“Hold up,” said Elias. “My father’s Marshal shield bears the heraldry of the House of Denar. On it there is a tree that has seven stars caught in its branches. Six houses, plus House Denar—seven.”
Phinneas nodded, pleased at Elias’s observation. “Yes, yes, just so. The seventh house has fallen out of memory, but its star has never been removed from the heraldry, a vestige from a long forgotten time. Moreover, if you draw lines between the six outer stars, you will draw a large six-sided star, with one in the center representing the House of Denar. In the formative days of our kingdom, the houses were called The Seven Stars of Galacia and comprised a single star, which represented a unified land.”
“But why didn’t they take the seventh star out of the heraldry?” asked Lar. “And what happened to the seventh house in the first place?”
“Padraic surmised that the star had been left as a reminder to subsequent generations of how close treachery could lie, which was ultimately why the seventh house was banished.
“As the story goes, the seventh house shared a kinship with House Denar, and next to it was the most powerful of the noble houses. But the seventh house wasn’t satisfied with second fiddle and lusted for the crown, and, ultimately, attempted to seize the throne. The coup failed, but only just, and not before incurring heavy losses on both sides. The king at the time, Mathias Denar, was a wizard of no small consequence and placed an enduring curse upon the entire seventh houses’s bloodline, banishing every last scion and prohibiting any offspring of the cursed line from ever returning.”
“Britches,” Elias breathed, borrowing Lar’s favorite curse.
“Legend holds,” Phinneas said, “that each member of the seventh house, and those born to it hence, were cursed to have a left hand colored bright red, so that all who saw them would know that they had steeped their hand in their brother’s blood. As they were exiled, the banished house swore an oath that it would one day find a way to return and take vengeance on House Denar, and reclaim Galacia and Agia for its own.”
The companions exchanged grave looks and Elias felt himself shiver despite himself. “That’s quite a bedtime story,” he said.
“Indeed,” said Phinneas as he peered into the dregs of his mug.
“Could the return of this cursed house actually be upon us?” Elias asked. “If the curse has endured so long, what could possibly break it now?”
“I don’t know, Elias,” Phinneas replied. He drained his mug. “Agnes! Pray bring more ale.” Phinneas stretched his arms over his head and then rubbed at a kink in his neck as he continued. “Magic has laws. That much I do know. Banishing an entire bloodline is no small feat. Such a geas is old magic, and beyond our ken. What I can surmise, is that such an act required an ornate ritual, which might well have included King Mathias making a pact with a greater power, the use of artifacts, or any number of criteria foreign to us.”
“Has this curse,” Bryn said, “if it is in fact genuine, already been lifted? For if not, then how could Slade have come?”
“The Scarlet Hand, as far as I know, is merely, well, the hand of the banished house—their agents abroad. Long has there been the whisper of such men walking the lands gathering intelligence for the seventh house, but this is the first time in generations that one has been discovered, much less taken. This is the first time the Hand has left any witness alive.”
Elias felt the others’ eyes upon him, and he shifted uneasily under their weight. “Well, it won’t be the last. If they are as far-reaching and covert as you say, we may not have to find them at all—they may very well come for us to tie up loose ends.”
“The queen must be warned,” Bryn said. “Her life could be in danger.”
“If Phinneas is right, the entire House of Denar is in danger, including you,” Elias replied. “You may all be marked for death. For my part, my first order of business is to deal with Macallister.”
“Do you think he is involved with these guys?” Lar asked.
Elias snorted. “Macallister is an opportunist. I can’t imagine he has any real knowledge of the Scarlet Hand, or their motives. No, I suspect he stumbled into something bigger than himself, and is nothing more than a pawn. Still, I plan to bring him in. His observations, however trivial, may be of some consequence. And,” Elias added, his countenance darkening, “Macallister must be made to answer for his crimes.”
Elias saw the doctor smiling thinly at him. “What is it?”
“Oh, nothing, son,” Phinneas said, “only that you reminded me of your father just now.”
