by Sarra Cannon
As with Stowley’s other entries, those hash-marked were denoted with numbers and letters, but Kila couldn’t make heads or tails of most of them. It was like a code for which he had no key, and perhaps that had been the point. Breaking codes took time, which presumably meant that Stowley alone would have been able to interpret the entries with any ease.
He needed to talk to Miss Wyland. Something about the dates might strike her as significant, or perhaps she would know what the letters and numbers stood for. If she didn’t show up soon, he would leave a message for her in the spot she had specified.
“Interesting,” she said in a low voice as she entered the office, and for a second he was afraid her presence was the product of his wishful thinking. The woman was uncanny.
“Have you any idea how disconcerting that is?” he asked, unable to keep the shortness from his tone. His heart was pounding, and his hand had gone for the dagger he kept sheathed to the bottom of his desk. Forcing his hand away, he turned to face her.
“My apologies,” she said, but the faint smile on her lips suggested she rather liked disconcerting him.
She wore dark clothing again, but not the same as the previous time. Her tight black breeches hugged her legs, and over them she wore a short, equally tight black leather coat. This one laced up the back and buttoned up the front, emphasizing her gentle curves. Her clothing fit her like a second skin, highly practical for when she climbed or snuck about. It offered nothing an assailant could grab, had no loose sleeves to get snagged on a jagged stone or protruding ledge. She’d pushed back her hood, and a crown of tight braids clung to her scalp. The flickering candlelight exaggerated the hollows in her cheeks. A black leather mask dangled from her right hand.
“I did need to speak with you,” he conceded. “And what’s interesting?”
“Your wall. It gives me a window into how your mind works.” She moved closer to him, tilting her head back to better examine the wall, and his eyes were drawn to the curve of her throat.
“Moving the pieces around helps me to find the patterns,” he said, focusing on the wall. “These came from Toran Stowley’s ledger.” He tapped the relevant pieces of parchment.
“What’s all the rest?” she asked, gesturing as she examined his collection.
“Other bits of information I’ve gathered. The strings show where I’ve made connections. Anything without a string may or may not be relevant, I don’t know yet. I might never know.”
Shaking her head, she gazed at him in fascination. “That’s amazing,” she said. “I haven’t been around many Adepts, other than the Seafarers, of course. Lach has told me what that’s like for him, but it’s rather astonishing to hear about other abilities. So much inherent talent. Gods-touched.” He thought he detected a trace of envy.
“Was that part of it, when you were a child? You were upset you weren’t an Adept?”
“You’re either an Adept in House Staerleigh or you’re nothing,” she said, her voice tight.
“That must have been difficult.”
“It was,” she said, pained. He was surprised to get this glimpse into her life. “And it must have been hard for you to leave your homeland behind.”
“There was nothing more for me there,” he said, shocking himself by giving her a glimpse into his own life.
He felt her eyes on him, but he kept staring at the wall.
“I have something else for you, though this is of a personal nature,” she said, garnering his interest. She unbuttoned the top button of her coat and pulled out a black leather pouch. It was looped around her neck, and she lifted it over her head, handing the entire thing to him.
She didn’t respond to his questioning look, so he directed his attention to the pouch. Her eyes were sad, he noted. Opening the drawstring, he reached inside, knowing instantly what she had brought him.
“I thought this was lost,” he said in a hushed voice as he pulled the book out. He ran a hand over its cover.
“You gave it to me,” she reminded him.
“No, I knew I had, but I didn’t think you’d have kept it.”
“I promised you I would take care of it.”
“And so you have.” He opened the book and studied the pages, drinking in the sight of his father’s old drawings. “I was so young.”
“How old were you when he drew those pictures?”
“About the age you were when I gave the book to you.”
“It meant a great deal to me,” she said, the words bursting forth. She was clearly uncomfortable with sharing such intimate thoughts, but she took a deep breath and plowed ahead. “Your kindness came at a time when I desperately needed kindness, and the skills you taught me have served me well throughout my life. I owe you a debt of gratitude.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” he said, folding his hands around the book. “You helped me too.”
“I did?”
“Yes. You reminded me of the child I was once, and being kind to you helped ease his pain. He could have done with some kindness as well.”
Her eyes glittered and she blinked rapidly. “You never told me that.”
“You were young and in pain. I didn’t want to burden you.”
“I don’t think I would have seen it as a burden. It might have helped me to know that I wasn’t alone—not that you didn’t help me,” she added hastily, as if anxious to reassure him.
“No need to fear you offended me; I understood what you meant. It didn’t occur to me at the time that it might comfort you to know someone else had shared your experience.”
“At first I didn’t tell you who I was because I was afraid I would get into trouble. Then I didn’t tell you because I loved being me, not being House Staerleigh.”
“The two are one and the same?” he asked, genuinely bemused by her words.
“For most everyone else they are. House is everything.”
