“I hardly think it ridiculous to exhaust the less unpleasant possibilities first.” Glain was beginning to regret having ever brought Ariane into her circle. “None of us is eager to implicate our friends.”
“And yet it must be done.” Ariane was exasperated. “Even if we were to find the scrolls in some impersonal place, the investigation will not end there. Someone is guilty of taking them to begin with. Do you really think Alwen will be satisfied to leave a traitor running loose in the Fane? Will any of you?”
Ariane’s argument was well made, and they all knew it, though no one was ready to agree with her. They had spent valuable time eliminating the least likely prospects, and Glain had to admit to herself that she had happily followed the path of no resistance. Perhaps Ariane was right. Perhaps the time had come to confront their worst suspicions.
Ariane let out a huff of frustration. “How is it that you all do not burn with righteousness? How are you not so offended, so angry that you would tear the stones from the walls to find Madoc’s scrolls? There is a traitor among us!”
Ynyr looked exhausted, almost defeated. “Then what would you have us do, Ariane?”
“It is not for me to say.” Ariane hesitated in an attempt to show deference, but she made no effort at all to hide her self-satisfaction. “But I would suggest we go straight to the most obvious culprits, to those among us who have motive and the opportunity.”
“You mean the acolytes,” Ynyr sighed. “You mean Nerys.”
“I mean us all, Ynyr,” Ariane sniped. “But search my room first, if it makes you feel better.”
Ynyr’s bright blue eyes grew dark and narrow with anger. “If you insist.”
Verica did her best to defuse the sudden tension. “Perhaps we could start with the apprentices’ sleeping porches. Neither Euday or I would mind, would we, Euday?”
“It is all equally ugly to me.” Euday shrugged. “Though I must say that any of the apprentices, myself included, would gladly do the bidding of a superior and without question. I would suggest that some delicacy might be in order if one of them turns out to be complicit, some allowance made for an underling acting out of deference.”
He cleared his throat. “I’m afraid I must also point out that you have failed to mention the third-floor residences—the docents’ quarters and the private suites, not that I am suggesting we barge in on the king—or Alwen, for that matter.”
“And yet it must be done.” Ynyr appeared to have resigned himself to some inner misery, but his puffed-up chest and crossed arms did little to mask his resentment. “But we will start with Nerys.”
“Then let’s get to work.” Ariane glared at Ynyr, gathered the folds of her robe in clenched fingers, and marched toward the staircase.
“Wait,” Glain declared, more forcefully than she intended. “I will lead.”
At last Ynyr smiled as he drew close to be sure she could hear his whisper. “Perhaps there is hope for you yet.”
Nerys obliged the demand to search her quarters without a word, not a single huff of objection or even a resentful scowl. Glain was surprised, given her naturally fiery personality. Nerys was even willing to wait in the hall, under guard.
Ariane insisted on searching the room with Glain. Verica and Euday bore reluctant witness from the doorway, while Ynyr waited in the hall with Nerys. He tried to be officious, but his sorrow seeped out of him with every breath he expelled. He and Nerys had been close all their lives, like siblings. They had both been born to the Fane the same year, and Ynyr had always been protective of her. Whether it was for his pain or Nerys’s discomfort, Glain felt regret. No matter how much she distrusted Nerys, she could not take pleasure in the humiliation of her peers, deserved or not.
Ariane, however, would not be hindered by compassion, especially not when it came to her rival. Nerys was everything Ariane was not—gifted, accomplished, and confident in her power. Nerys was also a graceful beauty, whereas Ariane was awkward and plain. And wherever it was that nature did not pit them against each other, Ariane was sure to try. And so far, had failed to succeed.
Before Glain could stop her, Ariane took it upon herself to begin the finding spell. She placed a raven’s quill on the hearthrug and withdrew her wand, positioning herself between the quill and the door. For several moments she stood stone still, every wisp of her being focused into a single thought. The feather quivered.
