Ephemeral and Fleeting

by Patricia Reding

  Broden dropped her arm. “Please, don’t talk like that. Please. Let me think on it.”

  He paced, then said, “For now, let’s get some food wrapped up for you to bring to them tomorrow.”

  Back to the present, the guard removed the black shroud from over Carlie’s head. Once done, he did the same with Clementine, who of late had been accompanying her there, daily.

  “Fold out your pockets,” he ordered.

  They complied.

  After confirming they carried no contraband, he stepped back. “There are some new prisoners for you to look after today,” he said, glowering at them. “Need I remind you that you’re not to communicate with any of them?”

  “No, sir,” Carlie said.

  When Clementine didn’t answer, he grabbed her arm roughly. “And you?”

  Whimpering in pain, she tried, meekly, to pull away. “No, sir. I won’t say anything, sir.”

  Tipping his head toward the pot of gruel, he addressed Carlie once more. “Take that,” he said. “You can come back for the water when you’re through.” Then he pushed Clementine.

  As the girl stumbled to regain her balance, Carlie rushed to her side. “Are you all right?”

  She rubbed her arm. “Yes.”

  The two started down the hall. Arriving at the cell of the first of the new prisoners, Carlie glanced inside, where she found a lone man. He’d managed to reach a bar that ran overhead. He hung from it, then pulled himself up, dropped down, then pulled back up again. Dark of skin and eye, his clothing tattered and filthy, and with bruises decorating his face, his muscles bulged as he pulled back up, yet again, demonstrating his enormous strength. Never having previously met the man, however, Carlie had no idea of his identity.

  With her hand on Clementine’s shoulder, she moved on, as she noticed an occupant in the first of the cells on the opposite wall. Once again, she glanced inside. There, she found a woman, struggling to sit up. A splint on her arm handicapped her movements. Through the bandages wrapped around it, spots of blood, now dried and turned brown, stood out. The woman commenced unwrapping her wound. Once again, Carlie did not recognize the prisoner.

  Then she glanced inside the cell to her left. She stopped cold.

  The prisoner stared at her.

  Dixon! She opened her mouth as though to speak, then clamped it shut once again.

  He tipped his head at her.

  Carlie continued until she stood before Mara’s cell. Her eyes narrowed as she witnessed her wince. Troubled, but seeking to be discreet, she moved on to the last cell even as she untied two of the packs of food that hung from around her neck.

  She put the bucket down. Then, squatting, she acted out spooning gruel into the twins’ bowls while she tossed the food packs inside for them. When she stopped to loosen one of the canteens at her waist, Reigna held her hand up.

  “No. Please, Carlie,” she whispered, “bring our water to the new woman prisoner if she’s awake, or to Dixon, if she’s not.”

  Carlie nodded, then headed back to Mara’s cell. There, she got down. She grabbed the other pack of food she carried and threw it inside, all the while pretending to fill Mara’s bowl. Then she tossed in her remaining canteen, making certain it would land on the bed of straw.

  “No.” Mara grabbed the vessel and reached out with it. “Please, bring this to the new woman prisoner—to Aliza.”

  Shaking her head, Carlie turned away. Then she set about filling the bowls of the remaining Oathtakers, dropping the last canteen of fresh water, the one originally intended for the twins, into Aliza’s cell.

  She couldn’t wait to get back to tell Broden all.

  Chapter Forty

  The flit, Evanescent, dropped his wings and bowed his head. His story now complete, he glanced back up. Merc remained silent, at his side.

  “Yes,” Lucy said, “Mara messaged that Dixon, Dax, and Aliza, were brought to the prison.”

  In frustration, Jerrett sprang to his feet. He paced.

  Just then, a knock came at the door.

  Lucy opened it. “Oh, hello, Petrus,” she greeted him.

  His brow furrowed. “You look . . . troubled, Lucy. What happened?”

  “I’m not ready for our—” She stopped short. “Actually, you should step inside. We could use your help.”