He thought he should say something in response to that, but words escaped him. He was still fumbling when her brow knit and she stepped forward, giving closer scrutiny to the dated scraps of paper.
“These dates are familiar,” she said in a distant voice. She fell silent for a long moment, staring blankly, and he held his tongue, letting her think.
“Here,” she said, pointing to one of the scraps. “I followed Moiria that night.” If the admission embarrassed her, she showed no signs. “I thought it was odd because she was heading out of the enclave so late, cloaked and hooded even though it was mild out. She went to a house near the wharf. Three other people were inside, but I didn’t recognize any of them and I don’t remember what they looked like.”
Moving on to another scrap, she said, “Elder Borean went to House Rolland’s enclave on this night. He does have friends there, but it was an odd hour for making a call, and I thought I saw one of the House Mallay Elders, though I couldn’t say for certain.
“And on this night,” she said, her voice faltering.
She didn’t say anything for so long that he had to prompt her. “What is it?”
“On this night, my father paid a visit to a shop in the city center, though it was well outside of business hours and the shop was closed.”
Chapter 17
Cianne heard Kila’s surprised intake of breath. She was more controlled, though her mind was a tumult, her emotions a wild roil. Was her father somehow caught up in all this? If Toran had been murdered, could Daerwyn have been involved? Cianne believed her father was capable of many things, but she had never imaged he might be capable of conspiring to murder someone.
No, you don’t know anything for certain. You’re reaching! You saw him going into a shop at night once and you’re ready to convict him of murder? What kind of daughter are you?
The kind of daughter who was caught between a sense of obligation to be loyal to her House and the fear that her House might be involved in something dire. Attempting to write her feelings off, she told herself that she was itching to find something to throw back in her father’s
face, something she could use to prove to him and the rest of her House that they weren’t superior to her and never would be, but it wasn’t that simple. She wasn’t above wishing for petty revenge, but this, whatever it was, went far beyond that. She had to follow this trail to its end, whatever that end might be.
“Miss Wyland,” Kila began in a hesitant voice. “Are you certain of this?”
She appreciated his trying to give her an out, but she was so distraught that her voice was sharp as she responded. “Of course I am. Do you think I’d say such a thing if I weren’t?”
He held his tongue, but she knew what he was thinking. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d deceived him, and he was right to be wary. He couldn’t trust her. For all he knew she might be spinning a web about him, trying to snare him in something meant to serve her own ends.
“I saw my father that night,” she said, speaking more calmly. “I followed him to that shop, and I saw him enter. He tapped the door in a pattern, like a signal. That’s what struck me as so odd about it. He could have been meeting with the shop owner to discuss House business, but if that were the case, why didn’t he knock on the door in a normal manner? Why the code?”
Frowning, Kila stroked his chin. “Very well. It’s an avenue worth pursuing.”
“I know you don’t trust me. You’ve no reason to trust me, but I swear to you that I wouldn’t lie about this,” Cianne said, meeting his eyes. “I want to know what happened with Toran. If he did commit suicide, I need to know why, when he gave every indication that he would never have even contemplated such an act. And if he didn’t commit suicide…” She allowed her voice to trail off. It went without saying why she’d want to pursue the investigation in that case.
“Is there anyone in your House we might count on as an ally? Anyone you can trust?”
“No one,” she said. Of that she was certain.
His eyes were full of pity, and she wanted to turn away. She’d always known he’d pitied her. Had she been in his place, she would likely have pitied herself as well.
She didn’t want his pity. She didn’t want anyone’s pity.
“Not even Captain Stowley?” he asked.
“Not even him,” she said firmly. “As insincere as you may find this, I believe you know more about me than he does.”
He said nothing, studying her with a probing gaze that should have made her feel uncomfortable, but that instead made her feel something very different. He might not know her favorite color, might not know her favorite book, but he knew the real her in a way Lach never would, for all his good intentions. Lach had an idea of the Cianne he wanted to know, and he projected that image onto her, an image that made her fit neatly within the Staerleigh framework. Choosing between Cianne and the House was unthinkable. He needed to believe that the House cared about her as much as he did, and so he decided that the House cared about her, thus freeing himself from one day having to acknowledge that the House to which he belonged body and soul wasn’t as benevolent as he was convinced it was. Whenever she protested, he brushed her off, determined to show her the error of her ways.
It didn’t matter that he did so gently, that he did so with respect for her feelings, that he didn’t want to offend or belittle her. He might talk to her, he might hear what she had to say, but he didn’t listen. He never really had.
Kila did listen. He always had.
Nodding, he plucked a quill and a small book from his desk, making notes about the three dates they’d discussed. He asked her if she knew anything about the others, and she filled in as many details as she could. Some of the dates were meaningless to her, but when she had finished going through them it was clear that House Staerleigh had a regular pattern of conducting secretive meetings with the other Houses. Though Cianne had noted the presence of a few of the other Houses’ Elders at some of these meetings, she didn’t know what positions all the meeting participants held. She did know that the most prominent members of her own House were attending them, though. Given that and the presence of the other Houses’ Elders, she and Kila surmised that the meetings must have been orchestrated by the House elites.
