The Traitor's Reliquary

by Chris Moss

Kestel gritted his teeth. “Perhaps not, but how does a thousand years at the bottom of the ocean sound?” He relaxed his grip on the leather thong, letting it slip a little.

  Hmph—I bet you don’t get invited to a lot of parties.

  “Tell me, skull. Am I the Herald or not?”

  Well, in one sense, yes, and in another, no.

  Kestel let the leather cord slip a little farther.

  Look, insofar as you’re a member of the living, and you’ve been born during a time of great upheaval, yes, you could be the next Herald. But Authority can’t be forced onto someone. So, you can’t be the Herald if you don’t choose to be, which you obviously don’t. It wouldn’t make much sense to wield the Authority against your will, would it?

  “So, my fate doesn’t belong to Maal or the Prioress? I’m free?”

  As much as any of the living can claim, I suppose.

  “I’m free.” Kestel sucked in a deep breath, a huge weight falling from his shoulders. For a moment he stood, enjoying the sensation.

  What are you going to do, then?

  Kestel looked out over the sea. “Get on the ship with the others. Leave at the first opportunity. Let them save the continent if they want to.” He fastened the skull to his belt, where it hung snug against the curve of his hip. “I’m bringing you along, skull. You might be useful.”

  I’m meant for the Herald! You can’t take me!

  “Want to go back to the Crypts?”

  When do we leave, partner?

  Kestel made his way back to the Praetorian barracks, only to be met at the gate by Mollis, Calla, and Arbalis. The bronze veteran looked him up and down, his eyes lingering for a moment on the silvered skull resting against Kestel’s hip.

  “All set, lad?” said Arbalis. “We’re leaving tonight.”

  “Why so soon?” said Kestel in surprise. “I thought the Prioress said there would be years of trials and training.”

  “The Silver Prioress and the Magpie no longer think the city’s a safe place for you,” said Calla. “If you really are who they say.”

  “Be patient, Cal. None of us know the Angel’s will in this.” Mollis handed Kestel a leather pack with the young man’s few possessions.

  “Do you know where we’re going?” said Kestel.

  Arbalis offered a stiff nod, his crossbow rattling against the steel armor. “Right into the heat of battle. A place called Eldeway, along the Ghenriem River mouth.”

  “It’s been under siege from both sides for the last five months.” Calla’s words held a grimness Kestel had heard all too often from soldiers going into dangerous situations.

  “So, can we depend on you, lad?” said Arbalis. “Will you stay, and see your destiny through?”

  The way the three soldiers stiffened, suggested it was not a question asked lightly.

  Kestel nodded. “You can depend on me, Commander.”

  Mollis grinned, and Arbalis relaxed, but unseen, Creven snorted.

  Liar.

  No longer quite so sure, Kestel wondered at the sudden shame inside him.

  14

  Baroness Wulwyn recently purchased the Ironcloud estate near the Baavghir borders, sold off by Lord Rowan. Financial details to follow. It is unknown whether the Baavghir wished to purchase this land by proxy, but an Baavghir representative has been marked leaving Wulwyn Manor three days past the new moon.

  ~from a report to Spymaster Harpalus, undated~

  Disembarking from a small, plain skiff, Harpalus leaned against the wooden guardrails and winced with nausea. Despite Julia’s best powders and tonics, the Spymaster still didn’t travel well on the high seas, especially in the treacherous currents north of Caelbor.

  Serves me right for choosing a merchant’s life as my cover.

  Looking up at the gnomic bulk of Abbeyfort Prison, he contemplated the strange chain of events that led him to recruit its most notorious prisoner.

  Abbeyfort was the largest and of the islands north of the New Citadel, but the barren crag of mottled gray and black rock jutting out of the sea looked to Harpalus more like a calloused thumb. The island had once been a monastery, then a watchtower for raiders, but since the rise and fall of the Old Empire, the desolate island had come to serve a new purpose.

  Making his way up the small jetty, Harpalus noted the red and blue liveries of the soldiers guarding the iron gates. Abbeyfort, technically, remained a vassal of Lord Rowan, and Harpalus suspected the place served as much as a prison for guards who displeased their master as it did for the criminals within.

