The Shattered Vigil

by Patrick W. Carr

  Bronwyn jerked forward and poked her finger at Pellin’s chest. “Perhaps you need to go a bit deeper into your theology, Eldest. Since when has a gift of Aer come to anyone who was worthy? Those beggars and thieves saved our lives. If their code of behavior is not so in keeping with doctrine, what would you have them do? Starve to death so that they can die clean and virtuous in the eyes of the church?” She drew breath to go on but never got the chance.

  “My apologies, Lady Bronwyn,” Pellin said. “You are right, of course.” His tone turned rueful and amused. “As Toria Deel said, it is only a temporary precaution. Which of our prodigies do you wish to take under your wing?”

  “Fess,” Bronwyn said without hesitation. “He’s having some, ah, difficulty adapting to life off the street, anyway.”

  “Ha,” Pellin said. “You probably mean he’s been swindling acolytes from the four orders out of their market money in his spare time.”

  Bronwyn shrugged. “You know as well as I do that some men aren’t meant to be merchants, Eldest.”

  “Yes,” Pellin drawled. “Obviously. Toria Deel, which of the urchins do you wish assigned to you?”

  She glanced at me as she leaned forward to answer. “Since Rory is already in training to be Bolt’s replacement, I think I would like to have Lelwin as my apprentice. She has a turn of mind that I find intriguing.”

  “Which leaves Mark to be my apprentice,” Pellin said, “or the Mark as he likes to call himself. Wonderful. I shudder to think of the opportunities that little urchin can contrive, given access to the courts of every kingdom on the continent.”

  I saw Bronwyn struggle to keep the smile from her face and voice, and fail. “Think of it as your penance, Eldest, for disdaining the least of us.”

  The Eldest cocked his head to one side. “I hope I have the opportunity to pay it.” He looked at me. “Will the urchins agree to this, Lord Dura?”

  I smiled. “They will if you make it worth their while.”

  Pellin looked around the room, his gaze speculative. “The church will use tonight’s attack to support their argument for bringing the Vigil under their direct authority.”

  There’s a look a man gets when he’s about to disobey a direct order, a hardening of the jawline and an unblinking squint to his gaze. I’d seen it a few times in the war. Pellin wore that look now. “We’re going to have to leave the city before the heads of the orders think to take us prisoner. I believe Lord Dura will have a bit less freedom than the rest of us.”

  Toria glanced my way. “Why?”

  Pellin nodded at me. “I told them nearly everything. The Archbishop suggested putting you under guard.” He sighed. “The Merum are very traditional in their approach. Anything outside of their liturgical definition tends to be viewed with great suspicion, and you’re about as outside the experience of the church as it’s possible to get.”

  Something cold settled into the pit of my stomach. “If they want me dead, putting me under guard is the best way to do it, unless they intend on recruiting children to stand watch over me. If another dwimor comes, it will be like killing pigs in a cage.”

  “How much time do we have, Eldest?” Toria asked.

  Pellin glanced toward the sleeping form of Allta, his gaze filled with possibilities. “Perhaps a bit more than we might have had otherwise. Allta’s injuries are grave.” He nodded. “Very grave. On any other man, they would take weeks to heal, possibly months. Yes, it will be some time before my guard is able to resume his full duties. As long as the Chief of Servants believes that I’m tied to Bunard, we rob the church’s discussion of urgency.”

  He looked at Bronwyn and Toria. “But it’s foolish for us to remain together. I want the two of you to take rooms at different inns in the upper merchants’ quarter, but don’t leave Bunard just yet.”

  Toria’s brows lowered. “Eldest?”

  “I’m waiting on a messenger from the southern continent,” Pellin said. “I wrote to the head of the southern Vigil several months ago, requesting he send a set of scrying stones as quickly as possible. They were supposed to arrive before Bas-solas, but storms in the Western Sea delayed them.”

  “You knew Jorgen was corrupted?” Bronwyn asked.

  Pellin shook his head. “No, but I allowed for the possibility. After he and Laewan went missing, I also sent messages to the sentinel trainers in each kingdom, telling them to move, to avoid any of their previous bases.” He sighed like a man with too much weight on his chest, and I saw him finger a pocket within his cloak. “Until all of our stones are accounted for, we dare not trust using them.”

