“Thank you again for upholding your end of our arrangement,” he said. “I’m sure Tikev will feel the same when he awakens.”
“If he awakens,” Kanis said, his expression not so friendly.
“He will. It is his first time; it always takes longer the first time.”
“And we must thank you,” Flir told the man. “But I hope you understand, we have questions.”
“Of course. That is my role as Surrogate.”
“Who taught you to Bequeath? It is not common lore,” Kanis said.
He nodded. “Certainly not. Mishalar’s Surrogates have long protected such knowledge; I was not aware of it until several years past now. It was contained in the writings of Hevlad – I trust you have heard of them?”
“The Snow Cleric?” Flir asked. She folded her arms. “Surely only children believe in him and his writings.” Perhaps such knowledge would have survived the centuries, but she’d always been taught that a greed-stricken group of ancient dilars had been burned alive along with the actual writings.
Aren did not bristle at her tone. “I have copied from what survived, high in the spires of the ruined outpost. He was indeed a real figure. Whether he could heal others as completely as claimed I do not know, but surely you must believe in some mystery to healing, given your own gifts.”
“And you carry such writings with you now?”
“No. They reside in our monastery in Tiramof.”
Tiramof, a modest town west of the capital. It was one of several holdings that supplied Enar with its produce but hardly a hotbed for cult activity when she’d left. Yet a lot had obviously changed since then; that was the price she paid for her absence. “Tiramof is not on our route,” she said.
“I would not presume to direct your paths, dilar.”
“But you nonetheless have a request, don’t you?” Kanis said.
Aren did not bat an eyelid. “If you imply that I risked my life to save you in order to make you feel indebted to me, I assure you it is not true. It was both my duty and honour – any here will tell you the same.” He paused. “But I will request your ai
d in something and I do so with no expectation.”
“Such as?”
Aren waved to get attention from the serving girl before continuing. “Something is afoot here in Renovar. The Conclave does not see it; they are too busy squabbling over their petty reforms. I fear some... force is building its power here.”
“How so?” Flir asked.
“East of Whiteport, at the point of land where the First Lighthouse still stands, there have been reports of thefts, disappearances – most of them Ice-Priests.”
Flir glanced at Kanis, whose expression had become troubled, though the fool was trying to hide it. “People are killing priests?” It didn’t make sense. No-one else could hold back the creeping ice.
“Yes. Or so we fear. A trail was found outside the village of Ithinov but we have not been able to penetrate the tunnels in the hills.”
“And you want us to break in,” Kanis said.
“We have tried, dilar. Believe me, we have tried. Even acor – yet nothing will open the path.”
Kanis scratched at his cheek where pale stubble was coming in heavier than usual, but did not offer a response – which was odd. He was usually the first to give an opinion, asked for or not.
Something was amiss.
“Our task is pressing,” Flir said. But she could not simply close the door on what might be a serious problem with the Ice-Priests, especially with such a lingering winter. And more, how could she turn away from more answers about herself? “When we complete it, we will seek you here.”
Aren inclined his head. “Seek us to the east, in Ithinov.”
“No promises, Aren,” Kanis said as he stood. He turned to Flir. “I’m going to get some supplies. Wake Pevin and meet me on the Northern Corridor.”
Flir waved him off as she stood. Aren again offered no response to Kanis’ antagonistic behaviour. An impressive calm really. “You’re taking his lack of gratitude quite well.”
“He is dilar.”
“And that makes you undeserving of gratitude?”