As Glain and the others watched in anxious silence, the mystic forces tugging at the feather grew stronger, and the quill twitched back and forth, as though it wished to turn both ways at once. It seemed to fight against itself at first, and then the feather began to spin ever so slowly clockwise. It turned a full circle and a half and then stopped.
“Which end is the indicator,” Glain asked. “The plume, or the nib?”
Ariane looked bewildered. The feather tip pointed toward the hearth, and the stem pointed at the bed. “I don’t know.”
Ynyr snorted. “She didn’t bother to decide before she started the spell.”
“Then it could be either,” Glain said reluctantly, “or both.”
“The plume,” Ariane announced, starting toward the hearth. “It is the plume.”
“No,” Glain ordered, beckoning the two sentry men in from the hall. “Stand outside with the others. The guards will search.”
Ariane obliged, but not without pouting. “As you wish, Proctor.”
Glain ignored her and instructed the guards, “Search the bed and then the hearth.”
It was a painful wait. Under Glain’s close watch, the mattress was turned over, and the boards and posts disassembled. The coverlet and pillows were patted down and shaken out. And last, the floor beneath and the wall behind the bed were examined for loose stones. Nothing.
Then the sentries turned their efforts to the hearth, one on either side of the chimney. Glain stood before the fireplace, looking for any obvious irregularity in the facing. There were no breaks in the mortar, nor unusual discolorations or obviously displaced bricks. The hearth base itself was worn and crumbling, and deep enough to hold treasures much larger than the scrolls. But the guardsmen, searching on hand and knee, failed to find any hollows or recesses.
It was by happenstance that one of the men discovered the false mantle, when he took hold of the one end to help pull himself up. The scrollwork support mounted on the right side of the fireplace came free of the sill and clattered to the floor, revealing a carefully made and very small, perfectly round tunnel bored into the mortar between the brick framing and the oak mantle.
“Oh, great Gods.” Glain was exhilarated. The scrolls were found, and she was saved. “Stand aside.”
The guardsmen stepped back to make room as she approached. Glain knelt on the hearthstones to peer inside the small opening and caught sight of the end of a small roll. Taking care not to damage it, she tweezed the edge between the first two fingers of her right hand and pulled with gentle, even tension until the roll was freed.
“Well?” Ariane, hovering just inside the door, could not restrain her curiosity any longer. “Have we found them?”
Glain examined the parchment with a delicate touch, afraid she might tear it. The seal on the scroll was broken, but it was unmistakably Madoc’s. As gently as she could, Glain unfurled the exposed edge far enough to see the first few lines of script.
“One.” Glain let the parchment curl back into place and cradled the roll in the palms of both hands. “We have found one of the scrolls.”
Ynyr pushed past Ariane into the room. “Are you certain?”
“Yes.” Glain heard agony in Ynyr’s voice. “I know this must be difficult for you, but this is clearly one of Madoc’s private writings. I believe it is part of the registry, the record of the Primideach line.”
“Glain.” Ynyr looked at her with pleading eyes. “I know you have never cared for her, but if you have ever had an
y faith at all in me, you must believe me now. I do not know how it came to be in her room, but Nerys is not to blame for this.”
Her heart bled for him. She had never understood his blind devotion to Nerys, no more than he had understood her unyielding support of Ariane. Misplaced or not, she and Ynyr shared a commitment to the same values, friendship and loyalty. And so she extended him hope she herself did not have. “It is not my place to judge, only to report what we have found. Nerys will be allowed to plead her case. Perhaps there is an innocent explanation. But that is for Alwen to decide.”
Glain went straight to Alwen with her evidence. She found the Sovereign already dressed in the gold-trimmed indigo velvet mantle that denoted her rank, as if she had been expecting to give an audience. The formality made Glain feel a little intimidated, but she was pleased to present what she’d found.
“This is how you found it?” Alwen held the scroll delicately with the fingertips of her right hand.
