by A. C. Ellas
“All night, Araken.” Jethain’s nod was respectful.
Rak nodded back. He understood. His brother was a horseman to the bone. He slipped back into the healing trance, called his power, laid his hands on the horse and began the simple chant to direct the power into the horse.
* * * *
Inspector Knellyth took Jisten’s statement. The presence of the Watch brought others out, some of whom also thought they’d seen the high priest. The sun priests were called for to remove the flies, but the witnesses, including Jisten, were taken in escort to the Hall of Justice.
As they rode, Knellyth told him, “Last time, we failed to have the witnesses mind-scanned by the Justicers. This time, we want to make sure that what you saw is fully documented and unassailable as evidence.”
“It was an understandable oversight,” Jisten said diplomatically. Of course, if they’d done their proper duty last time, perhaps there would have been no need to do so tonight. By the time the witnesses had been found again, their memories had degraded to uselessness as far as using them for evidence was concerned. The situation was complicated immensely because the Justicers could not read S’Rak’s memories at all, the Lord of Night prevented it.
The two Justicers on duty were not known to Jisten, for he had never come here during late watch before. They were professional, however. They scanned his memories quickly then used magic to render a precise likeness of the man Jisten had seen on a good-sized piece of bleached parchment. Jisten studied the picture. It was identical to the man he’d seen. Again, he noticed the wings.
“The wings don’t look right,” he said slowly. “I mean, that is what I saw, but they don’t look like S’Rak’s wings.”
“How do they differ?” asked the priest of Dykaea, also studying the image.
“I’m... not sure.” Jisten shrugged helplessly.
“We can compare the image to the real thing easily enough,” dismissed the priest of Alethian. “Let’s finish the other witnesses.”
The rest of those who’d seen the high priest were scanned and similar images created. Jisten noticed something curious. No two of the images were the same. Tiny details differed. The length of hair, the placement of the diamonds upon the wings, even the coloration of the wings. Jisten drew in a deep breath. “That’s it. The wings are too pale. S’Rak had wing fungus over the summer, the colors of his wings darkened as a result. This is what his wings looked like last spring before the fungus. But—all these images are different.”
“That’s normal,” the priest of Alethian assured him. “Every mind fills in small details to complete an image, and they all do so differently. That’s why we scanned everyone. From this, we can create a composite that is accurate enough for our purposes.”
“There is more variation than usual,” admitted the priest of Dykaea, who then shrugged. “Not enough to matter, though. This is S’Rak. Perhaps the inadequate lighting accounts for the difference in color.”
Jisten wasn’t convinced. “I think you’ll need to see S’Rak’s wings in person in order to be sure.”
Chapter Ten: Aftermath
Firday, the 12th of Thamon
Rak felt his power falter mid-chant. Exhaustion caused the edges of his vision to darken. He was almost done healing this horse, so he ignored the warning signs. He dug deep for every erg of strength left to him, pouring it into the horse as he wondered why it was suddenly so much harder.
Light lanced through him, the cresting rim of the sun telling him that night was done. “Day is come,” he whispered. He looked to the stables, expecting to see a line of stable boys bringing more horses, but there was no sign of movement. “Is it done?”
Ioli nodded. Rak grunted and heaved himself to his feet. It took more effort than he’d expected. Ioli’s strong hands caught him as his knees buckled, held him steady until he convinced the stubborn appendages to cooperate. He staggered a few steps then flinched away from the painful light as he emerged from the shade of the willow, which had shielded the bench from direct light. He closed his watering eyes as he fumbled up the hood of his cloak. Once he had shade from the golden glare, he opened his eyes to slits, just enough to navigate by. “I am so tired,” he commented, “that I would not be opposed to sleeping right here in this nice soft sand.”
“There are empty stalls in the stable,” teased Ioli’s fingers, “that are closer than your bed.”
Rak thought about this for only a moment. He nodded and turned his steps toward the stable. “It will be quieter there. And there are no guards there to trouble me.” He went to barn twelve, empty but for some spare avtappi who would serve as guardians while he slept. He spread a few blankets over the fragrant straw, laid down, and fell asleep within moments.
