Mortal Rites

by Melissa McShane

  The paper went back into the vest. “The rest of you, out,” Corbyn said.

  “They’re my friends,” Dianthe said.

  Corbyn’s eyebrows, as bushy as his beard, went up. “The kind of friends you trust with your secrets?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I don’t know them and I’ve got secrets of my own I don’t want shared, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

  “Who are you?” Alaric said. “Because I’m not leaving Dianthe alone with you, whoever you are.”

  The big man smiled. “Loyal, are you, Ansorjan?”

  “You have no idea,” Alaric said.

  “If you’re here to take Dianthe away, you have to listen to us,” Sienne said. “She killed that man in self-defense when he tried to rape her. She’s no murderer. You can’t take her back to Sileas.”

  “I know she’s no murderer,” Corbyn said.

  That stopped Alaric, whose mouth was open to speak. Dianthe said, “Why are you here, Corbyn?”

  He shook his head ruefully. “You’re a hard woman to find,” he said. “How long have you been in Fioretti?”

  “Six years.”

  “Unbelievable. I’ve had people looking for you all that time. I trained you too well.”

  “Not too well by my standards.” Dianthe rose and came forward to rest her hands on the bars. “Stop being cryptic and answer me. Why are you here?”

  “I can’t speak freely in front of these people. I don’t know them.”

  “I do. We’d all give our lives for each other. I trust them completely. They know how to keep secrets, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  Corbyn chewed his lower lip in thought. He took Mathis’s chair and sat in it, making it groan alarmingly. “All right,” he said. “But you have to understand, all of you, that what I’m about to tell you can’t leave this room. If it does, your lives are forfeit. If that’s not something you can agree to, you’d better leave now.”

  Sienne nodded. Alaric inclined his head once in assent. Kalanath and Perrin shared a glance, then nodded in turn.

  “You,” Corbyn said, pointing at Kalanath, “check the stairs.”

  Kalanath trotted up a couple of steps. “There is no one here.”

  Corbyn nodded. “How much has Dianthe told you about me?”

  “That you taught her how to be a thief,” Alaric said. “That you are a thief yourself.”

  “That’s partly true,” Corbyn said. “Only I’m not a thief. I’m a spy. King Derekian’s spymaster, to be specific.”

  Dianthe gasped. “But you can’t be. All those years—”

  “I wasn’t spymaster until about five years ago. Up until then, I was responsible for intelligence gathering in Sileas,” Corbyn said. “Duke Randon of Sileas was one of the king’s most troublesome vassals, and I spent a lot of time collecting information from my agents there and acting on it. Which meant a lot of time in the kitchens, listening to the belowstairs gossip.”

  “What do you mean, was?” Dianthe asked. Her eyes were wide, and her voice trembled.

  Corbyn rocked back in his chair. “The duke suffered a sudden fatal illness two months ago. It was the kind of sudden fatal illness that was many years coming. The king is naturally quite distressed at the loss of someone so faithful, but was quick to replace him—couldn’t leave one of the largest dukedoms untended, could he?”

  “Did you do it?”

  “That’s not a question I’m at liberty to entertain.”

  Dianthe swallowed. “And this means…what? If Randon isn’t duke anymore—”

  “The new duchess spent some time going over old verdicts. To no one’s surprise, she’s found quite a few of them were…improperly handled. Specifically, Dianthe Katraki was found to have acted in self-defense when she killed Georgius Pontolo. The charge of murder has been expunged.”

  Dianthe closed her eyes and pressed her head against the bars. “Corbyn—then why the wanted posters?”

  “As I said, you’re a hard woman to find. My need to find you recently became more pressing. Since I couldn’t reveal my identity and make a public announcement, I had to resort to other means. I’m sorry if they inconvenienced you.”

  “Inconvenienced her?” Sienne exclaimed. “Denys had to arrest her—she thought she was going off to her death—how dare you talk about it like it was some…some minor discomfort?”

  “It’s all right, Sienne,” Dianthe said. She was smiling. “I might have guessed you’d do something like that. Why did you need to find me?”

  Corbyn rose and walked forward to take her hand. “Because I’m dying,” he said, “and I need a successor.”