  “Warden Oswin will see you now, Brother,” said the guard to Harpalus’s left, his pale, unshaven face set in a sneer.

  “Thank you, sir.” The Spymaster kept his voice as neutral as he could, refusing to react to the guard’s muttered obscenity.

  Led through a smaller side door and into the main body of the jail, Harpalus noticed the passageway wound up the sides of the island. Vandalized engravings on the walls were lit by the occasional slit of sunlight from narrow shafts in the roof. Eventually, the pair reached the warden’s office. The guard indicated the door with a jerk of his head and a snort, before stalking off.

  “Charming,” said Harpalus, once the guard was out of earshot. A knock on the heavy oak door brought a Caelbor cleric, robed in red and black, to greet the Spymaster. He took a seat next to a simple wooden desk and waved Harpalus over to a stool. “Greetings, Brother…?”

  A dozen names scrolled through Harpalus’s memory. He considered dusting off his original name for the conversation but decided against it. Pye, the street urchin, was gone as surely as if he had died. “Reynard—special messenger for the Prioress.”

  “Brother Oswin,” said the cleric, “keeper of this island’s little flock.”

  Harpalus opened his mouth to speak, but Oswin overrode him. “I’ve read your request, and the answer’s no. I am not letting our most violent criminal out on nothing more than some vague reference to a special mission.”

  “But—”

  “And no,” interrupted Oswin. “I don’t care if it was signed by the Silver Prioress. She hasn’t visited here in years, and she doesn’t know that Gyges the Heavy-Handed can’t be redeemed.”

  “You have to—”

  “No. Once again, no. The man’s a killer. And trust me, I should know. He’s not like the others here on this damn rock. He doesn’t kill out of anger, or pain, or jealousy. He simply kills if someone happens to be in front of him. Go home, little cleric. You’re out of your depth here.”

  Harpalus gave a theatrical sigh. “You are making life very difficult, Warden.”

  “Life is difficult, Brother Reynard,” said Oswin. “But a spoiled Citadel pet wouldn’t know that.”

  “Really?” Harpalus raised an eyebrow. “I’m sure we can come to some sort of arrangement regarding your lifestyle here—”

  “You can’t bribe me,” said Oswin, his voice rising in anger. “I’m no freebooting mercenary or tavern whore.”

  “If you haven’t noticed, we’re on the cusp of a continental war.” Harpalus allowed his own voice to rise. “If the Silver Prioress has a use for the prisoner Gyges, then believe that her need is great. This is not a time to be seen as recalcitrant to the Citadel’s needs.”

  Oswin sprang to his feet, his face a white mask of fury. “You dare accuse me of disloyalty, you soft-handed lackey? I have spent eighteen years of my life on this angels-forsaken rock, guarding you and yours from the worst scum ever whelped. Don’t you ever accuse me of being untrue to the Citadel.”

  Harpalus tried to speak, but the warden waved a crimson-lined sleeve out the window and continued his tirade. “Look at this prison, little cleric. This used to be a place of holiness where the great men and women of old came to hone their skills in the Aeris. They understood the need for sacrifice, as do I. That is why I spend my time here with murderers and child molesters.”

  Harpalus stayed silent, considering his options. Typical controlling personality—everything must
be his way or nothing. But they all have their little weaknesses, in the end…

  “Well Brother, I can see the sense in what you’re saying. After all, a murderer is a dangerous thing. That’s why we keep them here on this island.”

  Oswin’s face went blank, but suspicion flashed behind his eyes.

  “As you said, the Prioress herself has visited you here. I’m sure you two had a great deal to discuss.”

  “The Silver Prioress’s visit was secret, Brother Reynard. I have nothing to say to you about that.”

  “Really? Is that because you were part of the reason for her journey here?”

  “This is my prison.” Oswin’s tone might as well have been a snarl. “And these prisoners are mine.”

  “To do with as you wish?”

  Warden Oswin remained silent, but Harpalus saw the worm of fear gnawing at the man’s resolution.

  Time to press a bit harder.

