The Shattered Vigil

by Patrick W. Carr

  She took an involuntary step back before setting her shoulders and chin in defiance.

  The queen held out her arm, but I nodded toward a pair of chairs to one side of the throne. “We should be seated, Your Majesty. This may take some time.”

  I tried to clear my mind of the frustration and anger that seethed within it like a boiling stew. Somewhere within the queen’s mind lay a clue to understanding the Darkwater’s poison and perhaps to surviving it as well. For a moment, my concentrated abstraction broke and all the what-ifs of our fight overwhelmed me. What if the enemy found a way to bring a vast number of the ignorant into the cursed forest? What if war then consumed the entire northern continent?

  What if we lost? Would the entire world descend into darkness with every man, woman, and child consumed by bloodlust?

  What if we won?

  The last question frightened me enough to send my stomach roiling, and for a moment I saw myself, spending years breaking the vaults of those who’d gone to the forest, trying to understand an evil that defied comprehension. But that was silly. If we won, the kings and queens of the north would simply have the entire opposing army put to the sword.

  We probably wouldn’t have the manpower to dig all the graves we’d need.

  I thrust all these thoughts away and put my hand on the queen’s arm, the warmth of her flesh surprising me, as though I’d expected Cailin’s skin to be as cool and detached as the woman herself. I lifted my head, and the green of her eyes leapt toward me as I fell into her thoughts.

  I skimmed along her memories, marveling at the intensity of color attached to each of them, and in that moment I understood just how much energy the queen put into her show of reserve. The vibrancy of her thoughts and emotions had been suppressed in order for her to show the image she’d crafted for court life, aloof and unapproachable and completely in control of her surroundings and herself. But I knew the truth. I saw a memory flow past me in the stream and reached out with my mind to grasp it.

  I, Cailin, queen regent of Collum, stood before the assembled court, my hands on my son, Prince Brod, staring down the families of Orlan, Faral, and Alainn, defying any of them to deny he’d received the gift of kings from his father.

  I followed the memory back until I came to a blood-soaked image of the royal bedroom, my husband and king lying dead on the bed, his reeve standing before me.

  I slowed the stream of time and memory, examining it, living and feeling it in such detail that it became painful, an occurrence of grief and horror that had become an eternity in and of itself.

  What had I done?

  Before me stood the king’s reeve—Laidir’s jackal, the royal assassin, Willet Dura. And he knew, just as the castellan knew, that it had been my hand that had put the knife in the king’s heart, though I could find no memory of it within my mind.

  I saw Dura put out his hand, expecting and demanding that I take it. Fear coursed through me until I became cold and bloodless. I knew that to take that hand was to die, though I could see no means immediately visible. No talent I possessed would save me from the sword cut or dagger stroke.

  Why had I gone to the forest? The first contraction of muscle in my shoulder lifted the weight of one hand from my lap, a prelude to extending it to Lord Dura, a prelude to dying. I cursed myself for my foolishness and fear. I had been loved and had refused to love in turn, hiding my true self, protecting the core of who I was because of the hurts done to me in my childhood. That longing, that desire to be free from anyone’s touch or control, had been the reason I’d covered myself with indifference for five years—every day I’d been Laidir’s wife. The walls of ice and detachment I’d built had become too ingrained to surrender. Each time I tried, fear turned me aside from returning even the simplest gestures of affection.

  But even through my practiced abstraction I could sense a stirring within the kingdom, and a few trips out of the tor had confirmed my suspicion. Some enemy contrived to send Laidir’s subjects—my subjects—to the Darkwater.

  So I followed, foolishly convincing myself that my purpose or strength of will or intelligence would somehow preserve me

  And for a week after I entered the forest, I assumed it had. The terror of each approaching night faded until I came to believe the evil of the forest was nothing more than a myth, or its malice had somehow lost its vitality.

  And then I’d killed my husband, the one man who had consistently loved me without ceasing, without surrender, without demand.