  Dianthe’s mouth dropped open. “Corbyn. No. Isn’t there healing, or doctors, or…”

  “It’s not something doctors can fix,” Corbyn said, “and as for healing, priests can cure my symptoms, but not the underlying cause. I’ve spent the last year hearing the same answer from priests of every avatar and a couple of Omeiran expatriates. But that’s not important. I want you to take my place as spymaster, now, before I’m too ill to finish your training.”

  “She can’t be the king’s spymaster! She’s a scrapper!” Sienne burst out.

  Corbyn ignored her. “You were my best student,” he said. “Better than I’d ever hoped. So many of them took to crime, but you…you never would do anything that smacked of illegality unless you were convinced it was the only way. The right way. When that murder charge came up, I very nearly disposed of Randon right then. Nine years, Dianthe. I’m so sorry I failed you.”

  “You didn’t fail me. It was my own fault. I was so afraid, I couldn’t think of anything to do but run.”

  “It saved your life. I was in no position to extricate you.” Corbyn seemed to become aware of the bars between them for the first time and cursed. “Where are the keys? That boy must have taken them.” He trod up the stairs out of sight.

  “Dianthe,” Sienne said, then once more couldn’t think of anything to say.

  “You can go home,” Alaric said, clasping her hands. “Dianthe, you’re free.”

  “I’m free,” Dianthe said. She sounded stunned. “Alaric, what do I do?”

  “Is spymaster important?” Kalanath asked.

  “It’s…dear Kitane have mercy, he’s right. It’s what he was training me for, all those years.” Dianthe sank onto the bench and covered her face with both hands. “I’d be good at it, too.”

  “But is that what you want?” Sienne said. “You’re a scrapper, and you’re good at that.”

  “I know. I don’t know. You don’t understand how much I owe Corbyn. He was almost a father to me, and now…”

  Heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs, echoing strangely, and Sienne looked up and saw Denys had accompanied Corbyn. His jaw was rigid and dark circles ringed his eyes, though he’d combed his hair and tidied his uniform. He held the folded paper Corbyn had shown Mathis in one hand and the ring of keys in the other. “You’re free to go,” he told Dianthe, unlocking the cell door. Dianthe emerged, carefully stepping wide of him so there was no chance of them touching, not even so much as their clothes brushing against each other.

  Sienne looked at the two of them, at their miserable faces, and burst out, “Oh, don’t be an idiot, Denys! Dianthe isn’t a criminal—don’t you have her pardon there?”

  “It’s an exoneration,” Denys said. “She never was a criminal, according to this.”

  “See? You don’t—”

  “Don’t, Sienne,” Denys said. “Just don’t say anything.” He turned and left the cells, walking as heavily as if he were Corbyn.

  “But—” Sienne turned to Dianthe.

  “It’s all right, Sienne,” Dianthe said. “I screwed up. This is the result. Please don’t say any more.” She turned to Corbyn. “You’ve put me in a terrible position,” she said. “I owe you everything I am, every skill, every moment your teaching saved my life. But…I have a new life now. I have people who depend on me. I don’t know if I can give tha
t up.”

  “Not even for what I’m offering?”

  “You should know me well enough to know prestige and power never mattered to me.”

  “I was thinking more in terms of being able to make a difference.” Corbyn put a hand on her shoulder. “The king’s government is stronger now than it has been, but it’s still not totally secure. You’d be in a position to support his actions, reveal traitors before they can act, give evidence that convicts criminals. You’d be able to protect women like you once were.”

  Dianthe’s eyes narrowed. “That’s low, Corbyn.”

  “It’s the truth. Yes, I’m leaning on you. But you’re the best choice for the job. I believe in what Derekian is doing for this country. He’s the first Fiorus monarch in three generations who isn’t corrupt. I want to leave him in good hands. Consider that before you tell me no.”

  “I…I’ll consider it. But we have to go. There’s something I have to take care of. Where can I reach you?”

  “Send word to the Gray Duck tavern that you want to speak to Hector Allanze. They’ll get word to me.” He squeezed her shoulder. “Good luck to you.”