  “How many prisoners have died under your care, Warden? I’ve examined the reports of your activities and can read between the lines as well as anyone. How many men have you killed? Ten? Twenty—thirty, even?”

  The cassocked figure didn’t reply, sinking down into his chair.

  “How did you do it, though?” said Harpalus, keeping his tone sweet. “I thought the powers of the Aeris could only be used in a state of empathy or love.”

  Still the warden remained silent, but the Spymaster noted sweat beading on the man’s forehead. “Well?” whispered Harpalus.

  “It was love,” Oswin said, as if every word were being physically dragged from him. “Tough love. You don’t know the men here. They’re animals. They cannot function in society any more than rabid dogs. I tamed them, forced them to respect the laws they so willingly broke.”

  “Even if you broke them in the process?” Harpalus raised his eyebrow. Yes, that’s right. Get scared, get angry. Draw the noose around your neck for me.

  “These brutes respond to nothing, unless it is to save their worthless hides.”

  Harpalus leaned close. “Well the Silver Prioress and the leading Prelates of the Citadel wouldn’t see it that way. Strangely enough, they’d see it as murder. And perhaps you might even end up down there amongst your charges. Would they welcome you with open arms, I wonder?”

  Warden Oswin’s face remained blank, but his eyes grew wild with fear. The Spymaster waited, but the pale figure said nothing more.

  “Take me to Gyges now, Brother,” whispered Harpalus. “Your help in releasing him to my care might please me enough to overlook your...tough love.”

  The cleric grunted—a sharp exhalation of breath signifying defeat. Rising from his chair, the warden headed for the door. “Follow me, Brother. I wish to show you something.”

  Oswin led the Spymaster out onto a wide balcony overlooking the far side of the island, cordoned off with a high stone wall. Inside the open space, almost a hundred men lounged about the bare rock or slouched in corners.

  “Which one is he?” said Harpalus.

  Letting his mind sort the details of the scene, Harpalus realized the prisoner’s positions were not as haphazard as he first thought. Several groups could be seen guarding little territories of flat rock or gray rubble, and each group had lookouts. Unattached criminals roamed between the groups, staying well away from the gangs, but unable to settle anywhere.

  “Do you see how it works amongst them, Brother Reynard?” said Oswin. “Even in this little world, they vie for power and control. And if you cannot be part of a band, then you are just another target.”

  “And Gyges?”

  “He’s different.” Oswin pointed down at one lone figure. “Watch.”

  Harpalus marked Abbeyfort’s most famous inmate. A pale, heavyset figure, with thick arms and legs, his gray, bushy beard almost came down to his stomach. The way the prisoner sat on a large, flat rock and stared at the sky struck Harpalus as placid, almost blank, compared to the tense and battle-ready stances of the other men in the courtyard.

  “This is the man that bested the Citadel’s elite guard single handed.” Harpalus’s memories flashed with scenes of blood.

  “With a single knife.” Warden Oswin leaned over the balcony. “Oh dear... It seems some of the newcomers are trying to secure their positions in a gang.”

  Following the cleric’s gaze, Harpalus watched two brawny, young Caelbor men stride over to Gyges’s rock.

  “Old man!” said one of the men. “Word around here is you’re hard rogue. Isn’t that so, Gulth?”

  His partner crossed his arms and sneered. “This piece of pizzle rot? He’s past his prime, Roel.”

  Gyges didn’t reply. He stood up and stretched his meaty arms. The two men looked at each other.

  “Did you hear me, old man?” said the criminal identified as Roel. “You should have answered us. Now we’re going to have to hurt you.”

  “Yeah.” Gulth cocked his head to the side. “You should—”

  Gyges punched the criminal in the throat. Gulth went down, making a liquid gurgling noise. Roel screamed in rage and threw himself at Gyges. The large man looked unconcerned by the attack. He shifted his weight and kicked Roel between the legs. The young man’s scream turned into a howl of pain. He keeled over. While the criminal flailed about on the ground, the bulky figure reached down and put a hand on either side of Roel’s head.

  “No, please—”

  Gyges gave a sharp twist and snapped the young man’s neck as easily as that of a chicken. Returning to his seat on the rock, he resumed staring at the sky.

