The Bound Folio

by Rob J. Hayes

  Bowen was reluctant and tight-lipped, divulging only that Helena had been escorted west, away from Land's End. The nearest city in that direction was Towermarsh, but Derran knew she wouldn't be there. His father would have sent her farther away, and the only people who seemed to know where were his father and the steward. Derran retired to his room feeling powerless. His only option was to wait for her to write. An unpleasant thought struck him then; he didn't even know if Helena knew how to write. Somehow, he doubted it.

  #

  The Arbiter's interviews continued over the next two days. Keelin was called in twice early on; Derran went directly to his brother afterward both times. He thought Keelin was holding up well, despite his obvious fear of the Arbiter. He'd put on a mask of bravado and told Derran all the questions he'd been asked and all his answers, repeating the interview word-for-word. Oddly, there were very few questions about Leesa.

  Most of the house staff and all of Derran's family, save himself and Leesa, had been interviewed. His father had been called three times before Derran's summons finally came.

  Derran took his time answering. He even played with the idea of wearing steel to try to intimidate the man, but he knew he was no match for an Arbiter. The witch hunters had magic. He slipped into the Arbiter’s small chamber with his usual silence.

  The Arbiter was sat watching the door as if he had known Derran was there. The room had been stripped almost bare; now home to a singular polished desk, dead center in the room, and one chair on the far side of the desk. A large rendition of the Arbiter's holy symbol (a shield with a sun set at the top and a single ray of light hitting a sword planted in the ground below) had been painted on the west wall. He was unsure of its purpose.

  There was no seat for Derran. He knew it was an interrogation technique designed to put the culprit on edge. Derran merely positioned himself in front of the desk and looked down at the Arbiter. The moment seemed to stretch out forever as the two stared at one another.

  “Derran Fowl.” It was not a question, so Derran did not respond.

  “Sixteen years old. Eldest child of Gerand Fowl and Freia Shadowmoon.” The Arbiter produced a small book from one of his pockets and opened it to a specific page, there was a pen inside the book, which he promptly took and made a note on the page. “Your father requested the presence of the Inquisition here. Did you know that?”

  “Yes,” Derran answered in a flat voice, never dropping the Arbiter's gaze.

  “Do you know why?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you believe your sister to be possessed or cursed?”

  “No.” After every answer the Arbiter made a note in his book.

  “How would you describe your father?”

  “Strong.”

  “Your mother?”

  “Quiet.”

  “Your brother?”

  “Young.”

  “Does your father ever beat you?” The Arbiter's voice was beginning to grate on Derran's nerves. It was a cold voice, loud and deep, full of the possibility of violence.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you deserve it?”

  “Probably.”

  “Does he ever beat your mother?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Does he ever beat your sister?”

  “No.”

  “You sound certain.”

  Derran didn't answer the Arbiter, just continued to stare at him.

  The Arbiter made another note.

  “Has any of your family ever held conference with a witch or a person posing as a fortune teller?”

  “No.”

  “You sound very certain. Do you know the whereabouts of all your family all the time?”

  Derran's eyes narrowed. Whatever game the Arbiter was playing he believed he had the upper hand. The truth bubbled up from inside like pressure building, until it forced its way out of Derran's mouth. “Not as far as I know,” he corrected, feeling a little out of breath. “If you're investigating my little sister why have you only asked one question about her?”

  At this the Arbiter leaned forward a little with a hint of a smile on his lips. “You don't understand the way this works, Derran Fowl. I'm to investigate your entire family.”

  Derran felt the muscles in his jaw tense. “Listen to me, witch hunter. There is nothing wrong with my sister. She's just a scared and fragile eight-year-old girl. There is nothing wrong with my family. We just have a dull-witted, superstitious father who loves his drink and makes stupid decisions. We...”

  “I see. So you despise him.” The Arbiter cut Derran off with his cold, emotionless voice.

  “What?”

  “You hate your father, do you not?”

  Derran faltered and, for the first time, dropped his gaze. Again, the truth rose from inside and burst from his lips.

