The Traitor's Reliquary

by Chris Moss

  Eriwasteg nodded, tears spilling onto Kestel’s shirt. For a long moment he held onto her, surrounded by the silent forest.

  Give her a kiss, whispered Creven.

  No. Ignoring the piece of silvered skull bobbing against his hip, he pulled back and dried the tears from Eriwasteg’s cheeks.

  “Thank you.” The young woman smiled and waved him away. “But perhaps, just…leave me be for a while.”

  Unsure of what to say, Kestel nodded and started to walk back to the campsite, only to groan, remembering what Arbalis had sent him to do in the first place.

  “I hate firewood.” He rummaged through the undergrowth for dead branches.

  Herald, stop. Listen.

  Kestel lowered himself down into the leaves. I don’t hear anything.

  Listen.

  Around him, sunlight dripped between the leaves and warmed the moist, mossy floor laying siege to the trees. The forest rested in near silence, save tiny noises of insects and the creak of an occasional branch. Looking up, he spied a black humanoid figure moving through trees. Slowly, Kestel drew his sword, watching the shape move from one slippery branch to another, toward a ridgeline.

  It’s Demetros—he’s tracking Eriwasteg. Creven’s voice sounded horrified.

  “Not if I have anything to do with it.” Kestel’s mind focused into the hard-edged habits of the Old Capital. Staying low, Kestel circled behind the shape of Demetros, testing each step before moving.

  The creature who had once been Maal’s guardsman didn’t notice Kestel, but crouched spider-like, legs coiled. Demetros looked down on a small ridgeline, exposing a small patch of rock from the forest floor. Water dripped from the moist surroundings into a shallow pool at the base, where Eriwasteg sat with her head in her hands.

  “Vae!” Kestel abandoned his cover, sprinting through the trees under Demetros’s position. He ignored the sudden crashing above him and launched himself off the ridgeline’s rocky lip.

  Eriwasteg looked up at the commotion and tried to free her sword.

  “Run!” yelled Kestel, dancing down the mossy slope.

  A dark shape erupted from the trees above. Scrambling across the slippery rocks, Kestel grabbed the young woman and pulled her into the relative safety of the far trees.

  Demetros landed in the pool behind them. Kestel clenched his teeth and forced air into his lungs, his chest burning, trying to put distance between them and Demetros.

  “I saw a cave before.” Eriwasteg turned away, pulling him downhill. “We can fight there.”

  “We can’t fight him.” Kestel grunted at the uneven terrain. “Just keep running.”

  The Baavghirla ignored him, darting between rocks, slipping into a wide rock-shelter the water had carved into the ridgeline eons before. Back to the wall, Eriwasteg held her father’s sword in shaking hands. Kestel swore and crouched beside her.

  The pair did not have long to wait. A dark form dropped in front of the cave’s entrance and unfolded into the mottled, amber figure of Demetros, his skeletal body cut and scarred from their battle in the library.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t the little Herald and his wet nurse.” The creature rocked back and forth like a snake, forcing Kestel and Eriwasteg farther back into the cave.

  “Kushii govna e oomre,” said Eriwasteg, her tone equal parts anger and fear.

  Demetros laughed and turned toward Kestel. “You’re mine, boy. And when the Goddess is done with you—”

  The creature curled and hissed, three burning arrows sprouting from his back. Kestel raised his sword and rushed forward, but the writhing Demetros batted him away with a skeletal hand and sprang into the trees.

  “What in Baabuk’s name?” Eriwasteg held her sword steady, her eyes darting along the tree line.

  A dozen brown-cloaked men emerged from the trees, all bearing oversized bows pointed at Kestel.

  “That thing doesn’t like fire,” said one of them, “but it’ll be back soon. Now, who are you?”

  “We’re from the Outer Coast,” said Kestel. “We’re not here to cause trouble.”

  “They wear the leather of Maal’s soldiers,” said another of the brown-clad figures. “Enough talk. Bind them and cover their eyes. If they resist—kill them.”

  Kestel looked at Eriwasteg in desperation, the strangers closing in around them. Before he could speak, a calloused hand covered his mouth and something hard hit him in the back of the head.