  I reached out to take Lord Dura’s hand, knowing death had come for me in the form of the kingdom’s most minor noble. But it had been my hand. I was guilty. At the last, I could at least be honest with myself. I would not go into the long dark clothed in my pretense. I prayed. Not that Aer would forgive me, but that Aer would find a way to let my husband know I had loved him, that I had conquered my greatest fear at last.

  I shifted within the queen’s memories, living every moment that led to that fateful decision to investigate the forest, searching for some reason she’d been able to retain her identity after I’d broken every strand the vault had created, but I couldn’t find one. For an instant, I thought I saw a figure by her side, but like a shadow it fled from me.

  Defeated, I absorbed into myself the recollections of the queen’s life since Bas-solas, paying extra attention to her interactions with Lady Gael. I came out of the delve in defeat and surprise, wanting nothing more than to rail at my betrothed for her foolishness. But what do you say against someone who has sacrificed everything for you?

  “You said the guards were attacked.” I accused her, but I kept my voice soft, out of respect.

  She nodded and light flowed along the cascade of rich, dark hair. “They were.”

  I stopped the smile before my lips parted. “In the city watch we call that a lie of understatement, my lady. More than attacked, your entire household was killed. Every servant. Every guard. Even your uncle.”

  She nodded.

  I took a deep breath. “And your gift returned to you.”

  She nodded again, more slowly this time. Her shoulders lifted and fell in a dismissive gesture. “You asked me for my help before and I was unable to give it. In the absence of my gift I found that I no longer desired to traffic in cloth and clothing. I wanted something different, something more, my husband.”

  I bowed. “Not your husband,” I said, “but yours, Gael, always yours.” I straightened. “Who did you trade with?”

  “Her Majesty helped me.” Gael looked to the queen, and I heard Cailin clear her throat.

  “It was a simple enough matter to petition the Merum to open their records to us.” She nodded toward the sealed door of her study. “Your friend keeps a well-ordered library.”

  “We found the purest physical gift within Collum and I petitioned them for the trade,” Gael said. She smirked, an expression that made me want to cover those full expressive lips with kisses. “The queen’s blessing and encouragement helped somewhat.”

  “I’ve lost my best musician, Lord Dura,” Cailin said, “but you must know that Lady Gael traded more than just her gift.”

  My betrothed waved away the queen’s assertion. “My uncle competed with the other nobles in Bunard, keeping score with his wealth. I find no need to measure myself against others in such a way.”

  “You bartered your estate?” I gaped.

  She smiled as if I’d just paid her a precious compliment. “Yes, but you should see me play the mandolin.”

  She twitched aside her cloak and tapped the rapier at her side. Now I could see that it was more than just a decorative sword for a lady. Worn leather covered the grip, and instead of an ornamented cross guard, the sword had a full bell to protect the hand. “I will be able to help protect you, and I rather enjoy knowing how dangerous I am,” she said.

  I pulled in a deep breath. “You’ve always been deadly, my lady.”

  Her eyes smoldered. “I have another gift for you, Willet, down in the city.”
/>   Chapter 42

  I lifted the heavy iron bar from the door of Cailin’s private audience chamber, and we stepped into the hall where the queen’s guards and my companions waited. When Gael nodded to Adair and Carrick, signaling them to resume their places at Cailin’s side, Bolt’s eyes narrowed in speculation.

  “‘Surprise is the bane of friend and foe alike,’” he quoted.

  “I haven’t heard that one before,” I said. Gael shifted to take a position next to me as if there might be threats in the narrow hallway leading from the queen’s study. “You have another apprentice.”

  Bolt nodded. “I thought as much. I’ve never trained a woman before. They’re soft.”

  Gael stiffened. “Perhaps I’ll give you reason to reassess your presumption, master guard.”

  “Keep that fire, girl, you’re going to need it to take your mind off the bruises. First lesson about your gift—stop swaggering. It’ll give you away.” He glanced at me before giving her an impudent grin. “She moves differently. Not that there was anything wrong with the way she moved before. How did you manage to acquire the gift, milady? It’s forbidden to carry more than one at a time, even for a few moments.”