  “No.”

  The Arbiter made a final note in his book and closed it. “You can leave.”

  Derran opened his mouth to say more, yet thought better of it. He turned and walked through the door, not relaxing an inch until it was shut behind him. He felt drained, beyond tired, and made straight for his room, collapsing on his bed. He barely managed to undress before sleep claimed him.

  #

  Derran woke to the sound of screaming. It was his mother's voice. It was night outside and the fire in his hearth had died down, casting the room in an eerie red glow with just enough light to see. Another scream. Derran's mind snapped into focus. His mother's shrieks were coming from the courtyard in front of the house, and there were other voices shouting, as well.

  Derran sprang from his bed and made for the door, only taking time to pull on a pair of trousers. He made for the courtyard at a run. As he threw open the main doors, he was blasted by cold wind on his bare chest. His eyes took in the scene in front of him in an instant. His mind, however, took time to comprehend the awful sight.

  Some twenty paces ahead, Derran's mother knelt, a burly guardsman holding her by the shoulders. Tears coursed down her face, and she was screaming at her husband. Gerand Fowl stood next to her, paying her no notice. He was saying something Derran couldn't make out. Keelin was a few paces to the right, struggling against the bear hug of another grim-faced guard. For the first time Derran could remember, Keelin had tears streaming from his eyes. There were others as well, all staring towards the center of the courtyard. Then, Derran saw why.

  A pyre had been built there, a single stake protruded from its middle, and Leesa was tied to it. Even from where Derran stood, a hundred paces away, he could see his sister’s face was a mask of pure terror. Arbiter Prin stood by the pyre with an unlit torch in his right hand. The witch hunter was speaking to Leesa.

  Derran started forwards, but as soon as he drew level with his father the man turned and grabbed Derran by both shoulders.

  “You can't interfere, son. He'll take you, too.” Gerand's eyes were wide and fever bright, from fear or madness, Derran couldn't tell.

  Derran struggled against his father's grip, but it held like steel. “You brought this witch hunter here, father. What did you think would happen? Let me go. I have to stop this!” Derran screamed.

  “You can't.”

  “That's Leesa he's about to murder. YOUR DAUGHTER!”

  “AND NOW I WILL CLEANSE THIS UNHOLY BODY WITH FIRE.” The Arbiter's voice rang with an unnatural volume over the courtyard. The torch in his hand burst into flames. The Arbiter held the torch to the bottom of the pyre and the wood caught alight, slow at first, then the flames warmed to their grisly task.

  The courtyard burst into commotion. Some people shouted, some made holy gestures in the air with their fingers, as if to ward off evil. Some turned away, unwilling to watch, yet no one did anything to stop the madness. Derran tore his gaze away from the fire and his screaming sister. He looked into his father's eyes. There were tears there, but no action; he was going to let this murder happen.

  “DERRAN. STOP THEM!”
Keelin's voice sounded over the commotion.

  Something snapped inside. Derran took hold of his father's sword, drew it up and out of its scabbard in one smooth motion, slicing a shallow cut across his father's arm and forcing him to release his grip. Then, he spun and sprinted towards the pyre and the Arbiter. He would stop this travesty, the Arbiter's magic be damned.

  Derran felt a sharp pain in the back of his head. The sword slipped from his grasp and his legs stopped pumping. Darkness claimed him even before his body hit the ground.

  #

  The room was dark, lit only by the fire in the hearth. Derran struggled to remember why that was important. Then it hit him.

  Leesa.

  He threw back the covers and rose from the bed, only to collapse on the floor as a wave of vertigo washed over him. He fumbled for the bedpan and vomited into it.

  Derran regained his breath, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He reached up and found a large dressing applied to the back of his skull. He had no idea how long he'd been unconscious. He'd received head injuries before and knew they could take a long time to heal. Pulling himself to his feet, Derran stumbled over to the window and drew back the curtains.