  She and Petrus made their way to the conference table as Jerrett was addressing Evan. “And they covered Aliza with a black shroud or something,” he said. “Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “But her magic doesn’t depend on her seeing others. It depends on others seeing her.”

  “She was in awful pain. She wasn’t even conscious.”

  “The poultice didn’t work?” Lucy asked.

  “Well, they’d only managed to get one on her arm the night before, and I believe Dixon changed it once—maybe twice—some hours later. It did seem to be working, but . . .”

  “So, you think she just didn’t have the strength to use her power.”

  “That’s right.”

  “What is this?” Petrus asked.

  Velia explained Aliza’s unusual magic powers to him. Then, sitting up straighter, she said, “I think Jerrett and I should go to Chiran—to see what we can do.”

  “No!” Lucy cried. “We’ve lost too much to Zarek already.”

  “Well, what do you propose then? We can’t just sit here.” Velia frowned.

  Petrus leaned forward. “What exactly happened, may I ask?”

  Lucy closed her eyes and shook her head. “It seems we have a traitor in our midst, Petrus, as a consequence of which, we’ve not only lost Mara and the twins, but we’ve now lost Dixon, Dax, and Aliza, as well.”

  “Oh . . .” He pulled back. “How do— Why— Are you sure? I mean, what makes you think that? What happened?”

  She explained all that had transpired.

  “So, who is the traitor? Do you know?”

  Her lips tightened into a thin line. “I wondered earlier, but I’m certain now. It’s Percival.” She ground her teeth. “I’ll get the Council to sign off on an order to arrest him the minute we’re through here—before he can give away more of our information. We’ll get him to talk.”

  “Why do you suspect Percival?” Velia asked.

  “Other than you and Jerrett, he was the only one who knew of Aliza’s condition. Also, he saw the map on which I’d inadvertently marked where she, Dixon, and Dax, were hiding out.”

  “But that was just a glimpse that he got.”

  Sighing, she stood and approached a window. Stopping to look out, she said, “Yes, well, after Mara informed me of what happened, I did some looking around.”

  She turned back to her cohorts. “It seems there’s a closet in the room just to that side.” She pointed at a wall and then approached it.

  “See this hole here? I found clear evidence of someone having recently been in the closet on the other side. From there, a person could see and hear everything that goes on in this room.”

  “But even if someone spied from there, it doesn’t follow that it was Percival. It could have been anyone,” Jerrett argued.

  “No, I think Percival went and sat there after we excused him that day and then listened in on the rest of our conversion.”

  “So Percival has some connection to . . . Zarek?” Petrus interrupted.

  “It seems that way.” Lucy sat down again. She tapped on the table, repeatedly. “He must have. It’s the only explanation. Look, I don’t know all that much about Percival’s past. He claims to have served two Select.” She hesitated, pondering. “I knew of Filip from decades ago—and I know there were serious questions surrounding his death. Then, shortly after arriving here, Percival told me that he’d also served someone by the name of ‘Arvid’ who recently died of old age. Still, I don’t recall any Select by the name of ‘Arvid.’”

  “But I remember Percival mentioning that he was headed out for a meeting with you,” Petrus said. “That was just a week ago or so. Right?
” His eyes narrowed. “How could he possibly have gotten word to anyone in that short a period? More likely it was just . . . happenstance. Yes?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” Lucy said. “Those hoodlums knew just where to find Mara and the twins, and later, Dixon, Dax, and Aliza. And clearly, they understood the conditions sufficiently well to know how best to overtake them all.”

  She pounded the table in her frustration. “As to their dealing with Dixon’s ability to travel, I suspect they thought he’d remain with them since after knocking him unconscious, they took all of his weapons, including his blade. It seems they rightly assumed that once he came to, he wouldn’t try to escape—that he’d bide his time waiting for the right opportunity—given that he couldn’t take both Dax and Aliza at the same time. But now that he’s in the same prison where Mara’s at, his magic doesn’t work either!”

