The Traitor's Reliquary

by Chris Moss

  Free me, thundered the beast—so loud the very walls trembled.

  “I don’t know how!” Kestel screamed and jerked at the sight, but his trembling body refused to move. The hydra’s beaks lowered toward him, and the long, metallic scales darkened.

  Free me!

  The creature moved closer, its entire frame turning black. The blood dripping from its body steamed on the floor many stories below. One of the beaked heads snaked forward, and Kestel tried to scramble back.

  The robed figure appeared. He calmly ignored the beast and bent over Kestel. The bearded man gave him a gentle smile and placed a hand on his bloodied abdomen. Left floating at his touch, Kestel drifted into the welcoming darkness of sleep.

  8

  Agents, never assume your perspective of a situation is the correct one. We work with scraps, fragments from dozens of sources that we fit together to find the answer. Always remember that your analysis may simply be what you want to see—or what you fear.

  ~from ‘Twilight instructions,’ by Spymaster Carr,

  dated 48th year of the Exile~

  Harpalus stalked through the Citadel libraries, holding the folds of his cleric’s robe close. He walked past knots of scholars and young Caelbor nobles going about their lessons. The Spymaster would have preferred his warmer merchant’s cloak, but while members of the working classes were not banned from the Citadel libraries, he didn’t want to attract any unwelcome attention.

  No wonder the clerics are always so dour. I’m freezing my stones off.

  Descending a shallow, black staircase, the merchant made his way into the Citadel archives. A maze of bookcases and scroll racks watched over from a small, raised office set along the far wall. Harpalus looked around to make sure he was alone, then bobbed up the wooden stairs onto the balcony. More bookcases lined a wall of the neat office where a pale, Caelbor woman in her sixties sat hunched over a wide, marble desk. The desk also held a rolled-up map in the corner.

  “Hello, Harpalus,” she said without bothering to turn around.

  “Greetings, Sister.” Harpalus did his best to keep his tone neutral. “Still keeping tabs on me, I see.”

  The old woman gave a snort. “I’m retired, we both know that. Don’t begrudge an old woman a few tricks. Anyway, I knew it was you the moment you walked in—your movements are still too recognizable.” The black-robed figure turned around and regarded the Spymaster with clear, blue eyes.

  Despite himself, Harpalus’s lips turned into a grin. Those eyes were among his earliest memories, either calm like the noon sky over the sea or harsh and cold as an icy stream. “It’s good to see you too, Auntie Julie.”

  The pale cleric gave him a hard stare, but her lips made a small smile. “Bah. That’s because you never visit me. What brings you down here?”

  Harpalus weighed the advantages and disadvantages before answering. “Julia, I need your help.”

  “And why would I do that?” She still wore a smile on her face, but the warmth had leaked from her voice. “You don’t need any of my help. You already made that clear.” Her eyes flicked to the map, one that Harpalus knew well.

  Harpalus handed the cleric the short note written by the late Sister Amelia, then drew his arms into the flaring sleeves of his robe. “One of my agents was murdered last night.”

  The old woman raised an eyebrow. “The League of Nobles?”

  Harpalus nodded. “She was found hanging near the cliffs. She never sent me a report, but this was found in the concealed pocket of her robes.”

  The cleric’s face went grave, the tension melting away. She scanned the coded dots on the scrap of paper. “Now I remember why I got out of this business. What’s this—‘Maal agent to League. Grey Archives, Lv.G.H.XI:III:XXV.’ Those archives are barely restricted, they don’t even include any of the forbidden literature.”

  The old woman drummed her white fingers on the desk. “Lv.G.H. Lives of the Great Heralds. Sartorius, I think. It’s just historical commentary, nothing worth getting killed for.” Struggling to her feet, she pulled out a mahogany cane. “Come on, let’s go have a look.”

  Harpalus followed the hobbling cleric into the stacks through a set of small, gray stone doors. Inside the smaller room cut into the dark rock beneath the Citadel, small candles glowed in niches along the walls. Fumbling through a set of red leather-bound volumes, Julia pulled out the one she wanted.