“Yes.” Glain could not keep herself from staring at Alwen’s frostbitten fingers. The stain of Alwen’s ill-fated attempt to save Madoc from drowning in the Well of Tears affected all four fingers from the first knuckle to the tip. It was all the more noticeable because of Madoc’s signet, which she wore on the middle finger of the afflicted hand—as much a macabre reminder of Madoc’s absence as it was a bizarre but convenient alternative to Alwen’s gaze. “The seal was already broken.”
Alwen carefully unrolled the vellum to read its contents. “It is, in fact, just as you had guessed. This is the continuation of the Primideach line, from the beginning of Madoc’s generation forward. It seems Madoc had no progeny of his own, but he did have three siblings. Among them, only one child was born to the Primideach line—a son, brought forth by his sister, Saoirse.” Alwen’s expression soured, and she paused to clear her throat. “This son, Alric, was fathered by one of Madoc’s brothers, the eldest of the Primideach clan.”
Alwen looked at Glain. “You don’t seem particularly shocked, or even surprised.”
“Madoc told me the story once, as a cautionary tale. In a cloistered society, certain risks are inherent.” Glain quoted his words almost verbatim. “ ‘Inbreeding,’ he said, ‘is inevitable.’ ”
“Hmm.” Alwen resumed her study of the document. “It seems Madoc’s nephew begat three children by a sorceress of the Eniad clan named Brigid, but it appears the eldest two, both boys, did not survive infancy.”
Her expression skewed to puzzlement. “The birth of this third child is recorded by date,” she sighed, “but not by gender or by name.”
“And even stranger,” Alwen glanced at Glain again, “two days later both Alric and his father died. At each other’s hands, it says here. Another family scandal?”
Glain knew only what Madoc had told her. “A duel to the death between father and son over a debt of honor so immense it cost both their lives. Madoc did not say what the debt was, but it saddened him deeply to speak of it. I always thought it must have had something to do with Saoirse.”
“These writings show that Saoirse abandoned the Stewardry later that same year, along with a handful of devotees, but there is no mention of why. She was a respected elder. I recall Saoirse’s name spoken with great reverence by the docents during my early years here. Losing her must have been difficult for Madoc.” Alwen frowned. “But I never knew any Brigid, and I don’t believe she was ever in residence here. Her name appears in the Eniad family lineage, but not in the Stewardry membership rolls.”
Alwen looked at her pointedly. “Did Madoc never say what became of her, or of Alric’s child?”
Glain had expected this question, but that did not make it easier to answer. “No, Sovereign. He did not.”
“He never mentioned a name?”
“Never.” In the strictest sense, Glain was telling the truth. Madoc had never mentioned the name given to his nephew’s child at birth. Glain did know where it could be found, but so did Alwen.
Alwen rolled the vellum sheet into a tight curl, appearing to struggle a little with the practiced serenity that was her signature trait. This constant calm was the temperament with which she greeted everything, but for the first time Glain saw ripples of disquiet beneath the carefully composed façade.
“This is disappointing.” Alwen tapped the scroll with her fingertips, her eyes focused on some invisible point, speaking to no one in particular. “We need Madoc’s last testament. Apparently it is the only hope of ever finding his heir.”
Unsure whether a response was expected or even wanted, Glain remained silent. Alwen appeared to be searching, somewhere within or beyond herself, for an answer that refused to be found. Glain was hopeful now that the first scroll had been found, and the traitor.
“Now.” Suddenly, Alwen returned to the moment at hand. “You are wondering what I will do with Nerys.”
“She is waiting in the hall, under guard.” Glain was puzzled by Alwen’s comment, which was more an observation than a query. “I assumed you would question her. If she has the one scroll, it stands to reason she has the other.”
“So it would appear,” Alwen said, straightening even more in her seat. “But I have my doubts. Don’t you?”
“I don’t understand.” Glain was now befuddled. “The scroll was found in her possession.”
“In her room,” Alwen corrected, “not on her person. The two are not the same.”
