The Shattered Vigil

by Patrick W. Carr

  “You can’t imagine that she still loves you,” I said.

  His staccato laughter could have peeled bark off a tree. “You’d be surprised what a man imprisoned in the dark can imagine. I’ve discovered that I had many loves in addition to the one I bore for Toria—sunshine on my face, wind against my skin, a varied diet. I may have lost the most important one, but freedom would restore a whole host of others.”

  “I don’t care for the idea of freeing a man who might conspire for my death,” I said. “Again.”

  “Our cares are beside the point,” Volsk said. “You have no way of communicating with the rest of the Vigil, and your time is limited—if you even have any. I can guide you to the sentinel training ground and then we can be rid of each other. I have something you need—you have something I need. Mutual desires have been the basis of satisfactory trade for thousands of years.”

  In the distance I heard the swing of a door and the pad of booted feet, a lot of booted feet. A moment later, I could see soft lighting in the hallway growing as it came closer.

  “That’s my offer, Dura.”

  I could have been watching a familiar play, the actors major and minor all rehearsed in their predictable parts, right down to the guard unlocking the door and the semicircle of sword points trained on me while I blinked against the light. “Him too.” I pointed.

  The captain of the guard, a short, brusque fellow with dark hair and pale skin, shook his head. “Our orders are to bring you to the Chief of Servants. Just you.”

  The windowless cells of the Merum prison kept me from being able to gauge the time with any accuracy, but it had to be past midnight. “I don’t imagine the Chief of Servants is in a charitable mood at this hour,” I said. To make my point I sat on the floor. “And before you get any ideas about using force on me, you might want to consider that I might be free shortly.”

  The captain didn’t appear to be in the mood to negotiate. He pulled his dagger and shifted his grip, a prelude to hitting me in the head with the heavy pommel.

  “She’s going to want to hear what he has to say.” I held my hands up. “You can always bring him back here if she orders it, but if you knock me out, she’s going to have to wait that much longer to talk to me.”

  The captain looked at me for a moment with an expression that said he’d like to hit me anyway before he turned to the guard with the keys and jerked his head toward Volsk’s cell. “Bring him.”

  I wouldn’t have recognized the man they pulled from the shadows as friend or enemy. Volsk’s beard, dark like his hair, had grown during his imprisonment, until it covered the upper part of his chest like a tattered carpet, and his eyes held the wide, unblinking aspect of a man kept in darkness for too long.

  The fact that this same man had ordered the Chief of Servants around like a menial a few months before would add another layer of irony to the interview. If I hadn’t felt so desperate, I would have laughed.

  The Merum guards escorted us into the offices of the local Merum bishop, but there were no red-robed priests or functionaries in attendance. Even the local bishop had been excused from the proceedings. The Chief of Servants sat in a gilded chair at the head of a burnished rosewood table that could have seated a whole platoon of soldiers.

  Peret Volsk and I stared across the expanse of polished wood at the shriveled old woman who held our fates in her hands. The guards withdrew, closing the door firmly behind them.

  “Come, gentlemen.” The Chief beckoned with one blue-veined hand. “We can hardly speak intelligibly across such a distance.”

  Volsk and I separated and approached from opposite sides of the table, coming within arm’s reach to remain standing.

  “I must confess,” the Chief said to Volsk, her eyes glittering like agates, “that I find your presence here unexpected.” She didn’t bother to use his name.

  He bowed from the waist while a smile wreathed his face. “It’s good to see you as well, Brid Teorian.”

  She stiffened at the use of her name, continued to lock gazes with him. “Most people refer to me as Chief of Servants. I’m sure your time in the Merum cells didn’t relieve you of that fact.”

  “Most people don’t know that you’re Elanian.”

  She looked away first. “I’m the Chief of Servants. Nationality is an accident of birth, and consideration of it is an impediment to judgment.”

  Volsk nodded. “I merely meant to convey my respects, Chief, by showing that you are important in and of yourself and not just for the title you carry.”