  Gael nodded. “So the priests told us. We used intermediaries.” She put one hand on my arm. “And paid a lot of money to keep the trade a secret. The church frowns upon what I’ve done, even though there’s no proscription against it specifically.”

  “Clever,” Bolt said. “Lady Gael, you will accompany Willet as his betrothed. Unless I give you permission, you will not draw your sword or throw a dagger, and you will refrain from any movements that will reveal your gift.”

  Gael’s blue eyes darkened a shade, but Bolt cut her off before she could speak. “No woman has ever been a Vigil guard before, milady. Would you give away your best advantage?”

  She nodded, her eyes returning to a more normal hue.

  “You mentioned another gift,” I said. I didn’t want to think about Gael putting herself in the path of whatever decided to come for me. So far that had included crazed villagers from the Darkwater and assassins that were almost impossible to see.

  Gael smiled, and I watched her full lips part to show her even, white teeth. It might have been my imagination, but even the way she smiled seemed to carry more grace than usual. I followed the track of that thought to the next, obvious conclusion only to realize that she’d already answered my question.

  “What?” I asked.

  Bolt snorted, then tried to cover it with a cough.

  “Myle has something for us,” she smiled. “I think you’ll find it useful.”

  As much as I wanted to force Gael to remain behind, as if I could force her to do anything now that she had a physical gift, she’d just given me another reason why I couldn’t. Myle, brilliant and broken-minded, had given Bolt and me the solas powder that had meant the difference between living and dying when we’d first confronted men unnaturally strengthened by the Darkwater. Gael was one of the few people Myle trusted enough to actually engage in conversation.

  “Let’s hurry, then,” I said. “The trail is getting cold.”

  “You really mean to track him?” Bolt said.

  I looked at the people gathered around me: Bolt, Gael, and Rory. I nodded, inexplicably confident. “Who else can boast three gifted to protect him?” I put my hand on Wag’s head. “And a sentinel.”

  “You don’t want to fight?” Gael asked Bolt in surprise.

  My guard’s face crumpled in disgust, the furrows across his brow deepening. “Of course not. Why would I want to do that?”

  “But you’ve spent your whole life training for this very thing.”

  He nodded. “And any man or woman with sense would want to keep on spending their life training for this very thing. Training is predictable, neat, orderly, and without surprises. And no one dies, least of all me.”

  We left Myle’s workshop with the sun a handsbreadth above the horizon and sinking fast. “We need a place to stay,” I said to Bolt, “and the only place secure enough is one where they might want to throw me in prison. We should have stopped by to see the Chief of Servants first.”

  My guard shrugged at me. “Send her word if you think you should. You do outrank her.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “It’s true,” he said with a shrug. “It’s the boring kind of thing Custos would want to read, like eating sand, but I’ve looked through some of the original writings from the earliest days of the church.” He paused to laugh. “Bronwyn is very protective of those. The parchment is so old it’s faded to deep amber and it smells a bit like mold.”

  “Custos loves that smell,” I said. “He calls it the perfume of knowledge.”

  “The seven members of the Vigil were given authority commensurate with the Merum Archbishop,” Bolt said.

  “Ah.” Now I understood. “And since the other orders came centuries later, the theologians would say the authority of the Vigil predates and supersedes them, but right now that doesn’t really matter, does it? They have more guards and swords than we do.”

  Bolt nodded. “Good point.” He held up a finger. “‘Authority is weighed in steel.’”

  I shrugged. “Not really your best, but where we spend the night isn’t something we can leave to chance, not if Jorgen is still in the city.” I turned north, back toward the tor and the cathedrals that bordered it. “When we get to the Merum cathedral, we’ll send for the Chief. Perhaps if we contact her voluntarily she’ll be more inclined to acknowledge my nominal authority, or at least my freedom.”

  “If you grovel politely, she might not throw you in prison,” Gael said.