  25

  12th Snowmelt: Arbiter Owen has filed formal charges against two local men known to be in the employ of Baroness Wulwyn.

  14th Snowmelt: Arbiter Owen’s body was recovered from the Haepdon River. The head has not been located.

  ~from a report to Spymaster Harpalus, dated 97th year of the Exile~

  Beyond the open balcony, seagulls cried. Harpalus leaned back and observed Julia and the Silver Prioress. The ruler of the New Citadel looked paler than usual but showed no signs of weakness in her voice or bearing. Sister Julia sat with stiff formality and pored over the reports Harpalus brought, refusing to meet his eye. The Prioress was overjoyed to see her Spymaster’s return, but ever since Harpalus had emerged from his bed, Julia had barely said a word.

  What if she knows? What if she’s brought me here to expose me?

  “So, what stage is Rowan at in his scheme?” said the Prioress, her dark, wrinkled brow furrowed in thought.

  Julia shuffled the papers on her lap, her old eyes poring over the pages. “He’s almost ready. The reports from the Canidae show the weapons shipments have slowed. He cannot gather any more men on the island without openly breaking the Arrius Agreement.” She looked up. “He’ll likely strike within the month, probably on the anniversary of Roldar’s first battle on Caelbor. The victory of his famous ancestor would be fitting.”

  “And our own arrangements?”

  “Well in hand,” said Harpalus, cutting in before Julia could speak. “On top of the Praetoria already on the island, I have agents who can call on many who would happily fight the nobles. Rowan will likely strike at both the Citadel and the Old Docks. He won’t risk a siege where more Praetoria could be pulled from the war front. My agents will be placed at all the appropriate choke points between here and the Regal Estate, and by the time Rowan manages to drag his army to our gates, it will be a disorganized mess.”

  “And what about enemies inside the Citadel?” said Julia.

  Harpalus glared at his former mentor. Who are you referring to, old woman? You don’t know anything. You can’t.

  “So, we are no closer to unmasking the traitor,” said the Prioress, disappointment in her voice.

  “No,” said Harpalus.

  The Spymaster and his former mentor sat in silence, each waiting for the other to speak while the fireplace crackled and gulls wheeled outside. Finally, Julia cleared her throat.

  “Let’s go through our suspects. There are four Prelates on this island with enough power to subvert the Citadel’s procedures—Gato, Darius, Niena, and Millner.”

  “Prelate Gato is a bureaucrat,” said Harpalus. “He’s a Caelbor, but politically has nothing to gain or lose by siding with Rowan.” He caught Julia’s mouth opening from the corner of his eye. “Which, of course, means he may be hiding something.” Seeing the old woman’s mouth snap shut gave him some small pleasure.

  “Then there’s Prelate Darius,” said Julia. “He has military operations under his authority.”

  “No,” said the Prioress. “He has asked for more Praetorian to guard the Citadel in the face of Rowan’s aggression, both on and off this island.”

  “That could still be a bluff,” said Julia. “And perhaps Prelate Darius is deliberately pulling troops away from the continent to weaken our defenses elsewhere.”

  “No,” said the Prioress, her tone firm. “He has worked for decades against Maal.”

  Julia shuffled the papers again. “Agents report that Prelate Niena has met with some merchants known to be under the direct control of Rowan.”
>
  “She is also known to be one of Rowan’s bitterest opponents,” said Harpalus, dismissing the idea. “What would cause her to turn her back on the Citadel and ally with him? Besides, Maal’s agent referred to the traitor as a man.”

  “And Maal’s agent is obviously a trustworthy source.”

  The mocking tone in Julia’s voice made Harpalus’s lip curl, but it was the Prioress who gave the old woman a hard look. “Prelate Niena has never wanted more power, merely the smooth running of the Citadel.”

  “Even at the cost of your life?” said Julia. “Perhaps she is afraid of losing the coming battle with the League and has switched sides.”

  The white-robed figure twisted in her chair toward the Spymaster. “Harpalus? Your thoughts?”

