“When is the first Mass of the Silver Flame celebrated at the Cathedral?”
“The seventh bell, but if I may suggest it, you may want to try to attend the sunrise service in Tira’s Chapel. It’s usually much less crowded, and Bishop Maellas himself presides on Wir.”
“Does he, indeed? Well,” Andri said, handing the helpful concierge a galifar, “I certainly don’t want to miss that.”
The Tira Miron Chapel faced the rising sun, so that the altar was bathed in the chromatic light of half a dozen silver-filigreed stained glass windows during the entire service, an effect that was no doubt meant to awe and inspire the laity. Andri merely found it distracting as he watched Bishop Maellas prepare for the final blessing. The Bishop’s white robes and white-blond hair were tinted with rainbow hues from the windows. Blues and purples slashed across his chest, green and yellow swirls covered the lower half of his face, and his eyes were painted a disconcerting crimson.
“May the light of the Silver Flame shine in your every deed and burn ever bright in your hearts,” the Bishop intoned, raising his hands in benediction.
The congregation, heads bowed, responded in kind.
“And may the Flame illuminate our path and ever guide us.”
Andri made the sign of the Flame and stood along with the others as Bishop Maellas processed out of the chapel. While the faithful filed out, most stopping to greet the Bishop or ask for his blessing on some small token of the faith, Andri hung back, watching the prelate interact with the people of Aruldusk as he waited for the small crowd to thin out.
Maellas was tall, almost as tall as Andri himself, and slender, even for an elf. His eyes, when not colored by the light from the windows, were a pale green. He smiled politely at each member of the congregation, allowing them to kiss his ring or exchanging a few words with some of the better-dressed patrons. Andri thought he looked distracted. Or bored.
Andri followed the last of the stragglers out of the chapel and waited his turn in line. The man ahead of him, a noble dressed in ridiculous shades of saffron and salmon, was asking about the latest shifter arrest. Andri edged closer so he could hear.
“… I just don’t understand, Your Excellency. Another shifter arrested, and still the murders continue! Are they reprisal killings, do you think?” The man didn’t wait for an answer, just prattled on while Maellas pretended to look interested. “By the Flame! At this rate, we’ll have to clap the whole lot of them in irons just to make sure they don’t get any ideas!”
“Oh, I hardly think it will come to that, Lord Drosin,” Maellas replied mildly. “Surely all shifters can’t be evil. Our revered Keeper, Jolan Sol, declared it so himself during the Purge.”
Drosin harrumphed. “Begging Your Excellency’s pardon, but Keeper Sol just said they weren’t lycanthropes. Doesn’t mean they’re not killers.”
Maellas just smiled wanly as Drosin kissed his ring and strode off, muttering about “murderous shifters.”
Andri moved in to take the noble’s place. He bent to kiss the proffered ring, an ornate silver band set with a single, bright diamond. He was surprised to see the prelate’s finger blistering around the ring, and then he remembered—Bishop Maellas was said to be allergic to silver, yet he wore the traditional symbol of his office without complaint, virtuously offering his pain up to the Silver Flame as penance for the sins of all the Purified. Or perhaps the elf Bishop wore it as proof of his devotion to the Flame, for even after two centuries, some still doubted that one of the Aereni could be loyal to the Tenet of Purity. But Andri dismissed such aspersions out of hand. Race was no indicator of virtue, and by all accounts, Maellas was doing a better job of leading the faithful than many of his human counterparts.
Silver dust, which no amount of washing could ever completely remove, glittered around the elf’s fingernails, a sure sign that Maellas was still a working priest, despite his years as a prelate. The lingering traces of silverburn gave mute testimony to the many Masses over which he presided, as well as his own private rites. Though Andri knew that in this, at least, the Bishop chose practicality over piety. While the ceremonial powder used to make mundane fires burn with an argent hue was normally made with actual silver, Maellas and his staff used a special mix that utilized platinum instead. Doing so required special dispensation from the Diet of Cardinals, and the cost was high enough to make even him blink. Accordingly, an allergy to silver would have been enough to turn most seminarians away from the priesthood, but Maellas’s piety was such that he would not let the limitations of an imperfect body keep him from the path he had chosen. Andri found it hard to believe that so devout a follower of the Flame could truly be the scheming bigot Irulan had described, but that’s what he was here to ascertain.