“To what purpose?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she said, shrugging. “I never before connected the dates, so they seemed like isolated incidents, unusual but not anything that rang any particular warning bells for me.”
“Why did you follow them, then?”
Cianne had the grace to feel abashed, and she let him see it. What must he think of her, spying on her own House members—not to mention slipping into his home uninvited, whenever the mood struck her. He’d have every reason to think her no better than a common Cearovan street thug.
“I worried my father was involved in something,” she said. “Sometimes I’d lose track of him and follow the others to see if he’d be wherever they were going. Sometimes he was, but not every time. Whatever it is, he is involved, but he’s not alone. I see that now, but in the past my focus was too narrow. I wanted only to know what my father was up to.”
“You must have had other reasons for being suspicious. Following him around the city could hardly have been worth your time without some inducement.”
Exhaling, Cianne fought to keep her shoulders from tensing as they wanted to, but then she decided not to bother pretending around him. For one, it was easier. Maintaining control of herself at all times was exhausting, but it was also necessary if she wanted to ensure the House never thought of her as anything more than a stain on their honor. It would be disastrous for her if they started to view her as possessing a brain capable of logical leaps. With Kila, though, there was no need for the pretense. She might as well show herself as she was to him. She longed for one honest relationship, but more than that, she felt she owed him her honesty.
If there is ever to be anything between us…
She pushed the thought aside. Age might no longer be a factor. Distance was no longer relevant. Yet neither made the situation any less impossible, no matter the level of fervency with which her heart might wish otherwise.
“It’s hard to explain to someone outside the House,” she said, turning to face him, wanting him to see her earnest expression, her open face. He might still think it a charade, and she wouldn’t blame him, but at least she would know in her heart that she wasn’t misleading him. “A lot of subtle things started happening. My father has always been important to the House, but his status has become even more elevated in the last few years. No one doubts that he’ll take over for Elder Borean when the time is right. My father was always a possible candidate for the Council, but something he did has clinched the position. Anyone else who might have been a contender has faded into the background.
“Minor privileges, small marks of esteem have followed. My father is invited to meetings non-Council members aren’t typically invited to attend. He’s been given more power to authorize agreements with the other Houses. I can’t remember our family income ever being anything less than comfortable, but new signs of wealth have been springing up around the manor, gifts from the Elders, I suspect, though I couldn’t say for certain. One day a valuable book will appear in my father’s library. Another I’ll find a Shaper-made trinket or a Weaver-fashioned carpet.”
“He’s never said anything about them?” Kila asked, looking dubious.
Color rose to her cheeks. “No. He thinks me too dim or too oblivious to notice, I expect. They simply appear, there one day. Besides, none of it is ostentatious enough to be noticeable to most.”
“You notice,” he said, and something about his tone made her feel an absurd sense of pride. Was it admiration she heard?
“I’ve made it my business to notice many things my House could never dream I notice.”
“Evidently.” This time, the admiration was unmistakable, and she felt as if she were about to crack wide open.
The way she drank up his praise embarrassed her. Was she so desperate for a compliment? Lach provided her with them in abundance, but his c
ompliments never made her feel this way.
You’ve known for years that Lach can never have any hope of making you feel the way Kila makes you feel.
Her little girl fancies were mortifying, and if Kila were ever to receive any indication of how she felt, she would be humiliated. He could never see her as anything more than the quirky, strange, wounded child she had been when they had first met. Surely he couldn’t.
And even if he could, what did it matter? There could never be anything between them. She could hardly march him to her manor and introduce him to her father. An Enforcer and a foreigner to boot, come to call on Cianne Wyland of House Staerleigh? To say it was unimaginable wasn’t overstating things.
She had no romantic notions about running away with him. Life was difficult enough for him as it was. Asking him to take that step with her, even if he could ever feel a fraction of what she felt, was something she could never do to him. His not being a native of Astoran didn’t matter to her in the least, but it made him an outcast, and if she were to leave her House to be with him, he would be reviled as having corrupted her. That the truth would bear no resemblance to that characterization wouldn’t matter. He would be subject to most of the blame, because no House member would be able to stomach the thought of another member being capable of defiling the House in such an unspeakable manner.
A life with her could be nothing more than a life of exile, and while it was a sacrifice she’d be willing to make, she wouldn’t ask it of him. Exile had been forced upon him once already.
It wouldn’t be a sacrifice, not for me, a voice whispered in the back of her mind. Being with him could never be a sacrifice. Being with him would be a privilege.
He didn’t seem to notice her inner turmoil, so perhaps she was better at withholding than she thought, even when she didn’t intend to withhold. She didn’t know what that said about her.
Obviously deliberating, he rubbed his chin several more times, then came to a decision. “Chief Flim suspects the Houses are up to something.”