  She stood and paced. “But there’s more.”

  “Oh?” Jerrett asked.

  “Some time ago, one of our healers, Salus, went missing. Do you remember my mentioning that?”

  Her cohorts all nodded.

  “Well, the last anyone knew, he was headed for a seedy little pub called ‘The Swindler’s Cup.’ I asked Percival to go there with me, to see if we could trace Salus’s steps, so as to determine where he might have gone. Percival tried to refuse going—said he was too busy to accompany me. But I think the real reason is that he was responsible for Salus’s disappearance.”

  “What?” Velia cried. “What would make you think that?”

  “Well, the barkeeper there said that he recognized Percival as the person who’d been there with Salus. Of course, Percival denied it. He suggested that the man was too inebriated to be trusted.” She sighed. “But now I suspect that there was something more going on. I think he was with Salus there. Perhaps Salus had discovered something that Percival wanted to keep hidden.” She closed her eyes and shook her head. “I’m afraid Salus may have been the victim of foul play.”

  A long quiet minute passed.

  “Do you want help with the questioning?” Petrus finally asked.

  She drew in a deep breath. “Actually, I’d like it if you just took it over. Above all, I’d like to know how he got word to Zarek so quickly.”

  Petrus nodded. “All right. I can do that.”

  “But what of rescuing them all?” Velia asked. “What do we do about that? I mean, isn’t that the most important thing at this juncture?”

  Lucy pulled her shoulders back. “Yes,” she said. “We need to formulate a plan.”

  Jerrett bit his lip. Then, “Suppose Velia stays here, but that I go—with Bane,” he said. “You could deliver him there, Lucy, and then me. I mean, Bane’s no Oathtaker, but he’s a powerful weapon—and my magic connection to him could prove valuable.”

  “No, Jerrett, I want you and Velia to stay here.”

  His eyes narrowed. “If I didn’t know better, Lucy, I’d think you were scheming. I can see it in your eyes. What is it?”

  Her gaze rested on the table, as she bit her lip. Finally, she looked back up. “I’m going,” she said.

  “What?” Velia cried, rushing to her feet. “Not you! Lucy, everyone here needs you. You have the most information, the most experience, the—”

  “I’m going.”

  Petrus glanced around the table at each of the others. Then he turned Lucy’s way. “I have an idea.”

  She turned to him, her brow raised.

  “Let me question Percival. I have been known to be a pretty effective interrogator. Maybe I can get some information that would prove truly helpful.”

  She leaned in, scowling. “You think I should just wait?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said, one finger raised, “but only long enough for me to determine if Percival can tell us anything more that we will need.”

  “That ‘we’ will need?”

  “Yes. I want to accompany you.”

  A half dozen Oathtakers, at Lucy’s direction, made their way to the sanctuary dormitory. Heavily armed, they entered the building, directing anyone in their path to move aside.

  They made their way down the narrow stone floored walkways of the first floor, peeking around each corner before turning down the next hall.

  Upon arriving at the door to Percival’s room, the Oathtaker in the lead, Idaleen, stood at one side of the door to his room, while her first assistant, Ozel, stood at the other.

  She turned to the remaining members of her crew, nodding at them to signify that they were about to enter. Then she caught Ozel’s eye. With her hand on the wrought iron door handle, her brow rose.

  Ozel signified that he was ready.

  In a single breath, she threw the door open and rushed inside. Her team barreled in at her heels.

  There sat Percival, at a vanity, a mirror before him, bent over and writing in a book. Startled, he dropped his quill and bumped his pot of ink. It turned over, spilling great blotches across his manuscript.

  Reaching for his weapon, he turned toward the ruckus.

  “Stop right there, Percival Ferreolo,” Idaleen cried, “by order of the Council!”

  His mouth moved as he searched for words. Slowly, he put his hands down.

  “Keep those hands in sight!”

  He followed her order. Then, “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “By order of the Council, you are under arrest.”