  “Where was it...book eleven, chapter three...chapter three...ahh. Here we go.” She cleared her throat.

  “Perhaps I should read it,” said Harpalus. “Your eyes aren’t what they used to be.”

  “Be quiet,” said the black-robed figure, not bothering to meet his gaze. “Listen to this. It’s the life of the Herald Tarquil. The chapter is very short, barely a few paragraphs. It focuses on the events leading up to the Herald’s meeting with the Angel—nothing spectacular.” The cleric flipped through a few more pages. “Son of a nobleman, gave up his fortune, wandered the lands searching for answers, spoke to a few early philosophers and...oh.”

  “What is it?” Harpalus craned his neck to see the words for himself.

  “It says here... When Tarquil had exhausted the normal avenues of inquiry, he turned to less salubrious sources. He consulted all manner of shamans, wart-charmers and even the Ichthyophagi before, at last, setting out on his quest for knowledge. Judging from the character of such folk, it was not an hour too soon.”

  “The Ichthyophagi? You mean the fish-eaters? I thought they were a myth,” said Harpalus.

  Julia shrugged. “Sartorius always was too snobby for his own good, but perhaps he’s given us a clue.”

  “But what has that got to do with the League of Nobles?”

  “I don’t know. I believe that’s the job of the Citadel’s Spymaster. But whatever it is, it’s worth killing your underling for.”

  “She was your underling, once. Show some respect.”

  “You’re right—that was uncalled for. I apologize.” The old cleric’s tone had lost its spark, and a deep sorrow could be seen in her eyes.

  Harpalus rubbed his temples. Oh, for a warm bed and a cup of mulled wine. He turned to the old woman standing before him. “Thank you. I have to report this, but could you see what else you can find out on the subject?”

  “I will. Now get to work and give an old woman some peace.”

  Too worried to smile at the jest, Harpalus bowed and made his way back to the library, still trying to piece together some meaning to what he had just found.

  9

  The Herald Lucia spoke often on this subject, and while she is not remembered as one of the mighty Heralds, her deep study of the human soul and its connection with the spiritual realm formed the basis of the Citadel’s theology for centuries.

  ~from ‘Lives of the Great Heralds’ by Sartorius,

  dated 803rd year of the Empire~

  Kestel came to, only to find himself back in the study of the Silver Prioress, propped in a chair with Arbalis leaning over him. Harpalus, dressed as a cleric, stood in the background near the Prioress.

  “You alright, boy?” The scar running down Arbalis’s nose was creased with worry.

  Kestel blinked at the clammy sensation of his arms wrapped around his midsection. He looked down, horrified to see his leather jerkin covered in dark-orange blood.

  “You’ve been vomiting for more than an hour,” said Arbalis. “I think—I think it’s Maal’s Bloodwyne. What happened to you?”

  “What’s this?” Kestel’s hand shot forward, snatching the silver chain from Arbalis’s neck.

  “It’s called a reliquary.” The old veteran tried to grab the vial back, but Kestel was too quick. “And it’s very important to me, so I’d like to have it back.”

  “But what is it?”

  “The remains of a great Saint, a title given only to a few men and women,” said the Prioress from her chair. “Clerics who achieve such deep understanding of the Aeris, that even their dead body still holds power. The vi
al contains a bone of Stanchos, the Saint Who Gives Relief.”

  “Gives Relief…” Kestel said, murmuring to himself. “How old was he when he died? Did he have a big beard?” The beginnings of another tremor grew within him.

  Arbalis took the vial from Kestel’s hand. “I don’t know what he looked like. Why do you ask?”

  “He was up there on the balcony with us.”

  The other members of the room looked at each other in confusion, though Harpalus’s expression remained skeptical.

  The Silver Prioress smiled, her old eyes glittering. “Go on.”