Elias sighed deeply. “Ah, Dad…” He felt his eyes well up, but blinked them clear. He refused to succumb to his emotions, at least not yet. He still had work to do. Elias cleared his throat. “Something about this just doesn’t feel right. I can’t imagine an ancient order like the one you’ve described hiring out to assassinate a whiskey distiller. As I said, Slade told me that he came for my father’s sword, that it belonged to him. But all that carnage for a sword? It doesn’t make sense. There must be more to it. It must be because of who my father was.”
“I don’t know,” Bryn said, “you heard what Slade said. That blade is no usual sword. That thing reeks of power. It’s old magic. And what’s more, it’s not Galacian. God alone knows how old that thing is.”
“You seem to know an awful lot,” Elias said, a little dryly.
Bryn grinned, nonplussed. “Court education.”
In the aftermath of Bryn’s words the companions fell silent as they waited for Agnes to bring more ale, each alone with their thoughts. Bryn waited for the doctor to pour the ale and then broke the silence. She looked hard at each of them in turn and said in a soft voice, “It is because of Macallister that I have come to Knoll Creek.”
Chapter 9
Bryn’s Story
“Come again?” said Elias as he exchanged looks with Phinneas, while Lar choked on a mouthful of ale.
“You’re right, Elias, I’m not a tax collector. I work with the captain of the queen’s guard, Daryn Blackwell, under the queen’s steward, Ogden Vandrael. We are members of the Vanguard, the modern incarnation of the Knights Vanguard, but our mission remains the same—safeguard crown and kingdom against any threat by any and every means available. Our order has changed with the times and now rather than fighting enemies on the field of battle, we do so in Peidra’s Court, countless other political arenas, back alleyways and dark corridors—anywhere a dagger is preferred to the broadsword.
“A Vanguard operates outside of the purview of the public domain. For lack of a better word, I am a spy. As a cousin to the queen I am well-known at court and have a reputation for being whimsical—a reputation I willingly foster. As a result I can come and go as I please and when some plotting upstart is in his cups he doesn’t think twice about spilling his beans to the comely, dim-witted girl that’s been flirting with him all night.”
“Sounds like a good gig,” Lar said into the pregnant silence.
“It has its moments,” Bryn said with a wink, but her face assumed a grave expression presently. “Since the death of my uncle, King Peregrine, Eithne has dodged an alarming number of plots against her, both politically and corporeally, which is precisely why I am here in your fair town. Before I begin, I must have the word of each of you that what I say here will not leave this room.”
“You have it, freely given,” Elias said as he saluted her with a clasped right fist over his heart.
“Me too,” said Lar.
“And I,” said Phinneas.
Bryn leaned over the table. “Last month we intercepted a cryptic letter without signature or salutation. It was written mostly in code but we were able to decipher small portions of it. Our primary clue was the phrase hart hunt. Hart is an archaic word for a stag, which is the central character on the Denar coat of arms. In times past the Kings of House Denar were called the Stag. As you can imagine, this was quite alarming for it hinted at a plot on the queen’s life.”
“How did you come up
on this correspondence?” asked Elias.
“Captain Blackwell observed that a palace page, Tomas, had begun acting strangely. He had a wild unkempt look, and he had been seen talking to himself. Now this fellow was popular with the ladies and known for his amiability and social grace, so when he began skirting friends and lurking in his quarters during his time off, the captain took note of it. Nothing really threatening, mind you, but Blackwell thought I better look into it just to be sure.
“So, one night I visit Tomas in his chambers. I practically had to force my way in. I tried to get him to drink some wine with me, but he refused, muttering that the One God didn’t look kindly on indulgence in the fermentation of grape or grain. Convinced something was amiss, I broke into his room when he was on duty and discovered the letter stuck away in a chest. Then—”
“Hold up,” said Elias. “You said he had a wild look—what do you mean by that? Was it in any way similar to Danica’s behavior when we found her?”
Bryn cocked her head to a side as she considered. “Come to think of it, yes, I believe so. Actually, he had that same spooked look in his eye.”