  His hands started to drop. “What?” His eyes widened.

  “Hands up!” She repeated her order.

  He complied. “I— I don’t understand. What’s this about?”

  She and Ozel approached him, one at each side.

  “Slowly now, put your hands forward and together,” Idaleen ordered.

  When he did, Ozel removed from a bag hanging over his shoulder, a magic band. He wrapped it around the prisoner’s wrist, and then stepped back.

  Percival scowled. “Would you care to explain what this is all about?” He raised his arm. “What have I done to deserve this? To be banded?”

  Idaleen grabbed his upper arm and then pulled him to his feet. “You,” she said to the two of her assistants who stood closest to the door, “lead the way. Ozel and I’ll take his sides. You follow immediately behind,” she instructed the remaining members of her troop.

  When Percival tried to pull away, she gripped his arm more firmly.

  “I don’t understand,” he said. “What’s this all about?”

  “We’re following orders,” she said. “You’ll be informed of all the details in due course.”

  They made their way out of the dormitory and walked across the grounds toward the conference center. As an early-spring, heavy rain, had just ceased, the air smelled clean and earthy from spots where the snow cover had melted away. Along their way, several bystanders stopped to gawk, but no one interrupted the entourage.

  Unable to control his path, Percival stepped through a puddle of greasy mud. “Could you at least use some caution here?” he asked.

  “My apologies, sir,” Idaleen said. “We’ll use greater care.” She guided him around another puddle. “Our purpose is not to pronounce a judgment, or to exact a punishment—merely to arrest.”

  When they arrived at the conference center, they stepped inside. There they found Lucy, Jerrett, and Velia, awaiting them.

  “Lucy!” Percival cried. “What is this? Tell them to set me loose!”

  “I will do no such thing.”

  His head cocked. His eyes narrowed. “But—”

  She stepped closer. “I wouldn’t have thought it of you, Percival,” she seethed.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “A traitor—right here in our midst.”

  His mouth dropped open. “I— I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  She turned to Idaleen. “The guard downstairs will direct you to the room we’ve reserved for questioning,” she said.

  “Lucy,” Percival interrupted. “I haven’t done anything.”


  She stepped closer, glaring at him, her mere presence cutting him off from saying more. “Save it, Percival,” she snapped. “We’re investigating all of your claims now.”

  “My claims?”

  “Take him away!” she ordered.

  Hours later, Lucy and Petrus arrived at the room in which the guards held Percival. Upon sight of them, the men stepped aside.

  “Any trouble?” Lucy asked.

  “None,” the lead guard responded.

  “Very well.” She took in a deep breath. “You can open the door now.”

  Once done, she stepped inside, Petrus at her heels.

  “Lucy!” Percival cried as he jumped to his feet.

  “Sit down,” she ordered.

  His eyes flickered from her to Petrus, then back again. “What’s this all about?”

  “I said, ‘sit down.’”

  He sat.

  Petrus pulled out a chair for her, then one for himself.

  Sitting, Lucy stared at Percival, her lips in a thin line, her jaw clenched tightly. “So, we’ve been looking into your records.” She pulled out some papers from the pack hanging over her shoulder. “Why don’t we start with Filip?”

  “Filip?”

  “Yes. You remember Filip. Your first charge?” She glared at him.

  “Wh— What of him?”

  She turned a page over. “I’ve been reviewing here the questions about his death—you being alone with him at the time, and his being so young, and so ill and all,” she said. “And given your powers as a healer.”

  Percival’s brow dropped. “But . . . the Council looked into all of that years ago. They determined that he’d only been ill for a matter of hours when he died.” He shook his head. “What’s this all about, anyway?”

  She tapped the tabletop. “Fine then, we won’t talk bout Filip—just now anyway. Tell me about Arvid.”

  He raised his hands, palms up. “What of him? What do you want to know?”

  “Well now,” she said, glancing once again at her records, “here’s something interesting. It seems none of the Council members recall an ‘Arvid.’”