* * * *
Commander Vrathis thought Captain Jisten an unlikely ally, and indeed the captain’s countenance appeared troubled as they rode side by side toward the palace. Vrathis didn’t ask, mostly because he had his hands full with his horse, who was not at all happy about being forced to pace Jisten’s fanged, crimson-eyed mare. Vrathis knew the creature for one of the night steeds of legend, the same predatory equines the Wild Hunt was said to ride. There could be only one way for Jisten to have acquired a mount like that—the dark servants. Namely, the high priest, S’Rak. Jisten’s lover.
Vrathis had the crime scene drawings as well as the images from the Justicers neatly rolled in a heavy scroll case. Behind them rode a half dozen of his best men, the minimum he thought would be required to actually arrest the high priest. There was no way S’Rak would be able to avoid justice this time. It was a relief to reach the palace and turn his horse over to the duty guard.
He strode into the building eagerly, Captain Jisten still at his side. They went directly to the prince’s office and were let in at once. Jethain looked up from the simple repast spread over his desk. He looked exhausted, but he said nothing by way of reprimand. Instead, he looked at Jisten, then at Vrathis. “What’s happened now?”
“Another murder, your Highness.” Vrathis opened the care and spread out the drawings of the crime scene.
“Jisten? How are you involved in this?”
“I was looking for S’Rak,” Jisten said tonelessly. “I went to the ward tower, and I saw him leaving it, but he dashed off before I could stop him. He ran down an alley and... vanished. I went back and found the body. There’s no question this time. I wasn’t the only one to see him.”
“The Justicers examined all witnesses. Here are the images of the man that was seen.” Vrathis handed them over.
Jethain leafed through them. “This is impossible.”
“How so?” Vrathis resisted the urge to growl.
Jethain looked up at them. “Because I was with Araken all night. From just after sunset until dawn. He was healing horses the entire time. Stablemaster Bharis and his stable boys can corroborate.”
“We need to take them to the Justicers,” Jisten said abruptly. “I want to compare the images.”
Vrathis pursed his lips. Something strange was going on, and he’d be a fool to just act. “I concur. I’m sorry, Your Highness, but I must insist that everyone who was with S’Rak last night be taken to the Hall of Justice for a memory scan.”
“Very well. Jisten, if we hurry, perhaps we can catch some of them before sleep damages the memories.” Jethain stood, stifling a yawn, and motioned for them to follow.
“Was S’Ioli and Scorth with S’Rak as well?” Jisten asked as they walked.
Vrathis tried to feign disinterest in the response.
“S’Ioli was, Scorth was not. Araken sent Scorth away shortly after he started—you know how Scorth’s scent panics the horses.” Jethain shared a look with his captain. They reached the exit closest to the stables and quickly crossed the yard. Jethain ducked into the first barn. “Bharis! We’ve got trouble!”
The stable master came out of his office, yawning. “What’s gotten under your saddle, Highness? I was just about t’head for bed, t’was a long night as you kn
ow.”
“There was another murder last night,” Jethain said hurriedly. “We have to go to the Hall of Justice before the memories of last night fade. All of us, including your boys who helped.”
“That’ll leave us short, but aye, I see your point. I’ll get the wagon hitched up and gather th’ boys. The priests are sleeping in barn twelve—they wanted peace an’ quiet.” Bharis turned back into the barn, already bellowing for the stable boys to attend him.
Jethain headed for barn twelve, so Vrathis followed. He was curious to see if S’Rak was there. If he was, what would his reaction to seeing Jisten and Vrathis be? That might tell him something.
Barn twelve was the smallest, and furthest, barn in the stable complex. When Jethain opened the sliding door, several of the fanged equines emerged, snorting smoke and showing fangs. Jethain and Jisten moved among them fearlessly, touching the curved necks and murmuring reassurances. The equines backed down and allowed them entry. The priests were sleeping in different stalls, but both had spread horse blankets over the straw before wrapping themselves in their cloaks.