Straightening, he saw the Bishop looking at his necklace, which had slipped out from under his collar. Andri touched the holy symbol reverently before tucking it back in his shirt, a movement that brought the elf’s pale eyes back up to his face.
“Your Excellency,” Andri said formally, “I bring you greetings from His Eminence, the Most Reverend Cardinal Riathan, and Her Holiness, the Keeper Jaela Daran.”
Maellas’s eyebrows shot up.
“Well met, indeed, sir paladin. Come, I was just about to break my fast with Ancillary Bishop Xanin. You must join us.”
“Aeyliros. Of course. I thought you looked familiar, and that would explain the claws. I knew your father well.”
Andri stiffened at the mention of his father, Alestair. He forced himself to relax. The Bishop was merely making polite conversation. And even if he wasn’t, and this was to be a skirmish of words, it would not do to hand the prelate arrows to loose against him this early in the fray.
“The claws, Your Excellency?”
Maellas took the last bite of a large flank steak, chewing the mouthful with obvious relish before swallowing. Xanin, a short blonde man with a perpetual frown, was watching the Bishop with a faint look of disgust. He’d refrained from eating, citing a large dinner the night before. Andri had limited himself to thrakel-spiced eggs and vedbread slathered with onion butter.
“They’re from a werewolf, yes? The same werewolf, Flame forgive me, that I sent your father to hunt nearly five years ago now. The same dread beast that infected him.”
Maellas put his fork down, and leaned over his plate, his face earnest and sorrowful.
“In many ways, Andri, it’s my fault your father died.”
Andri stilled, letting the wave of mingled grief and hatred wash over and through him, refusing to drown in it again. When it had passed, he replied, his tone short and inviting no further discussion on the matter.
“Forgive me, Your Excellency, but the blame for my father’s death lies solely on his shoulders, as does the blood of all those he took with him.”
“Of course, Andri,” Maellas said, pushing his plate away and wiping the corners of his mouth with a linen napkin before taking a delicate sip of tea. “Forgive me. I meant no offense.”
“I understand, Your Excellency. But I didn’t come here about my father.”
“Ah, yes. You mentioned a letter?”
Andri handed the letter over. Maellas read it and then passed it to Xanin without comment. Xanin scowled as he read the missive, muttering something under his breath and thrusting it back to Andri as though he’d touched something particularly repellent. He almost expected the Ancillary Bishop to wipe his hands with a napkin, but the blonde man refrained. When Andri folded the letter to replace it in his tabard, he noticed the corner was now smudged with silver.
“His Eminence has been made aware of the situation here in Aruldusk and has sent me to help track down the perpetrators. He asks that you share whatever information you may have gathered in the course of your investigation.”
Maellas gave him a bewildered smile. “I’m not sure I understand. The perpetrators have already been tracked down, and are currently awaiting trial.”
“Even for the latest murder?” He’d seen the f
ront page of this morning’s Archives as he walked to Mass—SHIFTERS STRIKE AGAIN.
“Indeed. A shifter woman. She apparently had words with the victim in a local tavern shortly before the attack.”
“Odd that these murders are all being committed by shifters,” Andri said, careful to keep his tone offhand. “How is it that you are so certain of their guilt?”
“Well, there was one case where the main suspect was a human—a Throneholder, actually—but, otherwise, yes, the suspects have all been shifters. When the first murders occurred and seemed to be related, I feared that we might have some sort of demonic predator on our hands. So I spoke with Cardinal Riathan by means of a speaking stone and was given permission to lift the prohibition against necromancy in order to question the departed about their deaths. The victims all identified shifters. I’ve allowed no further speaking with the dead since then. Keeping their bodies from the fire also keeps their souls from their rightful place with the Flame.” He shuddered delicately. “It borders on sacrilege, and I would be remiss in my duty as spiritual leader of Aruldusk if I condoned such despicable practices, even to help apprehend a murderer.