  She frowned. “Glib as always.” With hardly a twitch, she dismissed him from her attention and skewered me with a look sharper than the point of a dagger. “You seem to be operating under a number of erroneous assumptions, Lord Dura.”

  I took a moment to consider how best to respond. Then I realized Volsk had already shown me—he had gone out of his way to speak first and show strength when he had none in order to communicate my position.

  “I usually am. What would those false assumptions be this time?” I asked.

  She stiffened at my tone but held up a single finger anyway. “First, you seem to think that obedience to the church is optional. If your position has not been communicated to you before now, allow me to do so. The Vigil serves the church.” Volsk opened his mouth to speak, but the Chief silenced him with a glare. “Their autonomy has rested on ultimate obedience to the same core of ideals that the four orders share.”

  “I am rendering service, Chief,” I said. “Unfortunately the nature of that service has required me to set aside more recent, less important strictures, a not uncommon occurrence in the annals of the church.”

  Her brows lifted while Volsk laughed. “He was a postulate in the Merum order. It appears that he knows a bit of church history as well. You might want to move on to your next point.”

  “Second,” she said, holding up a second finger, her voice brittle, “you have treated your gift in a cavalier manner with wanton disregard for your place in history.”

  I waved my hand in dismissal. “Not so. I have used the gift according to the dictates of the situation and in accordance with the liturgy. Or do you expect me to light a candle and place it under a bucket?”

  Volsk pulled out a chair and plopped into it. “May I be seated, honored Chief? My stay in prison has weakened me somewhat, and it appears that you’re going to need some time to answer Lord Dura’s rebuttals.”

  The Chief curled her two upraised fingers back into her hand before she leaned forward. “The duties of authority sometimes compel me to use levers of influence that I would normally disdain, Lord Dura.” She leaned back in her richly upholstered chair, her eyes glittering bits of polished stone. “You have a friend, the chief reeve.”

  My stomach clenched. I gave one sharp nod.

  “Though I have no doubt the ultimate responsibility rests with you,” the Chief said, “I must point out that he does bear some burden for your escape.” She paused to let me stew. “I understand he’s just taken in an orphan. I’m not sure the company of a violent man is the best environment for a little girl.”

  I didn’t want to hear any more. I didn’t believe the Chief would follow through on the implied threat to take Jeb’s little girl away, but I couldn’t be certain. “It might help things move along if you could just tell me what you want, instead of threatening my friends.”

  Brid Teorian smiled. “I already have what I want. You, under guard, where your gift can be safeguarded and the threat that lies in your mind can be contained.”

  I shrugged. “Then why bother to bring me here?”

  The smile stayed in place, but now it looked forced. “Because you’ve yet to fulfill your duties to the church, Lord Dura. As head of one of the four orders, I can hardly be expected to make informed decisions without complete information, information that you hold. Thus, your incarceration.”

  “And what of Queen Cailin?” I asked. “It doesn’t worry you that you’ve taken her reeve and put him in
prison?”

  She shrugged her thin shoulders. “Queen Cailin is regent, not ruler. Her position is precarious enough without bringing a dispute with all four orders into the picture. I’m sure you understand why.”

  I nodded. The circumstances of Cailin’s regency were still fostering rumors. I’d worked hard in the aftermath of Bas-solas to ensure that they remained just that. “You’re asking me to provide you with information without the approval of the Eldest,” I said. “That doesn’t concern you?”

  She shook her head. “That title is now more a matter of respect than of function. Authority over the Vigil rests with the church.”

  And we were back to the same impasse. Once I began taking orders from the Chief of Servants, the precedent would be established and then strengthened until the Vigil’s autonomy was nothing more than an unwritten historical footnote. But I had nothing else to bargain with, and though the shriveled old lady in front of me didn’t know it, circumstances had put me right in her lap.

  “Very well,” I said nodding. “I’m prepared to provide you some information without Pellin’s approval. As an opening gesture,” I added.

  She smiled. “I am prepared to offer recompense in exchange for information, of course.”

  “I’m not interested in money, you understand.”