Jethain went directly to S’Ioli and placed a hand on his shoulder. That was enough to wake the younger priest. Vrathis didn’t hear what Jethain said, but S’Ioli soon emerged from the stall, gave Jisten a nod, and strode over to one of the equines. He started to saddle it once he’d greeted it. Vrathis turned his attention back to Jethain, who had just entered the stall S’Rak was sleeping in.
The prince placed a hand on S’Rak and said, “There’s trouble.”
S’Rak sat up, his wings unfurling as he stretched. Vrathis frowned as he noticed how much darker they were than the wings in his images. They were still beautiful, indeed, but the colors were markedly different. “What trouble?” S’Rak asked quietly. “Are more horses ill?”
“Another murder,” Jethain said shortly.
S’Rak’s head turned. Vrathis met the green-gold gaze fearlessly. The priest’s face was expressionless, giving nothing away. His gaze moved on, to Jisten. “Captain?”
“I saw you, S’Rak. You ran from me.”
The high priest shook his head and stood. “I did no such thing. I was with Bharis and Jethain all night.”
“That’s why we’re all going to the Justicers,” Jethain informed him.
“Indeed.” S’Rak shrugged. “S’Ioli can be read by the Justicers. I cannot be. I am going to bed. Let me know what you find—later.” He brushed past Vrathis almost insolently but without making actual contact and strode out of the barn. S’Ioli led his now tacked equine out the barn. Jethain and Jisten followed them. After a moment, so did Vrathis, but with a feeling like he was about to be denied a prize he desperately sought.
* * * *
Jisten studied the new images the Justicers transferred to the sheets of parchment. There was much less variation in this set, despite most of the witnesses having been woken up before coming here. All of them showed S’Rak, all of them showed the same length to his hair, the same height, the same colors to his wings, the same positions of the diamonds on his wings. He spread out both sets and asked, “How can they be so different?”
“Because one is real and one is an illusion,” said a new voice. Teson walked over and looked over the images. He touched the first set. “This is the hallmark of illusion, that nobody sees it precisely the same way.” He touched the second set. “This is reality—you can tell that this is the same man, time and time again.”
“Yes, I see it,” Jisten acknowledged. Illusion would explain so much—his arm hadn’t hurt when he’d chased after what he’d thought was Rak. It had hurt when he’d confronted Rak in the stable.
The Justicer Sinare also nodded. “We agree, the first set is the product of illusion. The question is, who was under the illusion.”
“There’s no way to tell,” Teson admitted. “All this proves is that S’Rak was not the murderer last night.”
“But not all of the dark servants were accounted for last night,” Vrathis pointed out. “Prince Jethain told us that Lord Scorth left them early in the night. According to my information, Lord Scorth is very powerful, magically speaking, and an illusion like this might be a parlor trick for him.”
“Not likely,” Teson replied. “Scorth is known to be very intelligent. He wouldn’t do something as stupid as commit a murder and make everyone think his partner did it.”
“I want him questioned,” said Justicer Sinare. “He failed to attend the questioning for the first murder as well. Bring him to me, Vrathis.”
“I’ll write the order to allow it, only because I’m convinced Scorth had nothing to do with either murder.” Jethain quickly signed the order to allow Vrathis to bring Scorth to the Hall of Justice to be questioned.
* * * *
Rak dreamed, and knew he dreamed, but the dreams refused to release him. Most of his dreams were unpleasant, as usual, but then something changed. He slipped from normal dreaming into a vision as his prophetic talent stirred.
Stars drifted through a field of black, while colorful orbs like children’s marbles spun around them. Many of these orbs had smaller orbs circling them as they circled the star, and some even had huge gauzy rings arrayed about them like skirts on a dancer. Many of the stars were alone but for their orbs, but many had partners, and most of the pairs and triads had orbs as well. Huge formations of glowing color and light, like multicolored clouds, floated in the void, and many had stars nestled within their structures. Then, his perspective changed, and he saw the stars spinning together in spirals toward a glowing center comprised of so many stars so close together that seeing through to the center of the cluster was impossible.