  Harpalus shrugged. “It’s possible that Maal’s agent is causing her to betray you. The traitorous Prelate may even think they’re acting against Rowan while the agent feeds them misinformation designed to hurt the Citadel.”

  “What makes you say that?” said Julia.

  Harpalus froze for a split second, sudden terror forcing his thoughts into action. “Just an impression I got while I was being tortured.”

  “Then what about Prelate Millner?” Julia turned her gaze away and fished through the papers in front of her.

  “No.” The Prioress twisted in her wheelchair to face Julia. “It cannot be him.”

  “It has to be someone,” Harpalus said. “Why not? He’s impossible to get close to. His mansion is almost a fortress.”

  The bronzed old woman shifted, turning to look out the window. “Prelate Millner has been working on something for me for quite a while—years, in fact.”

  “What?” said Harpalus.

  The robed figure pursed her lips, considering her reply. “How to turn the Aeris into a weapon—to produce clerics capable of fighting the Immortals one on one.”

  “How?” Harpalus and Julia said in unison.

  “It was a project I started working on after I was attacked by Gyges. My visions are no defense against a knife, let alone the poison that left me crippled. The powers granted by the Angel have only ever been used to heal, to sense pain or untruths. However, that does not mean this is the limit of the Aeris.”

  “It’s a possibility some of us have long suspected,” said Julia. “Harpalus, do you remember your encounter with Brother Oswin on Abbeyfort?”

  Harpalus looked at the Prioress and shook his head in frustration. “Millner is almost certainly going to use this weapon against you!”

  “I trust him,” the old woman in the wheelchair said. “He’s very talented.”

  Julia continued leafing through the papers. “It has to be one of them. We simply have to keep following the Prelates and hope the traitor will give something away.”

  “No,’ said Harpalus. “That won’t work. I’ll think of a new plan. Meanwhile, Sister, you’re retired. Perhaps it’s time you got back to your library.”

  The old woman didn’t flinch at the Spymaster’s words, but Harpalus noted how she held her breath.

  The Prioress cleared her throat. “I always believed the two of you functioned more effectively together.”

  “You mean...” Harpalus narrowed his eyes.

  “I think it's best that Sister Julia stay on as your second for the time being. At least until you’ve fully recovered from your ordeal.”

  Harpalus remained silent for a full minute, weighing his options. She doesn’t trust me. Was Typhena right about the Prioress, too? Is she already getting ready to replace me? “As you wish.”

  “Excellent.” The Prioress nodded as if she wasn’t aware of the Spymaster’s silent distress. “In that case, you are both dismissed. Report back to me at the end of the week, or if you glean new information.”

  Leaving the robed figure to her paperwork, Julia and Harpalus walked down the tiny passage from the Prioress’s chamber and into the network of tunnels beneath. Julia broke the silence.

  “I’ve assigned an agent to follow each of the suspected Prelates. Perhaps they’ll turn up something.”

  “Really?” said Harpalus, not bothering to hide the cold in his tone. “They won’t. Where else have you been sending my agents?”

  “I haven’t interfered with any of your day-to-day operations.” The old cleric sighed. “Do you actually have a plan for uncovering the Prelate defector?”

  “There is another source of information on Rowan’s activities available to me,” he said.

  “The Baroness—Lady Mantis.”

  Harpalus nodded.

  The old woman’s sudden reach for his shoulder surprised him. He recoiled from her unwelcome touch. She let her hand fall back to her side and sighed. “Pye, Baroness Wulwyn is dangerous. Do you think you’ve recovered enough to negotiate with her?”

  “I am perfectly capable of carrying out my duties.” He glared at the old woman. “Stop questioning me.”

  Harpalus led her down into a dry cellar—bare, save for a candle, a few crates, and the usual table overflowing with maps and reports. Gyges waited statue-like in a corner, his only reaction to the pair—a brief flicker in his dark eyes. Perching on a wooden box, Harpalus regarded Julia with a wary gaze. “What has been happening on the continent since my…absence?”

  The old woman leaned forward and retrieved a stack of papers from Harpalus’s desk. “Maal’s offensive in Eldeway has eased. She seems to have lost all interest in it. The scabies forces are now strung out across the entire war zone, stretching our own forces in response.”