  Oswin turned to Harpalus. “Do you see now why I enforce such strict discipline? It is the only language they know, and it is the only way these animals can be controlled.” Reaching out his hands, he shouted out over the courtyard. “Decumo, all of you. Down, you dogs!”

  The black and red cleric glowed like a silver lamp. A familiar shiver moved up Harpalus’s spine, signifying the use of the Aeris. Around the courtyard, criminals flopped onto the stones, forced to their hands and knees and gasping for breath. A few of the stronger ones cursed and snarled, but Gyges just lay supine, as if taking an afternoon nap.

  Despite himself, Harpalus was impressed. Using the Aeris to physically control and even hurt a person was almost unheard of, but to master so many prisoners at once suggested Oswin’s twisted logic had given him access to some deep source of power.

  Are you a threat?

  A flick of the warden’s wrist brought several guards out into the courtyard. They stepped on or over prisoners, dragging away the corpses of Roel and Gulth. Two guards led Gyges toward the gate. Despite his apparent immobility, they seemed cautious in their manhandling of him.

  “Take him to the Tide Chamber.” Brother Oswin’s voice throbbed with power. “We will see him in a few hours.” He turned to the prostrate criminals spread over the courtyard, his imperious voice deepening until the walls vibrated. “You know Gyges and you know my rules. Send no more men to their deaths, or I will send you to yours.”

  A soft, spoken word from Oswin lifted the compulsion. The inmates flopped around like stranded fish. Turning his back on the crowd, the silvery glow around him faded. He gave Harpalus a dark look. “Come, Brother Reynard. Let us dine and I will show you to your prisoner.”

  His expression neutral, Harpalus took his hands off the daggers hidden in the folds of his robe and bowed his head. “Certainly, Warden. Let us hope there is no more...unpleasantness.”

  A few hours later Harpalus ducked through a low arch, into the darkest and most notorious dungeon of Abbeyfort Prison. Located in the deepest part of the prison, the Tide Chamber had no light save the lantern the Spymaster brought to guide his steps. No iron bars or heavy door closed off the cell, but one look at the room showed Harpalus why.

  “Angel’s arseholes,” he swore.

  The Tide Chamber was, in essence, a simple blowhole—a mere funnel running up into the rock under Abbeyfort, connected to the sea. Black water sloshed several feet below the Spym
aster, gurgling like the throat of some lost sea monster. Stripped bare, Gyges stood chained to the slick wall, propping himself up by wedging his feet a mere hand span above the water below. Even if by some miracle the thick-limbed killer could break free of his chains, it would still be impossible to escape without help.

  Bending down, Harpalus spread his cassocked arm wide and lowered his lantern over the blowhole.

  Gyges looked up. The man looked older than Harpalus remembered—his middle-years long gone—leaving deep lines and a wide array of scars. Harpalus had dealt with many killers, but never had he seen eyes as hollow as those staring up from below.

  Dead eyes—much like the other young scabie.

  Watching him made the memory of Harpalus’s last encounter with Gyges surface.

  The giant assassin lay prone on the floor between the bodies of three Praetoria, the surviving members already carrying the Prioress out of the room toward the nearest healer.

  “The dagger was poisoned!” Pye shouted at the retreating backs. “It will need multiple clerics!”

  “My thanks,” said one of the Praetoria. “Maal’s killer would have defeated us if you hadn’t struck from behind. How fares the Commander?”

  “Dying,” said Pye, freezing his gaunt features, focused on keeping all emotion from his voice. “But the Spymistress is healing him.”

  “Again, thank you.”

  “Don’t thank us. The plan failed.”

  Harpalus shook himself free of the memory and addressed the man below. “Do you know why you are here?”

  The heavyset prisoner spoke, his voice deep and almost guttural. “Murder.”

  “Correct,” said the Spymaster. “Tell me, why did you kill them?”

  Gyges stayed silent. Harpalus wanted to repeat the question but the waters below made a hoarse sucking noise and rose. Within a few seconds the water submerged the prisoner, his thick beard swaying below like the seaweed outside the walls. After a long moment, the waters sucked out as quickly as they had come.

  “Still with me?” said Harpalus.