  “And you’ve already used them to trick the enemy once,” I said. “It’s doubtful such a ruse would work again.”

  Pellin nodded. “Agreed.” He looked around the room. “I think we’re about done for the evening.”

  I was the first to rise and take my leave. Bolt followed me out the door.

  Chapter 10

  Pellin waited until the door closed behind Dura and Bolt before he spoke again. “Lady Bronwyn, Lady Deel, a moment more, if you please.”

  Toria turned to him in surprise, and Bronwyn glanced at the door Willet Dura had just exited before she turned her gaze back to him.

  “On second thought,” Pellin began, “I think it would be better if we made such preparations as we can and left Bunard tonight.”

  “Since Lord Dura is not among our company at the moment, Eldest,” Bronwyn said, “I can only conclude that you mean to leave him behind.”

  Pellin forced himself to respond to the words instead of the disapproval in her tone. “That is exactly what I mean to do.”

  “When the Chief of Servants finds us gone, Eldest, she will surely take Lord Dura into custody,” Toria said.

  Pellin nodded. “And if we do not leave this very night, then she will scoop all of us into her net like a school of fish who are too ignorant to scatter from the threat of capture.” He sighed. “I thought to surprise the Chief with my visit, but their conversation, while masterful, held too many hints of prior preparation.” He held up a hand to forestall Bronwyn’s objection. “And in the unlikely event it was not rehearsed, our need for escape becomes that much more urgent. The church means to take direct control of the Vigil.”

  “I fail to see how running away in the middle of the night does anything more than delay the inevitable,” Bronwyn said. “The heads of the orders will have our likenesses distributed to the outlying cities and villages, and sooner or later we will be in that net you spoke of, caught singly, but caught nonetheless.”

  “Should we not all remain here?” Toria asked. “We have a better chance of exerting our influence over the Chief of Servants if we are united. ‘A cord of three strands . . . ’”

  Pellin shook his head. “Jorgen knows where we are. As Bolt would say, ‘Better to be a moving target than a sitting one.’”

  “But you’re leaving him behind, Eldest, along with Lord Dura,” Bronwyn pointed out.

  “Lord Dura cannot aid us in what we are about to do. If his vault is a window to the evil of the Darkwater, we cannot afford to take him with us or allow him to know where we’re going.”

  Bronwyn shook her head. “Hard duty, Eldest. I believe he would have agreed had you taken him into your confidence, instead of tricking him.”

  At Pellin’s glare, she closed her eyes and nodded. “And what are the rest of us to do?”

  He took a deep breath. They weren’t going to like what he was about to suggest. If he could have, he would have waited. But the truth was they were never going to like it—no matter when he ordered it. By heaven’s gate, he didn’t like it himself. “I will contact the rulers of the kingdoms bordering the Darkwater. Perhaps I can barter for our freedom, convince them of the importance of our task.” He put as much certainty into his expression as he could, tried to mold himself into a memory of Cesla—so sure, so certain.

  It didn’t work. Bronwyn’s eyes widened in shock, and Toria stared at him as if the walls of
his mind had given way and insanity had taken him at last.

  “Are you mad?” Bronwyn finally said. “You’ll start a war between the rulers and the church.”

  Toria’s head twitched back and forth in disbelief. “Eldest, if we seek the aid of the kings and queens, we will be forcing the church to take action. By making us the prize, you’re risking a war that could last for decades.”

  Pellin shook his head. “Not we—I will seek their aid. If we cannot stay free from the imprisonment the orders will enforce upon us, our world won’t last a decade. The church is more concerned about safeguarding our gift than meeting the threat. I need not ask directly for the protection of the nobility, I merely need to be seen in their courts,” Pellin said. He hoped to Aer it was true. “The church doesn’t want war any more than the kingdoms do.”

  Not entirely certain of his argument, he continued. “I will begin in Owmead, in Rymark’s court.” It was clear that Bronwyn was not impressed with that idea either, but what else could he do—Andred was the closest capital city.