  “Groveling is good.” Bolt nodded. “Do that.”

  Darkness had just enveloped the city like a shroud when Brid Teorian, the Chief of Servants, stumping forward with the aid of a cane, entered the room where the Merum had served us dinner. At least a dozen red-clad guards surrounded her, not brown. For some reason I couldn’t identify, it irked me that the servants refused, even now, to put aside their vow of nonviolence. Other people would have to bear the burden of the lives that had to be taken.

  “Chief of Servants,” I bowed as I rose from my chair. “We’ve returned.”

  Her eyes, birdlike with age, took in the details of the room, noting the presence of those who sat with me, her gaze pausing to linger on Gael. “Has your company grown then?”

  “By one,” I admitted.

  The Chief of Servants gave me a tight-lipped smile. “The presence of friends is a balm and a gift to the soul.”

  I didn’t bother trying to negotiate, hoping the Chief would prefer blunt honesty. “The sentinels, except for Wag here and one other, are dead.”

  She nodded. “I’ve just come from a meeting with the queen. Is there something you wish to tell me that you didn’t tell Cailin?”

  “No, but I need to know what’s happening with the rest of the Vigil.”

  Brid Teorian crossed over to a chair and sat, thumping her cane on the floor in front of her seat as if she were calling us to order. “As do I, the Grace, the Archbishop, and the Captain,” she said. Her voice scaled upward with each name and she spat her words as though she couldn’t wait to get them out of her mouth.

  “Pellin went to Owmead. There, he managed to convince the heads of the orders to surrender our scrying stones to the Vigil.” She grimaced. “His logic was impeccable. I don’t like encountering people older than me. If I’m going to bear the weight of all this age, at least I should be the best at it. Pellin’s habit of winning almost every argument we have is very annoying.”

  “You gave them your scrying stones?” Gael blurted, then took a step back in embarrassment.

  “Sounds insane now, doesn’t it?” the Chief asked. “Well, that’s not the half of it. Pellin has his stone—he picked it up from the Absold the very day he proposed the idea—but the men sent from the Vanguard and the Merum haven’t been able to find any trace of Lady Bronwyn or Toria Deel. We�
�ve scoured the towns and villages bordering the Darkwater in all six kingdoms.” She shook her head, her mouth as pursed as a prune. “Nothing.”

  “The man we’re following will lead us to them,” I said.

  A younger woman’s eyes would have grown wide with the look the Chief gave me, but Brid Teorian’s stare made me uncomfortable even so. “Don’t play word games with me, Lord Dura.”

  I blinked. I didn’t have a clue what she was talking about.

  She lifted one hand from the pommel of her cane to point a bony finger at my chest. “You’re not hunting a man. Get that through your head. It may walk on two legs and eat and drink, but it has killed the sentinels and corrupted members of the Vigil. The humanity of this killer is the last thing you need to worry about.”

  I braced myself for the argument that would surely come from her refusal to let us follow the trail. Instead, she sighed, slumping back in her chair. “How did we come to such desperate decisions so quickly?” Her chest rose and fell, and with each breath she appeared to shrink in on herself. “You must go after him, of course. Is there anything the church can give you?”

  “The stone,” I said and held out my hand.

  For half an instant I watched her waver on the edge of indecision before she shook her head. “I’m sorry you asked. It would have been easier if you hadn’t. Pellin has ordered me not to surrender it to you.” Her birdlike stare fixed on mine. “I’m sure you can understand why.”

  Bolt nodded but managed to appear unhappy about it all the same, but Gael drew breath, and her eyes turned from blue to slate between one heartbeat and the next.

  I reached out to put my hand on her arm. “Pellin might be right on this one,” I said. “I’ll explain later.”

  The Chief nodded. “You might have been disappointed at any rate. I’ve tried to contact Pellin any number of times already. He doesn’t answer.”

  She stood, pushing down on her cane with both arms to lever herself to an upright position. “The Archbishop carries more influence with the southern continent. He’s sent messengers to tell them of our plight.”