Dark flames roared, flaring up about him, and now, he flew over a mighty bed of mist and sparkling-colored lights. The river of souls, he identified, and knew himself locked in a vision. He drifted over the now, the past behind him, and the branching maze of the future before him. He sped up, seeking that which caused him to be here.
Glimpses of the future appeared in flashes that faded. Blood dripped off walls. Death spread his white wings over the city. The Goddess of Destruction laughed. Storm winds shrieked while lightning hammered the rubble below.
Through him, the voice of prophecy spoke. “A’tεltirgion arthemεs. Blood sacrifice. Єxεtazykεi tohn ponion. Test of pain. Єxεtazykεi tohn pystion. Test of faith. O xhonrion tohn εxεvyεnizion kε εxaision ynε anεrxondas. The time of elevation and exaltation is coming.”
A melodic voice sang in the distance, vibrant and rich. It distracted him from the visions that surrounded him, a siren song to lure him back and away, to draw him in, his anchor against madness. Flashes of light filled his eyes; all the colors of the rainbow, all the colors he’d ever seen, and even colors that he had no name for. The colors flickered in and out, weaving through one another in a harmoniously chaotic display as he pulled back from what was yet to be and turned toward his God.
“It is time,” said the Lord of Night.
“Time for what, Kýrion’mu?” he wanted to know.
“Send Scorth away if you want him to live.”
Rak’s eyes flew open, the sound of the God’s voice still echoing in his ears. He didn’t usually have visions that intense. The meaning there wasn’t clear. A warning but of what? At least the Lord of Night had chosen to be more specific. He climbed out of bed, walked out of his bedroom and found Scorth in the parlor.
“Scorth,” he said. “You must leave.”
“I’m not going to leave you to face danger alone.” Scorth glared at him from his usual spot on the couch, an open book upon his lap.
“This is not a request,” Rak replied flatly. Through their bond, he shared Zotien’s words with his soul-mate.
Scorth’s eyes widened, but he remained stubborn. “I can’t leave you, Rak.”
“You will. You must. Find S’Tyll, find Pikara. Tell them to hurry.”
With a task thus assigned, Scorth accepted the inevitable. “I will. And I’ll be back.”
Rak watched him leave then did the sensible thing. He went back to bed, praying for dreamless sleep.
“Sir, the commander is back. He’s waiting in the parlor,” said his servant.
Rak opened an eye to regard Tebber. He was tempted to tell Tebber just what the commander could do with himself. The man was getting annoying in his demands, and he always had to arrive so night blasted early in the day. According to the annoyingly accurate clock in his head, it was two hours past noon.
He worked some moisture into his mouth, enough to rasp, “Why is he here? Did he say?”
“He has an arrest order for Lord Scorth.”
“Does he now.” Rak heaved himself out of bed, stretched his wings, and stomped out of the bedchamber without bothering to change out of his sleeping robe.
The commander stood at one end of the parlor, bulky in armor under his uniform. Arrayed to his sides were a half dozen of his men, armed and armored like they were preparing to march to war. Ioli, always an early riser, was sitting at one of the desks, his face expressionless, his hands folded in his lap. The palace guards were silently lined up against the wall, acting as if they weren’t there, but Rak was very well aware of their unwelcome presence. Rak stopped in the middle of the room and waited.
“Where is Lord Scorth?” asked Vrathis.
“He is not here,” Rak replied flatly.
“I knew that already, priest. I asked where he was, not where he wasn’t. Again, where is Lord Scorth?”
“He is soaring in the winds.” Rak scooped a cat off his chair and sat down at his desk, opening the inset drawer to extract an unsealed scroll. The heat of Vrathis’s glare didn’t bother him in the least.
“That’s not an answer, priest.”
“It is the only answer that I shall give you, Commander. It is also the truth.” Rak moved three fancily addressed envelopes aside, ignoring the waft of perfume that resulted, and set his scroll down. He rolled it open and set carved weights on the curling ends. He had no concern that Vrathis might read it, given that the writing was all Okyran. And if the commander wants the latest round of invitations to social gatherings that the ladies of the court keep sending me, he is welcome to them.