  When he was gone, Dianthe said, “Well.”

  “But you wouldn’t—”

  “Sienne,” Perrin said, putting a restraining hand on her shoulder, “this is Dianthe’s decision.”

  “That’s right,” Dianthe said. “And I’m not thinking about it until we destroy the lich. Now, where do we start looking?”

  Alaric cleared his throat. “One neighborhood called The Havens is on the south side. Then someone thought they’d heard of an estate by that name—the woman had made a couple of deliveries there. I think we should try that one first, given how many of our blight seem to be well-to-do.”

  “Then let’s get my things, and we’ll be off,” Dianthe said.

  14

  The journey to the estate called The Havens took them through a wealthy part of town, where manors lay spread out on ample grounds, tilled and planted to look elegant or exotic. Beyond these neighborhoods, however, the well-cultivated yards gave way to untrimmed hedges, overgrown gardens, and enormous trees that might be as old as Fioretti itself. If not for the paved roads and the magic lights on poles, dim in the daylight, it might have been wilderness rather than civilization. Sienne breathed in the warm, wet air that smelled of growing things and felt her tension drain away. Dianthe wouldn’t choose Corbyn over them. She just wouldn’t.

  “This is it, I think,” Kalanath said, pointing at a path that was all but invisible in the lush growth. A wooden sign with THE HAVENS burned into it hung from a branch at eye level.

  “I feel like we’re approaching an overgrown ruin,” Alaric said, heading down the path, which was narrow enough they had to walk single file.

  “Yes, and one haunted by carricks,” Perrin said. “Not that I have ever seen a carrick.”

  “No fear of that so long as there’s no lakes around,” Dianthe said. “It’s wisps you have to fear in a place like this.”

  “I think that is a thing you did not need to say,” Kalanath said with a grimace. “I do not like wisps.”

  “Shh,” Alaric said, then laughed, a little sheepishly. “I don’t know why I just shushed you. It’s just that—”

  “—this place feels like a mausoleum,” Sienne said. “Or a temple. But not to any avatar I know.”

  “It does feel rather sinister, does it not?” Perrin said.

  At that moment, the trees, enormous willows that had been blocking the view ahead, came to an end, and Sienne gaped at the house before them. The manor sprawled like a sleeping cat stretched out before a fire, with two single-story wings flanking the two-story main house. Arched windows missing their glass, if they’d ever had any, gaped at them like sunken eyes. Half the windows, the ones on the left-hand side, were boarded up. Vines crept up the sides of the house, almost covering the walls on the right-hand side and racing to reach the roof of the main house. The path led through an overgrown lawn, patchy with weeds, straight to the front door, which hung ajar. There were no signs of life aside from the vulgar, verdant display.

  “This can’t be right,” Alaric said.

  “Are you sure? Because to my mind, this is exactly the sort of place an evil necromancer should live,” Sienne said, stepping a little closer to him.

  “Let’s just see if anyone still lives here,” Dianthe said, striding up the path toward the door. Sienne and the others followed her. Dianthe rapped sharply on the door, which shifted at her touch.

  There was no response. “Should we wait, or poke around?” Dianthe said.

  “It’s someone’s property,” Alaric said, “so we probably shouldn’t trespass. After all, we’re here looking for someone, and if no one lives—”

  The door creaked open, rising to a musical crescendo in a harmony Sienne wouldn’t have thought a piece of wood and metal could make. “Yes?” said the elderly woman who answered the door. She had gray-streaked white hair falling loose nearly to the small of her back and a pleasantly wrinkled face.

  She was also dressed, head to toe, in a sleeveless gown dyed bright red.

  Sienne gasped. Alaric put out a warning hand. “Drusilla Tallavena?” he said.

  “I am she,” the woman said. Her voice was firm and not at all shaky. “Can I help you with something?”

  “Are you acquainted with Pauro Murtaviti?”

  The pleasant expression vanished. “Why do you ask?”

  “We have some questions about his…activities.”

  “I don’t know anything about what Pauro’s doing now. I haven’t spoken to him in three years.” Drusilla Tallavena began to shut the door.