  Kestel rubbed his forehead. The pain of Bloodwyne withdrawal was gone, but his skin tingled around the hated tattoo. “When I was in the Amphitheater, some of the hydra’s blood splashed on me. Ever since then, I’ve been getting these…feelings, like I’m falling through dark shadows. But when I was in the Citadel, it hit me all at once.” Kestel considered telling them about the hydra, but decided against it. “Just as I was about to go under, I saw someone—like the man you’re talking about. He was wearing the same necklace as you.”

  “Did he speak to you?” said the Prioress.

  “No.”

  “And then?”

  “He put his hand on my belly and made the pain go away.”

  Arbalis’s scarred face seemed thoughtful, but the Prioress looked as if she would jump from her seat. Motioning Harpalus to her desk, she allowed the Spymaster to retrieve a small wooden case from a drawer and hand it to Kestel. Crushed blue velvet lined the inside of the box, housing a tiny, amber jewel at its center.

  “This is a reliquary belonging to my family,” said the Prioress. “Let’s test this story of yours. What do you see?”

  Kestel wanted nothing more than to throw the thing away, but he forced himself to remove the jewel, a translucent fragment in amber. The moment he touched it, Kestel’s world spun around him, as it had earlier. This time, however, no pain or sickness came—just a feeling like an image half-remembered.

  “It is a woman,” said Kestel, his response as slow as the image forming in his head. “She’s old and missing one of her arms, but happy. She’s…from a long time ago? I don’t know.”

  “You’re making this up.” Harpalus scoffed, snatching the small jewel back.

  The Prioress waved him into silence. “Kestel, do you believe me now when I say you are something truly special? That is the fingernail of Saint Rene the Founder, a Herald who lost her arm in battle with a fell beast. She was instrumental in building the Old Citadel. The reliquary has been a treasure of my line ever since.”

  “So?” said Kestel. “It was Musmahu’s blood—nothing to do with me.”

  “I believe it has everything to do with you, which is why the city may no longer be safe. Harpalus has just been telling us of an old story which seems to be related to the death of poor Sister Amelia, may she rest in the Angel’s presence. It has to do with a race known as the Ichthyophagi, or Fish-eaters in the common tongue, which may have guided a previous Herald toward his task when he did not know where to turn. And just as it was then, so shall it be again.”

  “What?”

  The old woman raised a commanding hand. “Kestel, I am sending you to seek out the Ichthyophagi and ask their counsel so that you might fulfill the task fate has set for you. As soon as we have the location of where the Ichthyophagi were last seen, Arbalis and his squad will accompany you.”

  Arbalis rose to his feet. “My lord, let us take a step back from this. True, the boy’s talent is strange, but—”

  “I have spoken,” said the Silver Prioress, her voice unyielding as steel. “You do not know how much the future of our people—of all people—is dependent upon this. Which is why you will see the boy achieve his destiny.”

  Kestel bit back the sarcastic reply that sprang to his lips. Just let me get on a boat and out of here.

  Harpalus stayed silent, though the clockwork of his turning mind showed in his dark eyes.

  “What must I do, my Lady?” Arbalis gave a weary sigh.

  The Prioress smiled. “First, you will take him to choose his reliquary. It will protect him.”

  “Where would that be?” Now that Kestel knew reliquaries held pieces of dead people, he wasn’t so keen to have one of his own.

  Arbalis’s face was like stone. “The Crypts.”

  10

  The Ichthyophagi are an old tale told by the common folk, and few believe their word. After spending several years searching for the elusive beasts, the scholar Gredjic proved the creatures, like the Blemeyah or the Chonoroq, are mere fantasy born of superstition.

  ~from ‘Bestiaries’ by Lamda, dated 229th year of the Empire~

  Harpalus stalked the dirty streets of the Old Docks. On his way toward the Crow and Cage, he took care to make a few innocuous purchases. The Spymaster had changed his clothes to those of a simple laborer on his way to work. His merchant’s robes were far too rich for this part of the city, and even his cleric’s robe would have made him a target.

  Looking around, Harpalus took a few seconds to observe the hubbub around him. The Old Docks remained one of the original Caelbor areas near the New Citadel. Dark, narrow streets and tiny stalls funneled the inhabitants into uncomfortable proximity. Despite this, the Spymaster smiled. The Old Docks also continued to be a place where anything could be found—criminals, contraband, and the occasional snippet of information.