  Harpalus tried not to wince at the mention of Eldeway. “Power at point has obviously failed, so she’s trying to outflank us again,” he lied. “What about the Baavghir?”

  “They’re continuing to court both the Citadel and Rowan’s envoys, but mostly they’re keeping to their own lands.”

  “Do you think they’re negotiating with Maal?”

  “Perhaps—”

  The old woman stopped at the sight of Gyges darting forward. He thrust a heavy arm into the shadowy corridor. A shrill squeal bounced around the room, his meaty hand pulling a small, gray-robed figure into the candlelight.

  “It’s alright, Gyges,” said Harpalus. “He’s one of mine.”

  Disappointed, the bulky figure sat back down on his box. The trembling cleric handed Harpalus a slip of paper and disappeared into the darkness. The Spymaster’s eyes narrowed at the contents of the note.

  “What’s happened?” Julia said.

  Harpalus silenced her with a flick of his fingers. He sat in thought for a moment and then pulled himself up. “The two of you follow me,” he said, heading down the passage. “Another agent has been murdered.”

  Harpalus led Julia and Gyges deep into the maze of service jetties beneath the Old Docks, the bustle overhead a muted rumbling that filtered down through a tangle of planks and pylons. Dockworkers scampered about like rats, loaded down with tar and caulking to be administered to the hulking boughs of the ships unloading above. Stopping near the massive belly of a cargo ship, Harpalus nodded at a scrawny dockworker and peered into the dirty water.

  The man’s body had been dead for at least a week and would likely have never been found had he not been caught up against the jagged barnacles encrusting the massive pylons. The corpse, bloated and green from its time in the water, forced everyone present to hold their breath. Gyges reached down and plucked the mangled body from the swirling currents.

  “They’ve cut off his ’ead, sir,” said the dockworker, breathing hard through the dirty rag over his mouth.

  Harpalus bent down and traced the uneven wound along the victim’s neck.

  “Do you know who he was?” said Julia, her face maintaining a professional expression, though her face turned green.

  “I recognize the tattoos.” Harpalus held back the ragged flesh along the neck to expose a crude anchor. “He was a native dockworker named Nathen. I assigned him to watch the whore houses in the area when the first reports of Maal’s agent came to m
e.”

  “He got too close to his quarry,” said Julia. “The woman you described must be in one of the brothels nearby.”

  “Or at least, she was.” Harpalus looked down to hide his face from his old mentor. Nathen Astle, you were so eager when I ordered you to search the brothels. Like Amelia, you got too close. Why did she let me live? The thought of Typhena stirred a rush of emotions—hatred, passion, more than a little pain and something he couldn’t identify.

  “Harpalus?”

  Shocked back to the present, the Spymaster looked up at Julia’s concerned face.

  “Rowan isn’t a fool,” he said, before the old cleric could speak. “He’s almost ready and is likely hunting my agents before they can thwart him.”

  Julia nodded in agreement and turned to the waiting dockworker. “Take the body and place it in the nearest midden. We don’t want anyone else asking questions.”

  The agent nodded and stepped forward, only to stop and give the Spymaster a nervous look. Harpalus flashed Julia a deadly expression, but the old woman gave no offer of apology.

  “Take the corpse out beyond the port and bury him at sea,” he said. “Tie some weights to it, to be sure. We don’t want to leave any traces for Rowan to realize we know his intentions.”

  The dockworker nodded and scurried off into the maze of planks and pylons.

  Harpalus rubbed his forehead and tried to predict Rowan’s next move. “Maal’s agent recognized me from the attack on the Caelbor Lady, and it won’t take long for her to tell Rowan which merchant company I own.”

  “The House of the Magpie has been compromised.” Julia’s reply lacked any emotion. “How terrible—to have everything you’ve built up over the years, destroyed by your own mistakes.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you can relate to such a situation.”

  The pair locked gazes, glaring at each other in the murk.

  “Gyges and I will take care of the Magpie offices,” said Harpalus, looking past Julia at the waiting giant. “We will talk after the ninth bell. Until then, you will not so much as breathe unless I command it. Understand?”