  “Really?” Bronwyn asked. “King Rymark fancied himself the next emperor for years. Do you want to walk into his court and imply that you’re willing to provide him access to your gift in exchange for your freedom? What will a man with that kind of ambition do?”

  Pellin considered her counsel and saw the wisdom. “Your point is taken, Lady Bronwyn. I will avoid Owmead for now, travel instead to Vadras—King Boclar should be more amenable to our goals. On the way I will check in with Owmead’s and Caisel’s sentinel trainers.

  “Toria Deel, I want you to search out the truth behind the Clast. Perhaps their disappearance after Bas-solas is nothing more than a coincidence, but I doubt it.”

  He returned to Bronwyn. “I want you to patrol the villages bordering the Darkwater. The enemy’s defeat at Bas-solas means they must create reinforcements. To do that, they’ll have to find a way to lure others into the forest. Do whatever it takes to stop them. I will ask the sentinel trainers to send you reinforcements.”

  “Should we not search for the gifts that have gone free?” Toria asked.

  “I pray the heads of the church will find the ones who hold them.”

  “Ones they will surely keep hostage,” Bronwyn said.

  “I hope not,” he said, “but the possibility cannot be discounted. Regardless, we must leave the search in their hands.”

  He moved against the pain of his wounds and retrieved a map from a richly polished desk drawer. “I will leave word for the scrying stones.” His finger drifted along the seamed and stained parchment showing the kingdoms of the northern continent. “Let us agree to meet in four months.” He pointed. “Here at the village of Edring.”

  “So close to Cynestol, Eldest?” Bronwyn asked.

  “We should be safe enough, and we may need access to the library.”

  Chapter 11

  The second month of Queen Cailin’s Regency

  I woke in the familiar rooms I’d occupied for months as King Laidir’s reeve, checking to see if Bolt stood over me this morning, covered in sweat because he’d fought to keep me from wandering the city. Today only the sound of my breathing greeted me. Even if there had been a killing, the Chief of Servants had no intention of letting me investigate, claiming I was too valuable a resource to be risked.

  And too much of a risk to run loose.

  She hadn’t taken kindly to me pointing out the contradiction in her arguments. I went into the anteroom and found Bolt there, seated with Rory, both of them staring at the ficheall board as if they could will the pieces to life. In the month of my imprisonment, Rory had exhibited a surprising patience for the game, an ability to concentrate for extended periods that had abandoned me.

  Bolt glanced up from his contemplation of Rory’s gambit. “You look like something the cook should have thrown away.”

  Even on the nights no one died, I still struggled to find rest. “I keep looking over my shoulder, even in my sleep, waiting for the church guards to put me in prison or a dwimor to come for me. I can’t decide which would be worse.”

  “Dwimor,” Rory said as if the statement hadn’t been rhetorical. “It’s always worse to have someone kill you than put you in prison.”

  “Sense,” Bolt said. “Better the healer than the gravesman.”

  “Thanks, I’ll commit that one to memory. You’re not the one who has to talk to the Chief of Servants every other day, trying to convince her you’re not evil incarnate walking the streets.”

  “I don’t see why you’re worried, yah?” Rory said. “You’re still free, sort of, and maybe they’ve given up on dwimor after the first two failed.”

  I looked out the window, where the sun had already crested the mountains to the east and had begun the serious business of turning Bunard into a sweltering, humid mess of sweating humanity. “Who’s ‘they’? And if they’re not making dwimor, what are they doing?”

  “Jorgen,” Bolt said.

  “And hopefully only Jorgen,” I said. “But what happened to him?”

  Bolt bent his attention back to the game of ficheall. “When we catch him, I’ll cut the answer out of his hide for you.” He captured a piece and set it to the side of the board. I could hear Rory swearing under his breath from across the room.

  “If we get the chance,” I said.

  Bolt shrugged. “Things could be worse.”

  “I hate it when people say that,” I said. “It’s like daring Aer to prove it.”

  The sound of someone pounding on the heavy wood planks with what sounded like the hilt of a sword punctuated my reply.