  “Wait!” Dianthe exclaimed. “We think you’re in danger!”

  The door stopped. “Is this some kind of trick?” Drusilla said sharply.

  “No trick,” Alaric said. “Murtaviti has turned himself into an undead creature and is on his way to Fioretti. We believe he intends to attack you.”

  Drusilla opened the door widely. “Come in,” she said. “If Pauro has succeeded, we are all in danger.”

  Despite its imposing façade, the old house was only one room deep. Halls sprouted from the entry chamber to extend into both wings. In the unlit chamber, dim from the shielding limbs of the willow trees, Sienne could barely make out paintings hung on the walls and a staircase, all the way at the back of the room.

  “I shut up half the house when I began my penance,” Drusilla said, waving a hand to indicate they should follow her. “I never have guests anymore. It wasn’t as if I could explain why I took to wearing the red.”

  Sienne felt full to bursting with questions, but Alaric gave her a quelling glare, and she bit back the first, which was What penance?

  The rooms of the wing seemed to have been built around the hall, which ran through the middle of them without doors or partitions, like the string on a rope of pearls. They passed through a sitting room, a dining room with two tables flanking the hall, and another sitting room, all of them tidy and dust-free, if dark. In the third sitting room, Drusilla lit a lamp on one of the many small tables scattered throughout the room and trimmed it so it cast a warm glow over all of them. “Please sit,” she said, taking a seat next to the lamp. “Tell me what happened to Pauro. He managed the transformation?”

  “It seems you already know something about it,” Alaric said.

  “It was our common goal.” Drusilla laughed. “Say, rather, it was the goal we all raced toward, each hoping to be the first. I would not have guessed Pauro would be the first to succeed, though. Selten and Ivar were so much more driven than he. But Selten died, and Ivar…he seems content as he is. And now Pauro intends to kill me. What a waste of effort.”

  “We’d prefer it if you were less cryptic,” Alaric said. “You’re one of Murtaviti’s blight. Why would he kill you?”

  “Was one of Pauro’s blight,” Drusilla said. “It’s been three years since I turned to the worship of Delanie and took the red rob
e of penance. I have many years yet to go before it is complete. I pray I will accomplish my penance before I die.”

  “You’re a penitent?” Sienne exclaimed, ignoring Alaric’s glare. “Is that even possible?”

  “My dear, I am grateful that you are so untouched by the ways of the world to ask that question,” Drusilla said. “I am assured it is possible, and the priests of Delanie would not give me false hope. She is far too logical an avatar. I try not to think that I might have had much more to atone for, as that leads me to the further sin of pride, but sometimes it gives me comfort to know I have achieved some small success.”

  “So Pauro wants you dead to keep you from being a rival,” Dianthe said. “Is that it?”

  “Yes. Oh, we all swore that of course any of us who achieved the transformation would use our knowledge to help the others, but we all knew we were lying. Blights generally fall apart after a decade or so because of internal rivalries. Ours has lasted nearly thirty-seven years—not that I consider it mine anymore, but you understand my meaning. At any rate, that is a long time to maintain a blight.”

  “So you intended to become a lich?” Alaric said.

  “I did.” A look of distaste crossed her face. “It seems so far away, so irrational. I don’t know why I ever wanted immortality. Not at that price. Hah. Not at any price. Living forever while you watch everyone around you age and die…I much prefer the promise of God’s eternal rest, surrounded by my loved ones.”

  “But you understand the process,” Perrin said. “You can tell us how to defeat Master Murtaviti.”

  “Defeat him?” Drusilla smiled, the indulgent look of a parent to a pampered child. “That’s impossible.”

  “It is not impossible. I know it has been done.” Perrin leaned forward. “Is it a divine blessing of some sort? Or a spell?”

  “A lich is immortal and invulnerable,” Drusilla said. “They stand outside the natural order. I have never heard of an avatar intervening to destroy a lich. I believe they are capable of doing so, because I can’t imagine liches being more powerful than God, but they choose not to for their own reasons. At any rate, they are immune to many spells, can endure more damage than an ordinary man, and have strength beyond mortal means. If you attack him directly, you will be destroyed.”