“Are you suggesting that Nerys is not the traitor?” Glain did not accept this theory. “That she is but a dupe for the one who is?”
Alwen’s widened eyes and the tilt to her chin seemed to say exactly that. “I suggest the possibility, yes. Nerys has the support of many of her peers, including Ynyr. And I have neither seen nor heard anything to give me cause for concern, aside from your suspicions.”
Glain bristled. “Is that not enough?”
Surprise widened Alwen’s eyes further still. “It would be, if those suspicions were founded on something other than rumor and her petty rivalry with a sister acolyte who has your favor. I trust you take my point.”
“I do.” Glain could not deny the favoritism, but she could still protest. “But it is more than that. My own intuition tells me Nerys has been hiding something all along.”
“Hmm,” Alwen smiled. “We all have secrets, Glain. They are not in and of themselves a sinister thing. Nor is the keeping of them grounds to charge treason, at least not without a better understanding of what has been concealed, and why.”
Glain felt as though she had been caught in a lie. Was Alwen still speaking of Nerys or of her?
“I will speak to Nerys alone. I believe she will open her mind to me freely, but one way or another I will have the truth as she knows it,” Alwen said. “And then I will decide what is to be done. I will expect your support, Glain, even if you do not agree.”
“Of course,” Glain promised, though she had no doubt that her suspicions would be proved. “I have nothing but respect for your wisdom, Sovereign.”
Alwen looked at her for a long time through narrowed, discerning eyes. For a moment, Glain wished she were not immune to Alwen’s probing. Perhaps the best thing for them all would be for Alwen to see Glain’s truth.
Alwen closed her eyes and released a long, slow breath, as though she had resigned herself to an unavoidable conclusion. “Send me Nerys.”
TEN
The entire hearing, in Glain’s opinion, had been a travesty. The interrogation had amounted to little more than a few pointed questions, for which Nerys had no defense but denial. Finally real evidence of betrayal had been found, and Alwen had all but forgiven it. She had taken the accused’s claims of innocence seriously and taken the entire matter under advisement. Alwen had then deferred formal judgment and confined Nerys to her quarters until further notice.
Glain had wanted to argue for a proper inquiry, but she had promised Alwen her support. Which she
would give, at least publicly, but it had been difficult to contain how appalled she felt. And so, Glain had silently steeped in her resentment until the hearing was over, and she was finally free to seek refuge in solitude.
The scriptorium was a common gathering place for study and quiet conversation, especially after the evening meal. At this late hour, however, Glain could generally expect to study or contemplate alone. She waited for the apprentice to tend to the room, lighting the lamps and stoking a last blaze in the hearth, before settling herself in one of the overstuffed chairs in the sitting area to stare at the fire, and sulk. She had called for ginger and spice tea, but what she really wanted was a strong, properly aged claret.
“Is it really so awful?”
Glain winced at the sound of Ynyr’s voice and purposely kept her eyes trained on the hearth. “I was expecting the attendant with my tea.”
“I intercepted him in the hall.” He set the small pewter serving tray on the candle stand nearest her chair and handed her the steaming cup. “It gave me an excuse to intrude on your gloom.”
She accepted the cup but refused to acknowledge him, hoping Ynyr would reconsider and leave. He did not. Glain fought the urge to order him out of the room. Ynyr deserved better from her, and she sensed his concern. But if he forced her to speak on the issue of Nerys at this very moment, she was not at all sure she could be kind. “At your own risk then, Ynyr. Consider yourself warned.”
Ynyr hovered behind her in the half-shadow cast by the firelight against the book stacks and shelving on the near wall. “You think Alwen’s judgment was too lenient.”
Glain sighed aloud, exaggerating the huff to declare her aggravation. “What does it matter what I think? Alwen has said that Nerys deserves the benefit of the doubt, and so it shall be.”
“Yes.” Ynyr took to nervous pacing. “But what do you say?”
The Keys to the Realms (The Dream Stewards) Page 10