  The Chief of Servants sniffed. “Perfectly. We’re speaking of more intangible rewards.”

  I nodded, concentrating on keeping an expression on my face as if I’d been forced to this moment. I’d discovered that sometimes you could get what you wanted in a forced negotiation by giving the other party more than they asked for.

  More than they were prepared to handle.

  “A pair of weeks ago, the daughter of a minor noble was killed in the lower merchants’ section. She’d been missing from her household for two years.” I shrugged. “At the time I was a guest under your guard, and though I knew something had happened, I didn’t know the exact nature.”

  The Chief smiled at me. “If you’re referring to your night walks, Lord Dura, you needn’t be so circumspect. We’ve been apprised of them.”

  Perfect. She believed herself to be in absolute control.

  I nodded. “What you may not know is the exact nature of the man who killed her.”

  An hour later, I finished my description of the events. The Chief of Servants looked at me, her face pale as parchment and her lips bloodless. I had to give her credit for maintaining her composure, but when she lifted an age-spotted hand to point at Peret Volsk, it shook.

  “You’ve already told him this. His lack of reaction cannot otherwise be explained.”

  I nodded. “That brings us to those ‘intangible rewards’ you spoke of, honored Chief. I find myself in a similar position with respect to Peret Volsk. I need to find the camp where the sentinels are trained.” I pointed at her chest. “And since the rest of the Vigil cannot be contacted quickly, he is the one person who can take me there.”

  Her mouth compressed to a thin line. “I hear accusations in your words, Lord Dura.”

  I shook my head. “Far from it, honored Chief. You hear responsibility. You and the other heads of the four orders took it upon yourselves to shoulder the burden for controlling the Vigil. Did you believe all such decisions would be to your liking and advantage?”

  Her eyes narrowed. She would bluster and bluff, but in the end I would get exactly what I wanted, and she would be left to put the best face on it with the other heads of the church.

  “Tell me what you require for your trip, Lord Dura,” she said after a moment.

  I bowed my respect from where I sat. Evidently, the Chief of Servants had no interest in pointless negotiation. “I need fast horses and supplies for four men, and only four men. I won’t be taking Servants or Merum guards with me.”

  “He”—she nodded to Volsk—“of course, is one of the four, and you’ll take your guard. Who else?”

  “Bolt’s apprentice.”

  “Ah.” She blinked. “The young thief.” She eyed me for a moment in which she appeared indecisive. “I’ll give you five. I think you’ll want to take your friend, the librarian.”

  “Why?”

  “The fire in Aille that destroyed the library may not have been an accident. There were deaths involved that had nothing to do with flames or smoke.”

  I took a moment to consider that and what it might mean. “Who told you about Custos?”

  “Lady Bronwyn. She indicated that he has some ability that the Vigil might find useful. I’ve spoken to the Merum bishop, and he’s placed a guard on the library and alerted the Archbishop in Cynestol, but in light of your revelations, I thought you might want to take him with you.”

  I nodded my thanks, though I doubted Custos would feel the same. The books and scrolls of the library and the sanctum were his home. “I’m in your debt.”

  “I expect a full report when you return.”

  “Agreed,” I said. If Pellin didn’t like the terms I’d struck, he shouldn’t have dropped me into the Chief of Servants’ lap when he left. “One other thing,” I said.

  Her eyes widened, a signal that I’d crossed a boundary and was really pushing my luck. “What?”

  “The girl Jeb has taken in, Aellyn,” I said. “Her mind is broken, but I think healing is possible. I want your best healer to work with her every day. Whoever it is needs to understand that her drawings and Jeb are the keys to binding her fractured memories together. And they need to start tomorrow.”

  The Chief tilted her head before she nodded. “Very well, Lord Dura. It will be done.”

  The next morning, I cinched up my supplies for the ride north while Bolt, Custos, Rory, and Peret Volsk looked on. Rory sat his horse as if he’d been caught thieving and been forced to ride as penance. Custos peered at him from his perch atop a placid roan, his brows furrowed beneath the shining dome of his bald head. “There are quite a few treatises on riding,” he said. “If you like, I can retrieve them for you.”