“In any event, in each subsequent case there has been other evidence to support the arrest of a shifter, so such tactics were not needed. With the exception of the Throneholder, the murders appear to be the work of some subversive element within the shifter community. A shame, really, as it reflects badly on the entire shifter populace.”
“Have you uncovered a motive?” Andri leaned forward in spite of himself. From Irulan’s account, the only thing connecting the murders was their brutality and who was being accused of committing them. A motive linking all the killers had so far been glaringly absent.
The Bishop shook his head slightly. “No. More’s the pity. There is an ugly rumor going around that the murders are racially motivated, but I’ve done my best to squelch that before it gains too much momentum. That’s just the sort of narrow-mindedness that led to the Purge.”
Andri ignored that.
“Another shifter, you say?” At Maellas’s nod, he continued. “And you have proof of her guilt?”
It was Ancillary Bishop Xanin who answered, his voice as pinched as his face.
“We have several witnesses.”
“Ah.” Andri guessed they were not witnesses to the actual murder, but simply people who’d seen the altercation at the tavern, which in Aruldusk seemed to constitute incontrovertible proof of one’s guilt. He’d have to be sure not to argue with any serving girls about the accuracy of his bill. “Well, then, perhaps Your Excellency will not be in need of my services, after all … unless, of course, there is yet another murder.”
“Flame forbid!” Maellas said, making the sign of the Flame. Andri and Xanin followed suit.
“In the meantime, I’m sure Your Excellency will not mind if I question the survivors, and anyone else who might have information? In order to provide a complete report to Cardinal Riathan.”
Xanin’s frown deepened, his expression now openly hostile, making Andri wonder if Irulan’s difficulties with Maellas didn’t actually stem from this man.
“I’ll need a list of all the victims, their family members, and any witnesses.”
“Of course,” Maellas replied, while Xanin glowered. “I’ll have my chief aide, Margil, coordinate with the captain of the watch to get that information to you.”
“Very good. I’d like it by the end of the day, if that wouldn’t be too much trouble.” Andri pushed his chair back, then waited for Maellas and Xanin to rise before standing himself. He kissed Maellas’s ring, then paused, waiting for Xanin to offer his. The Ancillary Bishop kept his hands at his sides, balled into fists, not the first evidence of anger Andri had seen from him. Nor, he was sure, would it be the last.
“May the Flame light your path, Your Excellencies,” he said, bowing to them both. He turned and exited from the Bishop’s dining room, not bothering to wait for a response.
The files had arrived that evening as requested, and since the only living witness to any of the murders, Zoden ir’Marktaros, had wisely left town, Andri and Irulan spent the next two days going through the list in reverse order, from the most recent murders to the earliest. Their questioning yielded little that was not already contained in the notes the Bishop had provided, and while it seemed clear that at least some of the witnesses had been coerced, Andri was unable to determine if that coercion was due to actual malfeasance, or simply to the pervading desire the survivors felt to see someone—anyone—brought to justice for the murders. The Tankard was the duo’s last stop before evening Mass and dinner. The proprietor, Edven Irvallo, was a retired sergeant in the Thrane army and his son had been the first identified victim.
As they entered the tavern, Andri reflexively stepped away from the door, removing himself as a target while his eyes adjusted to the common room’s dim interior. His gaze swept the room, taking in an old dog busy scratching itself in front of the low fire, a couple at a back table exchanging coy looks and coin, and the stout man behind the counter whose business had clearly seen better days.
Andri approached the bar with an easy smile, intending to order a drink before questioning the man. The paladin was thirsty and Irvallo could obviously use the coin.
Irvallo smiled widely in answer, sizing up Andri’s armor and rich tabard quickly and no doubt thinking that his luck was about to improve. Once he got a good look at Irulan, however, his demeanor changed and his welcoming smile was replaced by a dark scowl.
“No animals allowed, shifter.”
Irulan’s lips pulled back in a snarl and her hand dropped to her hilt, but Andri stayed her with an impatient gesture.