  It was dark outside, the courtyard lit by brooding lanterns dangling from the manor’s exterior. A solitary guard made his nightly patrol of the grounds. There was no crowd, no Arbiter, and no pyre. Then, he saw the blackened ground. The remains of the pyre had been cleaned away, but the ground beneath still bore the signs of poor Leesa's horrific murder.

  Derran collapsed to the floor. He felt like throwing up again. His little sister was dead, and his father was as responsible for it as the man who had lit the fire. Everyone who had stood there and watched held equal responsibility. Derran sat on the floor for a long time, fighting waves of rage and despair.

  He abruptly stood and put on his riding leathers, buckled his plain longsword to his belt, and placed some clothing and all the money he had in his saddle bags, then he slipped from his room and went to find his little brother.

  #

  Keelin wasn't asleep. Derran noticed as soon as he entered the room. His brother sat up in his bed, looking far older than his ten years. Dark bags ringed his bloodshot eyes, and his mouth had a sad tilt to it. Derran crossed the room and sat on the foot of the bed, placing his saddlebags on the floor. For a long time, neither brother spoke.

  “How long have I been out?” Derran asked.

  “Nearly a full day. Father threw a rock at you. It was a good shot. Mother patched you up after they dragged her inside. They have her under guard. They weren't sure you'd wake up.”

  “And you?”

  “I knew you would.”

  “That isn't what I meant.” Derran didn't need his little brother to answer; he could see it in his face, in his eyes. Keelin had seen the whole thing. He'd watched them burn their little sister alive. Their father hadn't even thought to have him taken inside with their mother. There was a haunted look about Keelin's face. His childhood innocence had been stolen from him.

  After a while Derran spoke. “I'm sorry Keelin, I...”

  “Not your fault,” Keelin cut his brother off. “You leaving?”

  Derran knew his little brother well enough to hear the real question. “I can't take you with me.” The look on his brother's face almost changed his mind. Almost.

  “You going after the Arbiter?”

  Derran shook his head. “I'd lose. I've heard talk in the barracks of an old sword master in the hills far north of here. I'm going to find him, see if there's anything he can teach me.”

  Keelin looked as if he was about to ask if he could go with Derran, but thought better of it. “I'll look after Mother.”

  Then it seemed there was nothing left to say. Derran sat for a while staring into the flames of the hearth, then picked up his saddlebags and exited via his little brother's bedroom window, scaling down the building as he'd done countless times before. He landed in the courtyard and made straight for the stables, making sure he stayed in the shadows.

  The stable boy on duty was asleep in an empty stall and, despite the soft whinnying of the horses as Derran entered, the boy didn’t stir. Derran saddled his grey mare, Steel, a quiet beast as swift as she was beautiful and led her out of the stables and towards the front gate. He may have been sneaking off in the middle of the night, but he was going to do it in plain sight.

  The guard who approached Derran at the gate was Sergeant Bowen. He was one who had sat by and watched with the rest of them.

  “Glad to see you're up and well, Lordship, but I can't let you leave without your father's say so.”

  “Open the gate, Sergeant.”

  “I can't do that, young sir.” Bowen began to turn to signal the other guardsmen at the gate.

  Derran fixed the man with a stare. “Sergeant, I am leaving. If any man stands in my way or raises a shout I will cut them down,” Derran bit off each of the last three words.

  Fear shot through the Sergeant. Derran was serious and it showed in his eyes, and Bowen was well aware Derran had the skill to follow through with his threat. After a few moments Sergeant Bowen turned and gave the signal to open the gate.

  Despite the hammering of his heart, Derran urged Steel through the gate at a slow walk. He didn't glance around, didn't look back, and as soon as he was through he put his heels to the mare and was gone.

  A Game of Poisons

  “Alfyn Tether!”

  Alfer ignored the man, thrust his hands a little further into his pockets, and kept on walking. He hoped the man would give up, or lose himself in the crowds of Truridge.

  “Night Blade,” the man shouted.