  Between one blink and the next, daggers appeared in each of Rory’s hands, and Bolt drew his sword despite the evidence of sunlight outside the window. He opened the door and stepped back, giving himself room to parry.

  Jeb stood between two guards dressed in the plain brown of the Servants—though guards was overly generous. Servants didn’t go about armed except in extreme cases that warranted self-defense. Two more flanked them a few paces back, holding Jeb’s sword and dagger. The fact that Bolt could have cut through the four men with scarcely more effort than it took to draw his sword was supremely unhelpful. He seemed even more disinclined to hurt Servants than he had Merum.

  The chief reeve had his hand raised, and he regarded the open door with a look of mild disappointment. Knowing Jeb, he probably wanted to put a few more dents in the oak with his knuckles. He shot a look at the men who shadowed me everywhere. “What’s the matter, Dura, you force yourself on some Servant’s daughter?”

  Normally, Jeb would have laughed at his own jibe, but the thrust lacked his usual enthusiasm for other people’s misfortune. The guards moved to accompany him into our rooms, but Jeb slammed the door. “I’ll let you know if I need you,” he muttered, despite the fact the guards were now on the other side of the door and couldn’t hear him. He took a look at Rory, and recognition flashed across his gaze. “Can’t say your choice of companions has improved overly much, boy.”

  Rory shrugged. “Tough times, growler, call for tough choices, yah?”

  Jeb laughed. “I like this one. He’s honest.”

  “Did you come here just to insult me, Jeb?” I asked. Fatigue and tension made my voice sharper than usual.

  “What’s the matter, Dura?” Jeb mocked. “Night-walking again?”

  I didn’t bother to answer. It wasn’t my favorite subject.

  As quickly as someone turning a coin over, Jeb’s demeanor changed, becoming diffident, almost shy. “Actually, Dura, I came for your help. Two weeks ago there was a murder in the lower merchants’ section just after dusk, a young woman, eighteen or so, pretty little thing. At least, she was before whoever killed her did some knife work on her.”

  I shook my head. There was no reason for Jeb to come to me on this. We were well into harvest season. The lower merchants’ section would have been bulging with sellers and buyers throughout the day and a couple of hours afterward as people finished busin
ess and took to the inns and taverns. “What about the witnesses?”

  Jeb chewed on his lip for a second before answering. “That’s just it, Dura. There weren’t any—at least not any that saw the killer, though plenty of them told me they saw the girl bolt out of the Hawker like she had death himself chasing her.” His voice dropped into a raspy tone that he got when he was irritated and wanted to hit something. “A couple of the witnesses said they saw the girl bleeding as she ran out.”

  My stomach dropped a few inches at the same time as my blood froze. No witnesses in broad daylight. Dwimor. I had to get out of that room.

  Jeb didn’t miss my reaction. “Right.” He glanced at Bolt. “This is your kind of mess, Dura.”

  “Who was she?” I asked.

  “Viona Ness, a daughter of a minor noble. I wouldn’t have known that except she was wearing her family ring. Got cut down in broad daylight on a busy street.”

  His expression darkened. “Nobody remembers seeing anything. It took me well over a week, but I found a witness—an urchin—who actually saw the killer.” His shoulders inched up toward his ears and then lowered again. “But no magistrate would ever accept her testimony.”

  “I didn’t think the urchins were talking to you.”

  “They’re not, at least not when they’re all together.”

  “Why would you need me, and what’s wrong with her testimony?”

  He darted a look at my guard, and I could see suspicion writing itself across the sharp angles of his face. “You’ll understand when you see her.” He jerked his head toward the door, and his face took on a look that on anyone else I would have called protective. “We can’t bring your friends out there. She hates crowds, and anything more than two or three people qualifies.”

  I shook my head. “That’s going to be a problem,” I said. “I’m under the equivalent of house arrest. The Chief of Servants thinks I might be a threat.”

  Jeb shook his head. “Stupid.”

  I nodded. “I think so too.”

  “Not her,” he growled. “You. You’ve got the fastest sword in Collum playing ficheall in your rooms, and you’re telling me you can’t leave.”