“She’s with me,” he said, drawing Irvallo’s heated gaze back to him, and the livery he wore.
“Sorry, sir,” the man replied. “No pets allowed, either.”
Andri heard the familiar shing of a blade sliding out of its scabbard, and he stepped forward quickly, interposing himself between the old soldier and the shifter before she could do more than flash a bit of steel and growl.
“I understand your anger, friend, but it is misplaced. I know you believe a shifter killed your son—”
“Not one from Aruldusk,” Irulan muttered behind him, but he ignored her, focusing his attention on the man in front of him whose face was still dark with rage.
“But even if that is true—and we have no definitive proof that it is—this shifter has done you no harm.” His tone was calm, placating. “Stand down, sergeant.”
Irvallo glared. “And if I won’t … sir?”
Andri’s hand flashed out. He grabbed the man by his beard, heaving him off his feet and onto the bar. He pulled Irvallo so close that he could see the ring of darker brown around the man’s caramel-colored irises and smell the stale beer on his clothes.
“If you won’t, then I will personally recommend to Bishop Maellas that this flea-infested brothel be shut down and cleansed, and that you spend the rest of your life doing penance in the iron mines. Do I make myself clear, soldier?”
“Yes,” Irvallo said through gritted teeth, glare never wavering.
“Good.” Andri released him. “Now, suppose you get me and my companion a mug of your best ale and tell us about Mikal.”
Irvallo led them grudgingly over to a table near the bar, calling for a maid to bring out three tankards of the Nightwood. A middle-aged woman, well past her prime, came out of the kitchen a few moments later carrying a tray in one hand and a dirty rag in the other. She slapped the mugs down on the table, sloshing golden froth everywhere. She turned away, unconcerned, and was about to walk off when Andri called her back.
“What?” she asked, and Andri saw Irvallo wince at the rude tone. The paladin slid a sovereign across the table, avoiding a dark puddle of ale.
“Thank you,” he said.
She picked the silver coin up and looked suspiciously at it, and him, before tucking it into her apron pocket. Then she wiped up the spille
d ale with her rag, and stalked back into the kitchen.
Andri took a drink of the dark brew, savoring the full, robust flavor that had only been slightly watered down. He did not often drink and would have preferred to order wine or mead, but he sensed both Irulan and the barkeep were in need of something stronger. He continued to drink slowly until they followed his lead, and the three spent several long moments in silence enjoying the Karrnathi ale. When Andri judged that tempers had cooled all around, he set his mug down and turned to Irvallo.
“We’re here investigating the recent murders on behalf of the Council of Cardinals,” he explained. “I know it’s painful to dredge up these memories, but I need you to tell me about Mikal’s death.”
“No dredging required,” Irvallo retorted, finishing his own ale and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Pain’s still as fresh as if it happened this morning.”
He slammed his mug down on the table but didn’t release the handle, his fingers turning white with the force of his grasp.
“Mikal was a good lad, and bright. Would have done better for himself than I ever did. Well-liked, made friends easy, didn’t run with the wrong crowd. He was apprenticing with the baker, Syra Corus, down near the Market District. He’d be up hours before dawn firing the ovens and getting things ready for her. Always woke me up when he left, no matter how quiet he tried to be. I learned to sleep light during the War and haven’t been able to shake the habit.” He gave a small chuckle, sad and disparaging, before continuing. “Left that morning like he always did. Sometimes I’d worry, him walking all that way in the dark, but both Zarantyr and Barrakas were full, so I knew he’d have plenty of light. Next thing I know, one of Syra’s delivery boys is pounding on my door, telling me to come quick. They’d found Mikal’s body in the alley behind her shop. His throat had been ripped out. He never even made it in to work.”
Irvallo’s grief was a raw, open wound, even after all these months. Andri wished, not for the first time today, that his ability to heal went beyond the physical. No one should have to relive the heinous murder of a loved one—he knew how painful stirring up those memories could be, and how hard it was to quiet them once they had been so roused.
The Inquisitives [3] Legacy of the Wolves Page 8