  Alfer kept his face carefully neutral. He didn't even want to know what sort of a fool would shout out the name of one of the most hated assassins who had ever stalked the known world.

  Shouldering between a couple who appeared to be lost in each other's eyes, Alfer made a sharp turn to his right and towards a tavern with a sign outside that read Arcane Trouble. He'd been to the tavern a few times, and it served a selection of reasonably priced ales that tasted more like beer and less like horse piss.

  “I know it's you,” the foolish man said, falling in beside Alfer.

  “You talking to me, lad?” Alfer asked the fool without so much as turning to look at him.

  “You are the Night Blade.”

  Alfer chuckled as he put a shaking hand to the tavern door and pushed. Light and warmth and the sounds of mirth spilled out into the street. Already Alfer could feel the chill of the winter streets falling away behind him.

  “I've been mistaken for a few folk in my time, lad,” Alfer said. “But this one almost makes me laugh. Good day to you.”

  Alfer made to step across the threshold. The man grabbed hold of his arm and spun him around, shoving him hard against the door frame. Alfer held up his hands and made certain he looked suitably cowed. “Look, lad, I don't want any trouble,” he said. “Ain't got much, but if you're looking to rob me just take it then, eh?”

  The foolish young man was smartly dressed in a dark blue suit with a heavy woollen cloak to ward off winter’s chill. His hair was artfully tussled and his mouth was ringed by an immaculately groomed beard. He looked every bit the merchant’s son and, in Truridge, they were almost more common than the good folk.

  “I know it's you, Night Blade,” the foolish man said with a dark look.

  “In or out?” shouted one of the tavern patrons.

  “I'm for in,” Alfer shouted back, not taking his eyes from the foolish man. “Can't speak for this one. I'm still trying to decide if he's robbing me or threatening to buy me a drink.”

  Upon the sound of chairs scraping against the wooden floor, Alfer glanced inwards to see a couple of burly patrons standing from their tables.

  “I guess I'm for in as well,” said the foolish man. “A round for everyone here, barkeep.”

  The burly would-be rescuers quickly swit
ched attitudes from menacing to appreciative. The foolish man, who now seemed a little less foolish, removed his hand from Alfer's arm and gestured inside.

  “That was well played,” Alfer said with a sigh. Nothing bought loyalty in a tavern quite so quickly as a free drink.

  “Thank you,” said the not-so foolish man. “Please, after you.”

  Before long, Alfer found himself sitting at a grimy table across from the not-so foolish man with a pint of the tavern's highest-quality ale. It was clear the man had money and enough of it to spare. More and more, the evidence was pointing to rich merchant's son, but how such a fop would know the name Night Blade was the real mystery.

  “Can we discard the charade now please, Alfyn Tether?”

  Alfer looked around the tavern. It was loud and then some. A bard was sat near the hearth recounting a story about a Drurr princess who fell in love with a human prince; his audience was large and varied. The barkeep was perpetually cleaning mugs while ogling a young, rugged mercenary, either for his purse or the other thing he kept tucked inside of his trousers. Three tables were occupied by drunkards swapping tales and clashing tankards every time one of them told a joke. One table was occupied by a man swamped in a large cloak and plenty of shadow. The barmaid was making rounds, refilling cups, and treating many a man with an eyeful of cleavage. Funnily enough, that same barmaid was also earning herself a fair few tips as well.

  It would be both possible and easy to do away with the not-so foolish man without anyone noticing a thing. Alfer kept a finger-knife hidden away in the sole of his boot. It was poisoned and would sprout forth from its hiding place with only a slight tap in the right spot. The not-so foolish man would feel the kick and probably think little of it. Just a few minutes later he would slump over on the table and everyone nearby would likely think him passed out from the booze. Alfer smiled and shook his head. He wasn't in the assassin business anymore, but it never left him completely.

  “Well?” asked the not-so foolish man.

  “Who are you, lad? I ain't saying I'm this Night Blade you're looking for, but I've heard of him, no doubt. Don't strike me he's the type of fellow you'd want to go looking for.”