“So, it’s possible that he may have been under the sway of an enchantment,” Elias said, “which could have caused his sudden change in character—perhaps the very same kind of fell magic that afflicted Danica.”
“You may just be on to something.” Bryn leaned back and took a deep draw on her mug of ale. “It doesn’t fit that a spy infiltrated Lucerne Palace by posing as a page, only to blow cover by acting out of character after years of exemplary service. No, someone got to him. The questions then are how, and whom.”
“And now we have a good idea as to who—The Scarlet Hand,” Elias said. “Please, continue.”
“As you can imagine,” Bryn said, “the note moved us to take up a heightened state of alert. We had no leads other than the knowledge that there was a conspiracy against the crown, whether foreign or domestic. However, all this business happened during the Summit Arcana, which gave us somewhere to start, but also gave would-be conspirators a literal sea of suspicious characters to hide in.”
“What’s the Arcana Summit?” Lar asked.
“The Summit is a three day convention, where like-minded people gather to discuss magic and sell and trade books, potions, baubles and whatever else you can imagine, and plenty you can’t. It’s an annual tradition started centuries ago by King Malachi to foster good relations between arcanists in a neutral, safe place and to increase our knowledge and exposure to the arcane arts. These days it’s mostly populated by hacks and wealthy poseurs.”
“Like Macallister,” Elias said.
Bryn grunted. “Like Macallister. Many travel a great distance to attend the Summit and among all the greenhorns there are some legitimate practitioners and vendors. As a result, many arrive before the start of the summit, to rest after a week in the saddle, or because the distance is so great they make a holiday out of it and enjoy all Peidra has to offer. Because of this, the inns and taverns bustle all the week, and the city is teeming with tourists, which makes it harder for the city guard, the Blackshields, to keep an eye on everything.”
“The ideal time to make a move against the crown,” Elias said.
“Precisely,” said Bryn. “Now our Page, Tomas, was known to frequent a tavern that lay in close proximity to the Summit. He had begun acting odd at the beginning of the previous week, and I apprehended the letter on the second night of the Summit. The Captain and I decided that I should attend the final day of the Summit, assume the role of the flippant aristocrat, and see if I could scrape together any leads or spot any suspicious characters.”
“And out of everyone there you picked Macallister?” Phinneas asked.
“Not quite,” Bryn said. “You see the trouble is that keeping an eye out for suspicious individuals at the Summit Arcana is like trying to find a needle in a pile of needles. I couldn’t very well walk around asking people if they had seen anyone suspicious amongst the masses. After turning up little of value, I went to the tavern Tomas frequented, a modest drinking hole bearing the ridiculous name of The Frothing Otter. The way I figured, Tomas’s relief would be coming in soon and he might go to the tavern to meet his coconspirator, if said individual was using the Summit as cover. He was being tailed by the guard in any case, but I had little else to work with.
“I made myself comfortable against a wall and waited. In short order, happily, Tomas entered the tavern. Moments later followed two men I recognized from the palace guard dressed in plain clothes. Tomas went to the bar and sat next to a man who had busied himself with peering into his mug of ale. The man didn’t look up from his drink. In fact, the man did not give any indication that he knew Tomas existed. Tomas glanced briefly to either side, drank one mug, paid and then left. The guard, none the wiser, followed him back into the streets.
“Something about that man at the bar bothered me though. I couldn’t quite put a finger on it. He didn’t stand out in any way: Nondescript clothing, his posture didn’t suggest he had anything to hide; he didn’t look around furtively as the guilty often do; normal, well-manicured haircut, no distinguishing marks. He looked like nothing so much as an average citizen enjoying a drink after a long day. In the end maybe it was that that tipped me off—he blended in a little too well.
“So, I waited. I figured if this was the guy that got to Tomas, he would be clever enough to notice the page had been followed, and would tell him to scat. The man continued to sit there, nursing the same mug, for well over an hour. Now convinced I had my man, I stayed. The odd thing is, despite the fact that the tavern was packed, no one else took the bar stool next to my mark and the barkeep never offered him another drink.”