  “I don’t think we’ll have much time for reading, old friend. Rory will have to refine his horsemanship on the way.”

  The librarian nodded. “I could recite them for him, but it’s said experience is the best teacher. I wouldn’t really know.” Then he smiled, shifting his weight in the saddle, testing its feel.

  “How goes the search Lady Bronwyn requested?”

  He shook his head. “Not well. I’ve exhausted the libraries here in Bunard of every scrap of information on children’s rhymes and cross-referenced them with every proverb in the liturgy. As you might expect, there are numerous threads of commonality, but nothing that points to understanding the nature of the Darkwater, much less fighting it.”

  The Chief of Servants approached us from across the yard, thumping her cane against the ground with every other step as if the earth had offended her. “Why are you still here?”

  I held up a finger, adopting a pose as though instructing a student. “‘A wise man sharpens his axe before felling the tree,’” I quoted. I didn’t usually make it a habit to toss pieces of the liturgy about, but something in the Chief of Servants brought out the worst in me.

  “Well said,” Bolt quipped.

  She held my gaze for a moment longer before shifting to move away, but not before her expression became wary. I couldn’t understand why she was so afraid of me. I followed her until I was sure we were out of earshot of everyone else. “Whenever you look at me, I see something in your eyes, Chief. What is it you see that makes you so afraid?”

  A smile warred with the haunted look in her eyes and lost. “You hold the gift of domere and no one knows why you survived the forest, Lord Dura. Is that not enough?”

  I shook my head. “No, and your answer tells me it isn’t. I keep saying the same thing. If you won’t tell me what I need to know, I can’t succeed.”

  “I’m old, Lord Dura, but that doesn’t make me immune to fear.” She turned away. “You’re asking me to put a sword in your hand.”

  I
walked around her, forcing her to face me. “I’m asking you to help me.” I waved my arm at the yard. “In case you hadn’t noticed, there’s no one else here. Everyone with the experience to know what to do has gone into hiding. There’s only me.”

  “Very well.” She nodded to Custos. “There are things written in the private libraries of the church, shared by the heads of each order that never make it to the great libraries of the world, of something old, much like destroying a vault,” she said. “The Vigil didn’t always move in the shadows, Lord Dura. There was a time, before the church split, when the Vigil held the rulers of the earth to account.” She licked her lips before her mouth settled into a contemplative moue. “They held themselves up as judges of kings and queens.”

  “Why did they stop?”

  She looked away, suddenly unwilling to look me in the eye. “One can only speculate. Even the oldest in the Vigil have no memory of the ‘why.’ The split was hundreds of years before Pellin’s time in the Vigil began.” Her gaze drifted until it settled on Custos again. “What’s the child’s rhyme about power, Lord Dura?”

  I didn’t have Custos’s ability or share his passion for all knowledge, but some of the verses the children chanted in the streets while they played their games of lost-and-found or one-spot-less held universal truth for adults as well. “‘Power seeps and soaks and rots and even the watchers become the watched.’”

  She gave me a smile. “I’ve held my position long enough to work with most of the Vigil, Lord Dura. I find that I prefer Lady Bronwyn’s company. She’s told me that rhyme has hardly changed in all the centuries she’s spent with the Vigil. Children chant it now, much as they have for hundreds of years.” She tilted her head, seeming to listen to music no one else could hear. “I know this, Lord Dura, the children’s rhymes that accompany their nonsense games of circles of six and nine and four are as old as the liturgy.”

  The Chief of Servants shrugged, stepping back to allow me to mount Dest. “It may be the wisdom of the children’s rhymes amounts to nothing more than instructional parables. We will see.” She cut her eyes to Peret Volsk. In the morning light he looked almost normal—bathed, shaved, and clothed mostly in black, according to his custom. Yet his eyes retained something of the look I’d seen by torchlight in the prison, a haunting. Volsk carried his own prison.