  On both sides of the street, men and women jostled to sell exotic drugs, contraband weapons, or the attentions of local whores. Others of a similar fallen nature plied their trade—failed clerics who could still muster the Aeris enough to grant a few healing prayers, unemployed mercenaries, thieves, and outcast nobles. Generally, Caelbor and Exsilium kept to their own across the wider city, but the poverty of the Old Docks forced both groups into grudging brotherhood.

  Turning a corner, Harpalus reached the establishment he wanted. He ducked through the low door adorned with a painting of a crow pecking the eyeballs of a caged thief. Keeping his face down, he slid into a greasy booth. Giving the daggers up his sleeves a secretive touch of reassurance, the Spymaster stole a brief glance around the tavern.

  What a crap-hole.

  Harpalus catalogued the tavern’s inhabitants—alcoholics, cutpurses, ex-soldiers waiting for a fight, and a group of young Caelbor merchants slumming in the Old Docks for thrills. In the next booth along, a drunken sailor pawed at a chubby whore, but unlike Harpalus, he didn’t mark the pimp toying with a knife and calculating the contents of the sailor’s purse.

  A tattooed figure wandered over and slouched down opposite the Spymaster. “Why are you bothering me, sneak?”

  A man in his forties, the stocky Exsilium newcomer wore a beard and old chainmail over a simple woolen shirt. Harpalus’s gaze drifted over the tattoos winding around the larger man’s arms. So eager to try and cover over your old military tattoos.

  “My master extends his greetings, Freeman Boran.”

  Boran snorted. “I don’t give a poxed-whore’s crack for you or your master. Don’t you know I have people to take care of?”

  “My master and I are aware of the heavy burden you bear for the people under your care,” said Harpalus, unmoved. The people under the “care” of the ex-soldier were the ones who paid him not to burn down their meager shop-stalls.

  “As well he should,” said Boran. “What’s it you want from me?”

  “A cleric was murdered last night up at the Seine Bridge. My master would like to meet the miscreant who committed such an act.”

  Boran rubbed his beard. “Maybe I have heard a rumor that a cleric was stretched up by the cliffs.” The ex-soldier’s face became serious. “That had nothing to do with any of my crew, by the way. You’d have to be mad to attack a member of the Citadel.”

  “Are there any names you could give me?”

  Boran’s face went blank. “My memory isn’t what it used to be. Old war wounds, you see…”

  “Of course,” said
Harpalus. “Perhaps some sort of refresher is in order.” He drew out a leather purse and placed it on the table.

  Boran regarded the purse with narrowed eyes. “Is that it? What about my poor, sick daughters?”

  “Don’t push it.” Harpalus shifted so he could draw his knives.

  The larger man seemed to weigh his options, then took the money. “Heldar the Brown,” whispered Boran.

  Harpalus shook his head. “No, he’s currently in jail.”

  “Really?” said Boran. “I was wondering what happened to the old fleabag. What about Keldeth Rodeson?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “You sure?”

  Harpalus’s lips lifted into a cold smile. “Trust me.”

  “Well, there is one other…”

  “Who?” Harpalus leaned forward.

  “I don’t have a name,” said Boran lowering his voice, “but there has been a new face around the Old Docks. Pale, skinny-looking, probably one of the natives—didn’t really get a good look at his face. He’s just been wandering through for the last month or so, to cop a feel of the local whores—although, they always turn up dead.”

  “Is there anything else you can tell me about him?”

  The tattooed man scratched his chin.

  “Well, one of the sailors who saw ’im said he was always drinking wine from a little flask. Right boozer, he was, but wouldn’t let anyone else touch it.”

  Harpalus kept his face frozen as an old fear crept out of his memories.

  Bloodwyne. Hasn’t been seen on this island for ten years.

  Angels damn her, Maal has sent another assassin. Do the League have any idea who they’re working with?