“That smacks of magic,” said Phinneas.
“Agreed,” Bryn said. “Then in walks none other than one Roderick Macallister. I was suspicious at once. You see, The Frothing Otter is a reputable enough establishment, but it’s a working man’s drinking hole. Macallister was dressed far too well to be anything but a member of the gentry, or a wealthy merchant at the least. He took the empty stool and, like before, the fellow looked into his mug and paid the noble no mind. However, Macallister seemed fidgety and he leaned his head a little too close to the man in question. Macallister paid for his drink with a platinum note. The barkeep brought him a handful of gold sovereigns as change—hell, on a normal day the barkeep probably wouldn’t have had that much change on hand. Macallister finished his wine and then headed for the door, leaving his coin behind, which the man scooped up in a single motion.”
“It was Slade!” Elias said.
“Truth be told,” Bryn said, “I never got a clean look at him. As he left he kept his face turned from me, almost as if he knew I watched him.”
“Likely he did,” Phinneas said dryly.
“Regardless, I followed him out into the twilight streets, but he had disappeared as if he never were. Frantic at the prospect of losing him I climbed a lantern post, but I couldn’t spot him in any direction. I had lost my only lead, and had little hope of locating him again, especially considering I couldn’t identify him even if I did.”
“However,” Elias said, “it was easy enough to find out who Macallister was and follow him back to Knoll Creek. All you needed was a suitable cover.”
Bryn leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. “That’s my story.”
“Why didn’t you bring Macallister in and question him in Peidra?” asked Lar. “Why come all this way?”
“My experiences in the Frothing Otter taught me one thing: whatever the identity of the man in question may be, he was highly skilled at avoiding detection and extremely intelligent. Consider also his choice in Tomas. He picked a spy that could go virtually anywhere in the Palace, even the throne room, without raising suspicion, and what’s more, a spy that no one would look twice at—for all intents and purposes, virtually invisible. It is only due to the vigilant eye of Captain Blackwell that I am even here.
�
��I have no doubt that if we took Macallister in Peidra, this man and his agents would find out and go to ground, and then we wouldn’t have any chance of uncovering their plot and no further leads. Our only chance lay in stealth and secrecy, to observe Macallister in the hope he could lead us to this man. I didn’t even follow Macallister for fear he was under surveillance. I allowed him a two-day head start.”
“You came alone?” Elias asked.
Bryn shook her head around a yawn. “No, I came with an entire company of the queen’s finest Redshields, but I figured our quarry could probably pick out a guardsmen in civilian clothes a mile away, so I left them in Ralston, where they’re close enough to be summoned in a few hours, but without jeopardizing my cover. I traveled the rest of the way to Knoll with just my two retainers.”
“Speaking of which,” Elias said, “where are your retainers?”
“I left them in town, with instructions to go for help if I didn’t send word by nightfall. I figured if we ran afoul, there’d be no one to alert the Redshields in Ralston.”
Bryn’s yawn proved infectious, and Phinneas found himself following in kind. “We’ve all had one hell of a day,” he said. “Why don’t we call it a night. This palaver has kept an old man up far past his bed time.”
The companions decided, after a little prodding from the doctor, that the safest and most practical course of action would be that they all stayed the night at the ranch. Talk of the Scarlet Hand and ancient curses had made everyone a little skittish.
Later, as Phinneas tried to find a comfortable spot in his bed, his thoughts dwelled on Elias. Bryn had been right about the distiller—Elias had the gift. More than that, unlike many of the arcanists of the day who manipulated the magical forces that permeated the universe through study and the use of incantation and formula, Elias was an Innate. He had the rare gift of being able to channel magical energy through force of will, rather than having to rely on ritual and formula.
Phinneas only hoped that Elias could learn to control his budding abilities, and not the other way around. Despite the great power available to an Innate, it was a double edged sword. Many such individuals could not cope with their gift and were consumed by the very energies they sought dominion over.
Reckoning (The Empyrean Chronicle) Page 12
